
Let words come out of Bob Costas’ mouth. The world should just end. Right now.
Forget to phrase an answer on “Jeopardy!” in the form of a question.
Forget to tell me that you have turned the toaster to level BURN THE SHIT OUT OF IT, and then when I go to toast a pop tart I burn down the neighborhood.
Think that the sound of the laptop clicking shut means that it’s time to go for a walk, when all it means is that I’ve closed the laptop. CHILL OUT, DOG.
Say that you and your fiancé are going to get a “prenumptial” agreement.
Refer to the thing hanging on your wall as an “art painting.”
Give my child a toy that makes noise. May you contract a flesh eating disease and have your guts devoured by locusts. LOUD locusts.
Read a book loudly. Do you hear how loud those pages are?
Ask me if I’m breastfeeding and then stare obnoxiously at my chest. I know they’re big, but they can’t talk. Yet.
Poop so violently that it shoots out your diaper, up your back, and INTO YOUR HAIR. Who taught you that?
Come between me and that chewy chocolate brownie on the countertop. You don’t want to mess with Hungry Breastfeeding Lady.
Discontinue your supersized fries, flagrantly disregarding the needs of pregnant women everywhere.
Keep referring to my mother’s banana pudding recipe as “that banana cream thingie.” THOU SHALT NOT DISRESPECT THE BANANA PUDDING, INFIDEL!
Wait until I lie down to take a nap before you start chewing on that bone EVER. SO. LOUDLY.
Smear your wet puppy nose on the door of the stainless steel refrigerator ONE. MORE. TIME.
Tell me that I’m not allowed to go into labor until after I run a few errands for you. What do you want me to do, CROSS MY LEGS?
Suggest that I name my baby Ogg Vorbis Armstrong.
Ask me if you can touch my belly button. I’ll just go ahead and ask you to shrivel up and die.
Use the phrase “Log on to our internet website.”
Model lingerie in the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show during your first trimester of pregnancy. I hope you get fat and have to waddle.
Warn me that I “ain’t got no idea the suctioning power of an infant.” Like I didn’t have enough to worry about already.
Send me an email telling me that it’s inappropriate to write about hemorrhoids on my website. Um, have you seen my website?
Cower and shed half your fur at the sight of the Sunday newspaper. Perhaps having your balls cut off wasn’t such a good idea.
Ask me twice, in all seriousness, how to spell ARMSTRONG. It’s not like I’m asking you to write down KOTTKE, for crying out loud.
Come to the dog park with treats in your pocket and act all surprised when my dog knocks you over and chews your pants to shreds. Duh?
Try to convince me that the reason I’m so constipated is because I just need to relax. MAY YOU NEVER POOP AGAIN.
I know you’re fascinated with my belly button, but touch it again and you’ll pull back a hand with at least three fingers missing.
Continue to point out my obsessive habit of deleting shows off the TiVo. DON‘T COME CRYING TO ME WHEN WE RUN OUT OF SPACE AND THE WHOLE WORLD COMES CRASHING IN.
Ask me a question from the other room and keep repeating it even though I can’t hear you. I know I do this, too, but it’s not annoying when I do it.
Try to kiss me while I’m sitting on the toilet. I know it may surprise you, but I DO have boundaries.
Run inside the next door neighbor’s house, eat all of their dogs’ dog food, and then proceed to poop seven times in the next ten hours.
Tell me that I need to get to know you as a person. As opposed to what? Getting to know you as a slug?
Try to convince me that I should check out the new Hall and Oates cd.
Call this website a “diary” or a “journal.” I prefer “piece of self-loathing, self-indulgent, narcissistic crap,” thank you very much.
Ask me if my vagina has a monologue.
During a confessional on a reality TV show use the words “connect” and “on so many levels” anywhere in the same paragraph.
Describe my belly as “poochy.” I’d describe your social graces as “lacking.”
Refer to San Francisco as “Frisco” and expect me to take you seriously.
Eat a fudge brownie with your bare hands and then grab my white shirt and scream. I know you’re only two years old, but it’s time you at least started acting like an adult.
(After it was brought to my attention by my lovely neighbor Kelly) Use the word “methinks” in actual conversation, as in, “methinks you are a totally annoying fuckwad.” Last time mechecked, the only people who should be using that word are three-yr old kids who don’t know how to conjugate verbs.
Sign up for a reality television show and then complain about the situations you’re being put in. You’d better eat those cow intestines with a smile on your face, motherfucker.
Insert the phrase “Know what I’m saying?” in between every word of a five word sentence.
Think for ONE second that I won’t bite your hand off if you reach over here and grab one of my french fries.
Neglect to inform me that “Felicity” is in syndication. Do you know how many episodes I’ve already missed?
Come within 20 feet of me after consuming a Budweiser Beer. You can’t hold me responsible for the vomit on your shoes.
Say “fetch” or “frigg” or “frick” because you don’t want God to hear you say “fuck.” At this point I’m pretty sure God thinks you’re a fucking idiot.
Try to escape the house by climbing up the built-in cabinetry, knocking out the screen to the window in the living room and perching perilously six feet above the rose bush below. You’re a dog for crying out loud.
