The Girl's a Timebomb

It surely must be Friday the 13th, because I've wanted to jam a pitchfork into every motherhumper that's crossed my path today. Here is a list of my grievances:

1. I hate your SUV. Get rid of it.

2. I do not find it fascinating that your sister's husband likes donuts but doesn't like bagels, nor do I find it necessary to spend 10 minutes staring at you with my mouth open while you try to figure out why. Shut up.

3. I believe the word you're looking for is "supposedly", not "supposably". Supposably is not a word, you detritus festival.

4. "What goes around, comes around" is not a factual statement, no matter how badly you want it to be so. Stop interjecting it into every conversation. Here's an example, you tool: Donald Trump is a toilet-faced trouser snake who would gladly bulldoze an orphanage if he thought he could build some nouveau-riche vomit palace condos in its place. He also has a hot, young wife, a ga-billion dollars, the admiration of most of Americans, and probably a personal ball-washer. When's the trainload full of crap gonna pull into his station? Never.

5. The fact that anytime that baked beans are consumed in a group setting, I have to wait for the inevitable idiot of the group to start singing that "beans, beans, the magical fruit" song and then try to restrain myself from flipping the table over and running over his face with a Garden Weasel.

6. Tony Danza has had the same haircut for thirty years, and I can't take one more second of it. Who the hell is even willing to give a man a feathered haircut anymore? I blame the Freemasons, the Bilderburg Group, the Rockefellers, and Super-Cuts.

7. No. I will NOT calm down. Stop asking.

Don't forget to head out to see us with Truckstop Coffee at The Red Lion in Boynton tonight, or I'll take out the Garden Weasel again.

Madge