My Least Favorite Things

(The family room, that evening. It is pouring outside. Maria is watching local news on TV, a segment about mudslides in southern California. The children are engaged in various pastimes around Maria. Suddenly a huge bolt of lightning illuminates the sky and thunder rumbles.)

Youngest kid: I don't like thunder and lightning.

Maria: Don't worry, we're not in a flood plain or on a hill. (Sings)

Raindrops on hillsides, fire-ravaged and splittin'.
Mudslides on houses below the hills, sittin'.
No help from the state if you can't pull strings.
These are some of my least favorite things.

Crazed SUV drivers with cell and poodle.
Marketing D'bags who use "verbs" like "google."
Freeway snipers who go on shooting flings.
These are some of my least favorite things.

Girls in white head scarves or blue burka sashes.
Flakes who get botoxed and pluck their eyelashes.
Bitching 'bout winter when it's warm as spring.
These are some of my least favorite things.

Loose pit bulls bite,
The taxman stings. . .
Proposition fads.
I just remember my least favorite things—
And then I feel really bad.

(Just as she finishes the song, a redwood comes crashing through the window.)