|Not pictured: Mary's alcoholic uncle.|
But if I'm being honest, there's something about you that's bothering me lately. Several things, in fact:
1. Salesladies at the mall.
I realize my pawing through a stack of overpriced sweaters to find a size other than Extra Small or Ally McBeal is hard to resist, but this is not your cue to come swooping in like a Chanel-wearing bat with a perfume bottle in hand. I know you need to pay off that tattooed-on eyeliner you financed, but your fake nails scare the shit out of me and I'm really not interested in the Eau de Desperation you're schlepping. The next time you attack me with fragrance, I'm unloading my pepper spray. Also: Jesus Christ, lady, lay off the costume jewelry.
|I hate you and everything you stand for.|
I know public restrooms are a pain in the ass and we've only all been using toilets since age two, but if we can abide by a few simple rules, we'll get through this together. I'll even provide visual aids. See this?
Press that down once you're done. While I'm sure you're very proud of your bowel movement, the other patrons will probably not be interested. Also, this:
Is a toilet seat. Don't pee on it. Thanks.
3. My bank account.
My account balance looks like what happens when you divide by zero. I always start the holidays well-intentioned, but then I'll spend a little bit too much on Mom's gift and feel the need to equal that amount with what I spend on Dad, and then I realize I'll never be able to spend that much on my brother because I have the budgeting skills of a sixth-grader on crack, because I've forgotten I also need an oil change and that gas costs eighteen dollars a gallon and that I don't get paid again until the 31st, so I find myself spelunking in the couch cushions to scrape by in the meantime.
And then my brother and I go into this weird psychological tug-of-war where we both know we're poor and therefore won't tell each other what we want for Christmas as if that's any sort of deterrent to us actually buying each other stuff. And then we become so determined to actually get each other gifts that we're scrambling at the last minute and legitimately contemplating buying Snuggies and Chia Pets, and then I just say "fuck it" and get him a bottle of liquor because I'm at a complete loss, and he breaks down and calls me when he's on the way to Best Buy and I tell him to just get me an iTunes gift card with the implication that his body will never be found if he spends too much on me.
|If someone can tell me how to gift-wrap a homicide, I'm good to go.|
Look, I like my co-workers, but it's not like we're going out for drinks (probably not the best idea anyway, considering we're all armed) in the evenings or attending each other's children's graduations. I do not need a $5 limit and a chance to demonstrate to my peers that I don't really know them at all, and I also don't need to add to my collection of Shitty Dollar Store Candle Sets. I didn't get our office to ditch Secret Santa in lieu of Toys for Tots for the kids. I did it to save us all from the embarrassment.
|You really, really shouldn't have.|
The "rum-pa-pum-pum"s haunt my nightmares anyway, but anyone ever stop to think about this song, other than how terrible the chorus is? Who wrote this? "Why yes, I believe the perfect gift for an hour-old baby and a woman who just gave birth in a barn without drugs or anything resembling proper medical care would be a drum solo! It'll make her forget about how she got hay in her vagina!"
6. The hits this blog will likely get now that I've used the phrases "bowel movement" and "hay in her vagina."
My employer will be thrilled.
|My average blog reader.|
At least I've still got the hairy firearms enthusiasts. And hey, "The Hairy Firearms Enthusiasts" would be a pretty good band name.