Tag Archives: humor

A Missed Opportunity

Deep thought: What came first—the color orange or the fruit?

Did someone look at the fruit and think, “That’s the color orange, so we’ll just call in an orange!” and if it was unripe and green, it would have been called a green? Or were they like, “This fruit, an orange, is also a great name for a color—one that can be created by mixing red and yellow and that people will never be able to rhyme with?”

The same could be said for grapes and grapefruit.

Why is a grape a grape but then a grapefruit is a fruit that in no way resembles an actual grape in taste or aesthetic? Was the person who labeled something as “Ugli” fruit out of the office that day or what?

Sorry. I do have a point.

Obviously a cook cooks and a copy machine makes copies, but other descriptions aren’t quite as clear. There are some missed opportunities out there for classifications—ones that would make much more sense (I’m sure the male “ladybug” would agree.)

Aerobics Instructor = Cardio-logist

Stepdad = Faux Pas

“Step” anything just sounds weird, so I propose we call him a “faux pas.” It’s both descriptive and exotic because it’s French and anything French just sounds fancy.

Cubicle = Cuticle

The word “cubicle” conjures up unpleasant images of work and the word “cuticle” conjures up unpleasant images of those weird little pieces of skin on your fingers. I propose we change these things so “cuticle” represents a cutely decorated cubicle, enhancing the work situation (at least in descriptions.)

Stomach = Food processor

Cash = Pay-per

This only makes sense. What do you do with cash other than pay for things? Sure, you might fold a $1 bill into an origami football to flick back and forth once in awhile, but otherwise you’re “paying” for things. Ergo, “pay-per.”

Shampoo = Hair freshener

Auto Body Mechanics = Dent-ists

Hello? How was this not a thing? While they have many jobs not related to external maintenance, they often tend to car dents. Therefore, they are technically dent-ists. You’re welcome.

Astronomers = Skyintists

Chiropractors = Crack Dealers

I adore my chiropractor but feel a little funny saying I go to the chiropractor, only because it kind of sounds a) pretentious, although the visits are medically necessary and b) like a dinosaur, which sounds cool but then disappointing when it’s a doctor and not a dinosaur. Plus, saying I have a crack dealer gives me street cred as a skinny Polish white girl.

Shoes = Foot Lockers

Gynecologist = Privates Investigators

I’m not sure this one needs an explanation, but I feel the new title more accurately describes the duties of these medical miners.

Looking at the list I guess it could be a little weird if someone saw you had appointments for a privates investigator and a crack dealer on the same day, but that’s what creepy people—henceforth known as “creeples”—get for snooping.

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Headlines From My House

There’s nothing like an eye-catching headline to draw you into reading a news story, right? That’s why I’m providing you with some Headlines from my House.

However, no stories are attached, only because I don’t want to incite jealousy as to how absolutely exciting my life as a swinging single gal really is.


Plot to Kill Spider with Foot Foiled by Thought of Spider Guts on Foot

Brilliant Editorial Composed in Shower Vanishes Upon Turning Off Water

Glasses Thought to be Lost Found Safely on Owner’s Head

Poll Reveals Advice from Ozzy Osbourne More Reliable than from Dr. Oz

Citizen’s Arrest Nabs Perp Using “flusterated” in a Sentence

Brain of Woman Wearing OveGlove Divorces Her After She Grabs Pan with Hand Not Wearing OveGlove… Again

Creature Under Birdfeeder Thought to be Rabid Badger Revealed to be Overfed Rabbit

Campaign to Launch Acronym for ‘So Happy It’s Thursday’ Losing Momentum

Mensa Letter ‘Lost in Mail’ After Woman Finds Keys in Freezer

Study Confirms 12 Years of Life Spent Looking for Matching Tupperware Lids

Final Jeopardy Question Answered Correctly; No Witnesses

Fashion Police Arrest Woman Found on Couch, in Pajamas, Eating Garlic Hummus on Friday Night

Decapitated Cat Toy Found Behind Couch; No Plans to Remove Body

Stepdad Contracts Flu. Mom Requests 6-pack to Help Deal with Stepdad Afflicted with “Man Flu”

Owner in Contract Discussions with Dustbuster in Effort to Improve Performance

Michigan Woman, 31, Cites ‘I have to shovel again’ as Reason for Insanity. Judge Accepts Plea

