Thanks for the link!
Uhhh... then again, maybe not ...
You see, I followed a couple of links from this, more-or-less at random, and wound up here
, and ... by about more-or-less halfway down, I felt that I was stuck in a Woody Allen movie on speed-dial.
Y'see ... while I have nothing in particular against Woody Allen ... he is certainly a bitch-rich bitch-famous director (ahem...)
... he also
is quite obviously someone who has never,
in his entire :ba: life,
set foot outside of the borough of Manhattan.
cannot conceive of any universe
Everything made me feel poisonous. Xeroxing some papers, I saw one of my co-workers had left his phone bill, sealed and stamped, in the box for outgoing mail. It made me so mad I didn't know what to do. It scared me that things like this brought me close to boiling. I was afraid I'd boil over and do something I didn't want to do.
Simply takes it for granted
that "this ol' boy from Tennessee" actually has no choice but to
"give a Rhett Butler
" about it. (Trust me on this: you can put anything you want in an outgoing mailbox, and I won't even "become unglued" if you forgot the stamp. Nope, not a chance of me winding up on "COPS" because of this...)
Am I supposed to prefix my next line (and you know perfectly well what that "next line" is ...) with, "I hate to inform you that..."
Good. Don't tell Woody, either. I suspect we'll all be happier if you don't. Mr. Allen, after all, became a very rich man by selling neuroses to all those neurotic people in Manhattan. And I feel much
... for living a 889 road-miles away.