Today we're discussing that very important issue of misuse of taxpayer funds. But first, let's discuss something of an even higher priority ... idiot drivers!
We all spend a significant amount of time in traffic, and it's obvious a number of testosterone-enriched guys and estrogen-deprived gals don't know there's an etiquette to driving. To that end, here is enlightenment and knowledge ... for those who haven't a clue, and are driving Miss Daisy crazy:
1. If traffic is stopped on the interstate and backed up for 2 miles, you may not drive on the shoulder to bypass those who've been sitting for hours. If you do, you will be consigned to hell for eternity. With no ice water.
2. You may only occupy one small space in the lane. You may not weave all over the road nor fly down the middle like a "bat out of hell." If you do, that's where you're liable to end up, along with the drivers breaking rule #1.
Exception: Eighteen wheelers with plastic steer horns on the front of the grille and with ... um ... how to say this politely ... personal parts dangling off the back bumper are given a pass. (No pun intended.) These big rigs are allowed any portion of the road they please, including but not limited to, barrow pits, median strips, concrete barricades, and through the middle of Mickey D's golden arches.
3. You can not decide what exit you need ten seconds after you've passed it. If this happens, you may not back up on the freeway, you must go to the next exit and turn around. Exception: If there's a pregnant women in the car and a baby's head is crowning. This is not an either/or situation. In the event both are happening, you can whip a u-turn from the middle lane at 80 mph, if you're dumb enough to try that.
4. In residential areas, you may slow down slightly to check for the address you need. You can not--and should not--stop in the middle of the road, pull out your bifocals, put them on, realize nothing's in focus, and drift over to the curb at the rate of 10 feet/hour. You'll discover you still can't read the address from the curb.
Note: To avoid the possibility that 99% of the residents of the retirement states of Florida, South Carolina, and Arizona will burn in hell for this infraction, we suggest all homeowners nationwide should purchase plastic-flamingo-pink custom address plaques in font size 954. In Nevada, those should be interchangeable with residential address plaques that glow in the dark. Preferably ones not composed of nuclear waste, however.
5. In keeping with the trend in this country to allow the federal government to control every aspect of your life, we suggest that you purchase personalized address plaques for all your vehicles. This would include scooters, Big Wheels, tricycles, possibly horses ... oh, and cars. The a fore-mentioned identification would enable the FBI, CIA, FDIC, and PTA to track you down and issue citations for any infractions. Or force you to make cupcakes for the high school bake sale, depending.
Note: For those readers who already know and understand these rules of the road, feel free to print them off and distribute them to all the road-raged morons that tick you off. Just don't blame us if one of them tries to nail your personal parts to the bumper.
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Not long ago, I posted a review of the book "Million Dollar Diva." Reading it made me long to be rich and famous.
Okay, I'll tell the truth. Not famous, just rich. But after finishing it, my little brain asked myself, "Self, how does one dress like a million dollars when one's budget is that of a Salvation Army diva?"
I turned to Russ. "How do millionaires dress?"
Russ is not a fashionisto. He wears the same color pants and shirt until I grow so tired of the clothing rut he's in that I rip them off him and throw everything in the washing machine. Believe me when I say this--Russ would be included but it's not easy stuffing him in around the agitator.
I'm thinking the reason I asked him was because it wouldn't have done me any good to talk to Corky Porky Pie. The dog would only have suggested fur coats.
"Well ..." Russ said, looking wise. Either that or he was having a bout of irregularity. It was hard to tell which from the look on his face.
"Clothes don't make any difference," Russ said, wiping pizza sauce off his T-shirt with an old piece of newspaper.
I pondered that. By a cleverly contrived coinky-dink, I'd recently run across a website called LS Mens Clothing, which advertised spiffy, custom made suits, sports coats, and tuxedos for the well-dressed CEO.
All of which might have looked great on Russ ... had he been tall, skinny, and less bald. Still, it was worth a try. I showed the site to him, hoping it might inspire him. After all, clothing makes the man.
"That dude has lint all over his jacket," he said, as a drip of ice cream fell from his spoon and onto Corky Porky Pie's head. I calculated the odds of Corky's tongue reaching past his eyebrows, up onto the crown of his head and licking that drip off--a feat akin to me touching my elbow with my tongue. (Admit it, now you're going to try that.)
I figured them at about 3,000 to 1. Almost the same odds as me convincing Russ to actually wear spiffy clothes.
"That's the tweed in the jacket, not lint." I crossed my eyes in frustration, wondering how I'd ever been convinced to go on a first date with him, dressing like he did. Then I remembered. We went to Catholic school, where everyone wears uniforms that encourage a lack of interest in the opposite sex.
Russ eyed the computer screen as if it were bursting at the seams with flesh-eating bacteria. "None of that razzle-dazzle for me. I'm just fine in my trusty jeans."
"You mean the ones with the hole in the backside, grease down one leg, and grass stains on the knees?"
He nodded. "Yup, that would be my favorite."
It's doubtful I'll ever turn Russ into a fashionisto. However, it's all right. Who needs fashion, anyway? And $1 yard sale dresses bought consistently over thirty years ... um ... er ... forty years. Oh all right, fifty years of yard sales is what enables someone to think like a million dollar diva in the first place. It's not the money or the clothes, it's the thought processes! Right?
Make me feel better. Just nod your head and say, "Yes."
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Ever wanted to kill your spouse because he/she keeps interrupting something you're trying to do? If so, you'll get a charge out of Cindy's latest published story, "Texting on Ice" in Chicken Soup for the Soul: Hooked on Hockey.