I’m a little embarrassed to tell you this, but I recently got scammed by a little old lady.
I felt like a complete sucker, and who wouldn’t?! I mean, no one is prepared to be scammed by a little old lady. You’d expect it from a lawyer, or financial planner, or a car salesman, a college exams administrator, an insurance company, a government, a president, a dictator (same thing)… but never a little old lady!
You know, I’m a really well adjusted human being, and a total sweetheart, which you can probably tell from reading my blog, so when a little old lady asks me for a favor, I’m ready to oblige, which is what happened last week while standing in a long line at the supermarket. This little old lady standing behind me asked if she could go ahead of me. This was after she struck up a conversation; she was quite the character.
Okay, looking back, I can clearly see she was a friggin’ nut job, but at that moment, she was just a good conversationalist; she did most of the talking. In fact, she wouldn’t shut the fuck up. Just as I was about to get to the cash register, she asked if she could go ahead of me, so seeing as how she only had two items and I had several, I told her to go ahead.
Turns out, just because someone only has one or two items, doesn’t mean they’re going to take less time.
She was able to flimflam me; she charmed me with her chattiness, then slid in front of me where she began to create all kinds of drama and stalling and holding everybody up in line behind her.
First, she asked for cigarettes, which are kept locked up in the front of the store, so the manager has to come with the key to open the cabinet to get them. Then she started in on the price, saying she wanted to have a clerk double check it. But when he verified it was correct, she started loudly arguing with the clerk about it and wouldn’t back down, so now all of us are stuck behind this cigarette-smoking troll, disguised as a little old lady, and were forced to wait while she created this unnecessary drama.
Not once did she look over to me and apologize for causing this inconvenience after I was kind enough to let her go ahead of me, because it was her plan all along. She’s the type of person whose only goal in life is to cause conflict and suck other people into it with her so everybody’s miserable.
You know the type.
I got pissed off that I fell for it, and I promised myself I’d never fall for it again.
Well I got tested on that promise yesterday while at another supermarket. I was just about to have my groceries checked out by the clerk, when a little old lady with three items asked if she could go ahead of me.
I almost… almost… let her go, but remembered the little old lady flimflam from last time and quickly shut her down:
“Not if you’re going to write a check.” I snapped.
Clearly, she was going to write a goddamn check. I get steamed every time some idiot pulls out a check book at the register. Really? You can’t use a fucking debit card like ninety nine percent of the population? Or… well it used to be ninety nine percent of the population until the ability to scan a payment from your smartphone was invented. I’m not sure what the percentage would be now and… hmm, well I can’t be bothered to research it.
It doesn’t matter, the point is… the point is…
What? How do I know she was gonna write a check? Well she looked like the type who would write a check. Plus, she gave me this look which I can only describe as getting busted… or maybe it was exasperation… whatever, it wasn’t my fucking problem. I quickly checked out and left, not looking back. I’m never letting a little old lady in front of me again, I’ll tell you that much.
You know, I just realized, no matter how much Botox I get injected into my forehead, it’s never enough to hide the disgust on my face.
Searching for the perfect used vehicle? Frustrated dealing with the scum of the earth on Craigslist?
Look no further! I have the perfect car for you!
This car has everything: check engine light, visible damage, high pitched noise while running… she’s got it all!
You say you want:
High miles? Check
Torn leather driver’s seat? Check
Non-existent air conditioning? Check
Useless sunroof? Check
This hot mess has been waiting for Y OH U.
Why am I selling such a blessing, such a hot hunk of metal, you ask? I couldn’t take care of her the way she wanted, the way she needed… because honestly, I never liked her.
She was thrust upon me by a self-absorbed ex-boyfriend who, besides being an idiot that didn’t know how to inspect a used car, wanted me to be seen as a tame suburban housewife, but I couldn’t abide. I’m an out of control, hot, sexy MILF (Mother I’d Like to Feed). Sure, I’m chubby and I don’t have kids, but don’t judge me… a girl needs butter and chocolate and to be free of commitments.
I never wanted to drive a Volvo… a name that closely resembled parts of a woman’s vagina… that’s not sexy. What’s sexy is having a car that’s reliable but doesn’t say “I’m boring and a moron.” But hey, that’s just me, don’t let that stop you from driving it.
If all this hasn’t yet tempted you yet, check out these features:
Brand new tires, sorta.
New oil pan (whatever the fuck that is).
