The gods are forcing another shit sammich down my throat today, and I’m none too thrilled. I swear, I feel like Katniss in the Hunger Games. I decided to tidy up the playroom in the basement yesterday. There’s been this weird stain on the concrete slab for probably a year. I’ve often wondered what it was. Until yesterday. Yesterday, instead of just a stain, there was a small puddle. What the heck? I touched it, to make sure it was ‘water.’ And then I did that weird thing that humans do. I put my fingers to my nose and smelled the ‘water.’ My head began to spin and my stomach began to churn. You all know what the fuck I’m going to say. Because this is a blog about human excrement, right? Shit rules the day here. It was shit water. Sewerage. Oh my FACK! Right away I know this is not good. I immediately flash back to months of weird flushing shenanigans, shit backing up into the shower one time, etc. I realize this stain has been here at least a year, because I noticed it shortly after Dave died. I specifically remember noticing it and feeling single and helpless and wondering if something was very wrong. So the plumbers are coming tomorrow. And no, it is not the hot muscle-y plumber. He doesn’t have the camera thing that goes into shitty pipes. I can only hope my head has stopped throbbing by the time the jackhammers are cranked up and we are on water lockdown. Oh how I can’t wait to spend summer vacation money on this shit salad.
It’s taken well over a hundred thousand page views, but some humorless prick finally riled me up with a comment on my blog. He/she read my “How Not to Be an Asshole” blog and was compelled to tell me that the message was lost, because I lack charm and grace given my ‘situation.’ Here’s a public service announcement. The blog is called “Diary of a MADwoman.” Not “Diary of a Humorless, Passive Quitter.” I’m not that girl. If I dig deep, I can pull my June Cleaver alter ego from my sparkly silver handbag though. How’s this?
“Well, gee willickers. Tomorrow, the darlings and I will excrete our waste into buckets. And gadzooks, I’ll get the day off from doing all sorts of chores. Some rather plain looking gentlemen with their backsides showing will grace us with their presence while they seek resolution to our odorous dilemma. Aww fiddlesticks, we love life all the same.” Hmm. Yeah. That’s likely to be called Diary of a Fucktard.
Seriously, hataz gonna hate, right?! I’m convinced this person is either the author of “Men Are From Mars” or a person with a lot of tangled up cock fro. I’m not very good at accepting criticism, on account of my being perfect and all. But I’m really great at always getting the last word, especially on my own blog. So, dear asshat, let me know how that shit sandwich tastes, because you’ll be eating it soon. It’s just the way the universe works. I’d be in quite the panic, if I were you. The gods tire of me from time to time, because I can’t be held down. I’m grace under fire. Your grace may look different. What charms you probably doesn’t even register on my scale. Actually, I’m fairly certain it would bore me to tears and then cause me to make all kinds of fun of you again. But I assure you, I charm the pants off beautiful people all day. Ya hurd me?
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