Tell me that you are all “disorientated.”
Sign up to do an episode of “Trading Spaces” and act all surprised when the designer replaces your bedspread with ASTRO TURF. What did you expect?
Send me an email suggesting that I am a terrible person for using household cleaners on my dog. YOU don’t have to live with my dog’s feet.
Lick your index finger and then use it to wipe something off my face. Ohmigod, Mom, we’re in public, for crying out loud!
Keep giving my dog all those goddamn biscuits. I’ll send YOU the bill when I ship him off to fat camp.
Charge me $4.50 for a cup of coffee and then tell me to put my own soy milk in it. For $4.50 you’d better be wiping my ass.
Think that you can drive your car around like a total moron because you’ve paid your tithing and nothing bad can happen to you. News flash, buddy: I CAN HAPPEN TO YOU.
Lift your right leg and pee on the new neighbor’s leg.
Lecture me for eating all the bologna, you fucking bologna cop.
Pull into the passing lane with no intention of BRINGING IT, YOU PUSSY.
Consider yourself a better person because you don’t watch “American Idol.” Well, America voted, and it’s official: you’re a total snob.
Show up with the closing papers on our house WITHOUT NOTIFYING US BEFOREHAND THAT YOU‘RE GOING TO STICK YOUR FIST UP OUR ASS.
Be an angry gumball, so jealous and high-strung. I hate you angry gumball.
Suggest that we shouldn’t let the dog sip the $39.00 Herradura tequila. You know he’s totally worth it.
Show that you are proud to be an American by dressing entirely in red and blue denim. We are so going to win this war.
Rip open a pink permanent marker and chew it to pieces all over my mother’s immaculate beige carpet. When she sees that stain we will totally be written out of the will.
Assume that Lee Greenwood has anything to do with our national anthem.
Turn on a “Wiggles” video and leave me alone with your 4-yr old, you heartless, cruel monster.
Smell my dog’s feet and then gag loudly. What the hell did you expect, mother?
Sit next to me in traffic with your windows down blasting Kenny Loggins “Danger Zone” and bop your head in rhythm with the guitar.
Guilt me into giving you a lick of the Taco Bell Chili Cheese Dip. Just stop it already with the sad puppy eyes.
Sneak that goddamn cardboard toilet paper roll out of the goddamn trash can ONE MORE TIME.
Doubt that my mother really is the Avon World Sales Leader. She will totally crush you.
Set your email notification sound to “Personal Demons” and expect me not to grit my teeth when the room shakes with a thunderous, cymbals-laden boom every single time you get an email.
Call my dog a son of a bitch. Your dog is a son of an ugly bitch.
Poop on the living room rug and then step in it.
Put Matthew McConaughey in front of a camera and require him to open his mouth.
Use the word "partake" with only serious, well-meaning intentions.
Try to persuade me to drink the last one-third of a can of Diet Coke. That part is residual.
Think that I won't add you to my annoy list. Ain't nobody exempt.
Remind me that the Easter Bunny's handwriting is remarkably similar to my father's.
Jump on the bed with your big self right after I've taken the time to straighten the covers.
Build a huge mall at the end of my street. This is Los Angeles, for Chrissake, not Mississippi.
Screw the lid on so tight to everything that I have to use a fucking jackhammer to open the orange juice.
Ask me if I like the pantsuit you just bought on sale at Wal-Mart. I hate trick questions.
Dress your dog in a sweater set and matching socks.
Suggest that I be productive with my free time. Dude, you're not the boss of me.
Suggest that, silly rabbit, Trix are for kids. Leave the fucking rabbit out of this.
Suggest that I take the time-honored, courteous approach to expressing myself. Fuck you, you fucking motherfucker!
Take an X-ray of my abdomen while whistling the chorus to a Creed song. I will see you in Hell.
Manufacture your clothing so small that I can't fit an XXL over my shoulders. That's me screaming in the dressing room.
Take away my tequila.
Tell me that there's no good reason I should be constipated. Do I really need a good reason?
Refuse to give St. Augustine his own holiday, too. Or St. Etienne. Or St. Germain.
Drive like a grandma, all slow and wiggly and shit.
Mumble. Open your goddamned mouth.
Take the last Diet Coke and then stick your tongue out at me. Don't be surprised when you wake up one morning and that tongue is gone.
Call me a racist. Dude, you've never met the Asian Database Administrator.
Try to floss your teeth and drive at the same time. Your gingivitis can wait.
Insult the Asian database administrator. At least he's not wearing fishnet stockings.
Act like you didn't just pull out in front of me. I'll act as if I didn't just make that hand gesture in your direction.
Offer a six-months same as cash option on a loan. You may as well just beat me up and steal my wallet.
Expect me to care about your cat. I don't.
Touch my monitor with your chubby, greasy digit.
Make a movie starring Kevin Costner.
Use the words "Neosporin" and "sweetie" in the same sentence.
Ask me to drop what I'm doing to help you "calendarize" something. How about I just take a baseball bat to your fat ass?
