When the lane ends in 150m, your choosing to stay in that lane means you roll the dice on when you get let in to the through lane. And when you almost cause an accident forcing your way into said lane, it makes me wonder just who the FUCK you think you are. I couldn't see a tiara twinkling at me so I am going to assume you aren't royalty of some kind. Instead, I'm going to assume you generally have no consideration for others and for following the laws of the land with regard to common courtesy. I'm going to go out on a limb and say you snack out of the bulk bins, don't tell the cashier when you get change back for a $20 when you paid with a $5 and talk at the theatre.

Burn in hell.
Sincerely,
M.

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Dear Infertility Doc,

I love your winning ways and your ability to ease my mind when I fly off the proverbial handle about peppermint tea and mucus membranes. That said, your waiting room needs some serious Trading Spaces attention and I've never had an appointment scheduled where you weren't at least 40 minutes late seeing me.

But in the end, I'm grateful that such a service exists for people whose bodies won't get with the reproductive program.

Still, we've put a man on the moon, can't we come up with a catheter that doesn't hurt like a thousand burning pokers?

Much love,
M.

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Dear Murphy the Dog,

We don't call you Mr. Peabody for no reason. Keep it in your bladder until you go outside, the whole house now reeks of you. All the Febr@ze in the world can't tamp down the stench.

Woof!
The Mommy

Posted at 2:11 p.m.