When you have that millisecond of a thought that you are going to call your nine years deceased loved one to talk about the crazy lady you saw in the market dressed as an elf, it doesn’t mean you’re bonkers. It means you’re wayward with your grief, as is common during this time of year and it means that you should kick your shoes off, grab your favorite beverage and tell yourself that everything will be okay just as long as you keep your helmet on.
When you’re in the grocery store and I hear you berating the grocery clerk for not having the proper almond milk that you require, don’t try to make smiley face at me in the check out line when we both know that you’re a rude, elitist poo butt.
Do Be a Good Bee,
When I see you walking your blindingly white scrumptious fluff ball of a dog just after six p.m. in your work clothes and the two of you break out into a full on gallop when you get to the downhill part of your stroll—wind screaming through both of your hairs and the evening sun shining a light on both of your faces—you better be careful because not only do you break the cuteness joy meter but you put us other humans to shame.
Heads Up! To all you grammar/pronunciation/poopification police out there:
If you’re standing in line at the local grocery and the checker pronounces the rigid leafed vegetable endive as “En-Dive”, do us all a favor and don’t holler “It’s called “On-Deeve!” at the top of your rabid wolverine lungs like you’re Henry Higgins in My Fair Lady because it just makes the rest of us loathe you—not only because of your nosey parker ways but because it makes us all take notice of your tie-dyed fanny pack which, in all honesty, decreases your chances of garnering any and all respect from here on in until eternity.
Button It Up,
Sergeant Shush Now
134th Mind Your Own Beeswax Division
Talk louder. I can’t hear you over that puka shell necklace you’re wearing.