Buastards!

Ugh. There are just so many no dankes when it comes to being a pedestrian in this city. I know that I’ve tackled cabbies creeping on up peddies in the crosswalk. And of course the citiclists.

But this one may take the cake.

Yesterday as I was crossing 6th Ave at King Street, not one, not two, but THREE vehicles nearly hit me.

Seriously guys? I know this Island makes you feel the need…the need for warp speed. The second you cross over those bridges, or come through those tunnels, you’re poofed into your road rage, lead foot alter-ego.

But come on. There are upward of 10,000 – ten thousand – pedestrians injured on NYC streets each year. Yeah, I Googled.

That’s NUTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Are you serious, drivers? Really?

So there I was, prancing along to Lily Allen’s new album (it’s kinda funny that I remember what music I’m listening to when I have these dangerous/upsetting NYC run-ins, i.e. dead RATS).

I waited until the pedestrian light turned white, then crossed.

I hadn’t quite committed yet, and was feeling exceptionally generous, so I let a smallish SUV zoom out in front of me. Fine. Understandable. I was barely a few steps out, they had a green light, so they went for it. I get it.

I was a good quarter of the way into the crosswalk when a white delivery van of some sort sped out in front of me. Being the super cautious, ultra aware girl that I am, I paused. Let him whoosh left onto 6th.

By that point, though, I was growing impatient.

So I went for it. I picked up the pace and started to bolt. But just as I was halfway across, a HUGE, GINORMOUS, GODDAMN BUS bolted right out in front of me.

I was thisclose to being hit. I was so near to the driver that I saw his ugly face and his scraggly, unkempt beard. What a bustard!!!

How I wish I had the frame of mind to flip him off (at least!!!) But I was paralyzed. I had almost been hit by a BUS.
I did manage to shoot him a dirty look (cause I’m at least good at those) and raise my arm a little as if to ask, WHAT??

But for reals, yo. WE HAVE THE RIGHT OF WAY.

The sad part is - I don't think these nutso drivers really even care if they hit someone.

Bustards!

R.I.P.-ed Rats

The only thing worse than seeing a grimy, fat rat scurrying down the sidewalk is seeing a dead one lying in the middle of it.

Actually, no. There is something worse.

Nearly stepping on a sopping wet, R.I.P.-ed, XL rodent is far worse than just seeing one.

No. Thank. You.

There I was, bopping to Franz Ferdinand, umbrella in hand, looking straight ahead, when all of a sudden a piece of trash (I thought…either that or a reaaaaally large pile of dog doo) appeared in my path. I looked closer and screeched. Jumped. Gagged. Nearly tripped.

I looked around, eyes averting the dead rat, to see if anyone had noticed my little freak out.

No. There was no one to share in my grief-ridden disgust at seeing and nearly stepping on that poor, dead-as-a-doornail-Splinter.

Silly rats, why can’t you stay put? Stick to the sewers and the dumpsters and garbage cans where you belong! Quit creeping on the sidewalks.

Or, better yet, quit croaking on the sidewalks!
Now I know that this sodden, ripe little Templeton probably fell for the ole poison gimmick. Dummy. So it was his own fault that his blood vessels burst and that he collapsed, dead. In the rain nevertheless – so very poignant for a rodent.

But I thought rat-a-tat-tats were supposed to bring the poison back to their lair and share the wealth? I thought they were supposed to seek out their watering hole or something? I thought they were supposed to die in the comfortable confines of their own sordid nests???

Why, then, did I nearly step on a deceased, rain-soaked rodent?

Ugh.

And of course I have the audacity to feel bad for any and all NYC pests (fine, except water bugs). But pigeons and mice and seagulls and rats – no matter how vulgar and unpleasant they might be, they can’t help it. They’re just trying to make a living, ya know?

So on top of being completely nauseated and not just a little unnerved, a wave of sadness struck me as well.

Poor little buddy.

If it was 1993 and I was on my farm with my friend Sarah Tuthill, I probably would have buried that sad little rat. With a headstone saying, “Here Lies Templeton.”

Cause yeah. We did that.

Red Light = STOP, Stupid

If the mood strikes, I can be quite a dutiful daughter. That’s why, on a whim, I decided to take the train to CT to spend Mother’s Day with that lovely mom-o-mine. Fine, fine – it was pretty much (yet another) Katie’s Day, but time spent in the tranquil countryside did me good.

I took an afternoon train back and, armed with bags of purchases from a double-Daughter’s-Day worth of shopping, I hopped in a cab and headed downtown.

