When I got to work today, the dreaded inspectors were there. How fun. I had to do some serious wheeling and dealing to get all my ducks in a row on no notice. Fortunately, I keep things sort of readyish all the time. I've never had a bad review of my department before, but even so, I always go into a bit of an internal panic when it's inspection time.
'Nuff about work. Get ready for a startlingly abrupt change of topic:
We know a kid who has, what we call, "cheetoh teeth". This kid has something orange-ish all over his teeth, all the time. He must have a toothbrush phobia or something. It's very noticable. We recently had to administer a little sensitivity training on Myra's kid to curb him from saying things like "Dude, you have cheetoh teeth." We had to explain to him that you just don't say things like that to people, because you might hurt their feelings. An utterly foreign concept to the boy.
Tonight, his mother referred to cheetoh teefs' mama as "Dookie Grill".
So you see, the moral of the story is:
~~The nut doesn't fall far from the tree.~~
Little Cheetoh teeth got his grill problems from his mother, and little Elvis Junior got his tangent for ridicule from his.