Dare to suggest that Britney's new movie will be anything short of brilliant.
Ask me what a "comp" is and expect me to take you seriously. Where did you come from? Citysearch?
Hold an awards show for popular American music and actually give out awards. For what?
Grow your sideburns into the shape and size of Louisiana. It's hurtful.
Buy me a cardboard baby. It's just not funny.
Wash your car with a squeegee and two paper towels at Chevron. I thought I was white trash.
Obey Utah's liquor laws and serve me only one ounce of tequila at a time. We're going to be here all night at this rate.
Ask my opinion on what you're getting your wife for Christmas. I simply cannot give an objective opinion on Mariah Carey's Greatest Hits.
Assume that I give one flying fuck about Dungeons and Dragons, you sad little dork.
Shake those Christmas presents I just put under the tree. Don't be crying when I slap your hands.
Complain that you can't concentrate over the sound of my daily morning Grape Nuts celebration.
Comment loudly at the company Christmas party, "You clean up real nice, lady."
Make me build something in Flash 5. How about you suck my big toe and we call it even?
Accuse me of being pathological. My doctor calls it "terminally obsessive."
Keep complaining about how someone stole your identity and signed up for a Discover Card. At least they didn't steal your sexual identity.
Refuse to let Britney grow up. Apparently, she's not that innocent.
Argue that your album sold 887,000 copies in one week on its "artistic merit" alone and not because in reality you're just MTV's bitch.
Tell me to stop drinking so much caffeine. You're my primary care physician, what do you know?
Shave your face in the sink and leave a two-foot puddle of hairy water brimming on the countertop.
Prepare a meal that sends me to sleep with 14,000 calories in my belly.
Try to tell me what a girl wants. Not only are you not a girl, but you're not even Christina Aguilera.
Two seconds after I point out the flab on my ass, suggest that we have brownies for breakfast.
Answer the questions I ask outloud in my sleep. I'm not talking to you.
Make me stay awake until 10pm. I NEED that 12 hours of sleep, dirty.
Flush the toilet just as I'm about to rinse the shampoo from my hair.
Strategically sprinkle tiny plastic leftover Halloween spiders in corners of the apartment so that every 10 minutes I have a heart attack.
Invade my space with your bony elbows like Rodman rebouding in the 4th game of the NBA Championships.
Write me a ticket for going only 25 mph over the speed limit. Be glad you caught me when I was obviously sedated.
Drop the box of butter I've just thrown at you in the grocery store, Mr. Fickle Fingers.
Drive four inches behind the car in front of you, at 87 mph.
Restructure the company and expect me to care.
Ask me to templatize my block-up flow document one more time.
Schedule only one day for QA on a software product that's taken 8 months to build.
Accuse me of listening to fruity music, you total poser.
After I cover one wall in thick red paint, you bump into it with your big white ass. Twice.
Slow down to a complete stop at an intersection that clearly doesn't require it. Stop signs are just suggestions.
Call my purse a "David Spade" bag.
Ask me to answer your phone. I'd much rather toss it at the back of your head.
Misplace your keys one more time.
Ask me to shake the dew from your lily. That is just wrong. Wrong, I say.
Force me to drink water when I want that damn Diet Coke.
Make fun of the way I drool all over my shirt when I sleep in the car.
Point out to a table of 8 co-workers that I've got a green onion stuck in the middle of my two front teeth.
Give me only 10 minutes for that quarter I put in the meter.
Haggle over a women's rib-knit cowl-neck sweater that I've priced at 25 cents.
Ask me, "Are you going to finish that burrito?" You even think about reaching over here and you will promptly lose two fingers.
When I catch you picking your nose in your car, instantly pretend that it was just an itch you had to scratch. That's a mighty deep itch, motherfucker.
Steer your shopping cart through Costco like a maniac. We're all in this together.
Get together with your band of birds and poop all over the hood of my car.
Make me pack in an orderly fashion. I just don't have it in me.
Borrow my stapler. Get your own.
Describe my driving as "unnecessarily aggressive and I will never get into a car with you again." You're a pussy.
Drink the last Diet 7-Up in the community refrigerator. I bet you're the same person who sends out those crappy company emails that say "Good Work Team!" and "Our Numbers Look Great!"
Forget your wallet, again, when it's your turn to pay. It's not sneaky. It's stupid.
Accuse me of drugging you with my depression medication. I will tell you when I do that.
Floss your teeth during a meeting about content integration.
Crank up the air conditioner in the office so high that every woman's chest is its own PowerPoint presentation.
Call me while I'm sleeping, and after I tell you that I'm sleeping, continue to jabber like a fucking monkey.
Print out something just for the specific purpose of walking behind my chair, stopping, and leaning down to smell my hair.
Distract me when I'm driving. This is LA, not some second-rate pseudo-city where people drive cars as a part of playing grown-up.
Compare buttermilk biscuits to muffins, as if there is no difference between the two, you wretched soul.
Wear white half-socks with black shoes.
You're cute but then you opened your mouth to speak.
Invite me to a party where all the men are gay.
How about some blinker action you Mitshubishi motherfucker.