I'm not a huge fashion follower, or lover for that matter. I know just as much about fashion as I do about fallopian tubes, which isn't a whole hell of a lot. I know that I like to wear clothing that is comfortable, and clothing that is sensible. This is probably why I'm still supervised while I shop.

I can't fathom the idea behind "skinny jeans." What the fuck is wrong with you people? Are you sadistic? Are you sadomasochistic? Do you enjoy slamming your nuts between a thigh and denim sandwich?

I don't get it. Why do these pants even have pockets? It's not like you can get your damn hands in there...

So I guess here's my "2 cents" on fashion and how remarkably fucking retarded I find these pants to be.

You appear to be wearing clown shoes, because the circulation through your ankles is being pinched between the pug like wrinkles of denim.

You appear to have 3 credit cards and a quarter in your pocket, your left front pocket, and no your pants are not made from a fucking see through material... I'm just psychic.

You appear to be a flaming mother fucking fruit roll-up that is irritating the living shit out of me, and it looks as though any moment the friction between your thighs will cause your pubes to ignite.

I hate you, because my dumb ass has to sit and figure out why you would wear these repugnant pants. These pants are a stiff relative to spandex and I hate that too... I don't like to see your leg jiggling while you walk. You're disgusting me, and the damned things are everywhere. On girls, on boys, on men, on ladies, and I can't figure out why. Your fucking pants are screaming at me. I don't like it. Take them off... like... right now, or go the fuck away.

Nothing is better then putting the car in "F" for fly and finding yourself two minutes later stuck behind some pompous prick in a Humvee driving 17 MPH in a 35 zone. Mr. Stock Broking Poser guy bought his H2 three days before the stock market folded over with a mouth full of American ass and a belly full of inflated gasoline prices. Now this douche bag is driving "conservatively" so his 130$ tank of gas will last longer than 8 blocks. His problem is now the worlds problem because there is a 15 car conga line weaving behind him, and yeah, not a one of us can pass because it's 8 in the morning and every transportation vehicle in the state is soaking up the other lane.

Not only is this monstrosity of a vehicle bigger than my own bedroom but it's causing a nasty streak of hyperactive slander. There's only so many times I can shake the living piss out of my steering wheel before I become so agitated I have no other option but smash my forehead into my horn, rev my engine, and pretend I have Tourettes. repeat. repeat. repeat. "BALLS!"

I fucking hate you. I would like to get there, sometime, TODAY. If Mr. Stock Broking Poser has not turned off by the time I reach my destination, I will hate everyone that drives anything bigger than a tennis shoe. People that drive Blazers, Suburbans, or Escalades... yeah, I'll hate you too, just because you're too fucking proud to be seen lugging your shit around in a mini-van.

Oh, and you ass wads that drive your RVs in the FAST lane... go swallow a handful of razor blades and go the fuck away.

The night started out just as any other night... I got home from work and met up with the family. We bickered momentarily about who was cooking dinner and what exactly we were having. Discussions were had about shopping at Target, Wal-mart, or some other commonly known retail hell. We finally decided to hit Wal-mart after cooking the boys a couple of those frozen cardboard wafers, commonly known as pizzas, while us adults dined on the fabulous tastings of Quiznos. Bleh.

Dinner went without a hitch, for once. After bathroom visits and the ritual whining about our shoes, we piled into the family mobile. We weaved in and out of traffic frantically while cussing, swearing, and screaming at neighboring drivers. In fact, bitching out other drivers on the road has become one of our favorite family past times. I drive, then call some idiot cutting me off an "ass ramming fuck wad!", and then I wait patiently for one of my three passengers to stammer "Who?" Once we're waiting at a red light for what seems to be an eternity you can hear "Go Orion! Go!" I roll my eyes, debate whether or not I should put the car in park, and continue to wait.

Eventually we did make it to Wal-mart, but apparently someone did not visit the bathroom before she got in the car with the responsible members of the family who did go... so Mr. 7, Mr. 4, and myself perused the Halloween isle while she went to the nearest facility.

We found bleeding skull faces, ordinary witch masks, and something that looked like a melted liver face. Batman, Spider-man, Iron-man, and a million other Marvel super suits were hanging in the isles for wear. We looked at eye make up, silly string, vampire teeth, and light up pumpkins before deciding the Halloween section was not pushing the envelope for creativity.

