...so then I sez to this broad

     It's a beautiful (-13F) Alaskan Sunday morning, and I'm 24 hours away from the 4 week mark of my ACL/meniscus surgery. I'm going in to the gym for my daily celebration of life and progress check on what I'm able to do, maybe see some girls in yoga pants running heavy-footed and knee-destroyingly all around the Air Force's inner running track.  We'll see, life is a box of chocolates.
     As I pull the MurderTruck around into a parking spot to the nearest open spot with a reasonable payoff of search time/walk time (I'm always tickled by people that spend 5 minutes prowling the gym parking lot for the closest possible spot to the door, so they can go do stair climber for half an hour) I begin pulling in and see an Obama/Biden sticker slapped on the back of the Subaru I'm about to subject the MurderTruck to having small talk and chit-chat with for the next hour, hour and a half.

"I'm so fucking proud of my vehement ignorance and projection of moral values that I feel the need to let the entire world know, if they happen to be stuck behind me at a light!"

     "Oh, poor MurderTruck," I think to myself.  This car is doubtless steeped in backwards rhetoric and memorized non-sequitur talking points.  How many times while I'm in there will my poor Bronco have "WELL, GOOD LUCK HAVING ROADS TO DRIVE ON IF THERE'S NO TAXES!!" or "IF YOU DON'T LIKE BEING TOLD WHAT TO DO, WHY DON'T YOU MOVE TO SOMALIA!?!?" screeched at it while I'm inside doing my shoulders and exercise bike?  Will MurderTruck chuckle condescendingly and continue to ask questions in the Socratic method, cracking his roguish smile as the Subaru self-contradicts and fails to realize it's being talked down to?  Perhaps he'll bring up the fact that being an off-road vehicle he doesn't necessarily care for roads, and will get along pretty well without them, and the Subaru's desire for roads and their production of them outside of it's monetary capabilities is nothing more than greed?  I don't know, I can't presume to speak for the MurderTruck, but I'm sure they were bound have some environmentalism centered discourse as the MT's radiator dribbled out a hearty tablespoon or three of coolant while it sat.

"What's an 'environment'? I get 15 MPG on a downhill with the wind at my back."

     I popped the Bronco into park and began to gather the cornucopia of gear that consists of my gym trip, thanks in no small part to the Air Force's fear of getting external excretia of existence in the form of detritus transported on the soles of those filthy street shoes.  Workout shoes must be hand-carried.  This got me stuck in my typical anti-authoritarian fuge as I had the Obama/Biden drone's sticker still stuck in my head.  I had watched The Barber's Speech from "The Great Dictator" this morning, and couldn't help the sudden surge and violent flow of emotions that coursed through me at the thought that I was parked next to the personal means of conveyance of a person that was actively complicit in the propagation of the enslavement, death, and torture of my fellow human beings.  The owner of this car had apparently bought into the beautiful lie that theirs is not a system founded on the theft and pillaging of the active for the sake of the unproductive and incompetent.  That the smiling face and gentle probing of their men, their Officers McFriendly throughout the country, are not backed by the direct threat of violence and death.

     Maybe it's because I see how see that what I hate so much about them, I see in myself upon these realizations.  I eventually came to, standing there, staring at a giant teddy bear in the Subaru's rear passenger seat, grinding my teeth and fuming.  In my head I was this Voluntaryist Hulk, invincible by the attributes granted to me via my righteous indignation at the "social contract" and the holy fury vested in me through the violation of the sanctity of the consensual agreement.  I had ripped the hood off the car's engine compartment as my musculature visibly and aggressively grew.  I leapt upon the vehicle, landing on my knees.  I howled with rage as I hammer-handed the engine down out of car, the violence of my blows ripping it free of the car.  I then proceeded to leap back to my feet and, sinking my fingers into the cast metal of the engine block, I hoisted the blunt implement over my head, still dangling wires and dripping fluids of various hues down upon my head, shoulders, and chest.  I swung the block down into the passenger compartment over and over again, my throat getting hoarse and worn, my howls of fury turning into an interrupted stitch of guttural roars, accentuated by the sound of breaking glass and squealing, protesting metal.  The driver doesn't give a shit what injustices are forced upon other people in the enforcement of their worldview, so isn't it still morally justifiable that I pound their bitch-wagon into a discus for my own amusement?  Isn't personal property just a myth, after all?  I had emotional needs that were being met as I hammered away at their suburban grain-cart, and isn't that expediency of the moment what their politics are all about, after all?

"No, your honor, I swear it must have been some other well-muscled, eugenic-looking, Strapping Young Lad that roughed up that car and drove away in my Bronco."

     I self-reflected some more, and thought that there's bound to be a diverse gamut of reasons to have voted for what I can and have consistently sat down and argued to the worst president of most living American's lifetimes, if not the history of our "Democracy."  Going through the various reasons one would do what they did, and then advertise it, I quickly crossed off the "Shadow Libertarian Hastening their Way to the Demise" and the "On-The-Fence Conservative Scared of a Mormon."  #1 would be far too smart to advertise this, and #2 would be far too scared. All likely outcomes of a person willingly putting this sticker to make their voting preferences known to the world led me to believe that under no real circumstances was the person driving this vehicle a moral, introspective human being worthy of respect or capable of voluntary involvement in a society that values dignity and respect.
    I sighed and turned to walk into the gym, which is when I found *it*

"My love for you is like a magic marker, Barack! It smells funny and gives you a headache!"

    Yes, this bint (now that we've established a vehicle owner's gender) was virulent enough in her love of the state and said government's greatest proponent to date (possible unintentional hyperbole, FDR was sunovabitch, please feel free to discuss) that having multiple signs on her vehicle proclaiming her enamorment with said meat-puppet was not enough.  She had to change the the passive slogan/group identifier into an actual active sentence.

Well, you have been asking yourself for a long time who buys this kinda shit, Jeff.

     I facepalmed, and it pains me that such a colloquialistic verb is the most succinct way to describe my actions, but the rest of the sentence makes up for it.  I'll not delve into the Men's Rights Movement and my own personal views on why Womyn love our current president so much, but I felt I had seen enough at this juncture to form a 98% accurate psychological profile of the vehicle's owner.  I was staring at the transportation method for THE ENEMY.  Not just an enemy of liberty or someone complacent in the slow demise of freedom, but someone actively trying to spread the statist filth, or at the very least reveling in their own stink of centralization.
    Using my the personal gratification clause and invoking the Ragnar Danneskjold/Ragnar Redbeard of meeting coercive force with coercive force, with no small persuasion from the cold to leave the area, I spit on her windshield and walked off to the gym.
     Psychologically, I'm still examining the beauty of this action.  On the one hand I could see how it would be argued that I was practicing empathy, of a sort, lowering myself to her level, and abusing the personal property of others for my own gratification, or as I saw it, the advancement  of the common good.  Inversely, I saw the veneer of my own civility stripped off in the combativeness that rose to the surface, and with it any pretense to a desire for dignified and respectful interaction.  This person's world-view was that personal wealth is not their own, and that we as a society must be forcefully brought together for the betterment of mankind.  We are at our greatest with a gun to our head.

...maybe I should have done the civilized thing and just keyed "I DISAGREE" into her door?