And She Says I'M Full of Crap?

The Mad Woman loves me. She really does. She's always in my face talking like a two year old with an "oochie boochie" this and a "squidgem widgem" that. It's smothering. It's annoying. But at least I know I am appreciated.

Today, however, I heard MW say that I was "full of crap". So a bit of poop found it's way out of the cage and onto the floor ... shit happens, you know? Nobody's perfect. It wasn't my fault that Nutmeg shrieked at me, sending me scrabbling for the pigloo, bits of bedding flying everywhere in my panicked duck for cover. And anyway, what makes MW think it was my poop? It could have just as easily been Nutmeg's. I get blamed for everything.

Full of crap. The nerve. I'll tell you who's full of crap. The Mad Woman, that's who. To hear her talk you'd think she was some artsy fartsy documentary-loving writer with crunchy granola tendencies. It's time she was outed.

"Ooh that documentary was so amazing. The camera work was exquisite.What an extraordinary cinema vérité piece." Cinema vérité? Is that's what they're calling America's Next Top Model these days cuz that's all I'm hearing coming out of the old boob tube you sit your ass in front of every night.

"I must be left alone to work on the computer today. This novel won't write itself you know." Apparently Facebook status updates and Twitter tweets don't write themselves either.

"I must get some of those edamame beans to snack on. They are so rich in protein and vitamins." Yeah, you do that. Maybe they'll be a nice compliment to the grotesque amounts of chocolate you hork back every night.

Who's full of crap now, sucker?