What A Fucking Bitch!

Have you ever been called a bitch?  Cold bitch, nasty bitch, stupid bitch, dumb bitch, fucking bitch, lazy bitch, evil bitch, clueless bitch...etc?  Was it being yelled at you?  Maybe complete with a shiny example of just why you were being called it?  Probably.  And you are so welcome!  Wait, that's a bad thing?  Who the fuck told you that load of crap?

(Sounds of thunderous applause deafens the air, whistles as she steps to the microphone.  Overwhelmed, she stands silently, tears running down her cheeks, looking around her in complete disbelief.  Finally, composing herself, her lips part as the roar settles down, every eye in the room locked on her as they wait for her words to wash over them.)

I....I can't believe it!  You dream of this moment and when it finally happens, you just aren't prepared for just how amazing it actually is.  Okay.... Well, there are just so many people I need to thank and if I forget to mention you, please know that it isn't because I think you are insignificant, it's because I know it.

As a child, you are told that if you have a dream, you should do all that you can to achieve it.  And you work hard, never settling for second best, always pushing yourself further and further and further in hopes of becoming not just best you can, but the pinnacle, the physical embodiment of your dream.  Today, my dream has been recognized and I take my place in history.

This award for the Biggest Fucking Bitch On The Plant signifies that dedication, perseverance and absolute intolerance for bullshit from those around you are the founding principles making this possible.  Reducing those that wish to see you fail in life into microscopic particles of flecks of dried fecal matter being forcefully expelled from the swollen anus of the rotted corpse of jealousy.  Refusing to allow yourself to willingly accept the fucking mind-numbingly, incoherent babble of lying from anyone possessing the gull to assume that you will never be able to discover the truth of their deceit.  Disregarding the social insistence that bending over, spreading your cheeks and bracing yourself is the only accepted behavior for keeping status quo.  This detachment is not just a sign of a bitch, it is a way of life.

Cold, unfeeling, sarcastic?  Yup.  Judgmental?  Indeed.  Crass, flippant, rude?  Um, duh.  Term of endearment, darling.  And proof that there are those that are in command of required cranial activity to understand what we are as an added bonus.  Maybe there is flea fart of chance that you will be worthy of consideration in the grand scheme of life after all!  You know just who I'm talking about, sweetie because you are the one getting indignant and upset. It's okay...shhhh....Don't speak.  Just sit there inhaling oxygen and exhaling carbon dioxide.  Repeat.

To those of you hiding your inner bitch: shame on you!  Shame on you, you pussies!  Say it loud and proud, "We're here!  Fuck you, dear!  Get used to it!"  Yell it with me!  "WE'RE HERE!  FUCK YOU, DEAR!  GET USED TO IT!"  On your feet right now, middle fingers up high and yell it out.  "WE'RE HERE!  FUCK YOU, DEAR!  GET USED TO IT!"  I swear to Jeebus, I'm going to come off this stage and mother fucking throat punch you if you don't get the hell up.  No, not you...you right there.  Uh huh.  Get up you, lazy bastard.  Every one shut up for a minute!  Say it by yourself since you can't be bothered to support your fellow bitches.  That's right.  Good job.  Next time you pull some shit like that I'm gonna come off this stage and beat you like you stole something from me.  Okay, sit back down...Sit back down, everybody....

Now, some people are going to say that a bitch is a female.  And as you are more than aware, this isn't true.  Some of the baddest bitches I know are male.  So when you leave tonight and get your swag bag, you'll see that the shirt is unisex.  We don't discriminate. What was I about to say...?  I can't remember...Fuck it.  If it's important, I'll remember later.

Anyway, before I wrap this up, I just want to take a moment to thank some of my most personal bitches who know who they are and aren't attention whores who need to be singled out.  I'll make sure I update my Facebook status so you can take your fifteen minutes of fame too.  Just let me get home first and jump on the computer, I don't feel like doing it from my phone.  Um....anything else..?  I keep feeling like I'm forgetting something...