I was still riding high on the vapors of my Northwest Corner visit – the chirping birds, the lush greenery, seeing my beloved pooch, Coop-de-doop – but wham, bam, thank you ma’am, I was jolted back to urban life in a New York second.

Why do cabs and cars and buses feel the need to inch up at intersections when the light is red? I don’t understand. Red means stop. It does not mean go. It’s so senseless, useless, pointless. I mean the light goes from yellow to red, they slow then stop, and two seconds later they’re creepin.

Such creeps! For so many reasons.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. New York is a pedestrian city. Why don’t drivers get that? Why don’t they understand? It’s so frustrating to be crossing the street – legally, when the signal is white, not jaywalking – and cab drivers ease off the brakes.

They’re always inching and slinking and stealing forward.
They think they’re so badass, so threatening. Puh-LEASE, I think I’d feel pretty damn intimidating behind the wheel of a two-ton vehicle, too. Bullies.

There have been times when idiotic cabbies have been thisclose to bumping into me. And I’ve witnessed countless close encounters of cross-walkers and those ne’er-do-wells. Of course they’re in the wrong, but after I (and believe me, I can offer up a nasty-ass stink-eye), or the aforementioned strangers shoot them a dirty look, they actually have the nerve to HONK.

EW!

Quit yer pussyfooting, ya big yellow ninnies. Cabbies and car drivers and and MTA buses: You’re not gonna GET anywhere while the light is red. Or if you do, you’ll get a ticket. Or perhaps even a felony charge for manslaughter.

So annoying.

Please pedestries, until those nincompoops learn their lesson – be vewy vewy careful.

Receipts for No Reason

Now. Let me preface by saying I know that excessive receipts are no fault of the poor, innocent cashiers. After all - they’re just doing their job, trying to make a buck. But honestly, I don’t get it.

Why the waste of paper? The extending and the grabbing of a stupid little scrap? It’s such a superfluous motion. An unnecessary transaction that pilfers precious seconds of your day, minutes of your week, months of your life.

Stop the incessant, needless receipts!

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve begrudgingly walked back towards a shouting cashier to accept a receipt from their overextended, impatient paws.

The worst culprit is DD’s. I know, I know - I No Dankes Dunkin’s a lot - but the criticism is fairly well deserved. They are the most erroneous receipt tosser’s of them all. No, thank you, I DO NOT want a receipt for a coffee that cost $2.37. Really, thank you, I don’t.

Alright, I'll admit it. Cashiers do give me a tinge of anxiety. Of course I don’t want the receipt they’re demanding I take. But I always feel such unbearable pressure to run back and grab the proof of payment. Especially because I know that if I try to run away, the employee will put on their pissy, peeved-off face and exaggeratedly crumple it up in front of me while shouting, “NEXT!”

Ugh.

Self-apprehensions and nervousness aside, it really is quite sinful to be squandering perfectly good paper on a receipt for a package of Big Red. No, no, Gristedes, I do not need evidence that I’ve purchased yet another half gallon of ice cream.

I could wallpaper my apartment with all the receipts I’ve rounded up in the past year. Or, let’s be honest, the past month (yes, my horse stall/rabbit hutch is very teeny tiny, but still…it’s the principle of the matter).

Yes, there are occasions that warrant a little white slip. Namely the purchase of clothing and – umm – well that’s all I can think of actually. Come to think of it, even clothing receipts are paltry! When I worked at Bloom’s, people would come in with years-old garments and we always found a way to look them up and return their money. Like magic. Really, really annoying f-ing magic.

Where there’s a will, there’s a way, people.

So come on now. Let’s all be grownups and do away with receipts. If not for our sanity of not having to walk back and grab the slip from a cashier, then at least for the trees. Yes everyone, let’s do it for the trees.

When 100 Calorie Packs Turn Into 1,000 Calories

100 Calorie Packs are undoubtedly the most dangerous innovation the food industry has seen since fun size candy bars. Why, you might ask? BECAUSE NO ONE CAN EAT JUST ONE! (BTdubbs, whoever worked for Lay’s and came up with that slogan is, quite simply, a genius.)

Perhaps I speak in generalizations far too grand. I know that I, at least, certainly cannot consume but one 100 Calorie Pack. No, no. For me they are “diet” sabotage…for sure.

When the aforementioned packs are nearby, I become a crazy woman with the approximate self-constraint of a monkey in a cage chocked with bananas, or a seal swimming in a pool full of dead fish, or Cooper with his dog dish drowning in American cheese.

