SB is back! Probably no one even noticed I didn't post a goddamn thing yesterday. But I like to think hundreds of you WERE TERRIBLY DISAPPOINTED that I didn't post and that you were checking the site countless times and groaning in disappointment that there were no NEW posts. Let me have my damn illusions, people! How would any of us live without illusions? And also, when you picture me, I want you to picture Angelina Jolie in your minds, because we are practically twins.
Anyhoo, the fucking washer went out, so I had to be at home yesterday for delivery of the new one, plus SB had to run the diarrhetic dog to the vet for an early morning blood test because--get this--her pancreas may be the issue causing her intestinal difficulties. Just like her mom! It's her pancreas, people! The irony. Naturally, the blood test and the scheduled delivery of the damn washer overlapped, so it was a chaotic morning. And you know how SB LOVES MORNINGS anyway!
Also, on the two-mile or so drive into the office this morning, some dumb fuck headed straight at me on my side of the road because he was talking on his damn cell phone, trying to score drugs or meet up with a hooker or some shit. He stopped with his goddamn front bumper about two feet from my front bumper. Then, get this--the asshole waved at me like: I'm sorry I'm a dumb preoccupied fucking asshole. I see I am in your lane, so please pardon my stupidity.
Sometimes, as in this case, I am grateful for my depression, because I don't get worked up over anything, including impending death. I'm like: Is this damn sonofabitch coming at me? Is this fuck in my lane? I didn't see my whole life flash or anything. I didn't even get nervous. I think my reaction time is a bit slow. Fucker could have hit me, and I would have reacted about the time the ambulance techs got me to the nearest hospital. It's a good thing, people! I have very little stress overall.
As a result of all of yesterday's washer/diarrhetic turmoil, SB and Mercer, the Queen of this damn blog, slept poorly last night. When I did sleep, I dreamt that Gordy and his Real Dolls were chasing my ass around, trying to grab me and dip me in plastic to join the old hareem (harem). So, please forgive the quality of the posts that may emanate forth today, due to SBs lack of sleep. On second thought, FUCK THAT SHIT! I don't owe you damn people anything! No one's forcing your ass to read this shit! Go read Ann Coulter's damn blog, if you don't like it. I am a wee tad grouchy this morning.
Being grouchy reminds me of my Grandpa Heeter--no, not the Grandpa who took me to the liquor store with him--the other Grandpa, who owned a carry out. Grandpa Heeter was the grouchiest person SB has ever known. He used to yell at me and my cousins: You damn kids stop running around upstairs! You damn kids stop making so much noise! As a result, for the longest time, I thought the word kids was always preceded by the adjective damn. [I would have my revenge, though. Grandpa H. was prejudiced, so I used the photo of a black grandpa to represent him above. HA, HA!]
Anyhoo, Grandpa even used to bitch out some of his carry-out customers. He was no business man. This one poor hapless regular customer used to come in and buy Natural Light beer, and one day, Grandpa told him to get the hell out of his carry out if he was going to buy that goddamn cheap beer all the time. After the poor flustered guy left, I had to ask: Well, if you don't want him to buy the cheap beer, then why do you stock it?
Gramps DID NOT LIKE THAT SHIT, let me tell you.
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