Rico Amore Presents

Dear Bad Driver, Green means go! You hotdog-eating, non-toenail-clipping wretch, the person you're talking to doesn't care what shoes you looked at whilst at the mall, you need to get off the phone. Cretin, because your car can go 80 doesn't mean that's how fast you should drive. Imbecile, wherever it is you're going to spend the remnants of the money you got from pawning your mom's favorite watch isn't more important than where I'm going, so please stop running red lights. There is a special place in hell reserved for you as you flick your smoked, but still burning menthol out'chor window. Sincerely, Riley

but who knows how soon

I love the motherfuckin' flea market. The thing about being able to buy some stranger's sister's graduation on VHS is pretty wild. The experience goes beyond sifting through all the crap; the clientele (me included, for I rarely shower before going, or comb my hair, or brush my teeth) is just as entertaining as the junk. It's way better than the WalMart at three in the morning - those people are just fuckin' crazy - but the flea market - those are the ones looking for something specific, like a broken typewriter. Those are the one's who consider the flea market an event, like going to the movies or visiting a relative whose shit you can sort through and practically steal. One more thing is the crazy fuckers who sell shit at the FM. I love looking at a total piece of trash with a $20 price tag on it. Then they say some shit like, " I can sell it eBay for at least that much." Like they even have a computer at home! To a lesser extent, yard sales hold a s