It’s been a while since this has happened, but I encountered something this week that truly disgusted me. No exaggeration, it turned my freakin’ stomach.

Tuesday afternoon, I was driving home from my job in Norwalk on 95. Now, I’m sure most of you are at least vaguely familiar with the infamous I-95, but for those of you who aren’t, let me just tell you, having to drive this fucker every day is one of the most painful experiences you could possibly imagine. Thank God I’m moving to Milford soon, because I’m already spending upwards of three hours a day driving.

Since 95 moves slower than the Olsen twins at a buffet line, you often get a good view of your commuting neighbors in the lane next to you. So while driving on this gorgeous Tuesday afternoon, listening to a little Billy Joel to unwind the nerves after work, I see coming up on my right, in the middle lane, a white Mitsubishi convertible with the top down being driven by a 20-something blonde tart with a pair of Oakley’s. Now, as if this wasn’t enough to make my blood boil, the capper to it all is the fact that she’s got a Chihuahua perched immediately behind her, looking over the side of the door at this Red Sea of cars that just doesn’t want to seem to part.

A Chihuahua.

It was at this point that the windows in my car rolled down, the volume on the stereo went up, and “Captain Jack” changed without warning to “5 Minutes Alone” by Pantera. Appropriate song, since I would’ve loved 5 minutes alone with this petite princess to chew her out.

Now, before you condemn me for jumping to conclusions and labeling this li’l missy a prissy little Paris rip-off with a ginormous bitch switch, let me tell you something, my friend…

Yesterday (Friday), while driving to work… not from, to… I just happened across the same Mitsubishi convertible, unrecognizable at first since the top was up. But lo and behold, who should be behind the wheel but Princess. And still at the upholstered perch was precious little Chi-Chi, her oversized rodent of a status symbo—I mean dog looking out the window at the slow-moving line of cars.

Windows down, “Say Hello 2 Heaven” by Temple Of The Dog switches to “Stronger Than Death” by Black Label Society.

Why the overload of metal music on my behalf? Because this young lady obviously needs a very loud wake-up call, and what better way to offer that up than in the form of heavy riffs, rapid-fire solos and a blood-curdling vocal? She needs to be exposed to another side of life: the side slightly less ugly than either the lifestyle she promotes or the rhinoplasty she got for her Sweet 16. The side of life most of us (I should hope) dwell in. Cold, hard reality. The type that's not pretty in pink or even feasible in fusca. The type of life that has problems, conflicts, compromises, and stresses that go beyond your favorite tanning salon shutting down.

You have to look at it this way: on Tuesday, it’s quite possible she was coming home from a friend’s house or a party or something else. However, if she’s driving 95 at 8:00 in the AM, there’s a 99% chance she’s going to a job of some sort.

Now, whatever this young kitten does for money (insert prostitution pun here), whatever her line of work is, you have to ask yourself… why the hell is she bringing a Chihuahua to work?! Even if she’s a veterinarian, what’s she doing, bringing her work home with her? I’m sorry, that doesn’t jibe.

So that’s why I opted for such a heavy musical selection. This kid needs a major reattachment to good sound terra firma.

Look, she may be the nicest kid on earth, but I take issue with anyone that carries around a Chihuahua these days. Paris and Britney have turned these poor, once-ridiculed and fast food-exploited canines and turned them into representatives of their ritzy roots. No, folks… odds are this estrogen-infused humanoid is no vet. More likely she works at Abercrombie & Fitch in the Danbury Fair Mall while living off of mummy and daddy’s trust fund and the hard-scrubbing hands of their Mexican houseboy.

Look, I’m an animal lover. Especially dogs. I want one eventually, but have held off for a long time because at this time in my life, I don’t have the time to devote to properly caring for one. I’m not one to dive headfirst into responsibility if I know that I can’t live up to the commitment. So when some tarnished little princess struts around with Chihuahua in hand (or purse, as I’ve seen from time to time), basically flaunting her bankbook and fashionable duds and digs, my iPod turns iRate, and so do I.

People wonder why I’m so down on American society from the upper echelon right down to the mere mortals, and it’s shit like this that fortifies my mindset. When you use another carbon-based life form, be it a dog or a child (soccer moms, I’m looking your way… get out of the Suburban and stop snorting Astroturf) to say something about yourself, I consider you an enemy of the state of Rick, and you’re susceptible to the possibility of capital punishment in the form of a good tongue-lashing on ye olde Landshark blog. And the only reason my sentences never get past that is because U.S. law conflicts with Rick’s law, and neither are in sync with Murphy’s law. I won’t even begin to get into Carlito’s way, either.

And I’m being serious when I say this: I really think the ASPCA should hunt these people down and charge them with animal abuse. Because these little girls are not dog lovers. How can you call yourself a dog lover when you’re clearly too in love with yourself? I’m willing to bet that while these girls are doting as all hell, they’re still not providing these poor critters with the TLC that they so richly deserve. And as if that isn’t criminal enough, they parade the damn thing around like a new belly button piercing or ankle tattoo. Not that I have anything against piercings or tattoos, but I’d much rather they have some kind of relevance to the proud owner, and the same goes for pets. If you’re going to own a dog, own it because you love it, not because it’s the trendy thing to do.

So unless you want me to tie you into a straightjacket, tape your eyelids open and Clockwork Orange you into watching House Of Wax uninterrupted for a fortnight, either give your Chihuahua to someone who actually gives a damn or ship him to Tijuana.

And for fuck’s sake, don’t let a dog that weighs less than four pounds lean out the side of your convertible on I-95 you stupid, stupid slag!

Goodnight, and have a pleasant tomorrow.