Tuesday can suck a nut, y’all

Yes, yes it is Tuesday, and AGAIN I want to complain.  My god, what a shiteous day it’s been!  I am in a truly terribly mood.  The school I work at is having their big 4th of July program on Thursday, so all day I have to hear extremely grating versions of patriotic songs sung at top volume by 35 4-year-olds.  Because it is beyond absurd, the only upside to this deafening noise is hearing the kids sing:

If tomorrow all the things were gone,
I’d worked for all my life.
And I had to start again,
with just my children and my wife.

I am allowed to be annoyed by these screechy displays of patriotism because we all know that I am a patriot in my own right, being I’m best friends with Barack Obama and all.  Yesterday I was watching Stephen Fry in America, which is a really great show,  and I told Chad that I’d really like to visit Washington D.C..  Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure Secret Service has my picture on file and I will be tackled to the ground if I even attempt to enter the White House.

I don’t really understand how the small things in life irritate me so much more than the bigger catastrophes. For example, today I was losing my shit because somebody drank all the coffee at work, but last week was filled with much bigger ordeals and I handled them all with ~grace~.  The dog eating my paycheck was just too dumb to even be mad about, and having my credit card number stolen didn’t even make me break a sweat.   But having to help someone use the copy machine at work makes me want to shoryuken a hole in the ceiling. I do not care if shoryuken is not a verb, I am using it as one.

An artist’s portrayal of the author. SWEAT DROP, SWEAT DROP SWEAT DROP!

Soon soon soon I will get to go home and laze around with Truman and end this crapola work day.  But, by no means will it be quiet at my house.  His Granna bought Tru a toy drum that is filled with various percussion instruments and he loves to rattle and shake them.  For a 10 month old, he has a remarkable sense of rhythm.  I chalk it up to the variety of music we’ve exposed him to.  Bang a gong, son, bang a gong. He has taken to hitting the cat with his drumsticks, but luckily the cat likes it rough, so errybody is happy. Eventually Truman will pass out, exhausted from his percussive endeavors, and I can watch my third favorite cooking competition show, Masterchef, or as I like to call it–Mean Chef, Mean Chef, Fat Chef. I will leave you with this George Michael song that I can’t get out of my head. It’s vaguely patriotic, don’t you think?

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