CKGay.

8 Feb

Bam Margera is not funny. All he and his crew do is destroy the home that they live in in front of their mother. Then they throw flour on their uncle. This isn’t funny. It’s stupid. It’s a daily repeat of breaking furniture, wasting food, and loud obtrusive noises that are in no way even remotely entertaining. I can get the exact same kind of show from a garbage dump, and I will.

People always speak of the ladies who grow up alone, never to marry or have a family, manifesting their lack of human relationships in an unreasonable amount of household pets, usually cats. It wasn’t until this week, however, that I actually came across one. On an appointment I had in Council Bluffs this past week, I met cat lady. Patrice Duggan was her name. I shuffled up the steep driveway to a tiny house with obnoxious teal trim, and approached the front door. Before ringing the doorbell, I noticed a sheet of paper taped to the door. I investigated. This is what it read:

Really? Yeap. She exists. This is her biggest concern in life. If these cats aren’t smart enough to get out of a fire when there is one, they don’t deserve to live. Any living thing that confuses the safety procedures under the circumstance of a tornado with a blazing house fire doesn’t deserve the air that it breathes. Oh, and Patrice? If this memo is meant to alert firefighters to the rescue of your felines in the event of a fire, maybe a paper note taped to your front door isn’t the best route to take. Maybe try steel.

I’m going to beat my kids when I grow up. No doubt about it. Over the course of my short two week career visiting people in their homes and showing them cutlery, you can imagine I’ve run into a couple of dozen knobby-kneed kids with Kool-Aid mustaches and grubby fingernails. At least 60% of these kids have cried the entire time I was there. The other 40% was trying to amputate the limbs of their siblings with my tools. Meanwhile, the parents either a) tried to ignore their children’s completely inappropriate misbehavior, or b) scolded them throughout the entire demonstration instead of listening to my knife-tales. Neither course of action was beneficial to me.

How am I supposed to educate someone on the uses of a French Chef when their four year old is sitting on the kitchen floor, sobbing like an orphan and simultaneously hammering the floor with a Fischer Price sledgehammer the whole time? My god. Then they try to grab the knives with their sticky little hands. The message is pretty simple, kids: don’t touch knives. Knives are sharp. You will bleed. You will bleed and then you will cry, not like you’re not doing the latter already. Stay out of my business, Tommy, or I will chop, mince, and dice your ass.

On that note, the knife wielding business is going well. I’m busier than a queen bee, but the paychecks are paying off. Tonight I plan on doing something other than work for once in eight months. We’ll see how fast I get drunk. I predict three shots. Goodbye.

“What is Macully Culkin’s favorite salad dressing? A) French, B) Blue Cheese, C) Balsamic Viniagrette, or D) Neverland Ranch.”

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