In short, if there are 100 Calorie Packs in my cabinet, my name might as well be Eve. The temptation is far too great.

Yes, yes. Those teeny tiny portion control packets are good in theory, bad in practice. Am I the only person that can’t stop at one? Oreos and Cheetos and Doritos oh MY. The Chips Ahoy are chocolicious. The Teddy Grahams are cinnatastic. The Goldfish are saltisfying. Well that last one didn’t really work but hey, you win some you lose some.

I’ve enjoyed maaaany of the varieties many a time. And by the time I’ve had enough – well let’s just say it’s more like 600 or 700 calories that I’ve consumed.
Perhaps, though, my ultimate 100 Calorie low was a few weeks ago when I got the brilliant idea to recreate those most beloved Dunkaroos. Remember them? I sure do. Obvi.

Alone within the confines of my apartment, the necessity of being clandestine removed from my shoulders, I ripped open a few (no need to call myself out on how many precisely) 100 Cal packs of Lorna Doone’s. They are by far my most favorite 100 Calorie variety (one of my favorite full cal cookie varieties, and one of my most favorite books).

I hurriedly dumped the mini-Doone’s into a bowl and snatched my half empty container of Pillsbury vanilla frosting from the fridge. Don’t worry, I had bought it to ice a cake – my brilliant idea of Dunkaroo-inspired nostalgia didn’t come until after the icing had already been opened and partially used.
In a fit of madness, I dove that little shortbread cookie downward, dunking and swirling it round the tub of too-surgary, too-processed frosting. And boy was it – dare I say – better than the Dunkaroos of middle school’s past.

It’s a conspiracy, really. 100 Calorie Packs are such nonsense. No one can seriously eat just one. We just feel better about eating them because “100 Calories” seems like nothing. And I’m here to tell you, it’s something. Particularly when you’re throwing down 6 or 7 or 8 packs. And ESPECIALLY when you insist, like I so grotesquely do, to dip them – DIP them – in vanilla frosting.

Oh hello Mr. Simon. “…why am I soft in the middle now,” you ask? Because these stupid, sadistic manufacturers, à la Nabisco and Keebler and Frito-Lay and Hostess, have all banded together in a great, treacherous scheme!

Grocery stores I implore you, ban the 100 Calorie Packs! Or at least, for the love of my love handles, ban the frosting!

Maria and her Dress do NOT Make Beautiful Music

OK. I’m gonna throw it out there cause we all know it’s true. I’m just not afraid to admit it. Captain von Trapp is hot. Judge away.

The fake one, of course, not the real one. I’m talking ‘bout Christopher Plummer, yo! You know he is.

I’ve watched The Sound of Music approximately four (alright, seven) times in the past month. Yes, I know. Again: Judge away. It was on ABC Family over Easter and with the life-changing advent of DVR, I practically own it! I can watch and re-watch and re-watch again. It’s almost as wonderful as my homemade Dunkaroos (aka Lorna Doone's + frosting from a can).

If you have not experienced the film in a while, here's a little montage refresher. To see the real dance, unfortunately, you'll have to rent it - goddamn copyright laws. But I'm sure this will make you want to add SoM to the #1 position in your Netflix queue. (And you will LOVE the Love Actually music!)

Anyway, so after not seeing the film for many years, it was pretty much like experiencing it for the very first time.

When I was younger, I loved it as a children’s movie. I mean it is chock-full-o-kiddies. Singing kiddies at that! I always wanted to be Gretl sitting on the stairs singing about the sun going to sleep.
Later I wished I was Liesl, dancing around clandestinely with that hot Nazi, Rolfe (scandaloso!) I loved her dress so much. And yes, I wanted to try champagne but my dad always said no too. (Sad face.)

However, with this most recent viewing (or viewings, shall I say…such a SoM glutton), I found myself really enjoying the love story between Maria and Captain von Trapp. I used to despise the part where they’re singing “Something Good” in the gazebo – I’d fast-forward my video as fast it’d go. That was Liesl and Rolfe’s gazebo! No Maria! No Captain! I thought it was absolutely blasphemous. Sneaks! Stealers!

But I digress, per usual. My whole no dankity has to do with Maria’s dress at the ball. I know she’s not actually in attendance but COME ON. They could have put a cuter dress on her. Yes, fine, it’s a 60s film representing the late 30s and true, those are probably flowers on her dress, but for real costume designers? It looks more like a 1980s, puffy-painted, Spin Art-ed, poufy-sleeved, jean-vested monstrosity. It belongs in saloons, slugging Jack Daniels. Certainly not sipping champagne at a fancy ball, dancing the Laendler. 