New car smell – if the new car was fourteen years old.
I haven’t farted in it in at least a week because I stopped being a fuckin’ vegan.
Whatever is stuck between the seats and the console is your to keep!
This car will give you hours and hours of asking yourself why you bought it, only to be reminded that it’s a status symbol of true suburban mediocrity.
But wait, there’s more! If you buy it in the next 10 minutes, I’ll throw in The Club (remember those useless pieces crap?) It’s an Eighties icon, you’ll be the talk of the town!
Call now before it’s gone: 1-800-I’m a lonely piece of shit.
I swear, I’ve never wished death upon someone before… so soon after the last time.
You guys know how kind and compassionate I normally am, but what’s been happening recently… well, it’s just put me over the edge, and now I’m hoping someone dies.
I don’t normally hate on people. Sure I get frustrated and want them to suffer, but hate? That’s a strong word. So when I say I hate my fucking neighbors, I don’t really mean it. I’m just thoroughly disgusted with them, they make me sick, and I wish they’d fuck off and die. But I don’t hate them.
My previous neighbor was the best neighbor in the whole world (after me). She was an older, single lady; a retired teacher. She was quiet, respectful and we never heard each other. But two years ago she put her house up for sale and a dark foreboding washed over me. I knew the good times were over.
I started praying to Jesus: “Jesus, please, for fuck’s sake, please, please, please do not let assholes buy that house!” But I guess ‘ol JC was occupied that month because it fell on deaf ears. Listen, I know there’s a lot of shit going in the world right now, but I rarely ask him for anything except for the occasional “come into a bunch of money”. There’s nothing more important to me than my sanity and a big, fat bank account.
Well… a family moved in shortly after the house went up for sale. A family consisting of FOUR BOYS AND TWO FUCKING PARENTS!!
I cried, I screamed, I begged to know WHY this had to happen to ME, but there was no answer. I came to a solemn resignation. Then things became apparent very quickly, like the fact that this family is loud and obnoxious.
Did I mention they have a pool? I didn’t even know this until they moved in and started… started… splashing!
Turns out, the boys aren’t bad… not bad at all. In fact, they’re really quite well behaved and that’s because their parents rule them with an iron fist. They frequently berate, yell, taunt, and antagonize these poor kids. I feel really badly for them.
I feel more badly for me though.
I live in a lovely little detached guest house that sits back off the front of the property, so it wasn’t lined up with the surrounding houses.
Did I mention they decided to build an addition onto their already large house that runs the length of my beautiful little guest house and patio and ends… right… at… my… fucking… front… door? All the bedrooms are contained in this addition and their windows face my patio and the fence barely separates us from each other, so now it’s just like living in an apartment again.
Did I mention the dad cut down this beautiful tree that I would admire from my kitchen window? Every winter it would sprout bright red berries that the squirrels, rabbits and birds would eat, and every spring, it would burst into beautiful white flowers.
He was wielding a chainsaw and wearing orange safety goggles and hard hat as he cut it down with impunity. He looked like an evil character from a Stephen King novel… the goddamn ass wipe!
Who in the hot hell wears orange safety goggles?!
He stood high up on a ladder and I kept praying he would lean over too far lose his balance and fall off the ladder cutting his legs off with the chainsaw in the process then break his back upon landing on the hard ground rendering him unable to work so they wouldn’t be able to make their house payment and it would go into foreclosure then he would die of complications and the mom and kids would have to move and a friendly quiet older couple would move in and this is my dream.
Did I mention I bought corn the other day? Yeah, three ears of genetically modified corn. You may think this is a total non-sequitur but it’s directly related because normally, I would never buy something like that, which just goes to show how much this bastard family is affecting my life.
And I didn’t use punctuation in that paragraph about the death scene!
Can somebody help me?
Your life can either be chicken shit, or chicken salad. Choose wisely.
Do not give that which is holy to the dogs, neither cast ye your pearls before swine lest they trample them under their feet, and turn again and rend you – Matthew 7:6
Aaaand… maybe don’t eat bacon (or meat) anymore either. It’ll make the animals happy and you’ll be healthier.
Have reverence for all life (see above).
If you have no one to fuck you, go fuck yourself (see above).
Carbs are not the enemy, objectification of women by society is.
Chocolate. Chocolate is the answer, who cares what the question is?
