Get Out of My Way!

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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. 

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Written by

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