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    On Sunday mornings I drive my grandmother to church.

    It’s about a 45 minute drive from my house to the church. At first G-ma and I used to listen to my iPod on shuffle, but then she complained so now we listen to Carrie Underwood, Taylor Swift (Tay-tay!), and Lady Antebellum on  the ride to church. When I was trying to come up with music I thought she would like, I made the horrendous mistake of playing gospel and I have yet to hear the end of it. However, that’s another story for another day.

   G-ma has bad knees so she can only walk about 1mph. Don’t think I’m being my normal jerkish self when I say that. She honestly can’t walk very fast. Since she can’t walk with any sort of haste, nor can she walk for long periods of time, she has a handicapped tag that she uses when she’s driving with someone. She keeps it in her purse and when we park, I hang it up on the rearview mirror. Every Sunday, I get to park in one of the handicapped spots when G-ma and I go to church.

   This Sunday, however, there was a minor change in our schedule.

   Someone, with no handicapped sticker, that rode a huge motorcycle decided to park in the last handicapped spot in front of the church. (Can we talk about that for a second. I mean, what kind of handicap can you have that will allow you to still ride a motorcycle? Can someone tell me please? I doubt whoever drove that motorcycle had any kind of serious ailment because I can’t see how your doctor would clear you ride what is really a bicycle with a big engine.)Never before in my life have I wanted to slash a stranger’s tires so badly. There were no other spots close to the door so I had to drop G-ma off and park in the grass. It took every ounce of Christian charity I had in me not to take out my Maglight and thrash that motorcycle.

   Even now I’m still angry over the fact that this person had the audacity to park in that spot. 

   If you can’t tell, I have a habit of holding grudges.

   What’s worse is that I don’t even hold grudges for major slights.

   I become violently angry over the small things.

   When I was thinking up a name for this blog I considered calling it “The Angry Monkey.”

   That’s exactly what I am.

   A simian with roid rage.

   You see why I need Jesus?

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