Sitting in front of a keyboard is the WRONG PLACE TO BE CAFFEINATED!!!
The pharmaceutical industry is lying to you.
You’re lying to yourself.
It is better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved that fuckin’ pizza to death.
Complaining… about anything… is an advertisement for stupidity (thank you Madonna for this one).
Be your own best friend and your own best self. You are one-of-a-kind, you fucking freak.
If you feel you have to prove your worth to someone, you’ve already given it away.
Get everything in life, don’t let anything get you.
The three most important things in life are truth, beauty, and justice. Or maybe it’s sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll, I can’t remember.
And most importantly…
Chase that dream of yours, the one you only allow yourself to briefly think about as you lie in bed, dreading another day while feeling bewildered at where you are in life.
If you don’t take the risk, you’ll be filled with sadness and regret at death’s door, not a good way to enter the afterlife. It doesn’t matter where you are in your life; how old you are, how fat or thin you are, how broke or rich you are, where you live, what car you drive, or how many mistakes you’ve made.
It doesn’t matter that you’re not perfect, you’re alone and you don’t have love in your life. It doesn’t matter how much you’ll be judged by family, friends, neighbors and strangers. They’re already judging you.
It doesn’t matter that you don’t have the money/talent/knowledge/direction. You won’t gain any of those things if you do nothing.
The only thing that matters is making yourself happy. Start now. Go after it and don’t stop until you’re dead. You have this ONE life, and this one ONLY. It is not a dress rehearsal, it is not preparation for a second chance… there ARE NO SECOND CHANCES. This is it, baby.
The only thing you have to lose is nothing.
Okay, this woman got slightly irritated with me because I didn’t want to buy her car. Yes, I’m buying a new, used car because the relationship I have with my Swedish car is coming to an end.
We were never compatible to begin with. The Swedes are… well, they’re fucking boring… not exciting, not sexy. They’re great at socialism and other things though: Have a problem with needle users, homelessness, trash? Like blondes and fish dishes? Sweden, baby. Anyway, I never wanted a vehicle with a name that closely resembles parts of a woman’s vagina. Makes me feel weird whenever I have to say it.
Volvo. Are you happy now?
Anyway, this woman was eager to sell me her piece of crap… I mean, car. She was even willing to bring it to me, but I really didn’t want it, so I made excuses (all valid), like it was dinged up and part of the front bumper was torn off. Plus, you could tell she was desperate, which is a real turn off… you can smell desperation a mile away.
Just come with me on my next date and take a big whiff.
Have you ever noticed people selling their used cars can adopt an air of haughtiness? What gets me is they act like the car is so valuable. The fucking thing is used. They don’t even want it anymore, but they want to try to squeeze every damn dollar out of it like it’s a friggin’ diamond, even though it’s lost its value and is more like a cubic zirconia. The buyer is doing them a favor by taking it off their hands and reusing it anyway.
If it’s so fucking great, why don’t you keep it?
I’m all for buying used and re-using; I think we could all benefit from being more conservational and less wasteful (no, that word was not conversational, please re-read).
Like, how about not taking more than you need, for instance? I mean, how many napkins do you need when you’re eating your tacos? Fifty? Because you sure took enough for that many people. You just grabbed a massive handful with your big, fat, banana hands without even thinking whether you need fifty fucking napkins.
Just don’t come crying to me at the end of the world when there are no more fucking napkins. That’s because there are no more fucking trees left because you took a huge stack of napkins you didn’t need to wipe your fat mouth and left the extra ones discarded on the table, creating unnecessary waste. But hey, as long as you get to do whatever the fuck you want, it doesn’t matter, does it? and now you’re crying because there are no more fucking napkins because there are no more fucking trees… how the hell does that make you feel?!!
Uh… where was I? Oh yes, being used. No, no, no, no… not being used, reusing. Anyway, I think we can all benefit from it.
I do a lot of driving, which means I’m on the freeways a lot. It’s how us southern Californians live; we are deeply enmeshed in a car culture.
For those of you who have never experienced what it’s like driving in So Cal, let me paint a picture for you: Every other driver on the road is SpongeBob SquarePants, Satan is your passenger and he’s giving you an enema, and Alex Jones’ InfoWars is blaring out from the speakers and you can’t change the channel.
You good? Okay, let’s move on…
I’m developing a tick.
