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Ahhh, so many things to bitch about and so little time. I was invited to participate in this day of bitch. Being a news hound, my first thoughts were to rant about some of the things that I’ve seen in the news. Like, Jose A. Cruz, 34, an obvious bean lover, was charged with ASSault with a deadly weapon, for farting at a cop. Rather than get angry, all I could do was laugh. Seriously, a fart?  

Then those crazy animal loving People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) sent a letter to Ben & Jerry’s urging them to replace cow’s milk in their ice cream with human breast milk. Certainly that would shake up a hint of anger within, right?

As I continued reading, “PETA officials say a switch to human breast milk would lessen the suffering of dairy cows and their babies on factory farms,” all I could do was think, “Sources close to men everywhere say, ‘Unless that breast milk is on tap, I don’t want anything to do with it.‘”

Bitchedness was not flowing. I wondered if perhaps I wasn’t right for this gig, which was so graciously offered by Fabulously 40. But the more I contemplated PETA’s suggestion, the more I wondered if they’d have to transpose the name of Ben & Jerry’s Chubby Hubby to My Hubby has a Chubby.

My mind created a skit of sorts based on the news. People for the Evil Treatment of Activists (the other white PETA) say, “Then we’d have women with boobs hanging down like something out of National Geographic. Victoria’s Secret would have to start carrying 36 to 55 Double Long bras. They’d be like upside down titty hammocks. What about the suffering of humans, PETA? Honestly, a gal could trip over hanging fun bags, such as those. And seriously, what a treat to have ice cream made from human milk. I could tell my friends, ‘Come to my house everyone we‘re going to have Wet Nurse Surprise!’ See, that doesn’t even sound appetizing.”

I considered a political angle, but felt it’s been so overdone. Then my mind wandered off to men. I’m a male-basher from way back. But even that was too easy. Bitching about money, fuel, groceries, the economy as a whole, was all too easy. I can always find something about my teenage children that gets my granny panties in a bunch. Maybe I’d just bitch about the kids. Again, too easy.

I got to thinking about age. I’m 36 and not fearing 40 in the least. How can you bitch about age when you aren’t very affected by it’s inevitability? That doesn’t mean I have not contemplated my future. I think about it all of the time. Would I grow old gracefully? Will my old man and me still break it down without fracturing our hips? Will I be a MILF? And later a GILF? Would I be a proud member of the Cougars, a real man eater? Or would I join the Red Hat Society, acting prim and proper?

Now that would make for great TV. Can you just see the Cougars in a cage match against the Red Hats? That would be hysterical. I think I’d put my money on the Red Hat Society ladies. Most of them have canes, and I doubt they would worry about breaking a nail.

So here I am, having not a thing to really bitch about. I guess life is good here at the Lane Estate. Of course, tomorrow is another day.



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