SOUR GRAPES ASIDE

My boss took me off the Henderson account. He said my work was sloppy and accused me of drinking at lunch every day. He said I made a pass at Mrs. Henderson when Mr. Henderson brought her to the office, and that I steal toilet paper from the men’s room. Sour grapes aside, my boss is a jerk.

My wife found lipstick on my collar, and on my pants. She says my gambling is out of control, and the crabgrass in the backyard blocks her view of the sky. She wants a divorce. Sour grapes aside, my wife is a shrew.

My neighbor said my sculpture of our adjoining hedge was obscene, and he took his pruning shears and changed it from a penis back to a boring box shape. Sour grapes aside, Glen is a prude.

The Neighborhood Association has a problem with the lawn jockeys, pink flamingoes, and QAnon posters on my front lawn. Sour grapes aside, they should call themselves the Cult of Glen.

The IRS is auditing me. They claim I fudged the numbers to the tune of over $380,000. They call my deductions “ludicrous,” and wonder how I can afford to drive a Lamborghini. Sour grapes aside, they are Nazis.

My lawyer says that because of my history of stiffing people, he requires a hefty retainer from me in advance. Sour grapes aside, my lawyer is an ambulance-chasing shister.

My mistress has been demanding for a long time that I get a divorce. When I told her it looks like that will actually be happening, she said she doesn’t believe my lies anymore. Sour grapes aside, my mistress is a harridan.

Glen’s wife came over to borrow a cup of sugar. When I came out of the kitchen with it, I caught her photographing the pornography collection I have on my computer. Sour grapes aside, Glen’s wife is either a spy or horny. I must proceed with caution.

The day my oncologist gave me a year to live, he wouldn’t let me smoke in his office. Sour Grapes aside, my doctor is a quack.

My mother says I never call. My father says I need to finally pay back their personal loan. Sour grapes aside, my parents are control freaks.

When I throw a stick, my dog won’t fetch it. And when I throw a ball, my son won’t catch it. Sour grapes aside, I know they collude against me.

My psychiatrist says I’m a delusional narcissist with pathological tendencies. Actually, sour grapes aside, my psychiatrist may be onto something.