Straight trippin

All right y'all, now that I've got some real shit cooking I thought I'd let you know what the deal is. I've been contracted (and not by a virus this time) to drive up the starboard seaboard and deliver the vessel I'll be manning to the owner's brother. That's right, all the way from the bottom state to the top state, not counting the fucking lobster states.

Don't worry, I've got this planned out; this isn't some fly-by-night dipshittery I'm making up at the last second. Check it:

I'm getting that feeling when you look at a word so long that it doesn't look like a word anymore. Not sure why.

But this ain't Reader's Digress, so I'll get back to the matter. Long story short: if you're in my path, you're fucked. Short story long: fucked you're, path my in you're if. Ok, enough with the ribald skullduggery, you rapscallions. Now that I'm veganish I guess I'm kicking rapscallions too, so get out my face. It's in the jar by the door.