Bird Found Eating Worm in the Afternoon; Myth Busted

Wanted: Body Double to Stand in at Work; Must Resemble 12-year-old-boy and Excel at Feigning Enthusiasm and Productivity

Rug Burn on Elbows Healing Nicely Week After Diving Behind Couch Upon Hearing Doorbell

Missed Connections: You had snacks

After Unsuccessful Attempts at “Tear here,” Bag of Steamable Vegetables Slated to be Opened with Teeth

Planned Productivity Delayed Due to ‘Joan and Melissa’ Marathon

Rare Triple Axel Performed After Tripping Over Cat; Cat Not Impressed

SWF Seeks Anything to Love as Much as She Loves Pesto

After Witnessing Large Number of Adults Failing to Follow Directions, Kids Given More Credit

Squirrels Picket Outside House; Demand Variety in Local Seed Offerings

Shopper Leaves Target Having Spent Less than $20; Parade Thrown in Her Honor

Writer Attempts Humor with Blog Post; Pulitzer Prize Safe for Now

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Your turn. Give me a Headline from your House.

Shocking Plot Twists!

While I love my routines, I hate predictability when it comes to the storylines in books, TV shows and movies. If I can figure out what’s going to happen five minutes in, you’ve lost me.

So I present to you a more realistic view of some stories you might have been told.

Shocking Plot Twists and Untold Stories, Revealed!

Belle (Beauty) and the Beast split up shortly after they realize they don’t have any dishes or household products that actually work. If you will recall, theirs spend a majority of the time singing and dancing.

While entertaining at first, it soon became evident that a talking candlestick and chipped, chatty tea cup don’t do much more than provide an audience for the newlyweds as they argue about hair in the sink and the fact that Belle’s dad won’t move out.

With Yogi taking the role of the friendly picnic basket thief, Smokey the Bear was discovered to actually be the one starting a majority of forest fires. In an attempt to maintain job security, Smokey apparently felt his only inroad to fame was deceit and a penchant for arson.

If you give a mouse a cookie, he will not ask for a glass of milk, want to look in a mirror to make sure he doesn’t have a milk mustache, etc. like the story would have you believe. Instead he will try and take residence up in the pantry, crap all over and fall victim to an edible eviction at the hands of a domestic feline who can sniff out fear and fur.

As it turns out, the beautiful Rapunzel doesn’t let her hair down just for any man—she lets it down for every man. After leading the love-struck fools into her web of hair extensions and thinly-spread lies for too long, friends and family stage an intervention. However, Rapunzel instead decides to cut off her hair, sell it on eBay and try out for “The Bachelor.”

CSI Episode: No one is killed. The detectives hang in the office and play Bananagrams.

Philosophical differences between neighbors Johnny Appleseed, a kind soul who loves to plant apple trees and protect them from harm, and Paul Bunyan, a testosterone egomaniac who cuts down the trees with one swoop of his axe, land these two on Judge Judy.

It gets dirty. Johnny brings up how Paul never picks up the literal bull shit that Babe the Blue Ox leaves around. Paul counters with an argument about property lines and the tree that is actually his. Judge Judy sighs, rolls her eyes and rules in favor of Johnny because Paul wore jeans into court. Her ruling is final.

After hearing about Snow White’s brush with a necrophilia-driven Prince, an evil Queen and a life filled with cooking, cleaning and keeping house for seven “little people” while they mine for jewels and go out at night, TLC offers Snow White her own reality show.

The only requirement is that she incorporate the dwarfs and cupcakes somehow to appeal to their core demographic. She accepts and “Good Things Come in Small Packages” is a huge hit.

The Little Engine that Could, best known for optimistically chanting, “I think I can, I think I can,” could overcome every seemingly impossible task except being cited for EPA clean air violations. He thought he could, but he can’t—until he cleans up his act.

We’ll end with the first story told—Adam and Eve. However, in this instance Eve says she can’t eat the apple because there’s no proof that it’s 100 percent non-GMO organic. Adam, annoyed and exasperated with Eve—but more importantly, ravenously hungry—grabs the apple, his junk behind the strategically-placed fig leaf and chows down.

I think we know how this ends.

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A Dozen Delusions

It’s very important to be honest, but we all have those little things we tell ourselves that we know probably aren’t completely accurate. I hesitate to call them “lies,” as that implies some sort of deliberate manipulation, so perhaps calling them “delusions of grandeur” would be a bit more accurate.