Oh, shit!  That's right!  I can't believe I almost forgot to mention it.  I want to give a huge, HUGE thank you to Ludicis and Nicki Minaj for performing my personal anthem, "My Chick Bad."  That song, I can't even tell you how proud I feel.  Thank you guys!  Oh, and Luda, my mother and I can NOT help how much your voice gets us hot.  Seriously, your part on Law & Order: SVU?  Good God!  And there are lots of artists that I love and worship, but ultimately, Weird Al Yankovic, you will always remain my first and foremost favorite.  You're not going to believe this, but I manged to get a pair of your boxers from when you sang "Just Wanna Be Your Lover" from your Poodle Hat Tour.  Let me know if you want me to tell you the story about that one day...I think...yeah, I think that's pretty much gonna wrap that part of this up.

In closing, I want to say to those of you that weren't totally clear on the concept, bitch is not an insult.  There's always going to be those feministy cry babies that will get all whiny and blah, blah, blah about a bitch is a dog and crap.  Ignore them.  I think they are on the rag or something.  They might want to plug in a new tampon.  Someone lit the fuse on the ones they're wearing, so that makes them a bit testy.  And yes, as a woman, I'm allowed to say that crap, so don't rush up at me wanting to check if I'm a real woman or start those goddamn rumors that I'm really a man.  As if a man could handle being inside of this mind!  I know, right?

Don't forget to yell out that little slogan, it does wonders.   Well, thank you all for coming out tonight and drive safe.  Goodnight!

(She walks off the stage, face flushed with happiness as she gets swarmed by well wishers and picture takers, laughing and getting everyone in a huge group so she can get pictures to throw up on her blog.  Finally, after most of the people get a few shots, she walks over and checks some of them out, telling people which ones caught her best side and which ones made her look kind  of ugly or blurry.   A few people try to come up as she's trying to get out wanting to ask her questions or chat but she tells them she really has to go because there's some drinking she needs to get to and she really doesn't feel like getting to the after party late.  She hears someone call her an ungrateful cunt and she turns around to sock them in the face, resulting in a massive fist fight that ends with charges being filed.  Man, what a fucking bitch!)

10 Fucking Items Or Less!

So, it's 2:30pm and you've suddenly decided that you NEED a pint of Ben & Jerry's Peanut Butter Cup ice cream.  You can either walk into the kitchen and find a healthy replacement that won't cause you to crash your carefully thought out New Year's diet that you give about a week to forget about, or you get in your car and decide to brave the elements to head to your local grocery store.  After sitting in traffic behind scared, old drivers who keep their turn signal on THE ENTIRE WAY TO THE STORE, you reach your destination. 

Finding a parking spot that won't ensure that you have to give even the slightest semblance of exercising, you grab your cart and begin the delicate dance.  Making sure you walk in the proper door, never knowing when they will decide to lock your usual choice on you only to have you fly into the door with your cart like a brain dead bird flying into a patio door (I SWEAR they do it just for the security footage!), you walk in, keeping your eyes away from the entrance where tons of sale items are stacked up, all challenging you to look their way so that they can tempt you with their flashy wrappings, sugary sweets, tangy tastes and convenient sizes.  The fresh smell of produce wafts over you as you remind yourself that every time you purchase any produce, you forget about it until it becomes that smell in your refrigerator.  You turn your cart toward your destination, the frozen foods aisle.  But, you'll never make it alive.  Or at least without a few criminal charges.

The main culprit?  The sheer wall of people standing in the checkout lines, stretching back into the aisles, making any forward progress impossible.  Seeing this, you decide to think quickly and dart down a free aisle, determined to get to your prize.  Ah, so simple, yet so brilliant!  But the cunning people at your local grocery store have already thought of that possible solution and have conspired to thwart your feeble attempts at stress free shopping.  You know them as those pain in the ass pallets stocked high with shit you don't need, the shelves don't need and the employees are only pretending to put out and those uber perky fuckers with their sweet, helpful smile until you ask them a question as they bend over merchandise and hear them sing the happy song of, "Sorry, I don't work here."  They also go by the name of stock and vendors.  And they crop up everywhere you least expect them!

