I Should Probably Just Change My Name To The Hypocritical Infidel Now

I'm a big fat hypocrite.
Yes. Yes, I am.
I'm such a humongous hypocrite that I should actually be referred to as a HIPPOcrite
If I was a board game I would be Hungry, Hungry HIPPOcrites.
So anyway the hot, hot Houston heat has been relentlessly stifling the past few weeks- often nearing the 100 degree mark.
It's so hot here that I developed an ugly heat rash right smack in the middle of my cleavage. Yeah, I'm suffering from Booby Heat Rash Affliction and it hurts like a mofo, too.
I placed a folded paper towel in my bra yesterday in an effort to soak up some of the boob moisture with the hope that a drier boobage area would clear up the heat rash.
Let that be a lesson to you. You know how your Aunt Nadine always pulls a Kleenex out of her bra to offer you when you have the sniffles? Don't be fooled, that tissue isn't stuffed in there for mucous purposes. Your Aunt Nadine packs her bra with paper products to try and stem the tide of booby sweat!
Why did I just switch topics from HIPPOcrite mea culpas to the weather and then inexplicably to burning bazongas? Am I trying to change subjects and divert your attention? No. It's all relevant.
Due to the excessively high temperatures I've been trying to work exclusively during the nights. As an added bonus, working during the night as opposed to the day usually means that I encounter less traffic and less people milling about in the streets.
I think that Houston is slowly transforming all my fellow citizens into summertime vampires because right now the reverse is true--the neighborhood streets are empty during the day and people only start venturing out of their homes under the cover of darkness.
So I'm out throwing the free community paper and as I careened around one of the endless cul-de-sacs on my route I spotted potential trouble.
When I see people out in their yard and I know I have to turn around and drive past the house again, I instinctively withhold the paper until the return trip. See, if they're ash holes they won't have the paper to use as ammunition to throw back at me while they spiral down into a full-on temper tantrum.
Yeah, they could call the office and place a STOP PAPER. Or they could, you know, actually bend their butts over and toss the thing into their recycling bin or trash but some people have nothing to live for outside of making this planet miserable for others.
Well, I accidentally tossed the paper at this house before I noticed the old man standing in the driveway in front of his SUV. Unfortunately for me it was also before I was safely turned around to make my escape from the cul-de-sac of doom.
As per typical, the old man was indeed an ash hole. He stood in the middle of the street with the paper in his hands ready for battle.
I don't stop for anyone on my route. Years of dealing with unpredictable crazies has taught me that. Neither will I put up with being harassed or assaulted in any way.
I saw Mr. Ash Hole and started revving my engine and then gunned it. It worked. He was scared enough to step out of my way. Since he couldn't get me to stop he attempted to throw the paper at me through my open window.
He failed. The paper ricocheted off my truck and smacked him instead.
I don't usually use profanity outside of those words sanctioned by the Bible like ass, Hell, and damn. My brand of profanity is sanitizing potentially offensive words and running them through the laundromat of my mind so that they're cleaned up into a more socially respectable form. Ass becomes azz. Sh*t magically transforms into SHEET. And the F word? Well, I don't even venture into that territory outside of using 'freakin'. The really bad four-letter F word for me is FICA. (That's a self-contractor joke)
I don't really know or understand what possessed me but I slammed on my brakes and started cursing a blue streak. A blue streak that began and ended with the F word.
My end of the conversation went as such:
"F*** You! Don't F*** With Me Because I F***in Know where You Live!"
And then I sped off and stopped around the corner because I was shaking so bad.
As I tried to regain my composure my ears were filled with the joyful music still playing on my XM Satellite Radio.
I had it programmed on the Christian Rock station called The Message!
There is nothing like spewing forth the foulest cuss word bile you have in your bad language arsenal to the perky beat of a Christian Rock background.
I know what you're saying. You're gasping and sputtering out something like "Oh Our Lady Of The Filled-Up Swear Jar, Do You Sing Praises To Your Lord With That Filthy Mouth?"
Apparently the answer to that is yes, I guess I do.
I'm horrified at myself and totally repentant as well........ mainly because I don't want to spend my eternity roasting next to Mr. Ash Hole for my sins.