Seven Car Pile-Up

I'll preface this by saying that the entire situation was one big, glorified accident.

What was overly dramatized was nothing more than a bunch of morons, old people, and that one blind guy trying to drive down the same part of the street at once. Twenty-shit-blazing-miles over the posted limit and you sure wonder where the pigs were that day. "For fuck's sake man, your gluttonous person can learn patience! Save the world, write a speeding ticket!". . .
Alright so I took some liberties with that one, but let's not start counting mistakes here because not one single fucker counted the numerous mistakes these Glorified Accidenters committed. They all got off scot-free. Dead, but scot-free. It might as well be the same thing given all the rumor and hype that has been circulating about each of these leech-bastards. I can't even conceive of writing one goddamn good piece until I witness the cluster fuck that is the scrap metal, blood, bone, glass, chalky airbag ejaculate, and shit. And wouldn't you know it, every other pigfucking journalist beats me to it!

For fuck's sake! I've entered a dark place in the middle of the night and to hell with me coming out alive. I've all but lost hope on such a thing. I'll concede that those other vampires snatched up the story before my itchy hands could but lay a finger upon this over-complicated typewriter, but they sure fucking didn't see what I saw. I read their articles this very morning. Every damn one had much to say about each man, woman, child, and rapist involved in the pile up of the century. Each article was nothing more than a sob story, divided equally between the seven players, so as to make sure the spider-web of a story was followed in the correct order, and at the end of it you wanted to shed naught more than crocodile tears for the poor fools whose carcasses were heaped up in that mess. . . Or maybe I'm just too doped up on coke to really give a righteous fuck about the sob stories and boo-hoos. Goddamnit man! Where's the anger? The passion? Where in the wide-fucking-world is the motive? This was an act of murder on the part of multiple parties and not a one of them had premeditated any such thoughts of it!
What a fucking ironic catastrophe!
What a cluster-fuck-medley of untimely deaths!
What a grotesquely, brutal and all around dashingly beautiful event!

And those dirty pigfuckers, too concerned with politics, sports, finances, or whatever else the world reads about while in a mindless stupor; oh those sons-of-bitches! They do this whole story, this whole beautiful story of pure chaos a great injustice. Well goddamnit those monsters don't deserve the credentials of a journalist! Where is the truth in those sob stories? WHERE IS THE PASSION!

No need to say more, no sir. A journalist's sole responsibility is to throw himself in the midst of the event and tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help him because if he doesn't the big-dirties on the receiving end will tear your heart out and eat it on the worst kind of stick imaginable. . .