A coworker and I were discussing how gratifying it would be to see Donald Trump elected President of the United States. Halfway through my soliloquy about how awesome it was when Trump spoke candidly about illegal immigration I noticed that Diego, my Mexican coworker who probably has relatives hiding around the U.S, was sitting in the desk behind me.
I walked into the sales room two mornings back and greeted my boss, saying, “Good morning, queer”, because it makes me laugh to do such things. Jeff, our office’s token homosexual whipped around in his swivel chair and glared at me with extreme ire. If looks could kill I wouldn’t be alive to write this post.
My little sister throws a hissy fit during my birthday dinner when I mock the crazy feminist infestation that plagued the university I went to. She finished college two years ago. Sis bought the far-left, feminist and Marxist agenda that was rammed down her throat at Illinois State University hook, line and sinker. The older we get, the less we have in common. We have learned to avoid weighty conversation topics. Otherwise, a fight will ensue.
With each passing year it is becoming increasingly important to find an egg shell-free zone to live and play in. Sometimes it feels like a squadron of crop dusters loaded with egg shells has blanketed the country from coast to coast. I used to tip toe around the world. Lest I disturb someone with the sound of cracking below my shoes. I no longer care. To hell with these brittle shells. Crush them all.
I think the next time I start a company I will call the Secretary of State and register Crushed Shells Inc.