Realtor Madness

I don't think I've bitched about realtors lately. I've been negligent.

But let me make it up to you. There is one realtor here whom I want to punt like a football. And I could, too. She is about 4 feet tall and very petite. She is always making these trendy, exotic salads in the break room and she carries around a bottle of water that is almost as big as she is. She always condescendingly congratulates me on my healthy eating whenever she sees me with a salad as if we're in some kind of club where she is the Superior Cheerleader/Almighty Ruler of Those Who Are Struggling with Their Weight. "Keep at it, Chubbs and soon you will have a slim (ha! I said 'slim' to her) chance of being half as cute as me. Then I'll let you be seen with me and you can make me look good by comparison." Have I mentioned that I detest her? She reminds me of a little midget rat with tiny little rat paws. All that is missing is the cheese which I'm sure she'll never eat. One bite and she'd probably gain 30 lbs.

Normally (in case you couldn't tell), I'm somewhat jealous of those types of women because I'm rather Amazonian in structure, and yet through the cruel fate that leaves me undefined, 'cute' is about the only complimentary adjective I can pull off. So legitimately cute women kind of piss me off a little. Not this one, however. I will never complain about my stature again because, barring any unfortunate accidents resulting in amputation or paralysis, I could drop kick her if the need overwhelmed me. And it may. I make no guarantees.