You ever yell “Learn how to drive!” at shitty drivers? I’ve done it, it’s a waste of time. People aren’t gonna take the initiative to learn how to become better drivers… why would they? They already have their driver’s license and are navigating the roads… as shitty drivers… and the problem is, they believe they’re driving just fine. They’re blissfully unaware, which is the most annoying part because my goal is to make them realize what shitty drivers they are.
Any idiot moron can go to the DMV, take the driver’s test and get on the road within hours. In fact, every idiot moron does… and they’re all on the freeway. It should be called confinedway, as there’s nothing “free” about it.
Foreigners are the worst offenders. Hold on… before you start slinging the word “racist” at me, know this: I am right. Also know this: I am a foreigner, along with my entire family. We all came over to this country on a boat (a big one, not the kind that requires rowing). No, I don’t have an accent, I speak California just like every other normal person… and I’ve always been an excellent driver… maybe not a conscientious one, but a skilled one.
But like I said, my family and I are all foreigners, and the very first day my dad learned how to drive a car, was the day he drove a car across the United States, from New Jersey to California.
Let that sink in.
My mom already knew how to drive. She “taught” my dad for a few hours, then we hit the road so we could drive across the country… and I’ve never claimed my family was normal or sane. Maybe I was adopted. I mean, clearly, there’s nothing wrong with me.
It probably goes without saying, but my dad did not have his driver’s license. Eventually he had to get one, so twenty years later… yes, I’m serious, he drove in the United States of America for twenty years without a driver’s license… he asked me to accompany him to the DMV and help him because he was worried he wouldn’t pass the written portion of the test. Rightfully so; he was never instructed how to properly drive a vehicle, so he was a shitty driver.
So off to the DMV we went. Back then, things were different (besides the fact you could drive without a license for twenty years as a shitty driver and not get caught), but also the way the written portion of the driving test was administered was they handed you a piece of paper and a pencil, and told you to take the test in a segregated area inside the building, away from anyone who could help give you the answers, which was stupid because who the hell was watching, DMV employees? Haha… hahahahahaha!
That’s not what we did. We took the test paper, left the building, went home, looked up all the answers on the corresponding study material, went back to the DMV, turned in the test, and my dad passed with a 100% score. They never knew we left. As for the practical portion of the test, I am truly perplexed as to how he passed it since I was not involved.
Maybe his instructor was a foreigner.
You know, I am just now realizing, I took part in something that bugs the crap out of me today; facilitated a foreigner getting behind the wheel of a car without proper training.
So I was with this hot, sexy guy last night, and we were really getting into it. You know, arguing a point.
What? You think we were actually having sex? Well we were going to, until I asked him if he would be interested in exploring my erroneous zones, but he balked and said “Don’t you mean erogenous zones?” I told him “No, erroneous zones. That’s where I get to point out when someone is fucking wrong, and a moron, which sends tingling sensations all over my body, sparking my passion… then it leads to angry sex. Now I get to point out that you thought I was stupid for using the wrong word, when it was you who was wrong. And stupid. I’m really turned on, do you wanna have sex now?”
He didn’t. I was hoping he’d at least want to grudge fuck me.
Instead, he got really offended and we argued for a few minutes, then he left and I had to take things into my own hands. It’s just as well. He probably would’ve dove right into the pink panther instead of taking the time to explore my most important erogenous zone: My brain.
I need to maybe stick with the plain or ugly dudes. They’re more willing to please than the hot guys, who think they can get any bitch they want, any time they want… which is probably true *sigh*
Ugly guys try harder and they’re not as picky.
Am I saying I’m someone who someone who isn’t picky is the perfect someone for someone like that?
Clearly, this guy couldn’t handle my sexuality, passion and intelligence. Good riddance! I want a man who can hold his own…
while I wax poetic…
about all the idiots…
there are in the world…
then we’ll take it from there.
I’ve discovered how to determine if someone is losing their fucking mind.
I met my friend for a hike at one of my favorite trails. It starts out from a residential neighborhood, and at times, there can be lots of activity and people parking on the streets surrounding the houses because it’s a popular trail. There’s one particular house on the corner that sits right next to the actual trail head and the owner of the house is not happy about all this activity.
You’ll soon find out how I know this.
