When I die, I hope I don't regret not spending more time at the office...
Thank God it’s Monday.
My "weekend" was spent sanding, painting, standing on nails, having my daughter drop a big-ass chisel on my skull, pulling up carpet and moving the entire contents of our house into our downstairs garage to make way for an invasion of carpet layers.
Being at work has never felt so good.
So... relaxing.
If there's one thing I hate worse than smelly hippies, it's ass-crack contractors.They turn up when they feel like it. Not when they say they will.
They take three times longer to do the job than they say it will.
They pinch all your chocolate biscuits and steal your underwear. For God knows what purposes.
Hate em, hate em, hate em. Sometimes they make me so mad, I want to beat them to near-death with a lentil-packed hippy.
(I fully expect to go home tonight and discover the house is in an unliveable state and Me, D-Pregnant Missus & D-Monkey Girl will be living out of a freezer box on the side of the road).
My previous post's little hippy rant reminded me of a poem I wrote. It's a true NZ story about a gang member (I think it was Black Power) who never bathed and never took his jeans off. And he died.
Ha. Ha. Ha.
He probably used to be a hippy...