We were in the process of vacating the drippy rubber section of doom when an audible sneeze could be heard. My instinct immediately rotated my unwilling body to look at Mr. 4, who has the nastiest allergies I've ever seen. I blankly stared at him for a moment as he stood there, paralyzed by the slimy snake of mucous that dangled from his nose. Before the feelings of disgust could run through my non-parent veins I quickly looked around to assess the situation and found nothing to aid us.

I am not a quick thinker, I sat there staring at him in disgust for what seemed to be an eternity. The poor kid is trying his darnedest too keep the 2 foot snot dragon from attacking his clothes and all I can think of is how revolting that shit is.

I am not a natural born parent, I don't think to ask some random stranger for a tissue.
I am not a resourceful person, sure I used to work at a Wal-mart ages ago, sure I knew that there are towel dispensers at the end of certain isles, but no... I don't think about that crap in a time of need. Instead I encourage Mr. 4 to keep his head down as the snake slithers it's way closer to the floor, hoping the damn thing will catch soon and plummet from his nose.

The thing wasn't moving, in fact it stood there and did mucous muscle poses to prove to us it's sticky strength. I had to do something. So, I frantically dug in my pockets for something, anything, but all I had was my wallet and the coveted shopping list. I picked the obvious and tore off the blank part of the shopping list, which gave me a 2 x 3 inch chunk of paper. With surgical precision I scraped off the dangling beast and watched it plop onto the floor. Mr. 7 and I let out a synchronized "ooh" of morbid fascination. The jelly-like blob jiggled on the floor; it looked like a spoonful of tapioca pudding, but the color and consistency of apple jelly. Tasty!

There are no words to express the horror that's involved with restroom activities at work. Comradeships at the urinals? No... that's just stupid, creepy and awkward. A tell all in the powder room? No, too much estrogen... one too many times of sharing personal tidbits and robo-bitch evolves. Next thing you know an EMT member is rushing Sally downtown to get the tampon dislodged from her ear and Penny has just been paged to the human resource office.

The toilet is a very uncomfortable experience for me if there's another body in my presence.
Am I passing inspection?
Why are you standing so close to me?
JEEBUS! What the fuck is that smell?
There are far too many variables associated with the public to really allow me to just relax, which is why I will travel the additional 431 steps to the nearest single stall, locking door, completely private restroom. Sure I may look rather odd race walking past the cube farms patting that brim of sweat off my forehead, but in the end it's completely worth the trouble.

On the flip side of that completely private, single stall, locking door restroom someone could be on the other side waiting for you to vacate. We've all been there before, that body that's twitching nervously because I can't fucking wait anymore! patiently and understandingly waiting for some poor soul to relieve themselves. When the door opens there are a few scenarios that can unravel.

A. The occupant opens the door, looks you in the eye and begins chattering about the weather or what not.
B. The occupant opens the door, stares at the floor, races by you, and an entourage of powerful fumes gust past your now watering eyes.
C. The occupant flings the door open and in a coughing fit they discourage you from using that facility, proclaiming that a small bomb erupted within those four ceramic walls.
D. The occupant slowly opens the door and a shower of shitty flowers sweet potpourri fills your nostrils to the point of intoxication as the nice old lady from general accounting greets you and adjusts her pants as she complacently walks to her cube.

In any case... I DO NOT want to be the occupant. So when the serious urge overwhelms me to take a dump, shadooby, shit load off I take extra precautions to avoid the hassle and possible embarrassment of some asshole ruining it someone standing outside the door.

I plan for this exercise like it's an Olympic event. My goal, strategy, and mindset are all going for the gold... providing my body is in check with these arrangements. My mind races over which bathroom to occupy.. by weighing the populous of the area with the density of my urges I decide I will use the women's stalls in the back section of the manufacturing shop, and my reasoning for this is fairly simple. There are 3 female employees that work in the shop, all of which have gone home or work closer to the other shop facilities. The idea of it all is so simple it's perfect as long as no one sees me going in or coming out of the restroom, which they shouldn't since it's late in the afternoon and the skeleton night crew is now aboard. What's the worst that could happen aside from a fire drill, tornado drill, or a "postal" episode drill?

