WHY? WHY?! WHY?!!

--must assholes who nearly let their dog bite your face off apologize that it’s a “guard dog” and expect that this statement neutralizes the ethical misstep. Hey fuckface, leave your “guard dog” at home--guarding the house. In his fence. In the yard. Where he shits in place other than where my feet might go. You have no business training a dog to bark loudly and then taking him out in shared public space where others have to tiptoe on ice or nearly die by smacking their heads on this ice because their fuckface owners can’t properly train the object of their power. If you like having power over the beasts of the earth so much, train your fucking dog.

--must moms and their two rugrats walk three abreast on the sidewalk. Listen up, Betch: I deserve EXACTLY ONE HALF of this sidewalk so walk behind each other in a cute daisy chain or something so that I don’t decide to attach razor blades to my stiffly (but briskly) swinging arms as I pass you. Slice. Ooops. There goes a snot-encrusted arm! Maybe next time you won’t expect the seas to part for your chilldwen.

--must racist homicide cops cover up a fucking MURDER in Elmwood’s Burger King. Oh, what? You didn’t hear about that? Because it wasn’t even in the fucking news. “Channel 2: On Your Side,” like hell. More like “Channel 2: On the Side That’s Winning: White People, Who Only Care When A White Person Dies.” And by the way, Burger King: you don’t belong on Elmwood either, fuckknuckles. Starbucks may be just as evil as you are, but they are clean and quiet: I can’t smell them or hear assholes yelling for drinks from inside their muffler-less cars. No one thinks: “I’ll go murder someone at Starbucks—no one will notice.” They think, “I’ll cap this fool at Burger King because it’s nice and fucking sordid. He sleeps with the fish sticks.”

--must I be expected to go to meetings to which I have no idea if I’m even invited? Oh, no one from the E Dept was there? If someone had told me to go, I’d go. I know, I know...I should do what it takes to become the new head of the dept. I should “get involved,” right? No one has said shit to me about said promotion, only smatterings of “you’ll probably be the one doing all that next year.” Oh yeah? Where’s the MONEY? Where’s the formal fucking OFFER and the power to hire and fire whom I please? I better not be asked this fucking summer just before the new year begins, after it’s too late to hire anyone. Oh, the head of school does the hiring? Yeah, that’s right, I won’t even really have that power—just all the work of interviewing people I don’t like when I already know some perfect candidates. I’ll have a title and no power. Does that mean that when I attend meetings and I can act like what I say matters when it matters as much a dirt does to an earthworm’s navel?

--must I do my taxes myself if I’m happy with whomever the U.S. Government picks? I’ve made at least one mistake every year and the error has been caught by a human who reviewed the whole thing and gave me more money. So how about I buy that human a cup of fucking coffee to do it all himself and call it a day? Or how about I pretend I’m in Idaho and never pay taxes again, but turn my house into a fortress stocked with water and canned goods, its windows meshed over with chicken-wire, and attach a bullhorn over the door so that I may rant at startled passersby? It’s much better than a blog!