Can I interrupt your leisurely web-surfing for just a moment? I just need to make some announcements. It will only take a sec, I promise.
So hey, journalists, I’ve been reading your stories about the octuplets and you don’t “implant” embryos, you “transfer” them. It’s bad enough that this baby-obsessed mom and her ethically-challenged doctor are giving us infertiles a bad name, you could at least try to get your terminology right. Seriously, how hard is it to spend two minutes Googling before you write your article? It’s TRANSFER. TRRRRRAAAAAAAAAANNNSFERRRR.
Now I’m looking at you, stupid Kid Rock song with the “Sweet Home Alabama” sample. Why must you be so catchy, forcing me to turn you up when I hear you on the radio? You’re not a good song; I mean, you rhyme “things” with “things.” I already have mock-worthy taste in music (see: Britney, Justin, showtunes), and you are not helping matters.
And you, conversation hearts, I order you to quit being so delicious, forcing me to consume you in vast quantities.
Hi, Obama, did you know that I think it’s kinda exciting that you’re President now, even though I didn’t vote for you? And Henry and Eleanor LOVE you, and know all the letters in your name, and wave hello to you when they see you on TV. I’m all for your hope and change and stuff, but if you’re going to set rules like “no lobbyists are going to work for me,” then could you maybe not go off and hire two lobbyists?
My dear, sweet Henry and Eleanor: you are growing up way too fast. Stop it.
Finally, I don’t think my little sister should be allowed to have weekends that include front-row tickets at a Killers concert, then drinking free champagne at a VIP-only club with Gretchen Wilson, Scott Hamilton, and famous midgets, when my weekend consisted of gazing at fish and saving $74.24 on groceries.