Oy Vey
Before heading out to my doctor's appointment last week, I ran into my postal broad who I happen to like because she's so dishy. She was diligently filling our boxes with bills and asked me where my big black dog was. It's the second time I've been asked (I know you're sick of the death lament. Build a bridge, bitches). It seems I still haven't mastered the art of deathversation. I said, "Dead". She said, "No, shit. For reals? Why"? My first thought was, No, I'm lying, schmuck. Then I thought, has she never heard of the word empathy? What about diplomacy? I have a Webster's that we could've perused together as a family. Then I thought, maybe she thinks I whacked The Kid. Battling between quippy response and sincerity, I was so heartbroken by the reminder, I pussed out. So, I cried and explained that he had abdominal sepsis. BIG-MISTAKE. Without missing a beat in distributing each tenant's mail, she managed to express herself...