Get Out of My Way!

  • Increase / decrease font
  • A +
  • A -

Get out of my way!

I am powerful, cunning, and entirely amoral.  I’m also in a hurry.   Just moments ago, I heisted a cache of deadly neurotoxin/the world’s largest diamond/a memory card containing the secret to cold fusion.

As such, I am currently being chased by policemen, SWAT teams, helicopters, guard dogs, and an obnoxious cornucopia of Jack Bauer wannabes.  But they will not catch me, for they lack a single thing that I posses: the ability to shout “Get out of my way” in a supremely frightening and villainous manner.

Know this: Should you find yourself between me and my freedom, I will not hesitate to brutally trample you under my boot and/or inconveniently knock your briefcase to the ground thus causing you to be several minutes late to an important meeting.

No, I cannot be responsible for the fact that you set up your farmers’ market/oriental rug store/pyramid of oil barrels on the very getaway path through which I will soon careen at a breakneck speed.  All I can say is this: Get out of my way!

As my muscular and swift body—hideously deformed by anabolic steroid abuse/cybernetic enhancements/too much dianetics—smashes its way through fruit stands, thatched huts, and children’s birthday parties, I care nothing for the carnage that lay in the wake of my inevitable escape.

I will surely slam my military-esque vehicle through your glass storefront and out the back through your flimsy drywall before you can blink and lament your ill-advisedly small insurance policy.  To me, your meager possessions are nothing more than obstacles to be obliterated as I furiously repeat my mantra: Get out of my way!

Do not mistake me.  The fact that you are in my way angers me greatly.  Notice the precise manner in which I scream “Get out of my way”.  It is not a mere warning, as thought I were worried that I may injure you.  Nor does it carry the slightest tinge of apology, as it would were I sorry for having accidentally backed into the left fender of your Honda Civic.

No, it is with rage and entitlement that I shout these words.  Rage that you had to set up your trinket stand on the exact street where I would find myself evading all manner of authorities.  And entitlement not to be hindered by the likes of a mid-19th century Asian peasant/child holding an ice cream cone/big city hot dog vendor such as yourself.

In short, you are in my way.  Now get out of it.  Or, to put it more eloquently: Get out of my way.


Fight of the Money Bags licensed under public domain. 

Oh Yes, There's More...

Subscribe here, and our team of infinite monkeys shall deliver further written amusement to your inbox, about once a month.

You have Successfully Subscribed!

Written by

Alex Baia is a humor writer and contributor to McSweeney’s and Slackjaw. He lives in Austin, TX.