Stock doesn't seem so bad on the surface, we need more product, there's the product waiting.  Bam!  Problem solved.  But look at the situation a little bit closer.  Does it seem to you that they place these islands of needed merchandise in the craziest places possible?  Like RIGHT next to a display of crackers with boxes only begging for the slightest touch to enable them to leap to the ground to get caught in the shaky wheels of your cart?  Or that carefully arranged display of glass jars of jelly meant to do nothing but commit suicide by diving to the floor in an effort to make someone announce a cleanup needed while making you look like the worlds most uncoordinated person on the planet?  It's a conspiracy perpetrated by the security crew to give themselves something to laugh at while ogling young women's breasts via perv cam.

The vendors are a whole different story.  They are the only people that seem happy to be in the store in the first place.  They care about one thing only, their specific merchandise.  You could ask them for something within their direct line of sight and you will still get the same answer.  "Sorry, I don't work here."  They take up precious aisle space with their boxes full of items that are never the flavor, brand, size you are looking for and seem smug in their uniforms with their intricate inventory hand held scanners.  After an hour of grocery shopping, I'm ready to wing a box of tampons at their head and tell them just where they can shove it!  Do your business and move on, we've got places to be!

Finally, you get to the frozen foods area, with a brief stop in the chip section because if you're going to screw your diet, do it the right way!  Sweet with salty is a must!  You look into the fog covered door, struggling to find the treasure you seek and what do you know...empty.  Closing your eyes and breathing so that you don't go all Hulk on those unfortunate enough to stand near, you decide to check carefully in case Ben & Jerry aren't flushed enough to have a personal vendor come to keep their shelves properly maintained.  You open the door, the cold air instantly turning your nipples into weapons that could be considered a shank in prison, the air in your lungs protesting madly at the sudden temperature.  You think you spy the flavor your looking for hiding behind the Phishy Food and reach for it, only to find out it's Cherry Garcia.  Prepared to launch the pint at the nearest person like a frozen grenade, you continue to look.  Amidst the half gallons of Bryers, you spy it.  Peanut Butter Cup!  And it hardly looks molested!

Feeling victorious, you head to the front, prepared to use the 10 items or less line, only to see a line stretching back to the pharmacy!  What the hell??  Why would EVERYONE with just a few items get into the same fucking line?  Don't they realize the stupidity of standing in one line where each person is guaranteed to need a full transaction verses the one or two people that have three carts worth of groceries.  So, what does a sane, thinking human being do in such a situation?  Start scoping the other lanes.  They are your usual mix of parents with a horde of children screaming at one another, one deaf elderly person talking to an equally deaf elderly person about the high price of fruit as they creep forward at a snail's pace.  The chatty individual that can't seem to realize that all the cashier wants to do is ring them up as fast as possible, not giving a shit if there is a difference between regular and fat free taste wise.  The one person left on the planet that still uses checks, deciding to whip it out after the order is rung up, despite knowing that some form of payment is needed, looking desperately for a pen.  That lovely individual sending their kids back to pick up one more thing as the kids crash against your cart because, obviously, depth perception was a recessive gene in their family.  And finally, the one person that needs to argue every single price that's scanned, storming off in indignation in an attempt to prove their point, only to come back empty handed and try it again with another item.  Mixed in with all those are people who, like you, just want to get this shit over with.

So, you start doing the estimating math.  Which line of doom will be the fastest option?  Which one will feature the least annoyance while while still showcasing the most competent cashier?  You start watching the speed and accuracy of the cashier, dividing that time with the volume of the carts in the line.  You check your own lane to note that the friendly, elderly cashier is asking for the second price check in five minutes.  After a full minute of this sheer torture, you make your move.  You head to the lane boasting three carts, but a mighty fast cashier.  It does include a screaming toddler and a shopper with a fistful of coupons, but the cashier doesn't miss a beat.  He clears the first shopper, then the second, he's halfway through when the unthinkable happens.  He's tapped out by a dead eyed teenager with more zits than personality telling him that he's got to go on break.  Out of sheer desperation you inquire if he has to leave right this second and he shrugs helplessly and walks off, leaving you in the greasy hands of an idiot. 