With that said, I have included short list of the things I tell myself without entirely believing.

A Dozen Delusions

1. I don’t need to write something down because I’ll remember it. Despite the fact I don’t have solid evidence to back this one up, I continue to employ this philosophy. So mental note—real notes work better.

2. Pushing the pedestrian crossing button at crosswalks actually makes the light change quicker. Is it magic that the little white person on the light appears 10-20 seconds after I push it or simply coincidence? I also tell my self I won’t actually say “Ped Xing”— as in “ped exing” and not “pedestrian crossing”— out loud, but I do.


Why doesn’t he have any feet?

3. That I’ll be able to put a key on a key ring in less then 10 minutes. I don’t believe this is humanly possible without the use of heavy machinery, yet I still wrestle with the damn things each time.

4. When going to Target, I tell myself I only need one or two things and to act in a civilized manner. Yet a few minutes into my jaunt I more closely resemble a skinny Tasmanian devil who forgot to write down what she needs—see point No. 1—and walks out with a bag full of “prizes.”

5. That I can discreetly manipulate two grocery carts that are stuck together, after which point I will be rewarded with a perfectly functional cart for my shopping. However, 99.99 percent of the time, I end up going Hulk on the metal pieces of shit, violently ripping them apart and being left with one that has a wonky wheel that veers into displays.

6. That faking my own death is an overly dramatic reaction to being asked to attend a webinar or fold laundry.

7. When my phone cuts out, I tell myself to wait a few minutes and let the other person call back. However, I get impatient and am the best at playing the “let’s keep calling each other at the same time so it goes straight to voicemail” game. Solution? Avoid the phone.

8. That turning up the radio in my Blazer so I can’t hear any weird noise that it’s making means there’s nothing wrong with my Blazer.

9. Because I feed the squirrels and birds in my yard, I would like to believe they respect me as a neurotic Dr. Doolittle of sorts. But with each acorn that lands on my head by the feeder and each bird gang bang performed in the bird bath, this mutual respect is called into question.

10. That if SpongeBob Squarepants–a freaking sponge–can find pants that fit, I can find a pair of “real” pants that aren’t uncomfortable. Actually, I don’t think I believe this myself anymore and should probably remove it from the list. Let’s move on—in workout pants.

11. I clean my floors simply to keep things nice and not because I inevitably drop food every day. Also, that I can stand next to the toaster, anticipating toast, and not jump every time the toast is popped up.

12. That the fact people found my blog with “snowman in a thong and sombrero,” “elderly squirrel Fight Club” and “mosquito boobs”—that one stings— is cancelled out by whoever found it with “Please. Like you’ve never Febreezed grandma.”

Your turn. What delusions of grandeur can you share with the class?

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Hyperthetically Speaking

When people hear I’m an editor, the first thing they often assume is that I’m the grammar police. I am not.


I do love a good grammar joke.

While I unfortunately/reflexively think in AP Style and know the difference between “that” and “which,” that doesn’t mean I’m not constantly referring to the AP Stylebook at work or that I always remember that a preposition is something never to end a sentence with.

And I’ve accepted—not excepted—the fact that I will never be able to correctly spell words like definitely on my first or third try. But there are  a few things that do make me lose—not loose—my cool with how language is often used.

Aha! There is one of them!

Lately the word “used” is being replaced by “utilize”—one of those “smart” words people throw into in hoping to sound fancy or amazingly intelligent.

Quick lesson: The definition of utilize implies taking something and using it for an unintended purpose (convert to use.) Meanwhile, the definition of use means employing any old thing to achieve your goal, whether or not you use that any old thing for its intended purpose. So if you are not actually creating an alternate use for something, utilize is the wrong word.

Don’t use it.

With that out of the way, I have to admit that I do have a list of other words that I have personally witnessed the abuse of on multiple occasions, and I don’t feel bad specifically—not pacifically—pointing out these examples.

It’s not me being especially—not expecially—picky, but rather being helpful. Because I can tell you from a professional standpoint that for all intents and purposes—not intensive purposes—if you say/type something incorrectly, there’s a chance that someone could have—not could of—misunderstood what you were trying to say.


