And you are ugly. (!@%& At least pretend to be polite.) Damn, Skippy! (Crap. Backspacing.)
Whatever makes you say that, my dear?
Now, unlike those unlucky who fell prey to the epidemic, my brain is fully engaged. It sends all those articulate phrases to my lips and controls the volume so I do not sound like a harpy…all the time. I suffer from a different affliction: Unmitigated Congenital Veracity
The condition is, from all my research, particularly rare. It is explained in an equation which looks like this:
Ironically, this equation is also true:
Observation+Anger+Patience+/-Tact=TRUTH(Work with me)
Do you know what is weird? This one is true, too.
If you read the Original Saturday Evening Post, I am running low on Patience and Sympathy, but have an abundance of Anger. Likewise, I stay Tact-challenged. Regardless of the availability of ingredients, it all boils down to the inescapable truth.
- Chances of me editing my writing is negligible.
- Chances of me changing the content of my speech is non-existent.
- Chances of me censoring IRL is extinct.
Prevarication. Damn, it is terminal.
Coated in Salt
By now, you have picked up on the politically incorrect nature of most everything I touch. If not, click the Saturday Evening Post menu tab and get a snort. While I will go a long way out of my way not to hurt anyone’s heart, I have no compunction from hurting anyone’s feelings with the truth.
You were led astray by some well-meaning ignoramus, but the cure for ignorance is knowledge. Work with me. Please.
Extra Fine, Light Sprinkling of Salt
If you truly do not know any better, again, the cure for ignorance is knowledge. I can help you. Sympathetically.
I am not mean. I mean well. And I would sooner tell you an unpleasant truth than lie to you. I sleep well, conscience clear. If you cannot handle the truth, do not ask for it.
Do you sugar coat the truth? Does it cause miscommunication? Do you have a IRL friend with my affliction?