It's over, darling.
Not that it hasn’t been fun. For others, anyhow.
The fat lady has sung.
For six minutes and 59 seconds. I’ve decided not to waste another second on you. Why should I? You called me fat. Tsk, tsk.
When you get home today, from your fulfilling job of pushing the little mail-cart at the ambulance-chasery where you pretend to practice law, prepare to see some changes.
- I’m taking the computer, so don't bother blogging about me.
- I’m taking the egg timer, so you’ll have to guess at the length of your subsequent sexual encounters. I have two words to get you started:
-- One-Thou-sand.
(granted, that’s three words. But why hold me to getting the details exactly right? You never did.)
- I’m taking the fruit baskets.
- I’m taking the subscription to Cat-Fancy, if only to see if the pages really do “get sticky on their own” over time. And Mr. Whiskers, who’s been looking pretty traumatized lately, to be honest.
- Oh, and I’m taking the money. I mean, duh.
- You can keep the Amazing Rubber Papaya. Kol HaKavod.
There’s a bottle of Manischewitz and some unfilled hamentaschen in the fridge. Go at it, tiger.
Chag Sameach!






