Un, Deux, Twat !

I've been really pissed off these past two days and I can't seem to shake it. O the unfortunates who happen up0n my rage...in this case, the French. I hate them. Not the real ones in Europe, I'm talking about those cheeseheads in Quebec...and to think I went and married one of them.

Hubby got hurt at work yesterday...fell off a loading truck, between the loading door and the truck ramp thing, where it should have been flush, was a separation of about 10 inches. Not realizing this, he stepped off the ramp into the hole and his leg got squished between the two.

He said he has never been in so much pain, his legs spread in unnatural position, one up...one down, and he's trying to calm the truck driver from going into shock, wishing he could scream out in agony instead. Once inside the warehouse and as management was alerted, hubby hobbled to the bathroom to look...as he pulled down his jeans there was a knock on the door.

It's the office lady, the one who really is in charge, and hands hubby a camera, "take pictures" she orders. But he can't, he's in pain trying to twist around the camera for an angled shot of his upper thigh and bum, now swollen and severely bruised. He can barely stand.

So office lady looks at the digital pictures and decides they're not good enough, "pull down your pants". I suppose it could be worse, they could have had Svend from interior design do it. Thing is, no employee should have to pull they're frickin' pants down for management, however the irony, to prove injury. He shouldn't have been on the truck in the first place...as they delegate outside job responsibilities. Then they had the nerve to send him out on one last service call before ordering him to see a doctor!

The fact some other lady saw my hubby posing in his Joe Boxers really isn't the issue....it's what if it were me? First of all, I'd be telling the skank to shove the camera up her poo-tang, and second, I'd be more flustered by the panties I'd be wearing....are they clean, are they my special monthly ones, am I wearing any?

But, I have no concern over hubby's gonchies...which is perfect intro to a previous post:

Hubby is a clean freak. He washes the Hummer every day...even in the winter. He washes the driveway, the curb, the crow cream off the basketball hoop. He won't take a crap without filling the toilet bowl full of toilet paper first, thus preventing poop spatter up the rim.

He takes his shoes off at the door, he immediately showers after work, he trims his nose hair and performs eyeball exercises before bed, he's what most people would call "a flaming faggot". But he's not, no really, he's not. He's just a frickin' clean freak. I've come this close to going to jail over it, I swear, I'm gonna' kill him and his unscented farts.

Here's proof. I've discovered a new weirdness trait this weekend, one that pushes the limit of cleanliness beyond my patience and tolerance and where in the hell can I buy a gun. I swear.

We purchased a second garbage bin for the new trailer. One didn't seem to fit all the crap and muck under the kitchen sink, so we bought another bin for the toilet room. You know, because of the teenaged girls and their constant periods and hubby with his constant nasal congestion.

So hubby passes me the bin, "can you dump this out now", which he wants me to take to a huge garbage dumpster near our camp site. Again! I'm thinking, what can possibly fill up a toilet wastebasket so quickly. Hubby opens the lid and proudly displays a huge mound of toilet paper. Look what we've saved.

Huh? Saved what.

Aren't you putting your toilet paper in the bin?

What toilet paper? I nervously twitch with an already formation of an answer.

Hubby: I don't want you to put toilet paper down the toilet, look how much we have saved the pump, we won't clog the pipes, as he displays an apparent pissed stained array of toilet tissue clumps in our newly purchased bin.


But we buy the expensive stuff that disolves quickly.


Oh, for fuck's sake! Eewwwwwwwwwwwwwww

Now that's just fucking weirdtardness.....

What do you do with the shit ones? I smirkly joke.

YOU SHIT IN THE TOILET???!!! You're suppose to go to the public ones!!! Hey, kids, where do you shit?!! as he runs to the pipe thingy out back, the shitter thing that drains down to some mysterious holding tank, far, far to the underworld.

Oh, no fucking way!

And then I realize why the toilet always seems to stink that special stink, that son of a bitch...making me do the arm pit test and the breath test....I'm gonna' kill him, I swear, I'm gonna' kill him.