What the f***?

It's one of those days. The kind of day everyone hates. I feel like what the f***? I mean, really, WHAT THE F***? Someone cuts me off in traffic, nearly causing a four car pile up, because she's using the cell phone in earnest, and I can say, what the f***? Disregarding my 3 year old daughter in the back seat and the fact that she's now repeating lots and lots of words that adults use. Usually she'll hear me cuss out a driver and go, "Shh, mommy." I think she knows I'm pissed off. So what I really want to say is, "What the f***?"

Then, at the store some Starbucks stimulated hippo in a muu-muu using her shopping car like a battering ram tries to run my daughter down like she was an errant growth of grass and the shopping cart was a lawn mower on crack. If I hadn't grabbed the kid, she would have been the first shopping cart fatality at Wal-Mart for the month. (God knows how many shopping cart fatalities they have there, but I'm quite sure that it's happened before. "Gee, Don, how did your wife die?" "It was a shopping cart, I'm suing Wal-Mart. Those rotten bastard shopping carts. Now I can't do any shopping without crying.")

Finally, I just noticed the date, and realized that not only have I NOT lost the 12 freaking pounds I was supposed to lose in three months, but that I have to make an appointment with my doctor and explain to him why I haven't done it. ("LACK of WILL POWER, Doc! Pass me the Twinkies and cover them with melted cheese, too!")

What the f***?