Why I hate my job and old people. Except old people who have been grandfathered in, which does not include this woman. Oh, also, this is not rated PG.

The phone rang today at work, so I answered, which I'm unfortunately obligated to do. It was an old hag from a neighboring town, whose first mistake was calling my article, which appeared in today's newspaper, a column.

"You don't know how to spell, do you?" the whore asked, after immediately telling me, upon answering the phone, that she had a problem with my "column."

This was her second mistake. Don't patronize me, bitch. While you were busy cross-stitching I was receiving a college degree in journalism. The one thing you do not do is tell me I don't know how to spell.

"Yes. I know how to spell," I told her, while in my head I was stabbing her in the heart with a trident.

"Oh, really? Because here, in your column, you spelled 'role' as r-o-l-l," she replied, matter-of-factly.

Immediately I chastised myself for the honest, grammatical error, which happens from time to time when you sit in front of a computer typing words eight hours a day.

"Well, that was an honest error which, apparently, I did not catch. Nor did our editors," I coughed, still not believing the old coot was calling me to complain about this, as if, perhaps, I wrote an article declaring Jesus Christ was a woman.

"OK," she said, still not impressed. "Do you know how to spell role?"

Oh, no, she didn't just ask me that.

"R-o-l-e."

"OK, good, I just - "

CLICK.