I Drive an Army Tank Everywhere I Go

Everywhere I go, I drive an army tank. Even when I only need to make a quick trip to the mailbox. I’m thankful that God blessed me with this powerful vehicle. Stop smirking; this is no joke. I will punch you in your jaw. You’re probably so ignorant that you’ve never even seen a real army tank, until now — you’ve never opened the driver’s door and climbed in and had a look around or tried to rev the engine. 

Now I’m rolling down the street in my tank. I like to keep it clean, and I won’t let anybody else smoke a pipe inside of it. The control panel has millions of buttons. If you parked your bicycle at the side of the street, then you’d better move it, because my army tank is hard to control; it turns very slowly; thus, anything within a few meters of the curb is getting crushed. There is an empty school bus idling on the roadside — watch me flatten it. Now I drive right thru your dad’s yard in the suburbs, and he curses at me. He works hard to keep his lawn looking healthy; but I always cut the corner and leave thick muddy tracks. I just knocked over a tree and a bunch of plastic flamingo ornaments. You’re right: this is terrible of me — and I apologize; it’s just that every other vehicle that I’ve ever tried has felt so boring. That’s why, at 96 years old, I still continue driving my army tank, despite being actually too decrepit to pilot the vehicle. I even purchased twin cemetery plots, to bury it by my side.