Don't You Hate It When...

Don't you hate it when...you run out of weekend before you run out of chores?

Don't you hate it when...one side of your throat hurts up through your inner ear area, and even though you snort saline nasal spray three times, and gargle with warm salt water twice, the pain remains, and you are forced to swallow some 20-month-old cheratussin in an effort to dry out the offending postnasal drip?

Don't you hate it when...the Sonic drive-thru dude tells you at the speaker that he will be right with you, and you sit for two whole minutes, but with sense enough to turn off your T-Hoe so as not to swill gas, until you can stand it no more, and drive away without your Saturday dose of the elixir of the gods, Diet Coke with Lime?

Don't you hate it when...you wake up cold because your Unobservant H has left the Mansion heating system on COOL because he does not pay attention to the forecast, and with the outside temperature at 39 degrees, your Mansion could call in a shop-n-swap deal to Tradio and moonlight as a meat locker?

Don't you hate it when...it's springtime, and an old Hillbilly Mom's fancy turns to thoughts of her red and yellow rosebushes, and her lavender lilac bush transplanted from shoots in her grandma's yard that took seven years to bloom, yet when she goes out on the porch to commune with her photosynthetic friends, they are stubby bare stems, having been ingested by goats?

Don't you hate it when...the school year would have ended on May 12, but because you missed sixteen days of school due to snow, you are now indentured until May 27, and the sound you hear is not the dulcet tones of the world's smallest violin, nor the oohs and ahhs of sympathy from empathetic souls, but rather the hooting and snickering of residents in the northern tier of states, who send children walking five miles uphill both ways to school in -45 degree weather, without even a makeshift triage room in the teachers' lounge to catch and store the blackened stubs of their frostbitten digits?