Ready For the Booby Hatch

I wonder who manufactures those ubiquitous orange barrels that mark hiway construction... and what dirt they have on some highway official somewhere, to have gotten such a massive contract for placement? {{Mutters to self, "Why can't I ever have any good blackmail information?"}} LOL I can barely make it out my driveway (sometimes not even that, when I get stopped before exiting onto the street, by an irritated-looking, lime-green-vest-wearing worker-bee who has to be using some kind of drugs (perhaps lots of them) to stand out there in the blazing sun with nothing but a little reversible STOP/SLOW sign for protection from the over-amphetamined semi-truck drivers who are barreling down our country road to avoid the interstate hiway weigh station two towns down, because they have been driving for 72 hours and haven't updated their log book) before coming across those damnable orange barrels. I gather from the correspondence I have with folks around the country that this is not just a Mazoorah phenomenon, that orange barrels proliferate across the continent, despite the rampant, well-known corruption of the Missouri Department of Transportation. I admit, they need repair. We have horrible roads. Worst in the nation. {{Redneck cheer goes up, "Woo-hoo! We're numbah one!"}} But why, oh why do they increase proportionally to the amount of time/number of errands I have to run on any given day? {{Riddle me THAT, Michio Kaku, world-famous theoretical physicist LOL}} As I am sure you have gathered from this lengthy prologue, yesterday I had LOTS to do and little time to do it. So naturally, {{cue drumroll}} there were a plethora of orange barrels and green-vested drug-abusers between me and destiny (or at least destination LOL) Detours, delays and day-glo daredevils who sprinted across the freeway directly in front of me to retrieve an errant orange cone, (love child of two orange barrels who found one another on a dark and stormy night) which was flailing about in the wind, causing drivers to swerve around it, all conspired to make the journey harrowing and blog-worthy. It took me 30 minutes just to get through town, which is something, since the town is only slightly larger than a postage stamp, and has the locals' hackles up because the city is installing a {{gasp!}} stoplight. Installation has dragged on for months (probably subcontracted by the same company that has the goods on all public officials), adding to the frustration, as the trucks of various electrical and signal-installation companies block one or both lanes of the road. At last, I made it to the final stop, Walmart. There was some country music singer making a personal appearance and his large bus outside was blaring out honky-tonk tunes at ear-splitting decibels. A crowd of gawkers was blocking the entry, as he was signing autographs just inside the door, occasionally gracing the crowd with an impromptu overture, sung without benefit of instrumental accompaniment, or studio enhancement, which made his less-than-perfect voice sound rather tinny. Threading my way through the fandom lair, huffing and puffing from sprinting across the parking lot to make up time lost to road delays, and limping at having slightly twisted my ankle in said sprint, my own hackles were at maximum altitude, when I felt something go "sproing!" just above my left breast. I have not experiences breast sproing in quite some time, and paused momentarily, befuddled by this development. The river of acappella aficionados carried me unwillingly down the aisle, until I stumbled off to the side to discover the source of the sproing. My brassiere strap had broken. It was now disengaged from the cup, and was dangling jauntily down my back, as gravity tugged mightily at left-breast-yearning-to-be-free. I decided to continue my Quest for Completion, and kept on shoppin'. I did so somewhat Napoleon-icly, holding left arm across chest, to disguise the bared nipple and flopping bra cup under my T-shirt. By the time I reached the checkout, I was sweating, my ears were nearly bleeding from the country-music assault-on-sanity, I was limping worse, and was hunched over from holding arm in nipple-shielding position. {{ I ain't no Janet Jackson LOL }} I looked like Quasimodo on a bad day. By the time I got to my house, I was asylum material, crazed from the heat and hardship of the day. Me and my flopping breast made it inside to collapse onto the waterbed in front of the blessed air conditioner, to recoup and rejoice return to home sweet home.