Good lord, that was exhausting, writing nice things about all those other awesome bloggers! I’m so glad to be back to normal and start talking about myself again…. You too, right?

Ok. Prepare for a litany of imprecations, epithets, swears, curse words and whatnot. I’m gonna get all ugly, nasty and raged-up in here. Not gonna sugar coat it and go all Yosemite Sam on this like I did with my son and his fragiratzin tagticblackin science project.

Egads, suddenly I feel like I can’t swear appropriately. It’s like when you wind up for a pitch and you forget to let go of the ball and it lands behind you to the right in the neighbor’s bushes instead of near the batter… Some people just don’t know how to drop the bombs. My mom, for instance: When I was younger she was all bent outta shape an’ whatnot about the fuckin’ traffic in the D.C. an’ all. She was driving (sort of) and said, “God Fuck!” and well, I remember laughing about it. I did laugh at her about it. I’m laughing, right now, about it. She is very smart, bred and groomed well, but is a really crappy curser. The poor dear. My dad? Awesome curser. Used to talk like a sailor, ‘cept now he’s all 81 and everything…

Yesterday I went to Target alone. This is never good for the bank account. I bought my awesome prescription for tennis elbow “Voltaren” – sounds like that drink James T. Kirk had with Richie Cunningham’s little brother…from “The Corbomite Maneuver.”

I’m digressing again … (wasn’t that Star Trek some fucked-up shit? I loved it though.)

So then I was in Target’s “Active Wear” section. I went to buy some workout gear – high visibility tops for when I’m on the water so the fishermen and fishwives don’t mow me down in their trawlers. Here’s the result:

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Dear Assholic Pole DanceWear Designers:

I just want to thank you for designing a tank top with “breast shapers” and an inner tube for “lift.” I’m in fucking traction now thanks your goddamned inverted straight-jacket cum halter top.

I suspect I will have to shower and sleep in this bloody mess of a garment you’ve designed. Probably take me 15 minutes more to rinse off the lather because you know how soap is with Dry-Fit, then I’ll have to deal with that moon-faced fucking Jennifer Aniston about my water usage and I will cry out, “SEE-NINE! YOOOOU DID THIS TO MEEEE YOU MOTHER-FLETCHING BASTARDS!!”

If it wasn’t hard enough to get into the tank top in the first place, I don’t know how I’dve managed not having a stroke over the experience of flattening down, massaging and manipulating the shaper so it doesn’t look like a fucking eggo waffle has been pushed down atop My Girls. And the fucking shaper is BLACK? Inside a day-glo Pink top? You can totally see it. Who put this frigging thing together? Caillou? (Who frighteningly and ironically reminds me of Richie Cunningham’s brother above.)

Shapers. That’s rich. Is that why you charged me almost a third of a tank of gas for the top? Tell you what: you reconvert the polycarbons you refined to make this stupid breast shaper into fuel for my car and I’ll pay $22 with a smile.

Look: your shit sells at Target. That means it’s not like, premium-grade AthletiWear (I just made that up – it’s mine: AthletiWear ®) so don’t go puttin’ an air dam on a tubbed-out ’93 Honda Civic on this shit. Just give us WHAT WE WANT: nice looking workout gear that doesn’t fucking twist us up and make us do the sacred yoga pose, “Onoyoudidntasana” the counterpose to which is “OyesIdidbitchasana.”

We will have to call the fire department to use their Jaws of Life to cut me out of it.

Thank you, bitches. The colors are nice though.

Molly (from the hospital)

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Thank you.