This is not a new post. This is yesterday’s post with some changes. You see, I laugh every day when I complete the day’s post and run it through the spell-check provided by the good folks at Blogger. And I always wondered how my post would read if I incorporated all of the suggested changes. Well, here ya go. Beats me having to come up with something new and creative this morning. It’s not going to make much sense if you didn’t read yesterday’s post, but that’s the price you pay for not logging on to ME first thing every day. Be nice and I might post again later today. But no promises.



This is an open letter to those of you who use the carpal system at my children’ school. You know who you are. Yes, you. I’m talking to you, you moron. Here are some suggestions that might help you fit in with the rest of us. You know, those of us who are stuck behind you while you do something insanely stupid because, well, because you think you can? Guess what? You can’t. And I’m here to tell you about it. (Never mind the fact that no one that frequents the carpal line reads this, with the exception of a couple of dear friends/readers who share my sadness at the decline in the human condition. But dammed, it’s my bloc and I can do what I want. Kind like the carpal moronic. So, in essence, this is my passive-aggressive way of screaming at these people. It makes me feel better. And if it makes me feel better, it should make you, my loyal beanbags (ha!) feel better.)

First. You know that rule that comes out year after year after year in the student handbook? You know the one — it’s now bold and italicized for your reading pleasure? “No. Left. Turns. Out. Of. Carpal.” Yeah. That one. This applies to you, boned. You are backing us up three miles with your inability to figure out that a simple right turn, coupled with making the block, will get you back in the right direction and keep the line moving. What? Oh. I’m sorry. I forgot that the world foreskin’ revolves around you and your need to get where you are going. What was I thinking? The rest of us only need to get to work. Work. Yeah. It’s what people do.

Second. No matter how cute you look in your tennis whites or your designer warmups, you cannot, I repeat, cannot, stop the car and get out and visit. And no, you do not get extra points for having a cute little lipid’s with a pintail. You just can’t do it. Oh, and for the record? That cute little dog in your lap? He’s gone be York pizza when that airbag deploys. Put him in the back seat or leave him at home. Got it?

Third. Your child will not explode, implode, or detonate on his or her trek up the sidewalk. (That has only happened a couple of times and it was at another school.) You do not have to coast along through the line watching them as they approach the door. There are teachers stationed along the way to see to it that little Caroline Margaret and her insanely huge bow make it into the classroom. We are behind you, sweetie, and would like to move along. If you take too long to get out of line, the gate closes and my sweet, precious children have to take the long way around. And possibly detonate.

I know you think these rules don’t apply to you because your child is fortunate enough to attend. . .Wait. . .Wow . . . Attend the same school my kids do. See, sweetie? I wrote the same check you did. Just because you’re in a Lexus SUB and I’m not doesn’t mean a thing, darling. (To be sure, a Lexus SUB is just a Toyota with a Stupidity Upgrade, dear.)

Oh, and another thing, toots. Your husband is bouncing his nurse in Exam 1. Kiss kiss.

See ya later, my loyal beanbags!

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