Don’t get me wrong. I love rap music as much as any other upper middle class white girl. I went to a ghetto school and have been known to, on occasion, get crunk.
But even with my affinity for gangster rap, I can still admit that those fine fella’s (and the rare lady) are horrendous wordsmiths.
Allow me to present my case with the help of one of my favorite blogs, Snacks and Shit.
Exhibit B: Exhibit C:
Exhibit D: And just for shits let’s add in another.
Keep your hand knitted scarves and scented candles. I’d rather take the $15 bucks and get hammered on cheap egg nog.
Another useless trinket! Just what I've always wanted.
Sucking your productivity since the invention of YouTube.
Now go Google grape lady.
If I get one more invitation to Farmville I’m going to buy Sarah Palin’s book.
I'm going to start a fire in your imaginary forest.
And if I joined your Mafia family I’d be a narc.
Adult to child in record time.
Nothing makes me feel like an insolent child faster than being shushed. Suddenly I’m not mature enough to control the volume of my voice or speak when I want. No inside voices for me, I’m immature.
Hey! You're a baby you can't shush me! I shush you! Don't judge me!
Is there anything worse? First, you sound like a drunk. And you can’t get out a full sentence without hiccuping again so then everyone laughs, again. And your stomach starts to hurt and you can’t eat and no one takes you seriously. It’s just horrible.
Even worse are the supposed “cures” for hiccups.
Drinking a beer doesn't help the "I'm not drunk" cause.
Hold your breathe and drink for 10 seconds. Hold your breathe and hop on one leg for 15 jumps. Hold your breathe and rub your tummy and pat your head. Say the ABC’s backwards. Click your heels three times and think of home.
Nothing works. Hiccups are incurable. Just as Charles Osborne. He suffered from the little bastards for 68 years.
Not to be confused with insomnia. I mean when you typically have no trouble catching some z’s and you can’t sleep a wink.
Tossing and turning and turning tossing. It’s agony. And then you just watch those precious minutes tick by, thinking of how horrible tomorrow is going to be.
Your beer belly mocks me.
Try counting sheep, try a glass of warm milk, hire someone to come scratch your back. None of it works. You’re doomed to spend those 6 to 8 hours wide awake with your mind wandering to the great recesses of your brain.
The worst is if you have someone sleeping next to you. How dare they!? Just doze on off into lalaland while you lie awake in hell! You’re so tempted to wake them up, give them a swift elbow to the kidney or a kick to the shin. Startle them and then insist they were having a bad dream. It works every time.
After all, misery loves company.