"Interrobang" just may have earned a spot in my top ten favorite words. For those of you who aren't already familiar with the wonders of the interrobang, it is a question mark followed by an exclamation point. As an example: "who the hell brings an infant to a massage?!"
The word itself is amusing. Seriously, try saying it out loud. It just kind of rolls off the tongue...and it's even more amusing if you roll your "r"s while saying it.
Other things that amuse me right now include my new sneakers, the fact that diet Sunkist orange soda has no calories, and the fact that I have started a blog. Because, y'know, I'm just expecting sooo many people to read this that I shall acquire Instant Internet Fame.
Anyway, without further ado, I shall bring you the list of Things That Piss Off The Platypus in no particular order:
People who drive in the breakdown lane- Seriously, does this really get them to where they're going any faster? Does it make them feel like they're special, or like it makes up for the fact that they are raving morons who need to be beaten with sacks of angry weasles? (Not that I advocate cruelty to weasles, because I really don't. I was once owned by a pair of Very Amusing Ferrets. I shall regale you with Very Amusing Ferret stories at a later date.) Every time I see some jackass blippiting down the breakdown lane at sixty or seventy miles an hour, I entertain notions of going after them with a flamethrower. It's not that they're getting ahead of me in the line waiting for the exit that bothers me; it's the fact that the breakdown lane is there for people having car trouble, not for assholes who have no patience. Biiig difference. I hope that the Traffic Karma Wagon rolls over their stupid feet and breaks their toes.
Chatspeak- Is it really all that difficult to type out words like "you" or "someone" or what-have-you? Does anyone else find that sentences like "wut r u ^ 2" make them want to scream and smash things? The world is being dumbed-down at an alarming rate, I tell you. Soon we will all be illiterate and you, Gentle Reader, will be deprived of the awesomeness that is the Irascible Platypus and then where will we be? Miserably unhappy, that's where.
Cheapskates- I work in a massage studio where I receive about 21% of the fee the client pays for a massage; the remaining 79% goes to the Big Boss who does who-knows-what with it. The remaining portion of my pay is made up in tips. It's rather like a bizarre combination of waiting tables and rubbing people's feet, but I digress. Anyway, about half of my income comes from tips...and let me tell you, I count on those. As in, I use them to buy groceries and put gas in my car and other various sundry necessities of life. What drives me absolutely bugnuts is when a client will rave about how wonderful the massage was and how absolutely awesome I am and how they wish they could just adopt me and blah blah blah...and then leave me exactly zilch as a tip. Null. Niente. Nada. I mean, yes, I get it; tips aren't mandatory, and I should be thankful I even have a job in this economy. Y'know what, though? It still makes me mad. If you're gonna be all "Zomg, Platypus, you are the bestest evar and I want to worship your mad crazy massage skillz", why not just leave me ten bucks? Ten bucks will buy me a good-sized block of cheese, man.
Anyway, I think I shall blither at you further at a later date, Gentle Reader. Mr. Platypus and I are going to go for a walk soon, because I need to be exercising away this flubber around my middle.
Damn you, flubber.
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