Yes, Maria is a governess and yes she is (nearly) a nun and, fine, she should be dowdy. But this is the pivotal scene of the movie people! The sexual tension is palpable. First Marta calls her out for being red faced (brat!), then there’s that awkward moment with the Baroness, and THEN the Captain looks back at Maria and makes an even MORE uncomfortable comment about the

weather to the Baroness – it’s undoubtedly one of my favorite romantic cinematic moments.

But Maria’s dress ruins it! Why oh why does she have to be donning something so perfectly hideous? (Don't mind the mptv logo - this one was the best example for so many reasons.)

Ugh!
So long, farewell,
au revoir auf wiedersehen!
If I were him,
I’d certainly abstain!
(But if she wore a different dress, ya never know!)

Cityclists are Psychos

If New York is a city of pedestrians, then it is also most certainly a city of bicyclists. And the latter is much more dangerous than the former.

In fact, we poor pedestrians often fall victim to those most ruthless and barbarous bikers, tisket-tasket-basket and all. City bikes are evil personified. Especially those driven by deliverymen. Evil I tell you!

Perhaps I’m just bitter towards bikers because the dear old ‘rents told me I was not allowed to have one in the city.

“Please Mom! Please Dad! I want a pink one!”

“Absolutely not.”

They fear their little child would kill herself amidst the vicious sea of endless cabs and crazy drivers. And yes. Yes, I do believe I would.

Resentment and bike-envy aside, I really detest cyclists. They’re so obnoxious. They think they personify coolness, sitting atop their vintage touring bikes. No, no - these stupid cityclists (yes I made that up) wouldn’t be caught DEAD on a Huffy or a Trek or a Schwinn. They have to have an über cool, funky-colored-clanker of a bike. With a basket. And a bell. And maybe some pretty little pom-poms.

NYC bikers deem themselves invincible…AND invisible. They think they can just cruise down the sidewalk or zoom in and out of traffic and go unnoticed, come out unscathed. I want to scream at them, “YOU DO NOT BELONG ON THE SIDEWALK!” Why are they so egotistical? Sidewalks are for walking, ya jerks, not biking.

A couple of weeks ago I was crossing the street (yes, the walk signal was white…though I am a notorious jaywalker). I had looked both ways - like my parents taught me - when all of a sudden out of nowhere this stupid deliveryman flew into me. And he had the nerve to start yelling at me. Really buddy? Really? You’re in that much of a hurry! You can’t watch where you’re going, ya big dummy?

I guess my only reward for having to deal with these psycho cityclists is seeing them crash into opening car doors. It's pretty hilarious. And while you may be only be lucky enough to see a couple of these car door bike-strikes in your lifetime, the chuckles are well worth the annoyance that idiotic, psychotic cityclists ensue.

LOL is, like, so not funny.

No really, it’s not. Not at all. Not even one little bit.

Now I love me some abbreviations - or should I say abbr.’s. I'm pretty much addicted to anything and everything abbreviated. They’re the best thing since Cake Man Raven's red velvet. Many people can't stand my vernacular inventions, but my good friend Kelly and I are pretty much the sisters in Nell with their ridonculous language. We totes speak and type almost exclusively in tongues.

However, there is one – well, two – abbr.’s that drive me (and Kelly) absolutely, positively crazy.

The first is LOL. The second is LMAO.

I don’t understand why people use LOL. Where did it come from? It’s an unnecessary shortening. There’s no need to condense “haha”. Fine, I know some people prefer not to type out a phrase that isn't really a word but rather a sound. But to these people I say: LOL is not a word, either. Therefore it should not be substituted as such.

(Yes I made that LolCat. Even though they're annoying, you should probably buy our book: http://www.amazon.com/Can-Has-Cheezburger-LOLcat-Colleckshun/dp/159240409X)

This morning I was iming with Kelly. She asked what the blog would be about today and I simply wrote: lol. Her reply is copied and pasted below:
 
kelly: ohhhhhh god! i thought you were saying it for real!
whew!
kelly: my mouth dropped!
ahahahah
 
Never, EVER will LOL or LMAO ever, ever creep in and disgrace our conversations with their presence.

