WANT

The adorable little wubbulous kyoot things in the picture above are momongas, or Japanese dwarf flying squirrels. I want the one on the far left to live at my house.

Doesn't he look like an adorable little fuzzy evil genius? I could totally dress him up in a little ninja costume and watch him use his mind-searing rays of cuteness to annihilate all who pissed me off. It would be truly epic.

Especially since there are so many people who piss. me. the. fcuk. off.

Example number 1 is Mr. Florplehead (not his real name, obviously) who comes in for an 80-minute massage all whinge-ing about his TMJ dysfunction and how ohmigawwwd, his neck is so hurttyyy and he's such an impoooorrrrrtant person and blah blah fucking blah. Okay, dude, I get it. You hurt. I am sorry that you are in pain. Will you shut up long enough for me to attempt to do something about it?

What's that? You don't think I'm capable of doing anything to treat chronic muscle tension?

Well, shit. Why'd you even bother coming in, then?

Anyway, long story short, I managed to simultaneously murder my thumbs and beat the crap out of successfully treat a lot of the triggerpoints in the dude's face, neck, and shoulders that were causing him so much pain. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I am not untalented at finding and dealing with triggerpoints. Mr. Florplehead raved about how he felt so much better and how he'd definitely be re-booking an appointment with me in a week and how thoroughly awesome I am, then proceeded on his merry way...

...after handing me a ten-dollar tip like it was the gorram key to the city or some crap.

Well, shit. Don't do me any favors or anything, man. I'd hate for you to strain yourself.

Example number 2: my beloved car ate its water pump. Since this means that Beloved Car will not run without overheating like a crazed wombat in a forest fire, Mr. Platypus (whom I love and adore) has been doing the research of the phoning-around-and-whatnot sort to get estimates on how much it will cost to fix Beloved Car.

I was happy as a clam until some dorktastic buttface place near where Beloved Car is currently languishing said that they could fix it a-okay...for almost nine hundred dollars.

I do not think so, you assbags. I may look like a complete and utter nutjob, but I am not stupid. It is not going to take you six hours to replace a water pump. You get none of my money.

NONE, I SAY.

Example number Q-37: why must there be so many calories in my beloved booze?

Bluh. I am going to go stare at the picture of the kyoot leetle fuzzy things.