There I sat... pants around my ankles, cell phone in hand, not a care in the world. I am in the final stages of completing my conquest when the door wings open. Startled with panic and fear I slap my phone shut, jam it into my pockets and instinctively clutch onto my pants. A ridiculously loud clatter rolls closer and closer as the brink of my sanity begins to fade. And in one clean slicing action my ideas of peaceful serenity and "What's the worst that could happen" ...is demolished. KAPUT, DESTROYED, GONE, POOF. A delicate voice "OH! I'm sorry girl... I'll wait for you to come out before I start spraying this place clean.. "

WHAT THE FUCK? When did the cleaning department change their hours? Apparently they did this back in June when the mommas just shy of heat stroke couldn't take the heat anymore, and it's easier for them to clean the restrooms between 5 and 9 because nobody is using them, and what the hell am I gonna do now? Great, i'm not only going to get my ass chewed by a 58 year old woman for using the ladies, but I will also have to contend with her enormous fucking mouth gossiping habits.

Do I just compose myself, clear my throat and pronounce I must be a complete fucking moron bit confused because I couldn't tell the difference between the blue "MENS" and the huge pink sign that said "WOMENS". That sounds reasonable, doesn't it?

Needless to say, the last few days the bubbly housekeeping lady hasn't said much to me lately. She usually at least smiled and waved to the "handsome little devil" she just "adores", but no... now she won't even look at the "disgusting bastard!" "poor illiterate mook."

1. Stop Hitting The Snooze Button.
No seriously, sweetheart….
I know you hate it when I call you that in the morning, but the radio’s barely holding together with duct-tape as it is… you keep beating it like that and we’ll have to bust into the kids’ college tuition to get a replacement.

2. Don’t Make Any Life Altering Decisions.
Set your clothes out the night before while you are still hopped up on caffeine and nicotine. This way it will be easier to do the zombie-shuffle prior to waking the children.

3. Avoid Waking The Children Before You Are Dressed.
The over-night tea party you were not invited to at 2 a.m. will definitely decay their morning judgment to not whine, cry, throw themselves on the floor in a fit of agony because they didn’t tell you on Friday they needed to bring 842 cupcakes to daycare for the morning spot-light surprise extravaganza. Having your things in order will make it a lot easier when you’re dragging a 50 lb. epileptic rag doll into the car with all the neighbors watching with social services on speed dial.

1. Remain Calm When Unexpected Surprises Arise.
He didn’t wet his pants on purpose. If you had just given him an additional hour to convey his concerns about the cupcakes we wouldn’t be having this issue.
Swear under your breath… you can always, SON OF A BITCH! Where are your shoes???!

2. Enjoy The Small Things.
Dropping your children off at daycare. (No further explanation at this point.)

3. Chain Smoke.
Open Mt. Dew and down it while you wait for the left turn signal that takes
"COME ON! WILL YOU JUST GO YOU GAS GUZZLING SON OF A"
….light one cigarette, have the other out of the package and ready to go.
Not only will this keep your mouth shut but also help prevent getting some unconventional ticket for road rage and public harassment. If you time this right you can squeeze in 3 smokes before walking into the gates of “hell-o, good morning, how was your weekend” monotony.

4. Try To Be Thankful.
I could be out in 90 degree weather with high humidity.
Smile, then bitch and moan about the open air vent and how ridiculously fucking cold it is in here!
Put On Cheap Fleece Lined Hoodie.
Shake your head and shrug it off as you receive dumb looks from everyone else who is only wearing a t-shirt.
No, Asshole! I'm wearing this because i idolize Mr. Rodgers... PRICK! YES, I'M FUCKING COLD!

6. Enjoy Camaraderie.
Laugh out loud when making jokes with elderly co-workers on smoke breaks. Funny bastard.
Help make snide comments to other coworkers.
When relay about the mammogram turns a foot…
ask if they found hard lumps… like her kneecaps.

7. Prepare To Run Into Work.
Not with zeal and zest for working,
but with fear the book-keeper is going to kick your ass if you make another saggy tits joke.

8. Set Low Standards.
Realize it’s only Monday, and not give a shit that you can't even number this stupid thing correctly. Making a 42 step list would definitely be an over-achieving, ass kissing convention, Friday sort of list.