Dear Luckiest Man On Earth: 

I have never been so jealous of another human being in my life. There you sit. Mouth agape. Head relaxed. Shoulders devoid of tension. Completely oblivious to the conversation taking place just inches to your right  between the resident president of the “Aging Cats Of America” (and by “cat” I mean both kinds, as her hole is, no doubt, so weathered, it makes Donatella Versace look like Justin Beiber) and the chairman of the local chapter of the “First Woman In History To Become A Grandmother: (And I Have The Pictures To Prove It)” aka “My Daughter’s Cooch Is Well On It’s Way To Being As Worthless As Mine: (Part Two: The Second Grandchild)”

I’m using the term “conversation” loosely. Very loosely. I mean, maybe my syntax is not as loose as cat woman’s love donut. Few things are. But I feel like the actual definition of conversation requires people to exchange information.  In order for the words people use to matter, another human has to actually find the words to a: make sense and b: be informative. This current diatribe seems more like Charlie Brown’s teacher attempting to communicate with circa 1990s Rick James. 

Its Superfreaky. Yow. And not in a good way. Good grief. 

Whenever I hear someone begin a dialogue by claiming “I’m usually a normal person, I promise!”; that’s when I know what follows will be (at best) a series of mundane rants wherein the speaker feigns embarrassment for behavior which falls marginally outside the boundaries of good taste, (eg. blaming rancid farts on the dog, serving husband cheese that was one day expired, purposely using teeth during semi annual blowjob) in order to seem edgy and interesting. The truth is, the mere fact that the speaker finds stories like these to even BE stories, is precisely what makes that person a normal person. No need for the qualifier.  I mean, if cat lady followed up her disclaimer by copping to giving her fifteen year old feline a rim job to “freshen her up”  prior to the cats last vet appointment, or admitted that both her pussy and her pussy sixty-nined to console each other over the death of Cecil the Lion, I might understand why she felt the need to preemptively declare normalcy. Admittedly, using any forum to discuss the intricacies of Candy Crush v. Soda Crush IS CRAZY. But not in the way she thinks. (Spoiler Alert: They’re both just GAMES. This is reality. You’re welcome.)

Where was I? 

Oh yes. I’m jealous that you are able to sleep through this tediousness while my caffeine overload combined with broken headphone cord status has relegated me to a position not unlike the Gaza Strip. Deadlocked in a battle between two zealots, one who wants my land for cats on life support and the other for her grandkids endless photo shoots.

Ladies. Please. 

Let my people go.
SS

PS. You’re making my Yasser Arafat. 

PSS. Please. Your words are not Golda Meir. 

PPSS. Stop. I need to get Anwar, Sadat I can make my connection. 

PPSSS. I’m Menachem Begin you. 

PPPSSS. Nyet. Nahu.