A ybab recently decided to install teeth in her mouth. This feat of dental rennovation is apparently painful and time-consuming, the kind of thing you should really consider offshoring. One tooth is now “in,” which means she looks like a hillbilly who broke one off in a bar fight. She is flailing on the floor now, thanks to the sweet, sweet relief of Tylenol. I’m sure the hippies will come revoke my hippie license, but we already tried homeopathic tablets and “gum-o-mile” oil, which only seems to enrage her. I’ll leave the lights off all to day, recycle something, and apply for a liver damage offset credit.
And see here, the problem is that I was supposed to go to the mall and get some clothes for Mr. “I have nothing to wear” H, as he was too overcome by the vapors to do this while he was AT THE MALL YESTERDAY. His real excuse must have been that he ran short of time BUYING ME A FABULOUS PRESENT I JUST DON’T KNOW ABOUT YET. Taking a screaming ybab is clearly easier than standing in line! Actually, I bet if I did take a screaming ybab, I’d be quickly helped. But the thing is that I don’t want to go at all. Zellweger is in a pout because I asked her to fold laundry, and she’s locked herself in the bathroom. So I’m going to apply for a helper monkey.
What? You say having a ybab is my own damn fault? Perhaps, but I bet people who drunkenly dive into shallow water and break their necks are not denied helper monkeys. Why, now is the time to apprise you that I once knew a person who knocked out all his teeth after performing a dive. He had a new set put in. Maybe a ybab should just look into that.