Three items into his shift, he does an over ring.  He mumbles into the PA system that he needs a manger to the front with a key.  Of course he doesn't say which lane and simply flicks that annoying beacon known as the lane light.  Standing with your cart and your impotent rage, you try to keep your cool.  The toddler decides to pull items off the rack nearest her and toss them into your cart.  The mother simply chuckles and tells her she's a naughty little thing.  She doesn't offer to pick up the shit her little DNA sample felt the need to gift upon you, so you shimmy your ass in to unload tasty treats that are begging for you to reconsider and go with the flow since they're already in your cart.  Resisting the urge to lob a Snickers at the precious child, you continue  to wait for the manager, a very responsible person who takes pleasure in leaving their post by the returns and chatting with the hot guy from her school to deal with the bothersome details of her actual job.  She walks over with the almighty key, simply turning it and hitting one fucking key before sauntering off.  A couple of near misses by our ever diligent cashier and finally it's your turn.  The heaven's rejoice and you eagerly put up your two items, Doritos and ice cream.  Don't judge me.  He scans your items and then it happens.  The printer runs out of paper.  You've already swiped your card.  You've done your portion of the buying experience and there's no turning back, the transaction has been approved.  All he had to do was rip that little ticket to freedom off the printer and you'd be on your way to calorie heaven.  But life can't be that simple, can it?  You're left with no other choice than to stand there and wait as he tries to Forrest Gump his way through a simple procedure that would have taken you about thirty seconds.  The minutes tick by as finally he gets it right.  You snatch the paper, tossing off something resembling your signature and happily haul ass out the door.

Freedom!  Sweet, glorious freedom!  You fight off the urge to open up the carton right in the car and use a Dorito like a spoon and pig out in your parking space.  A buzz from your cell phone alerts you to a text.  Reading it, you begin to swear like a drunken sailor that slammed his wang into a car door.  It reads:  Pick up toilet paper while UR out.

Let Me Fucking Entertain You!

Ah…Nothing warms the heart more than watching your precious little DNA deposit take the stage in a school play.  And nothing empties your pockets like letting your precious reminder that the next generation better learn to read a fucking book instead of using that goddamn texting bullshit….Whoops…Lost my train of thought…Where was I?  Oh, yes.  Nothing empties your pockets like letting them sign up in the first place!  When my darling child came home, eyes wide with the thirst for the spotlight and a stack of paperwork that could provide toilet paper for a few weeks, I knew we were in for trouble.  What they should have sent home was a fat tube of KY to help ease the pain.  Because baby, we could barely sit right in the seats when the curtain went up!

Why the hell do we have to pay so much to keep our kids busy?  When the fuck did being a child mean taking out a personal loan or pissing off every single member of your family by shoving ANOTHER fucking cheesecake brochure under their noses??  I remember the days of goofing off, playing until the street lights came in and trying not to trip over the home-sewn hemline of my costume on stage.  When we went to the school to see the play, I expected to see tuxedos and limos dropping parents off from how much they asked for up front.  And that’s not before you hit the snack stand!  (They got a lot of nerve to charge 50 cents for a thing that was supposed to be a brownie, but looked like something stepped in and scraped into a pan and baked on 400 degrees for a couple of hours.  And it was about the size of postage stamp!)  When the curtain went up, late despite the BITCHING the kids received if they didn’t show up to the 1500 practices on time, we waited with baited breath to see the fruits of labor.  And I gotta say, “THOSE SICK FUCKERS FROM HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL FUCKED EVERYTHING UP!!!!”  The costumes were lovely.  The set, impressive.  The acting…well, it’s a fucking school musical, not Andrew Lloyd Webber’s latest hit.  The music…Since I had friend’s playing in the “orchestra” I’ll be nice.  It was…fitting.  The dancing?  OMFG, I’ve seen youtube videos of prisoners dancing to Thriller that had more imagination!  Basically, it was a fucking school musical! So tell me, WHAT THE FUCK DID WE PAY YOU FOR??

