What I Meant Was II: Bulls*#t Boogaloo

It’s time again for me to flush away the waste accumulated from being all nice and tactful and crap. What? I totally do that. Shut up. The point is that I can’t always say what I’m thinking, and all those snarky comments build up like dryer lint and it could start a fire if I don’t clean it out and toss it in the yard for you, dear reader, to line your nests with. Or whatever. That metaphor may have gotten away from me a little. Anyway. Check out my first purge here.

That time I said: “I’m sorry but no, I can’t do makeup for your entire wedding party for $15 per face.”

What I meant was: “How far up your own ass can you jump? Maybe a trampoline would help.”

That time I said: “No, of course you’re not crazy.”

What I meant was: “You’re completely batshit. Like negotiating peace treaties with invisible monkeys while dancing around in a banana suit at your boss’s dinner party nuts.”

That time I said: “You’re certainly entitled to your opinion.”

What I meant was: “... even if it’s wrong. Really wrong. Really, completely, irrevocably, perfectly, exactly the wrongest wrong ever to wrongly be wrong. Idiot.”

That time I said: “That sounds nice.”

What I meant was: “My god. You have been droning on about your boyfriend’s mother’s hangnail or something devastatingly boring like that for what seems like long enough that I should be able to spin yarn and knit an afghan from the hair I’ve grown since you started flapping your abominable jaw. What year is it? Do I have grandchildren? Great grandchildren? I wonder if jumpsuits are in style yet. Maybe there are flying cars.”

That time I said: “Would you mind putting down your phone?”

What I meant was: “I have an idea. How about you get that thing out of my way before all of Instagram is treated to an extreme selfie. Of your colon.”