Hiking in our area has become increasingly popular over the last couple decades. We have lots of beautiful open space; we’re in suburban hell, so besides eating, fucking and overpopulating, there isn’t much to do out here. Oh wait, there’s Starbucks…
I’m sure the influx of people in these areas must be frustrating for the residents, because whenever you have large groups of people doing something, it’s very obnoxious. It’s just the nature of large groups of people together doing the same thing. Think: herds of buffalo, or sheep… or MAGA supporters.
Anyway, when I approached my friend’s vehicle, she told me the owner of the house that sits next to the trail head, came out and told her she couldn’t park in front of his house, which is on a public street with no parking restrictions. Remember, it’s the suburbs, and the only thing we call all agree on about living here, is that the parking is great.
By now, you should probably know where this is going.
Let me preface this by saying there are two characteristics of people I detest. Okay, there are lots of characteristics of people I detest, but the two that stand out the most, are liars and hypocrites. Now I’m not saying I’ve never been one or the other from time to time… what I am saying, is I fucking hate it when people are habitual liars and hypocrites, then act like they’re not when they know they are. If you’re gonna be like that, just own it; own up to your asshole-ness.
My friend, who is non-confrontational… at least, not anymore (ask me one day about the time I repeatedly had to pull her out of a girl-fight on a Saturday night), said she’d just move her car because she didn’t want the guy to do anything to it. That pissed me off, because he was trying to intimidate someone through lying, but also because this wasn’t the first time he was being a jerk. I had parked in front of his house once before and when I returned from my hike, he had left a note on my windshield that he called the tow company and they were coming to tow my car; a complete empty threat.
What a weenie.
But I wanted to handle the situation in a rational, mature way, so I turned toward his house and gave him a raspberry and the finger. I was only going to give him a raspberry, but it just didn’t feel complete. I knew he was lurking behind his blinds watching us too. Then he did exactly what I expected he would; came outside to confront us.
Like I said, weenie.
He started to utter some baloney, but I just spoke over him in my loud voice (yeah, I can be loud), and told him he had no right to tell people not to park in front of his house; it’s public parking, people have a right to park wherever they want, and to stop scaring people away.
Let me re-iterate what he does: He stands watch over a curb; a piece of concrete attached to asphalt that sits adjacent to what he considers his domain, and he doesn’t want anyone near said domain, even though he lives with thousands of other people in a town where there are cars and streets and other domains. Remember the Unabomber? This is his cousin.
Not only that, he does it every weekend! He must stand at his window for hours, watching for vehicles parking in front of his house so he can pounce on them or leave fucking idiot notes on their windshields.
That is the definition of insanity, my friends.
I’m surprised Trump hasn’t hired him to be the Secretary of Transportation. I’m certain this guy is having sex with Betsy DeVos, and post-coitus, they talk about how they’re gonna fuck up people’s lives: She with the disabled and he with anyone who parks. They get so turned on by their discussions, they fuck over and over again, just like rabbits; because it’s over very quickly and they’re trying to repeatedly conceive so as to colonize with large groups of other insane people.
I’ve been recovering from a stomach virus. It’s taken me five days to be able to convince my stomach it’s okay to keep food down, but that hasn’t stopped it from protesting by issuing disturbingly loud noises. So disturbingly loud, I haven’t gone out anywhere because I’m afraid someone will call the cops on me.
To top off my wonderful week of vomiting and subsequent negotiation with my stomach to have some soup, I went to an appointment to see my gynecologist. I should’ve re-scheduled but since I haven’t had a date in… well, never mind how long, I figured I’d just go and get fingered.
I’ve never seen this particular gynecologist before because I just got new insurance, and because insurance companies dictate who and when you can see a health care provider, I had to choose someone I’ve never met or heard of before. I chose a woman because a male gynecologist is an oxymoron. Or, just moron. Anyway, we did the usual question and answer routine and sized each other up. She seemed knowledgeable enough and had a pleasant manner, so I felt comfortable in working with her to address my issues.
Never mind about my issues
Ask any woman, of any age, what it’s like to go to the gynecologist for a check up, and you’ll get the same response: Ugh, which always denotes trepidation and a quiet dread. Not only because you don’t want any bad news, but because of the contraptions used for the exam. I’m talking a pap smear, people… which is an awful phrase. Couldn’t they come up with a more appealing term, like flower inspection? I don’t even know what a pap is.
So I climbed up onto the saddle and planted my feet firmly into the stirrups. Ladies will know exactly what I’m referring to, and men… well, you’ll have to ask your wives or girlfriends for an explanation if you don’t already know… you dumb fucks. Oh, you didn’t realize I was gonna walk you through my appointment and it’s making you uncomfortable, huh? Welcome to the jungle, baby! (I haven’t had a bikini wax in a couple years either).
