I will choke the life right out of you

Today is that One Day of the Month when I am an absolute nightmare of a human being.

Today, I chose my underwear carefully, for everyone's sake. Because, historically, given my level of tolerance on this particular day, a wedgie might be all it takes to send me over the edge into pure, undiluted rage.

Today, I drove to town and actually called a little blue-haired, 75 pound, 89-year-old lady driving a 1986 Buick Century station wagon a complete f*ck*ng idiot. I also tailgated her.

Today, I didn't tip the coffee stand guy because his perkiness utterly pissed me off. Get out of my face with your manscaped eyebrows and shiny lip balm, you moron.

Today, the humidity outside made me curse the clouds. I literally CURSED the clouds. I'm sure they heard me. I cursed very loudly.

Today, I drove my husband out of the house, to golf in the cursed humidity, because if he'd stayed, we would have ended up in a massive, Nagasaki-style blowout over his inability to use a coaster.

Today, I yelled at my son for growing out of his underwear.

Everyone's avoiding me. Perfect.

Who invented the atomic wedgie?

The last British veteran of The Big One (that's history geek speak for WWI, pay attention people, don't you know me at all?!) died today.

His name was...Harry Patch. I swear to blog, I'm not making it up.

Harry was 111, thus alive even before Keith Richards and the dinosaurs, so I assume that he was the recipient of the first ever Atomic Wedgie. Little did young Harry know that his was the start of a tradition that would carry on, generation after generation, a tradition of skid marks and buttcrack abrasions.

I'm guessing (hoping) that Harry didn't marry someone named Rash or, say, Mista. Because Harry wouldn't do that to the woman he loved...would he?

And what did he name his kids? Dear lord. Harry wasn't a family NAME, was it?! The atomic wedgie implications for the Patch family alone simply boggle the mind. It's some kind of miracle that they managed to reproduce. I mean, I'm assuming they reproduced. Depending on the...damage...down there.

I'd like to say "rest in peace, Harry Patch", but blog, that doesn't seem quite right.

Maybe, "Goodbye, Harry Patch. We'll think of you often"? Err. No.

Ok. Here it is. I have it. "Bye!"

See? I'm a master of the English language.