My horribly foul, I'd like to beat things to death with sticks mood continues. I do not like this mood. I do not know why I am in this mood. I want it to be gone. So, instead of dwelling I'm making a conscious effort to think good thoughts.
Like about how happy my tushie is. This is because I have new undies. You might not think that new undies would make your tushie happy, but they do. Trust me.
All this running has dropped me down a size clothes-wise, but not in the undergarment area. The gazongas remain as gigantic as ever, although my bras do fit better. But I want the ta-tas to go down-down. So far, no go. The undies were another area. I don't wear thong underwear. I believe thongs to be an evil conspiracy among men and the makers of Vagisil. Seriously. Women get all these yeast infections and urinary tract infections, all the time. Pick up any chick mag and you will see. The cures are big business. I never have these problems. Because I do not wear thong underwear. Or use tampons. And I shower every day. (Any chick mag tells you not to shampoo your hair every day. I believe that translates into boatloads of women who do not shower daily. And then they have feminine hygiene issues. Gosh, go figure.)
Yes, this is my idea of happy thoughts!
Anyhow, back to my happy tushie. While I didn't really need new undies size-wise, I needed new undies. My current ones just wouldn't die. Usually the elastic blows or they get holes from so many washings, etc. Which is great for the most part, but after a while my psyche needed new undies. It's a girl thing. I now have them. Cue the party in my pants. Woo hoo!
Let's move on to penises. I don't want them to feel left out or anything. (Ba-dump-bump. Thank you! Try the veal!)
I work in the middle of suburbia. As in, its pretty much our business, on its own, surrounded by hundreds of condos, apartments, and single family residences. It's kind of weird, kind of nice. But there is a lot of humanity around here. It brings with it odd problems. Like the penis cars.
Penis cars are a fancyish or tricked out car -- usually one of the new Mustangs, a Corvette, Porsche, what have you -- driven by men up and down the street outside our office. Loudly. Mufflers rumbling, tires squealing. I guess they think they're cool, and that everyone who sees (or more typically hears) them thinks they are cool too. I have news for them. We do not think you are cool. All we can think is: Sorry about your penis. Your teeny tiny penis. Your teeny tiny perpetually shriveled penis. Because if you had any sort of manhood whatsoever, you would understand that you are screaming up a residential street in your rumbly penis car, that everyone knows it is a penis car, that everyone knows why you have it, and you would stop.
As I've been writing this, one penis car has gone screaming up the block, and there is another one (a canary yellow Porsche) parked up the street. I await its penis car owner.
Oh, and one of these penis cars? The license plate is "SUP COP." I kid you not. I'm dying to take a bottle of shoe polish and write on the windshield "SUP DUMBASS?"
I think I'm feeling better.