The other day I was shopping with some friends. We were in Petite Sophisticate. A lady, who must have been all of 4’10”, was struggling to get a blouse down from the rack. “If this is a shop for petite women, why do they make everything so damn high” the wise, but stout, woman pondered aloud. I don’t know, I don’t know.
Last night, we were at the mall, waiting for a table to open up at P.F. Chang’s. Since I was starving, and grumpy, Klaus thought he’d bribe me with a chocolate-covered strawberry at Godiva. Damn, he’s smart. The young guy working there told us he’s a diabetic. Diabetic and working at a candy store, Godiva at that. Life is cruel, life is cruel.
Speaking of ironic happenings, I don’t know how I feel about using the word “ironic.” I mean, there’s such English-nerd debate about proper usage and such. But let’s not get into that. Let’s talk about oxymorons. Isn’t that word silly? I mean, shouldn’t it be “clevermoron” or something like that, to best exemplify its meaning? As is, it simply means, “oxygenated moron” and really, wouldn’t we rather most morons be dead?

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