Aaaanyway… after the soothing sound of the snapping of latex gloves, she started with the speculum, which is Latin for “this is gonna be awkward”. The speculum is a contraption that spreads the vagina open, much wider than if it was about to invite a hot guy’s bulge inside of her… or something to that effect. One of the reasons I like to see women gynecologists is because they know how to use them, taking into consideration how it feels, whereas men have no fucking clue. Most of the time they can’t even find the vagina’s most precious jewel, so how are they supposed to be a fucking gynecologist, for fuck’s sake?! (please see paragraph three).
After that uncomfortable part of the exam, this gyno (shortened from the word gynecologist to save time and effort) had to feel around inside my uterus, and she got a little rough. I get that she wanted to be thorough, but after a minute of this, it started to feel like I never gave her permission in the first place, if you know what I mean. To give credit where credit is due, men can generally be more, um… caring, when it comes to feeling around up there, but she was just going to the rodeo! She shoved her fingers so high up inside me, at one point she mentioned I needed a filling in my upper molar.
How the fuck?
After her exam was completed, she said I might have some spotting later in the day and I thought to myself: Spotting? I’m probably going to have a full on period… and I’m in menopause. If there was anything good to come out of my visit, it’s that I definitely want to start dating immediately. She awakened a passion in me… a desire of something that’s been dormant for a long time:
Pets become part of the family, don’t they? They’re like our kids, especially when it comes to keeping them on a tight leash… metaphorically speaking, of course. I don’t actually put kids on leashes (only because it’s against the law). Still, I think it’s a stellar idea. Kids out in public need to be controlled at all times. Just think about when you’re in a restaurant, the parents letting their kids run around like it’s a friggin’ playground while you’re just trying to do your job as a goddamn waitress and the little fuckers almost trip you up as you try balance a tray full of drinks!
Just like when dogs are out in public, they need to be controlled at all times too. No, I don’t have kids or dogs, I have cats, and yes, I can almost hear the squawk of an argument coming out of your mouth right now, but you can just forget about it because as far as I’m concerned, both kids and dogs belong on leashes.
Of course there are times when you should be allowed to let your kids and dogs run free: In your own backyard, or in the middle of your living room… let ‘em run around in circles until they wear themselves out… and maybe you should join them. Come to think of it, you should suck your own dicks, too!
Anyway, I’ll give you a perfect example: I was hiking the other day, and, like countless times before, I encountered dogs off leash while the family was meandering along on the trail behind them. It’s really unsettling to have strange dogs coming towards you because you never know how they’re going to react. Dog owners are often quick to defend themselves with stupid statements like, “I want my dogs to be unencumbered and run free.” Well I wanna run free inside a fucking bank vault, but do I? No, because it’s illegal.
Here’s the irritating part… wait, it’s all irritating… but this is the most irritating part of the irritating thing: As the family got closer to me, the dad said “I hope you weren’t bothered by our dogs.” wah, wah, wah.
You “hope”? So does Andy Dufresne in The Shawshank Redemption dumbass, so you can take your hopes and your thoughts and your prayers and stick it ‘cause I don’t need them. What I need is for you to put your dogs on a leash so I’m not afraid I’m going to get attacked by a strange animal.
I know you want everything to be hunky dory while you enjoy your stroll with your family… yay! Well fuck that shit. How would you like to encounter a grizzly bear on your stroll and have the owner say “I hope you weren’t bothered by my man-eating bear?”
Why would you even ask me that question instead of just putting your dogs on leashes? Wait, don’t answer that, it’s a rhetorical question. I already know why. It’s because you know you’re doing the wrong thing, and you want me to pardon your irresponsible behavior by saying something to the effect of: “Aww, it’s okaaaay” <insert fucking smiley emoji>
What kind of example are you showing your kids with that behavior anyway? Okay no, I don’t really give a crap about your kids, I’m just trying to make you feel more guilty. Every day, there are people out there breaking tiny, little laws, like speeding, letting their dogs run loose and cheating on their taxes (which reminds me…) and they think it’s okay as long as they don’t get caught or no one says anything, so where does that leave us as a society? Unleashed, that’s where!
Hmm… now where did I put that muzzle?