The Pickle Interruption

By now, after reading dispatch after dispatch of verbal brilliance passed onto a dull Internet via the TharpSter.Org vehicle to the information super highway (complete with turn arounds sometime in the third quarter of 2013), you should know that I can be pretty hyperbolic with my constructive feedback, my critiques, my criticisms, and my verbal assaults on things that just don’t seem right in the world.

 

The cummerbund makes me look a little obtuse too.

 

Today there is no difference.  Just replace the word “hyperbolic” with “passionate” on this one and we should be able to rock from there.

 

Will someone on Gods green Earth PLEASE tell me what the appeal of putting a vinegar soaked cucumber on the side of my plate is?

 

Good Lord in butter, man!  Why do you feel compelled to completely ruin the food I just paid good money for?

 

Better yet, why do you feel compelled to couple them with the onions I do like in a little baggy?

 

Let’s just stop right there.  Today’s blog scheduled for June 2nd and written over the past few days while waiting at the DMV (a future blog littered with passionate criticism) and other places where I just sit and wait was going to be a bitchy tirade about the evils of pickles.

 

As I write the rest of this piece on June 1st, I can’t help but to change the subject to an update on “In Comes June.”  Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, I sit here right now in the driver’s license office to renew my license, looking at the information board wondering why they’ve left the last “u” and “e” off of the word “queue”, wearing a brand new polo style shirt with custom embroidery on it.

 

It fits.

 

It’s a dark solid.

 

It has my logo on it.

 

Both shirts will be worn, regardless of what the dress code gods of Cubeville dictate.  I will treat their edicts with the same attention and respect that the Hulk treated Loki with in that movie featuring the lovely and talented Scarlett Johansson in skin tight attire and loaded for bear (or bare).

 

According to the Mayans, this will be my last birthday ever.  My beloved wife and the CFO of the organization nailed it this year with probably the best birthday gift ever.

 

Boom Shanka Y’all.

Randy Tharp

TharpSter is a husband to one woman, a father to two kids, a master to two dogs, an occasional cubical occupant, and unable to make up his mind on an adequate theme for this website.

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