Hormonal Raging…and why PMS should be a legal excuse to kill stupid people

Grrrr! Let me start by saying GRRRRR! Damn, I was hoping that would make me feel better. It doesn’t. You know what would make me feel better? Hunting stupid people for sport. It’s true. I used to be a marksman, I’m sure with a little practice I could get there again…and then, hunting stupid people would really be doing everyone a favor. I mean, it would thin out the herd…and we need that, it would end the suffering of the stupid…who may not know that they’re suffering…but they are, I’m sure of it…they don’t know only because they’re stupid.

See…we could apply the Nietzsche test…Are you now, or have you ever been brought to the brink of despair by the lack of intelligence in the world? When you stare into the abyss, does it stare back at you? No? Well then, you’re a stupid person. Go run around in that field over there.

Next on the list of people I should be allowed to hunt for sport…people who annoy me. Who may not necessarily be stupid…but are surely fucking annoying. People who cut in front of me in lines, people who touch me without my permission, people who drive slow in the fast lane, people on mobile phones in theatres, people who spit on the sidewalk…that’s just nasty, and a host of assorted crimes against humanity. (First up against the wall…those people who think their religion trumps everyone else’s right to be left alone without being preached at.)

Also, I should be allowed to hunt people who treat my son as a profit point. For instance, a new academy opened up near the house. I called to ask if they had part time programs and they said that sure, we could enroll the boy…but they’d kick him out if a parent willing to pay more money for full time came along. WTF? See, I should just be allowed to shoot that person for being stupid *and* annoying.

It occurs to me, during the hormonal distress that is my PMS cycle, that it’s probably a good thing that the Man doesn’t tell me where the bullets for my guns are. Because, you know…I’d look really awful in the orange prison jumpsuit. I mean, orange…with my skin? Bleh. And jumpsuits? Could we get anymore 1979? Yeesh…what next, clogs and feathered hair? Honestly, the fashion statement is the only thing that keeps me out of prison some days. Well, that and the fact that the Man hides the bullets…

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