So occasionally pointing out to someone that “spelt” is a type of wheat and “spelled” is what they’ve done incorrectly is actually a public service.

Regardless—not irregardless, mind you—I figured I could probably—not prolly—vent my frustrations—not flusterations—here of a couple things I have seen (not saw.)

Hypothetically—not hyperthetically—speaking, let’s say you are engaging in an email conversation with someone and they asked—not axed—you if you had talked to a certain individual about his work ethic—not work ethnic.

A reply of, “He surposedly/supposably logged in five hours on Monday” will appear confusing to the recipient because “surposedly” is not a real word and “supposably,” although a real word that means “able to be supposed,” is not a synonym for “supposedly.”


This really doesn’t have to do with anything, but I thought it was funny.

Anyway, I could go on with another—not nother—example or two, but that would probably just sound too petty. In general, I really couldn’t care less about a lot of these except the misuse of “could care less” vs. “couldn’t care less.” That one just pisses me off.

Plus, I know that sometimes it’s simply a matter of hitting the wrong key on the keyboard, like the time I shared that I was “super busty” instead of “super busy.” (Looks up at the sky, twiddling her thumbs and innocently whistling a tune.)

After all, mistakes happen—hypothetically speaking, of course.

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Any flusterations you would like to vent?

Avoid Clichés Like the Plague

There is no shortage of inspirational quotes or tired clichés on the Internet, and I have to admit that I’m guilty of occasionally using them myself.


But most of the time I’m much more Abby-like, putting my own spin on conventional wisdom and taking the lion’s share of the credit (see what I did there? Picking up what I’m putting down?)

So sit back, relax and, you know, take what I say with a grain of salt.

Another day, another dollar that won’t be accepted in the self-checkout lane register despite the fact that only one tiny little corner of the bill is slightly wrinkled.

An apple a day keeps the doctor away, but if you throw it hard enough, it can pretty much repel anyone in any profession.

Dance like nobody is watching, unless you’re in the grocery store and “Footloose” comes on. At that point, performing the role of Ren is generally frowned upon (although they are only encouraging this behavior by playing that song in the store.)

Be the change you want to see in the world. By that I mean change the freaking roll of toilet paper or paper towel when there’s only one sheet left, you heathen.

Birds of a feather flock together and usually decide to use my Blazer as their own personal overpriced outhouse.

Misery loves company, which is why I prefer to stay away from people when possible.

Sometimes you’re the windshield. Sometimes you’re the bug. Most often you’re the driver behind the windshield trying like hell to pump the windshield wipers and clean off the splattered bug guts.

Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and wear huge shoes so people think they’re tracking the Bigfoot.

A watched pot never boils, but if you turn your back for five seconds it will boil over and make a mess of your stove.

Good fences make good neighbors, as they don’t judge when I do my Saturday morning walk of shame to the trash can in my pajamas to throw away the cat litter or chase off the freaking woodchuck.

Never put off until tomorrow what you can do today, unless it’s something unpleasant that someone else might just do before you. In that case, carry on.

Slow and steady wins the race—except races in which the point is to finish first, which is basically most races.

Do one thing every day that scares you, unless that involves going to Wal-Mart on a Saturday afternoon and possibly being sexually harassed by exposed ass cracks and muffin tops. (Pick a different challenge that day.)

It is never too late to be what you might have been, unless your goal was to be a child prodigy or unicorn, in which case you’re basically screwed.

We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit. That also means your bitchiness isn’t a mood, but rather your personality.

Do as I say, not as I—hell, you should probably just do what I say and be done with it. Leave you own new clichés in the comments.

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The other day I was philosophizing and asked, “If a writer posts something that nobody reads, does her head make a sound when it bangs on the desk?”

The resounding consensus was that yes, it does make a sound, and it’s often loud enough to scare a cat or small children who are within earshot of said desk. Profanity—or “flowery, colorful language,” as I prefer to call it—might also accompany that sound.


But I have to think that anyone who has ever written something more than a grocery list has experienced that “head desk” moment of self-doubt and frustration after sharing their work.

You can have the best idea EVER—better even than the OveGlove—and proudly hit publish before sitting back to bask in the glow of praise from the masses. Links will be shared! Comments will be left! You vow to stay humble and remember your roots!

But it stays dark for a disturbingly long time, even upwards of 10 minutes or so (we’re talking writer time here.) There’s no immediate glow to bask in. In fact, there’s not even a spark.

