Fu Manchu’s Chinese F-ing Laundry

Given the past years’ worth of blogs, I’m going to think that the rest of the world would understand what the Harridan would appear to be incapable of.  If you are going to treat people like utter crap; then you can shove asking for favours - up your arse.  Sideways.  With a pogo stick.

Yesterday, she sat there and told the Squeeze that she had no problem signing the divorce.  Hell, she doesn’t even like him!  Yeah, well that would have been more effective if she had actually signed the divorce (that I’m sure won’t be dragged out and slapped on the table tomorrow)

Anyway; we get home today from a quick trip to the market to grab stuff to make lamb shanks in the tagine and African holiday bread – and then it spiralled from great, dropping to the depths of having to go see Kid 1 play Jazz in Federation Square.

Hell.  I like to see Kid 1, but snap.  Jazz.  Frankly, I’d rather be dead.

Anyhow, I’m sure you can imagine my utter fury when the Squeeze brings the stuff in from the car – and with the rest of the stuff on the table, is a large bag of kid 3’s dirty laundry.

WFT?  Is she out of her ever living mind?  Yes.  I know - she lives in a shoe box (and I wouldn't be surprised if the house was made of ginger; witch that she is).  But hell!  She is a bitch!  She goes out of her way to make the Squeeze’s – and therefore by default mine – make our lives hell!  And yet some cockroach running around in her empty freaking head told her that we might do the washing for her?

Aside from the fact that we both work; that we have our own bloody housework and washing to do – I’d rather put them in the back yard, smother with petrol and set them on fire!

There is not a snowball’s chance in hell that I will be washing them.   

Nor will the Squeeze - if he knows what is good for him.