Friday, March 11, 2005

Be Afraid, Be Very Afraid

Seriously, it’s all just too much pressure. Feel the need to post something and say something amusing but I’m concerned that all my thoughts are not humorous but really quite alarming in that “she’s gonna get a pistol and take out her neighbors” sort of way. But then I think, “hey, gentle readers can’t REALLY know me unless I share”….so I think I’m going to share.

Here are some thoughts that literally, all joking aside, have gone through my head today. I think I may be in need of some medication:

Is it just me or does “pistol whip” sound dirtier than it actually is?

Why don’t we say “bat whipped” or “lead pipe whipped”?

How does a guy shoot 3 people on the 8th floor of the freaking courthouse and yet still manage to avoid capture and continue to run rampant through the city?

Did he ride the elevator down?

Did he not encounter several other deputies with guns?

Did they not know he was in the elevator? Someone should have told them that he was either in the elevator or in the stairwell. Would have made for an easy capture.

God, I need a beer.

What are the odds that I will spot said crazed courthouse gunman on the expressway and have to drive my car into his thus resulting in a horrifying car accident which would wreck my classic good looks but would surely save humanity from further death?

Wonder if there would be a reward for such a selfless yet disfiguring act?

Perhaps a marble bust put up in some town square in my honor?

Would the bust be of me pre- or post- disfiguring accident?

Wonder if my plastic surgeon would fall in love with me…

If I went crazy, who would I shoot? (No need to actually warn the FBI or anything, I’m just curious as to who would bear the brunt of my frustrations...several candidates pop to mind)

I would shoot this ass munch in front of me who thinks 46 miles per hours is an appropriate speed in the fast lane.

God, I need a beer.

I really, really hate riding in elevators with strangers.

I really, really hate riding in the elevator with the woman who regularly stinks up the bathroom on our floor.

I bet people living in Rhodesian mud huts don’t have to deal with people who have poor public bathroom etiquette.

God, I need a beer.

I’m still unclear as to exactly all the word “sodomy” encompasses (and no, this is not a request for you to fill me in on this topic).

This time next week, I’ll be drunk at the Atlanta race.

Wonder what size Michael Jackson’s weiner is.

Wonder if it’s white.

Wonder if he’s had plastic surgery on it.

God, I need a beer.

Hmmm…I wonder if the receptionist has noticed how many times I’ve hit the candy dish.

Has the boss left yet?

Hope there’s not traffic between me and the bar.

Hope there’s not a crazed courthouse gunman between me and the bar.

Hope I don’t have to skip drinking because I’m in a disfiguring accident with a crazed courthouse gunman.

God, I need a beer.

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