How my neighbor’s cat ends up in the hall. It’s not that I mind Patrick visiting, since he’s a whole lot friendlier than his owner, but wonder…is he drunk when I bring him back and he says, “how the hell did that little shit get out again?”
When bad books get published. I’m a bibliophile of the first rank, smelling bad writing in a book’s first three pages. I know so many gifted writers who can’t get to first base publishing wise…WTF…it has to be someone who owed someone a favor proving, literary integrity flies fleetingly in our present society.
My lack of sexual verve when once upon a time, ‘you ain’t nothin but a hound-ette,’ was my theme song, having more sex than JFK. Now? I’d rather tip-toe through the tulips than play ball, so to speak, unless of course there’s a net involved. Even in my twilight years, Connecticut has the last say, badminton, still my game.
Cheapskates. I HATE CHEAP PEOPLE. You know who I mean, the ones who stall before breaking out their wallets waiting to hear…I got this. That guy you like who still has his bar mitzvah money, at 70. The last Fred Mertz I dated was history after asking, “Do you really need that appetizer?” “Yes Fred, I do.”
My knees, that suddenly need a good press. Why are they winking like they’ve had too much to drink? See, I don’t quite get the concept of gravity. I have excellent posture, so why don’t my knees…those patellas of grandeur that used to get whistled at in a short, short skirt?
How yesterday I was in shorts, and today, a pair of fleece snow pants? So now when the Wildlife Fund asks if I’ll sponsor a polar bear, I kind want to say, yes, he can spend the summer with me, if he doesn’t mind the couch.
Flatulence when you least expect it. I don’t remember tootin on the subway pretending it wasn’t me, and to be hilariously hormonal on the number 6, holds little appeal. I can just see myself on a wanted posted in Connecticut that reads…IF SEEN…RUN.
The coalition of alleged homeless people. Not the real homeless, but those who beg in homeless clothing. I hear they might become unionized, but are disputing paying dues along with taxes. “GOT ANA SPARE CHANGE?. CASH ONLY.”
Suicide captured online. Boy, if there was ever an ad to not go on Instagram, it’s this latest sick craze cruising the net. I don’t know about you, but when I put my head in the oven, I’d prefer it to be more private.
Those that won’t leave you alone. You’ve done everything but take a contract out on them, but there they are, determined to win you back. LIFE IS SHORT…FIND OTHER INTERESTS.
Men who think they decide whether we fuck them or not. This might be my favorite, and how collectively, they should all will their egos to science for a serious study in narrcisistic stupidity. Unless it’s rape, women have the last say, and here’s a tip. Don’t talk about previous conquests with bigger tits because, we’ll make skid marks, leaving you with a woody they’ll talk about at parties.