Car talk.

I have to carpool with a co-worker to an offsite meeting today. As we were talking about driving arrangements, I asked her if she wanted to drive. She was all like, “I don’t know. My car is REALLY SMALL. Like knees-in-the-dashboard small. When I ride with my dad or even my boyfriend, we are like on top of each other practically.”

OK bitch. Code breakin’ time. What you’re really trying to say is that I AM TOO FAT FOR YOUR PIECE-OF-SHIT SATURN. Jesus. I may be fat, but I’m not a goddamned circus freak. I FIT in cars already.

Couldn’t she have said that her transmission is on the fritz, or that the oil is leaking? Christ. Sure, I’ll drive. But I can tell you right now that I’m pushing the passenger seat all the way to the dashboard, so that Little Miss Honesty is in the birthing postion for the entire two-hour ride. Speed bumps take on a whole new dimension when your snootch is pressed up against the frosty windshield like a suction-cup Garfield.

Let’s make a deal, lady. You don’t get all up in my bizness about my weight, and I’ll refrain from singing the theme from “Yentl” when you and your Streisandesque schnoz enter the room.

Open letter to the Outbreak Monkey.

What is it with people refusing to stay at home when they are sick? I mean, GODDAMN, people.

Last week, the Diet Coke Bandit insisted on coming to work regardless of the fact that she was packing the black death. Since I grew up in a household with two smoking parents, the slightest cold sends me on a journey into the Shadow of Death. This last week, I spent a total of three full days on my sofa in a viral-fueled hallucination, coughing out husky reditions of Salman Rushdie’s “Satanic Verses.”

But what really pisses me off is the fact that I can’t talk in anything but a whisper, lest I break out in uncontrollable hacks. I can’t taste food, not even hot wings, which is a goddamn shame. And I pee my pants just a little bit every hour, on the hour, due to the sheer force of my coughing. In fact, I’m feeling a little trickle right now. Or is that an air bubble. Fuck. Me.

Following each indignity, I find myself cursing the name of DCB. Given the depths of my discomfort, I have made a conscious decision to sully DCB’s name until her dying day. Or mine. Whichever comes first. And since the lung I just coughed up is lying in repose on top of my keyboard in a heaving, steaming pile, it seems I’ve only got a few more minutes to say my peace.

First off, there is no shame in staying home from work when you are sick. It’s not considered cutting or ditching when you’re protecting the rest of us from your nastiness. On the contrary, it is a show of respect for your co-workers and their spouses and their kids and all the little minions at daycare whose soft pink lungs would be far better off without infected green loogies hanging like unripe bananas off the branches of their bronchii. But since my outrage is brutally outweighed by my amiable nature and wussiness in general, tomorrow will find me silent at my desk. But make no mistake — I WILL find the time to commando my way to the mailroom and wipe my sticky kleenex all over her mailbox when she’s not looking. Take that, beotch.