I've got a bee in my bonnet tonight, by cracky. It's been there for a few months now, buzzing quietly, waiting to sting. Every now and then, it gets me. I freak out a bit, vow to shoo that annoying irritant out of my bonnetted head. Then something distracts me and I forget about my bonnet-bee until it stings me again.
The bee in my bonnet is actually a Puffs With Aloe. "How can that be?" you may ask, trying to sound all witty by saying "be" when asking about a bee. Try to keep up, why don't you! I'm not talking about an actual bee. I would have gone into anaphylactic shock by now from all that venom. I'm talking about a figurative bee. Criminy! You probably think I physically wear a bonnet as well.
Who is in charge of folding the Puffs With Aloes? I want names, baby! There's a slacker in the factory. I've been getting Puffs that are not folded properly. Any connoisseur of Puffs understands that the tissue has the main body, and an equally-folded flap on each side. It's not a Kleenex, folded in near-half. Puffs have symmetry. Or they are supposed to have symmetry. Such symmetry is sorely lacking lately.
I sense a nostril drip is imminent, I reach into the U-shaped opening of my Puffs With Aloe box to snag a Puff by the folded flap, and nothing! There is no flap to grab! Nose flowing like a faucet in a middle-school-boys' bathroom sink, I have to turn and look for the handle on my tissue. Sometimes it is a tiny flap, like the tiny arms on Kristen Wiig when she plays that weird Lawrence Welk-ish show singer. Sometimes the flap is large, like the head of that banjo-playin' kid in Deliverance.
Small or large, the inconsistencies of the flap fail to stop my nasal flow until it is too late. I need a bucket strapped to my face like a sap-collector on a mighty maple. Somebody in that Puffs With Aloe factory is asleep at the switch.
Who's their quality control officer, Helen Keller?