Okay. Yeah. Soooo…the plan had been to let Nice Drea write this post, but she’s been nauseatingly happy lately and wanted to write about butterflies and rainbows and fucking lollypops or some such crap, so I – her sister, Evil Drea – was forced to intervene.
Nice Drea is now sitting in the corner where she belongs, gagged and duct-taped and glaring at me, and I am in full control of your vertical (and your horizontal, should you like it traditional.)
Welcome back to ME!
STUFF I HATE TODAY BY EVIL DREA
Dumbasses that don’t recycle. Seriously, you morons – it’s not rocket science. I’ve known 2-year-olds that were easier to train than some of you adults. I mean, honestly, if the climate crisis were more selective, I wouldn’t care. It’s not like the gene pool couldn’t use a little cleansing. But it’s my fucking planet, too, and you’re stepping on my toes when you chuck that bottle in the black bag, baby. So I’m telling you now and don’t make me say it again. RECYCLE – LEARN HOW!
Shared office equipment with mystery keyboard gunk. Use a freakin’ napkin, for god’s sake.
The men I date stealing all of my cutlery to do hot-knives. Nothing wrong with a little toke now and then if you need it, but leave me something to butter my fucking toast with, assholes.
Socks. Yeah, that’s right, socks. I just hate ’em. They suck.
The Atlantic Ocean because of its current location, which is directly between myself and people I would like to be able to visit without an airplane. The ocean is an asshole.
[Nice Drea: “mmfffttt…beach…surfin’….mmfftt….”
Evil Drea: *throws ashtray*]
Having cold feet. Not the anti-wedding kind – that kind, I highly endorse. No, I mean actual cold feet. And if you even say the word ‘socks’, I will kick your ass into tomorrow.
Wings. The band. I mean, do we really need any more proof that John Lennon and George Harrison were the only things holding The Beatles together? RIP, guys – you are missed. Paul McCartney’s a sap. (Notice the omission of criticism for ol’ Mr. Starkey. Who can make up their minds if he sucks or not, really? He’s too strange. Which puts him at least a couple of rungs above our Paulie boy, in my book.)
[Nice Drea: *hums a few bars of “Silly Love Songs” with dreamy look on face*
Evil Drea: *chucks a mug*]
Fishermen’s Friend throat lozenges. If you happen to be fortunate enough to live in a land without such things, imagine Buckley’s cough syrup mixed with cyanide and vomit, solidified and disguised as candy. Now you know what I’m talking about. I’d rather eat razor blades. I mean, really, whose fucking sick joke was that? I hope they die choking on one of those things.
[Nice Drea: *nods head enthusiastically*
Evil Drea: We-ell…I guess I can set you free now that you’re coming to your senses.]
Later, peeps. ‘Til next time. *rubs hands together with wicked glee*