So you go back and read it over again. Still convinced that you hit a home run, you tweet out the link one more time and decide to go start jotting down notes for the next post.

The next post?

Crap. What the heck are you going to write about now? Considering no one liked the last post you put up 15 minutes ago, the pressure’s on to come back with something better, something that will really knock them all dead.

Maybe a post about how you don’t care what people think or if they ever read the stuff that you write? Or maybe a funny take on the writer’s block that everyone gets — everyone does get writer’s block, right?— except it wouldn’t be that funny considering you’re convinced you’ll NEVER BE FUNNY AGAIN!

Taking a deep breath, you resist the urge to just start posting things to stay relevant — you don’t want to be “that” girl — and instead get the cat high with catnip. The tolerance she seems to have built up only slightly disturbs you, but her requests for rolling papers do set you on edge.

To distract yourself, you check for external validation from strangers on the Internet…still nothing.

Emotionally drained at this point, you stare forlornly into your sparsely populated liquor cabinet and think, “I’m an artist, dammit. I can’t work under these conditions.”

Then you remember that you don’t really drink and that your flair for drama has clouded the fact that your sparsely populated liquor cabinet is actually the shelf with your toaster and steamer.

You take that as a sign from the universe to feed your feelings, after which you send yourself an email just to make sure it still works.

It still works. So you sigh. Dramatically. And bang your head on the desk.

The cat rolls her eyes before leaving the room.

So goes the life of a writer.

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Rage Against the Machine

If you’re reading this, you’re on a computer or at least have online access, which means there is a temporarily symbiotic relationship between you and said technological device.

This is not always the case for me, and I have brought it to my own attention that much like my house, my computer often mocks me.


The passive aggressive nature of this mockery causes me to be much more aggressive than passive, and I often find myself raging against the machine and muttering, now you do what they told ya as I vainly try and do anything other than hit control + alt + delete. 

For example, I will attempt do a simple Google search. After the computer arrogantly tries to read my mind—no, I’m searching for “avocado,” not “Avon,” but thanks for the baseless suggestion—I often click on a link and am told that the page cannot be found.

Well, perhaps you should try a wee bit harder, seeing as it’s your JOB to find the page.

If the page is not available, then don’t offer it as a suggestion. That’s like wafting the smell of pesto pizza under my nose only to tell me that it’s not available. Ever. At that point I’m more emotionally involved with the pizza than I am with most people, so the disappointment could result in a violent outburst unless a suitable replacement is given.

In other words, find the damn page or download a pesto pizza.  Two options. Your call.

But doing a search implies that the computer is willing to at least comply with my request on a basic level. There are many times when my computer won’t even put up a pretense of productivity.


Instead I am given messages such as: “Not responding,” “The program has unexpectedly quit/stopped working” or the patronizing “Something is technically wrong. Thanks for noticing.”

As if we had a choice? 

I’ve also noticed that it’s become rather possessive and sneaky, often separating me from my friends at times by casting judgment on their messages/comments and labeling them as “Spam” long before I have the opportunity to judge/ignore them for myself.

No one takes away my right to judge/ignore people for myself.

I’ve tried to be nice—gently petting it while whispering soft words of encouragement and then restarting it in hopes it operates a bit more cooperatively, knitting it a little sweater to try and prevent it from freezing up—but no luck. I am pretty much powerless against the spinning beach ball of death that appears whenever the hell it wants to.

Perhaps I’m just jealous and need to model my own behavior after my computer a little bit more.

Not only does it have the option to “sleep” and “hibernate,” but the whole “not responding” thing sounds like something I wouldn’t mind officially implementing into my day.

Then again, the computer still can’t download a pizza while all I have to do is turn on the oven and wait 15 minutes. Well, unless the oven’s in cahoots with my computer.

If that’s the case, I’m screwed.

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Word Search Vol. 2

If you weren’t around for the first Word Search post, you missed out on the fact that people evidently find my blog by searching  phrases like “Bedazzled yoga pants with garlic” and “Your lizard looks a little limp,” among other things.

This was so fun last time that I think I need to make it a monthly event, mostly just because it makes me giggle, and sometimes I just want to use the word “giggle.”

Plus, I need to lighten things up after my last post, and what better way to do that than to share the fact that people found my blog by searching “cleaning the kitchen floor naked with squirrels?”


