I've come up with a new term: Maternapervaphobia: the fear of your mother ever reading a naughty scene you've written. Seriously. My cute, little, sainted, Sicilian, Catholic mother is one of the Virgin Mary's personal friends. They do crafts together.
I don't even buy fountain drinks, but Bloomberg's latest law against large sodas here in New York City just pisses me off. I'm pretty sure I just saw him fly by my window with a carpet bag and an umbrella.
I don't want to hear any more about the election. I don't want to see your post about how Obama is selling us down a socialist river, I don't want to see your e-card about how Romney smiling at an intern or staffer or whatever when he left the stage means he's taking personal delight in the loss of American lives. All of that just inflates my voter apathy until I feel like exploding. Both parties are out to fornicate our tushies at the behest of their corporate masters, so it doesn't make a difference.
Anyhoo, enough ranting, I have to run.