Dork-whore saddles donkey

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Okay, first of all, I have to start this by saying that the Bloggess (and in my head there are trumpets playing as she is heralded) THE Bloggess commented on my last post!  I know that makes me a total dork-whore*, but I do not care.  She is AWESOMENESS.

*Quick vocabulary lesson:
dork (noun) : A foolish, inept, or social awkward person
whore (noun) : A sluttish groupie.
dork-whore (noun):  do the math yourself, genius.

It makes a good ending to a crappy day.  The lack of splendor to my fine Friday commenced with me hitting snooze on the alarm…which left me 15 minutes before I had to leave for work.  Not such a big deal, but you must remember I have a ball-snipped puppy in my house.  So really, 14 minutes were spent putting my clothes on in the backyard while begging said puppy to pee, and 1 minute was spent grabbing my assorted gear, wrangling puppy into kennel, and taking my meds for that lovely flu I’m still not over.

Then I dashed to the car and almost hit a school bus full of penguins before dashing straight to my lab.  I won’t go into the details of my morning class.   For artistic emphasis, let’s just say there was a knife fight with a rabid chipmunk and leave it at that.

When I get home, both hubby and I need to de-stress.  We’re both sick, both tired after long days, and the puppy found a box of matches and was trying to set the cats on fire for the last few hours, so we were spent.  To turn things around, we decided to go to a nice restaurant.

We get seated immediately, which is astounding on a friday night.  I melt into my seat and plan to talk to my honeybun and compare notes on the day.  But I can’t.  Because the ladies in the booth across from us need to die.

Lemme explain…  I understand that it’s a friday night.  I understand that a gaggle of ex-sorority girls who still wear high pony tails in their bleach blond hair deserve the right to eat out.  Even if they are all wearing matching clothes.  Even if they use “like” every other word. Even if they are past thirty and are sadly clinging onto their long gone youth and priorly perky boobs.  Whatever.  Would I judge that?  Of course not.

But when you’re collectively drunk off your asses and talking so loud that I literally cannot hear what my husband is saying 2 feet away from me, you need to move on to a bar that actually is loud so you can fit in.  I do not need to hear how your friend, like, texted asking about, like, what bra you were, like, wearing and then you, like, realize it was some guy who, like, picked up Sara’s phone and, like, oh my god you were so, like,  embarrassed because it was, like, practically phone sex, right? And I sincerely do not need to hear the booming laughter that the whole braying party belts out on a regular basis.

It’s not that there was a heated point in their conversation, it was that this went on for the entire hour we were there.  My ears were ringing. Girls night out is great, but when you get plowed at a quiet restaurant and forget the difference between and inside voice and an outside voice, you look like this:

I could have just brushed this all off to me having a crappy attitude because of my not-so-brilliant day.  But the worse thing is that when they left, their entire six person party only left a two dollar and fifty cent tip.  Annoying me is one thing.  But expecting a waitress to put up with your shit is just wrong.

I am hereby revoking their right to sing “All the Single Ladies,” and am secretly hoping each one pukes up on their barbie-doll hair.

______UPDATE__________
Not only did the Bloggess make a comment, but Allie from Hype and Hyperbole is back! I swear, it’s like blogger christmas!

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2 thoughts on “Dork-whore saddles donkey

  1. I have a business idea that you might be interested in. What if we make collapsible ass masks that fit in purses? Then, when noisy, air-wasting, hyenas-with-hairdos are encountered, you whip a donkey mask over their face as punishment. Added bonus: you can give the elastic a good snap too. You in?

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