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My favorite thing ever is when people are assholes to each other, shit all over each other (figuratively speaking) and then defend themselves by protesting “I have a right to be happy!”
Yes. You have a right to be happy (or at least the pursuit of happiness), but not at the expense of everyone around you, asshole.
(No, this is not personal. No, I’m not talking about Fred or I or the spud or anyone you know. Stop reading something into it, y’all, or I’ll come box your ears for you. And by the way, this explanation of what “box(ing) someone’s ears” means made me laugh out loud, particularly the part that reads Think cymbals clashing together with a head in between.)
* * *
I’m in a bad mood. I have been since midday yesterday.
It might be because I inadvertently found my radio tuned to the Rick and Bubba Show and they were trying to explain to people that yes, they were making jokes about the death of Steve Irwin because really, we ALL thought the man was going to die in the jaws of a crocodile and to find that he died in a freak accident involving a stingray, in a way that only a handful of people have ever died before, is just too ironic for words. Apparently they made these jokes and people got all up in arms and offended because it never occurred to them that (a) Rick and Bubba are annoying, but they consider themselves to be a comedy duo, therefore they’re going to joke about offensive things and (b) Whenever ANYONE dies, there are invariably jokes. I mean for god’s sake, it was three hours after the Challenger exploded that I first heard Q: Where did Christa McAuliffe take her last vacation? A: All over Florida.
(Rick and Bubba did say that if Steve Irwin’s wife or a close family member called and said they were offended by the jokes they were telling, they’d stop immediately. I’m thinking Terri, Bindi Sue and Bob have better things to think about.)
(My hope is that if I die unexpectedly, it’s in a way that will make people laugh. Just yesterday, as we were looking at tractors, I said to Fred “It doesn’t matter, because I’m going to end up driving it into the pond and turning it over onto myself, and you’ll come home to find me bobbing in the pond, with the duck pecking at my ass.” I want to die fast and funny. Can we arrange that?)
Maybe my bad mood is because the goddamn phone would NOT STOP RINGING yesterday. You know what I’d do if I found out tomorrow I had a year to live? I’d disconnect every phone in my life. No. I’d hire someone to answer the phone for me, only I’d transfer all the calls to an off-site (but kind of close) location, and I’d hire someone to answer the calls at the off-site (but kind of close) location, and at prearranged times (noon and six), she could come over, knock on the door, and say “Fred called. He wants to know if the goddamn floor guy showed up. Also, the spud will be home a little late, and can she borrow five dollars for gas? I told the AOL telemarketer to go fuck himself, and your mother says it MUST BE NICE to be able to hire someone to do your shit work.”
I hate the goddamn phone, it horrifies me that it rings so often, and I have lately been so pissed off at how much it’s rung that I’ve been refusing to answer it.
I’m also horrified that I even own a cell phone. I think we should just disconnect every goddam phone we have, and anyone who wants to get me can email me. IF I CAN BE BOTHERED TO ANSWER MY EMAIL.
Which reminds me – someone asked if I have an email address. I do – click on the “contact” link in the sidebar (under “about) to get to it. I’m not terribly good at answering my email, though, as those people who emailed me in July and haven’t received a response yet can attest.
I do read every email as soon as I get it, though. I promise!
I think, though, that my bad mood started when the goddamn floor guy was supposed to show up at noon to look at the bathroom floor and give us a quote for replacing it. At 2:00, Fred called to see where he was, and the fucking asshole got kind of pissy with him, saying that we were next on his list.
What time did the fucking fucker show up? 4:00.
Luckily, Fred arrived home just as the floor guy showed up so HE could deal with the guy, because what I could hear from upstairs, the guy was amazingly chatty and had an annoying laugh. As far as I’m concerned, floor guys should show up WITHIN TWO HOURS OF THE PROMISED TIME, give the goddamn quote, and get the fuck out without being all CHATTY.
And the best part? They’ll be doing the floor next Monday. And I am already SICK TO DEATH of having to go upstairs to use the bathroom.
UGH.
On the up side, the floor guys are going to install the toilet, so we don’t have to pay a plumber to come out and do it.
* * *
Okay. Now I’m in a better mood. It probably helps that I finally got off my ass and went for a walk this morning. I had to cut the walk short because I had to go to the bathroom (it’s too bad there aren’t random port-a-potties on my walking route, but I suspect the people whose subdivisions I walk through might have a problem with that). So I only walked 2 miles instead of 4, but at least I got up and got moving. That’s a good thing, right there.
Now I’m going to go upstairs and sit in the corner of my bedroom and read, so I’ll be closer to the bathroom. Hey, at least I’m getting a lot of reading done.
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Sugarbutt and Mister Boogers keep an eye on the squirrel, who’s running along the top of the fence. Over on the patio, Miz Poo and Tom Cullen sniff around.
The aforementioned squirrel.
“Behind you, Mom! A serial killer!”
Is it just me, or does Sugarbutt seem awfully annoyed lately? Maybe he’s just annoyed at me and that damn camera.
All of today’s uploaded pictures are
hither.
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Previously
2005: How do people, like, not curse? How is it possible? There are all these gaps in speech where you just have to put a “fuck.”
2004: No entry.
2003: No entry.
2002: I think that, much like dreams, the only person interested in hearing the myriad details of drug stories are the people involved.
2001: I don’t use the “c” word lightly, y’all.
2000: Nothing much is going on at Casa Bitchypoo.]]>