Please, dear friends. I know there are certain situations when things may be really funny and deserve more oomph than a petty “haha” can offer. But I implore you, instead of employing a "laugh out loud" LOL or a "laughing my ass off" LMAO, just abuse the hell outta those two keystrokes and type "hahahahahhahahahahahahahahah". That will suffice! I promise! 

'Tis far, far better to read someone’s typed "hahahahaha's" - you can actually picture their tummy-rumbling-cheeky-chuckles, imagine the laugh-ee rolling around and heaving with hearty snorts and howls. Who wants to envision the chuckler holding down the shift button and typing those stupid three letters: LOL. It's the most unfunny phrase ever. It ruins the funniness of whatever was laughable in the first place.
And LMAO - ugh. That is arguably the most uncomfortably configured abbreviation in all the land. In no world do those letters belong together. It goes against the stars, against the universe!

LOL and LMAO are not entitled to stand for anything, imply anything. They are an abomination to the abbreviation institution. I cringe when I see them in emails and IM conversations. What ARE you, LOL? You are nothing but awkward and awful! And LMAO, you are nada but a pile of two consonants and two vowels. Worthless! Hapless! Hopeless! And utterly disgusting.
So come on friends and foes. Please forthwith strip your mind of the atrocities that are LOL and LMAO. Use them nevermore, nevermore. Por favor, por favor.

Call me "Baby" and I will hit you...100 MORE times!

Let me begin by saying that I am not adverse to romance. Without a doubt, I appreciate amour à la Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy. I think some couples are super cute – all cuddly on a blanket in the park or sitting on a bench watching the sunset over the Hudson. Tasteful PDA is certainly OK.

But there is one thing I absolutely detest when it comes to two people in love. Yes, even more than lewd public displays of affection. It’s a very common endearment, arguably the most common of them all. And really I do not understand why. There are a few variations, all seemingly innocent at a tidy four letters. They are as follows:

• Baby
• Babe
• Bebe

Seriously, I don’t get it. Do people think it’s cute? Really?

If you are one of those most foul baby/babe/bebe-calling offenders, if this heinous word passes through your lips while whispering sweet nothings to your significant other – it is to you I direct this simple question: Why?

There are but three explanations I can conjure for this most grotesque travesty.

First, and most obvious, is that your sweetheart is, in fact, a baby. This baby needs to be coddled, comforted, and coaxed in order to stop its crying. All it does is shit, spit up, sleep, and shriek upon waking. Congratulations, I’m so glad your boyfriend has you to help change his diapers! That there is true love.

Now, if you are one of those people that calls your bf or gf babe, that must mean that they are, indeed, Babe. If this is the case, you shall NOT pass Go, you shall NOT collect $200, your ass is going directly to J-a-i-l for bestiality.

Seriously, no one wants to be associated with a pig.

Finally (and this one really makes me cringe) - there is that horrendously accented utterance of affection – bebe. No, utterer, you are not Italian. You are not French. You are not Spanish. You lack any suaveness because you are American! The explanation, then, must be that your gross significant other is an employee of Bebe (that tacky, skanky, polyester-happy line of overpriced clothes, most famous for ugly crystal-encrusted shirts bearing its heinous name).

Baby and its derivatives are really the stupidest endearments ever. There are plenty out there that are far more adorable. Take, for instance, sweetheart. Or how about darling. Or there's lovey, beautiful, cupcake, bubby, handsome, peaches, hon (most definitely not hun, though - is your first name Attila?), or pumpkin. I'll even take pickles. All of these are exponentially better than baby, babe, or bebe.

Please people, step away. Step away from the b*** name-calling. It’s not healthy. It’s not attractive.

I do have one disclaimer, though. One exemption. Uno in a world of billions of offenders. That is, of course, Jennifer Grey’s character in my most beloved Dirty Dancing:

Though I must say, while watching that for the umpteenth time, it suddenly struck me. Baby was in the corner because that is the only place where people with that nickname (or who utter that nickname) belong!! That's right, in the corner. So if you insist on persisting to call your significant other baby, babe, or bebe - then please. Go sit in the corner, out of my hearing range. And practice, try something new, move ON from the b***'s. Onward and upward, my friends. Onward and upward.

Gosh Darn Girl Scouts!

Spring is my favorite time of year. The days are longer. The wind tunnels on Hudson are slightly more bearable. Birds chirp happily outside my widow - along with the garbage trucks and drunken NYU students de rigueur.

But there is one thing that my pre-Alzheimer's ridden brain always forgets to associate with springtime:

Well let's not kid ourselves, it's

more like this actually...

