Would you people just get the fuck out of my way? Really, we’d all be much happier. Do you not see the orange “slow-moving vehicle” triangle on the back of my shirt? Did you somehow miss the “Wide Load” banner across my belly?
Well, they’re there, if only implied. It should be fucking obvious that I’m having enough problems getting around without trying to navigate the normal-sized-person hole you left between you and that wall/post/other person/display. And another thing—because my fingers have turned into snack-sized sausages, I will drop whatever I’m carrying on the floor, from whence retrieval will take me approximately 10 minutes, so just stay the fuck out of the hallways at the office, too.
How, you ask, is all this your fault? It just is, dammit. So fuck you.
Oh, and while you’re at it, I am aware I am a (barely) mobile freak show, so spare me the cute knowing smiles and the unsolicited comments. I do not believe you really care how I’m feeling, I know I do not care about your friend/sibling/cousin who’s knocked up or who had twins, and frankly, if I had the energy, I’d just as soon kill you as look at you.
So unless I know you and like you, please just go back to your useless, pathetic excuse for a life and leave me alone. Thanks for your cooperation.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Saturday, September 20, 2008
bitch is goin DOWN
So, I left work early Friday for one of my increasingly frequent ultrasound/checkups. I have to take a shuttle bus from my office building to my car, a half-mile away.
I rolled my eyes when I saw the bus was being driven by Lurleen, the shuttle bus driver I'd most like to see meet an untimely and unfortunate death. By itself, her shuttling style is annoying. Not only does she look left, then right, then left again before pulling out, she throws in at least a couple extra glances each way. And then waits if there's a moving vehicle anywhere within a half-mile radius--in a parking lot where the speed limit is 20 mph.
She also waits an inordinate amount of time for people who maybe, just maybe, might be almost ready to exit each building in search of her shuttling services, as if she's god's gift to shuttle busing and there won't be another one coming in a few minutes.
One day I got on the bus and she was playing "The Old Rugged Cross," complete with a spoken-word missive about Jesus' love and being saved. I did not think this was behavior The Man, in his uber-political-correctness, would condone. I should have turned her in while I had the chance, but I was hoping some devout Muslim would take up that cause for me. No such luck.
Not long after, I was the last remaining passenger and she held me captive on the bus, refusing to open the door until I answered questions about when I'm due and what I'm having.
But the last straw was Friday, when, as I struggled to haul my ass up the bus steps with my laptop in tow, she started laughing--cackling, actually--at my ridiculous plight. Listen, bitch, I'm toting 38 extra pounds in the area where my waist used to be, my feet have turned into plump sausages, and I've completely lost any center of gravity I used to have. Am I supposed to be pleased that I'm amusing you??
It's clear to me I must infiltrate the shuttle bus yard and stick peanut butter in her tape player. At a minimum.
As for the aliens living inside me, Corndog is weighing in at approximately 4 pounds, and Tater Tot has caught up and surpassed him, tipping the scales at a hefty 4 pounds, 4 ounces. And they still, in theory, have 8 weeks left to cook. They are big healthy babies, finely representing the hardy German peasant stock from which they come. As for me, I'm going to have to hire someone to push me around in a wheelbarrow before long.
I rolled my eyes when I saw the bus was being driven by Lurleen, the shuttle bus driver I'd most like to see meet an untimely and unfortunate death. By itself, her shuttling style is annoying. Not only does she look left, then right, then left again before pulling out, she throws in at least a couple extra glances each way. And then waits if there's a moving vehicle anywhere within a half-mile radius--in a parking lot where the speed limit is 20 mph.
She also waits an inordinate amount of time for people who maybe, just maybe, might be almost ready to exit each building in search of her shuttling services, as if she's god's gift to shuttle busing and there won't be another one coming in a few minutes.
One day I got on the bus and she was playing "The Old Rugged Cross," complete with a spoken-word missive about Jesus' love and being saved. I did not think this was behavior The Man, in his uber-political-correctness, would condone. I should have turned her in while I had the chance, but I was hoping some devout Muslim would take up that cause for me. No such luck.
Not long after, I was the last remaining passenger and she held me captive on the bus, refusing to open the door until I answered questions about when I'm due and what I'm having.
But the last straw was Friday, when, as I struggled to haul my ass up the bus steps with my laptop in tow, she started laughing--cackling, actually--at my ridiculous plight. Listen, bitch, I'm toting 38 extra pounds in the area where my waist used to be, my feet have turned into plump sausages, and I've completely lost any center of gravity I used to have. Am I supposed to be pleased that I'm amusing you??
It's clear to me I must infiltrate the shuttle bus yard and stick peanut butter in her tape player. At a minimum.
As for the aliens living inside me, Corndog is weighing in at approximately 4 pounds, and Tater Tot has caught up and surpassed him, tipping the scales at a hefty 4 pounds, 4 ounces. And they still, in theory, have 8 weeks left to cook. They are big healthy babies, finely representing the hardy German peasant stock from which they come. As for me, I'm going to have to hire someone to push me around in a wheelbarrow before long.
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