And another thing, what is up with the whole twerking nonsense?
Call me stupid, but if I see one more ridiculous video of some misguided young woman contorting about like a scantily-clad genie trying to rid herself out of the bottle while trying to fling a scorpion off her hind end, I'm gonna hurl.
Seriously, Miley. Stop it already. Oh, oh - and then some Rhodes scholar decides to admit the word into the Oxford Dictionaries Online.
For shame, Oxford Dictionaries Online peeps.
Oh dear, I'm sorry. I guess I started that rant in mid-thought, didn't I?
Apologies. I suppose I'm a little grumpy right now. Maybe it's because my car is so confused by the 114-degree Fahrenheit temperature differential between midnight and noon the last several days that it simultaneously overheated and froze up thrice this week. One morning, it actually looked at me and said, "Look, is it winter or summer or what? Forget it. I'm not starting for the next five minutes. Deal with it."
Speaking of which, why, oh why are the very people deciding whether or not the vast majority of us must adhere to the potentially stringent conditions related to health care reform when they, themselves, are not subject to the law?
Look, I'm all for Congress decreeing what our health care plans must be just as soon as they have to follow them, too. Alrighty then, are we good?
Um, back here a little closer to home, let's talk daily irritations, shall we?
First, there's the situation with the toilet paper in the ladies room. Like, why do I have to channel my inner David Copperfield just to get a few consecutive squares out without: a. shredding them, b. getting the full roll to successfully drop down in replacement of the empty one I'm clawing, and / or c. breaking that large, impenetrable plastic thing off the bathroom wall?
Major, angry hmpf.
Then there are those who refuse to fill the empty roll. This applies to total strangers and some of the people with whom I live, BTW.
While I'm at it, why does the dishwasher hate me? I mean, it simply will not rid the dishes of shellacked bits of residual food, especially when I'm counting on it to help a sister out just before hosting a dinner party.
It's not entirely unlike that one grocery list item which plays hide-and-seek with me until I get back home. I know I put it on the list. I know I saw it on the list. Then, it jumped off the list just long enough for my final review of items at the check out, only to reappear once I walk through the front door.
Blasted grocery list.
Finally, there is Anthony Weiner. Well, I wish it was the final time I'd have to see his mug on the news, anyway. Good Lord, man, don't you have to good sense to lay low for a few decades or so?
Listen, it's not that we're all judgey, holier-than-thou, pretentious brats out to discredit you. It's just that, well, you're just, you know, a big stupid head, OK? Please, for the love of all that is holy, please just do your family and the rest of us a favor and kindly relocate to Jupiter?
Oh wait, before you blast off, could you do us all a favor and save a spot on the spacecraft for Miley Cyrus? Thanks, dude.
Lastly, I'm irked that some dolt is complaining about insignificant, minor life irritations when she has the most fabulous, blessed existence imaginable. Sheesh!
Oh, yeah, right. Dunderhead signing off now. Happy Sunday, all!
Kimerer is a Tribune Chronicle columnist and grumpy grumperson. Send her happy thoughts at firstname.lastname@example.org.