The recovery room

Well, I didn't spit in the food. Nor did I strangle the child who screamed in misery all fucking day long, as if hanging out in my backyard, what with its personal chef, shimmering blue pool, and hordes of little people, was the ruination of his wretched life. I am patient only to a point. That point hit early, I'm afraid, and so when he let out his blood curdling bleats of rage, I whimpered like a lost little kitten.

It is probably a good thing I didn't breed.

At any rate, Rules 1, 7, 11, and 19 were violated (see "Are you a good guest" a few posts back). And because I am a bitch, I am adding the following codicil to my list of sins:

1. Turn my living room into the ESPN Zone. Um, we invited you for a party, not baseball night. We are proud Americans, but baseball sucks. You're not here to watch baseball.Next time I'm hiding the damn remotes.
2. You're not here to call the bookie, either.
3. Complain about pretty much everything I do. Don't like it? Sorry. Go home.
4. Don't bother RSVPing until the last minute. Thanks, that made it real fun to deal with the caterer. If you were juggling last minute plans and told us in advance, we're not talking to you. But for all those who could not be troubled to say yes or no until the last damn second, you suck.
5. Blatantly ignore the invitation, the conversation, and any other apparently too distressing request not to bring something chilled. Thanks for rearranging my refrigerator. Where the hell is my spinach?

Sigh. Oh, a note to whoever left their little baggie with Runts and Bottle Caps next to my chair. I ATE THEM. Ha.