This is what you get when you Google “naked squirrels,” in case you were wondering, which I’m sure you weren’t.

Sorry to disappoint whoever that was, but given my OCD and the fact that they have sharp little toe nails, no squirrels will set one little furry rodent foot inside my kitchen. They can watch the naked cleaning through the dining room window just like everybody else.

So without further ado, here is this month’s batch of WTF search terms:

  • Groping girls in yoga pants
  • Pictures of elderly people in wheelchairs having a sock hop at nursing facility
  • Popcorn you make in your pants
  • Grandma smokes weed every day and tells me it’s not addictive
  • The broccoli meant a lot to the starfish
  • It’s a smartass Abby thing (Editor’s note: touché)
  • Ho ho ho seriously she works that mistletoe like a pro
  • How to plate pencil asparagus in fine dining
  • Nude gnomes digestive system
  • The Lexus December to remember we’re poor and miserable
  • Most comfortable underwear for wedgie prone women
  • I bet your screen doesn’t have a cookie on it
  • Bitch, I know you ate the last piece of chicken (Editor’s note: this one came up four times. Again, I do not eat meat. Let it go and simmer down.)
  • Your ass won’t run itself off
  • Elderly thong bingo
  • You better hurry up and start being awesome because I’m not waiting for you

And finally, this last one is going to become my motto for life:

I’m not only putting on my big girl panties, I’m putting on my bitch bra and my shit kicker boots.

Amen, sister.

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Backseat Driver

When it comes to driving, I would say I’m pretty average.

I’ve never been in an accident (insert superstitious knocking on wood here) and have only had one ticket—the story behind that one a post of it’s own. I admit I have my moments and we all know that I’m directionally disabled, but I generally drive rather aware of my surroundings.

With that said, I sometimes feel like 98 percent of people shouldn’t be allowed to operate a vehicle when it’s apparent they can’t operate a turn signal.

Maybe I’m getting old and cranky, but lately I find myself wanting to run people off the road if only so I can get out and school them on the fact that there are two lanes for a reason and speed limits are not beginning points for negotiations.


In other words, if patience is a virtue, I am void of vehicular virtue.

So in the interest of keeping my road rage to a minimum, I  present to you a few observations and suggestions to anyone driving with their head up their ass.

  • If you beep your horn .03 seconds after the light changes green, I can promise I will shut off my car, lay on the hood and feed birds for an hour.
  • Pulling out in front of me and then proceeding to go ridiculously slow is not excused by the fact that you have those little family people stickers on the back window of your minivan or a WWJD bumper sticker.


WWJD? He would go the speed limit.

  • However, pulling out in front of me and then proceeding to go ridiculously slow might be excused by the fact that you have a decal or bumper sticker representing a Detroit sports team or love of animals. Go team and go rescue a cat. 
  • While I appreciate caution, there is no need to stop completely when making a 90-degree turn where there’s no stop sign, stop lights or opposite-direction traffic.
  • However, there is a need for me to sing  everything from “Dancing Queen,”  to Rage Against the Machine at the top of my lungs. When it comes to car karaoke I’m sort of a professional, so your  stares will only encourage my behavior.
  • FYI: A car is not an invisibility force field that shields you from the general conventions of society. We can see you pick your nose. I don’t know if you lost your keys up there or what and to each their own, but when the intense picking of your honker causes you to forget that green means go, I will honk.


Pick a lane, not your nose.

  • Finally, if you drive a semi truck, please do not race the semi truck in the lane right next to you, forcing all of us to watch this sad little drama play out. Nobody wins, especially the lines of cars stuck behind you. How’s your driving? Slow and reckless at the same time, a driving dichotomy if there ever was one.

And let’s not forget a couple things in regards to pedestrians—namely me—as I tend to take a lot of walks in the summer and prefer not to fear for my life.

  • If I’m walking and you’re driving, honking at me and yelling out your window will not encourage me to wave back. It will encourage me to flip you off, as it will scare the shit out of me.


  • On that note, if you’re talking on your phone as you roll up and through a stop sign and almost run me over, waving, giggling and mouthing “sorry” does not help. One of these times I might just throw myself onto the hood of your car and create a dramatic scene just to freak you out.

Like I said, I am void of vehicular virtue.

You’ve been warned.