Dropping a Cripple

So there I was, moseying down the street to gorge myself on sushi with Chelle, when I noticed that I was about to cross paths with a gentleman. This man is a familiar face to me and my fellow Plaza dwellers as he is often out and about, walking his puppy or going for a stroll despite his obvious physical challenge. He lives on the same street as me, and rocks loudly for getting out there on his crutches all the time, because God knows I'm too fat and lazy to walk anywhere that isn't 20 feet away.* So when I saw him approaching me on the sidewalk, I smiled and said hello. He enthusiastically returned my greeting, and we passed one another.

Then, I heard a sickening thud behind me, and turned to see him lying on the ground, groceries all over the grass, and crutches and feet…totally pointing my direction. You know what this means, don't you?

I dropped a cripple.

I clearly have abused The Hotness! With this kind of power comes responsibility! What was I thinking, exposing a handicapable man to It in It's purest form? I feel like total pigeon shit for mind-tripping a disabled dude. I mean, who does that?! We all know he can't easily rotate to get the rear view with crutches!! God. I'm such a dick for forgetting that not everyone can physically handle checking out all this jelly.

*Note to self: Purchase Segway.

Haikus on Poo

The Root of My Awesomness

I bask in my gas
T-Bell rocks so fucking hard
Delicious and ripe

Reeky Cube-mate

In my cubicle
I sense a noxious odor
Oh my god, Kyle! GROSS!

Frappafarts

Coffee addiction
Carmel Machiatto...mmm!
I'd so bang Starbucks

Sleeping Beauty and the Beasts Downstairs

Last night was the third night in a row that I was woken from a deep, yummy sleep. You know, the kind where I was dreaming that I'm totally rocking the runway on America's Next Top Model. Can I just tell you how bowel-curdlingly livid it makes me to not only be woken up for any reason whatsofrickingever, but out of a kick ass dream? OMG BLINDING WHITE HOT RAGE, BITCHES!

And who might be the culprit of such offensive nocturnal intrusions? Why, it's only my hoser new downstairs neighbor! And. I'm. Going. To. Fucking. Mutilate. Their. Entire. WORLD! I'm wicked not kidding, babies. I feel so strongly about being woken, that I could absolutely choke a bitch over it, or at least, like, boil their pets. This is my problem, and I recognize and own it. It is in this recognition that I choose to live alone. But when it's freaking 2:30 AM on a mother fucking Tuesday and you're being so super rave party succubus that I can hear you through 10 feet of concrete? Game on, asslickers. Game ON!

I just can't imagine what kind of cat rapist can have all their friends over from Sunday through Tuesday to shriek and party until literally, dawn. Do they have jobs? Can they even perform a job when they totally blow so much? How do these homos pay their rent?! These are the questions that have been plaguing me since I was so cruelly ripped from my awesome dreams of Tyra's giant weave.

So, in retaliation, I wrote a strongly worded letter. I know, I know! I probably should have done something more drastic like kidnapping their moms, but I think you underestimate how terrifying my strongly worded letters are. I would totally print it here, but your faces might explode. And I just couldn't live with myself if I hurt my hos!

Four Wheels of Doom

Cars blow. Oh my GOD, I loathe dealing with everything about them. Currently, I drive a "vintage" 1992 Celica (a.k.a. the Lean Green Disco Machine.) Yeaaah, she has rust spots, dents, frightening carpet, and a ghetto radio that doesn't work because my antenna goes up and down at random while making awesome noises like RUurrrrRrruurrrRURRRRRR. And do I mind any of this? Hell no! I'm white trash and god damn proud of it. But I'll tell you what I do mind.

No A/C.

Walk with me...It's literally the hottest day of the year; you're wearing sweatery biznazz casual and blissfully driving home from work, but it's all good, baby! You're keeping nice and chill with the air conditioning alllllll the way up. You notice a slight alien clicking sound from the dash and suddenly, BLISTERING FUCKING HOT AIR sears through your vents and steams your face like a geyser exploding from the fiery pits of hell. Pretty rock and roll, right? Ah ha, but now realize that the cost of repairing said A/C is worth more than the car itself. Sons'n bitchin'! It's time to get a new car.

This is the point in our tale where Summie loses her mole. Cars suck snail testicles! They are a terrible investment and kill a over a million fucking people a year!!! I friggin' despise them with the fury of 10,000 wildebeests! And fuck you very much, Kansas City, for sucking out my entire soul by not providing good public transportation. You can EAT ME!I feel like I'm left with only one viable option at this point. I've been driven here by the angst that is dealing with stupid douche car stuff. The way I see it, my only alternative is to go now and buy this car and commence squealing with delight: