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Your leaf blower at 7 AM is my Vietnam.
The kids eating Domino’s with their mouths open is my Tet Offensive.
That side of the house that never gets any sun and the shingles are getting black and moldy and starting to curl up at the corners is my Appomattox.
Finding my USB power cord—I know it’s mine because I drew that little fish on the plug so give it back—is my Siege of Yorktown.
Never even once plugging in said cord right-side-up is my Battle of Pusan Perimeter.
Mister Jean Shorts who doesn’t move his arms while walking around the neighborhood is my Conflict of the Ch’ongch’on River. (Authorities have been notified, Mister.)
Your all-hands-on-deck Friday at 4:30 meeting is my Hindenburg.
(And your, “If I could just play Devil’s Advocate,” comment at 6:45 is my Siege of the Branch Davidian Complex in Waco, Texas.)
Parking Garage Architect? You, Sir, are my Mount St. Helens.
My self-diagnosed B12 deficiency is my Great Appalachian Storm of November 1950.
You not knowing how to count my change back to me is my Sinking of the RMS Lusitania.
The current tickle in the back of my throat is my 2009 Canadian Swine Flu Pandemic.
The goddamn dog at 2:30 in the morning is my Battle of Teutoburg Forest, A.K.A., The Victory of Arminius over the Roman Legions under Varus (or, as the Italians now call it, Disfatta di Varo, the Varian Disaster).
Spaghetti squash is my Waterloo.
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