Backseat Surfer, You Are Worthless

I was recently discussing this phenomenon with a friend the other day, and we both had the same reaction to people who can't stop helping you when you're trying to find something on the internet. I felt it was my duty to let all of you backseat surfers out there know how we really feel.

Backseat surfer, you are not helping me. I don't care that you don't like Bob Dylan, I will not be party to any more Chumbawumba nonsense. The times they are a-changin' and I can't tolerate your incessant jibba jabba in my ear anymore. Stop trying my patience, stop taking credit for sweet websites I find before loudly suggesting other shitty ones, and for god's sake, stop getting mad when I bust a presidential move and ignore your ideas completely.

Backseat Google fiends, your suggestions are unnecessary. A little known fact about me is I perfected my Google skills in 1985 at 8 months old after only 10 months of practice. Backseat wikipedians, don't even question my ability to find any stupid random fact in less than 2 minutes flat. You wanted to know what to call a Vermont resident? .... A Vermonter, 1:11. (really) Backseat movie buffs, don't even try to tell me to Google that new flick...in the words of some guy in a trench coat, "I know imdb."

Backseat readers of the urban dictionary are amusing when you find a gem like beer bus and laugh; that is, "the bus that mysteriously comes to a bar late in the evening while you're in the bathroom and drops off a busload of sexy girls and takes away all the ugly girls." Ex: After 10 beers Dave staggered back from the bathroom and declared that every girl in the bar was a fox. The beer bus had arrived! But the humor only ensues until you try to help me define a new word. Instead of trusting the English major, you profess sole supreme knowledge of the word I just made up. Not cool.

But backseat eBayer, you are the absolute bane of my existence. Why must you insist on directing my every click after attempting to orchestrate my every search term? After I deny you, you whine and demand that I wait while you strain your eyes to read the faint yellow 16pt font from over my shoulder. You annoy me. I'm finding it now, ok? Not you.