Why do my cats wait until my tea is hot and my food is ready, to throw up a hairball—right in front of me?
Why do my dogs choose the precise moment I’m falling asleep to hop on the bed and use me as a trampoline?
Why does a pharmaceutical company hawking their lasted medication (by using phrases like, “Now, they see me as a champion,” but never actually tell the viewer—1) What the medication is 2) What it does 3) What it’s side-effects are) totally creep me out?
Why doesn’t the city call a snow day when the drifts on people’s lawns are higher than the people?
Why is it, in almost every cop show, it’ll be bright daylight, but as soon as they have to go an arrest the subject, it suddenly turns to night?
And why do they never turn on the lights but just use flashlights? I mean, doesn’t that totally make them a target?
Why can four cops take down fourteen bad guys (in these shows) and never have a fatality or a wound, but all the bad guys are dead?
Why does Jessica Fletcher never suffer from writer’s block, and why has no one really wondered about her being the common denominator in every murder?
Why does my Wii tell me my ideal weight is 3 kg heavier, then berate me when I gain weight?
And finally, why oh why, won’t this latest manuscript just write itself?