Shitty Day

So I’ve been remiss in my blogging duties of late, and I really have no excuse, other than Netflix added a considerable number of BBC PBS specials. Forgive me, but I now know the details of Henry VIII’s home palace, and what one must do in order to protect the Queen’s Crown Jewels. (Are Crown Jewels capitalized? I feel like they should be.)

Anyhoo, I spent the week telling myself that I would not drive 15 miles to go to Caribou Coffee, unless there was a more valid reason to go to town. Luckily, this morning, I made one up, telling myself that I needed to buy body wash and face wash and curl cream made specifically for African-American tresses. (If I must, I will claim Africa as my motherland in order to use such products without being judged.) I decided to bring the dog with, since she receives puppy treats when going through the Caribou Coffee drive-thru.

When I came out from spending my allotted dollars for beauty products, I opened my truck door and was taken aback from the butt stench that wafted toward me. I discovered that puppy, (who took a massive dump before we left home) decided to take another dump, (in my truck), and without having anywhere else to retreat, stepped through it on the passenger seat and smeared it all the way across to the driver’s seat. (Um, ew does not begin to describe.)

I had bought an arsenal of Clorox wipes in the store, but alas! There is little that cleaning wipes can do in such a situation. I was forced to sit in the little bits of smushed feces that remained on my seat the entire ride home, windows open, and puppy looking sufficiently forlorn and embarrassed.

Upon arriving home, the dog got a hose-down with plenty of soap, and my poor truck got a scrubbing that I’m certain will not erase a certain odor d’Poo. Anybody want to buy a pretty yellow truck?

Point and Aim, Men

Men, boys, she-males-

I have a bone to pick with you.

And yes, it’s the bone in your pants that I’m talking about. (Even thought I’ve been told it’s not actually a bone.)

But it’s not in the context you’d expect from me.

I am pissed. (In every sense of the word.)

I would like to know- exactly what the fuck is so hard about pointing your dick in the general 12-14″ that is allotted from a urinal and actually pissing IN the thing, as opposed to IN FRONT of it?!

Is it that you are standing too far away, and your urinal stream lacks the power to get to it’s destination?

Is it that you are so distracted by having you penis in your hands that you just “forget” so pee where you are supposed to?

I really want to know.

I am not blaming the ENTIRE male species for this transgression; no. But I have asked many guys that I’ve worked with if they are the individuals pissing on the floor in the bathroom, and no ones copping to it. So until I get an honest answer, you are ALL under suspicion.

I know it IS quite possible for men to NOT know where to aim their thingys, (I believe I’ve said once or twice, “You missed the hole.”) But sex is a completely different matter. Peeing is something you’ve been doing since birth, so there is no reason that after all this time, you don’t know what you’re doing.

So the only other excuse I come up with is- you just don’t give a shit.

And in that case, I say, “FUCK YOU.”

It is not the complete joy of my life to mop up a pile of misguided piss every night at work simply because you lack the manners to aim.

If I have to stand there with my whip and MAKE you aim correctly, I will.

But I somehow don’t think you want that.

If you do not take into consideration that a girl as nice as me has to clean up your bodily waste matter, the next male I see come out of the bathroom, I WILL MAKE YOU LICK IT UP!!!!! I bet you won’t let that happen again.

That’s all I have to say about that.

Except, please make sure you wash your hands after you pee in the designated area. Thank you.