I have heart palpitations every year as I rip into my first box of Samoas and hurriedly devour their chocolaty, caramely, coconuty deliciousness. My mouth waters while anxiously waiting for the Thin Mints to finish their rendezvous with the freezer (because really that's the only way to eat them).

However, this ridiculously cold spring has brought with it two unfortunate events. Said events have turned my excitement over the advent of Girl Scout cookie season into bitterness and despair.

About a month ago, I was wandering down the baking aisle of Gross-tedes. I had to purchase some Devil's Food cake mix - the likes of which they don't sell at Whole Foods. I was innocently bopping around, listening to my iPod, getting it done, when all of a sudden the Girl Scouts sneak attacked. I spied out of corner of my little eye SAMOAS ICE CREAM. What? Is this a dream? I thought to myself. I darted to the freezer and sure enough, Edy's (goddamn you Edy's!) was selling a Special Edition Samoas flavored ice cream. I kid not.

SABOTAGE!! Why oh why oh why! I paced around the aisles, debating with myself, the Devil bickering with the Angel - "But it's a limited edition!" - "Yeah but it's still ice cream!" - "But it's Slow Churned!" Usually I wouldn't give a shit about the calories. But since this stupid city has just become one big, giant, in-your-face calorie counter, http://www.usatoday.com/news/health/weightloss/2008-04-16-nyc-calories_N.htm, I have become hyper-sensitive to everything I throw down the old gullet. Ah, I digress.

Needless to say, the Devil won. If you know me, you know I canNOT say no to anything sweet. Not ever.

It wasn't love at first spoonful. But after the third bowl a week later, I was officially hooked. Suddenly I was nervous - the words "LIMITED EDITION" flashed before my eyes. I wanted more, more, MORE and what if there wasn't any left!? Ever the hoarder, anxiety pressing upon me like a heart attack, I booked it to Gristedes the next day after work, foregoing the gym.

Woe was me that rainy afternoon when, hands frozen from pawing through the freezer, arms numb from holding too many gallons while I excavated, despair encroaching, tears welling - it hit me. There was nothing but some Thin Mints and some Tagalongs left. Sigh.

I reached for the Thin Mints with a heavy heart. Eventually, though, my super stubborn taste buds gave way and I will admit that, while not as delicious as my beloved Samoas, it was pretty yummy. I daresay that I ended up liking the Thin Mints more! But, ever the little shits, the Girl Scouts begrudged me once again.

I went to three, THREE different Gristedes and one Dag's in my search for the Thin Mints ice cream. But noooooo, it was a Limited Edition and thus available nevermore, nevermore. I settled for some Edy's Loaded Cookie Dough. It was fiiiiiine, but seriously? All I can say is goddamn you Girl Scouts and your once a year cookie selling spree. Why oh why must you torture me so?

Up yours Edy's! Up yours Girl Scouts!

Feeling very bitter and depressed about the Limited Edition Samoas AND Thin Mints, I came into work with a giant (chocolate) chip (with stupid cookie dough) on my shoulder. Things were somewhat looking up though - I had discovered that my friend has an ice cream maker - I could MAKE my own Girl Scout cookies ice cream! Brilliant! Alas, when I opened my Outlook and scanned subjects for levels of import, one email with three small words immediately caught my eye: Girl Scout Cookies.

WHO ARE THESE IMPOSTERS? Pah, they call themselves Girl Scouts? Where is the decency?

These young girls do not deserve to raise those sacred three fingers and say that most hallowed oath, "On my honor, I will try/To serve God and my country/To help people at all times/And to live by the Girl Scout Law." On your honor - you dishonorable little brats! Having your parents email their friends and coworkers, peddling away your cookies while on the clock with more pressing matters at hand? And apparently it's a growing phenomenon:

http://www.cnn.com/2009/LIVING/02/04/girl.scout.cookie.ethics/index.html?iref=newssearch

Fine, fine, so going door to door may be a little dangerous these days but seriously, in the words of Bon Jovi: You Give Girl Scouts a Bad Name. No dankes! Now go sell em yourself, you little lazies! Like I did with my most honorable Brownie Troop #186 in Sharon, CT so many years ago:

Yes. Yes that is indeed a box of Thin Mints in my hand.

So although those gosh darn Girl Scouts have two strikes against them, my knees will no doubt grow weak at the first mention of "Samoas" each spring. And until they get that third strike, I will continue to gobble them down a box at a time.