If I snapped at anybody yesterday, it was probably because I was putting toys together for two small children, one of which has just really gotten what this Christmas thing is all about – and who has apparently developed a sudden phobia of talking dolls, although that may have been the homemade chocolate chip cookies talking. Now I understand why I associate certain cuss words with Christmas; my father apparently liked to save the worst ones for special occasions.
So. Sorry?
If you got past getting the toys out of the packaging without resorting to cuss words…you are a step above me!
No excuse for being mean, though. Well, unless somebody was asking for it anyway, which really didn’t happen yesterday.
Moe: Your analysis of the world (though snarky, but that’s good) is reasonable. I don’t have to live my life under siege from the haters for saying basically reasonable stuff. It must get VERY old. I know that I would HATE it. So, Merry Christmas — and never change. — NSBS
“My father worked in profanity the way other artists might work in oils or clay. It was his true medium, a master.” – Jean Shepherd
Heh, BG5, Jean Shepherds father and mine must have been related. Cut from the same cloth, certainly. Mine could certainly imbue all the standard words with and extra layer of vehemence, derision, scorn or what have you 😀
My father wasn’t the cussing type. But my mother had the Irish fondness for wielding the wooden spoon like Excalibur.