Sitting in the audience I was struck by a sudden thought.  “I so need to become a director for school musicals because they get paid to do shit I do for free!!”  Get kids’ attention.  Attempt to have them follow simple directions.  Get the kids’ attention.  Drill words into their heads until they are able to regurgitate something close to English language.  Get the kids’ attention.  Show them how to put one foot in front of the other without falling over and laughing like an idiot.  GET THE KID’S FUCKING ATTENTION!!!  That complete with the added bonus of being a complete control freak with a bitchy, stupid side and I’m TOTALLY ready to sign up!  Do they offer that job to someone who would actually be able to sympathize with the life of a family with no money to be tossing around?  Nope.  They give it to a bitch with a Napoleon complex.  So we get treated to little messages from our kids of her incessant demands.  She’s far too important to talk to us little people.  Unless she needs us to bend over and give a little bit more.

It would be fine if we had a say in anything, but to make matters even better, the rehearsals were closed to parents.  Not that my husband was mourning the fact that he didn’t have to watch someone teach the same box step over and over again for three hours.  But to close it off means something’s up….My kids know they have zero right to privacy and are subject to random checks for contraband or notes from teaches.  So why shouldn’t my child’s activity be open as well?  Later we found out that it’s easier to screech like a like a monkey that just zipped it’s nuts into the zipper.  She went bat shit crazy over everything.  And the final result?  A typical school musical complete with all the expected forgotten lines, broken characters, mic issues, left-right drama and injuries.  But surely, that can’t be what was envisioned all those months ago when we were given the overall deal.  Oh, wait…It should have been!  Get off your high horse lady, you ain’t in private school.  Our kids can barely read, they’re fucking like bunnies, they can’t talk in complete sentences and the only college most of them are going to features the words clown, burger, or Santa.  The parents are robbing Peter to pay Paul, struggling to keep their sanity, and lucky to not get a murder charge for fucking up one of the little bastards,

The last thing any of us needs is a chick that believes that we can shell out money for every fundraiser they have, every shirt they need, tickets (And we HAD to sell a certain number of them in advance to “qualify” for the fucking “cast” party…Don’t EVEN get me started on that!) and balloons and flowers as a cheap congratulatory gift for giving up their lives to that bitch for five months!  What we needed was to be left alone to sit back and marvel at how hard our kids worked to put on a great show.  Why?  Because it’s supposed to be fun.  It’s not a job.  It’s not a requirement to move on in life.  It’s supposed to be fun for them, entertaining for us.  So to the sour faced, uptight, petty (taking a part away from someone two weeks before opening night because you don’t feel they embraced the character properly is cruel, you cunt!), stuck-up, controlling, delusional, manipulative, untalented piece of short, twice eaten dog shit, I give your directing skills one finger up.  Feel free to guess which one. 

The ironic kicker?  My baby’s main moment came during a dance where his hood fell over his face, making it impossible to see and he didn’t miss a beat.  Even when he picked up his letter to hold up to spell out a name and didn’t realize it was upside because he DIDN’T BREAK FUCKING CHARACTER like he was taught from his father and I, veterans of the same school musical!  And at the end of the show, what did we do when our baby, who didn’t have a speaking part, came walking out for curtain calls and took a bow with the chorus?  We jumped to our feet and screamed our lungs out like it was a Broadway hit.  Why?  Because THAT’S what we fucking came to do!  So, to you sour, cranky, bitchy, petty (Taking a part away from a child two weeks before the curtain goes up because you don’t think they captured the character properly is cruel, you fucking cunt!), manipulative, mean, controlling, untalented, stuck-up, condescending, ugly piece of hot regurgitated dog shit, we’ll give your play one finger up.  Guess which one?  Exit stage left, bitch!

Thank you for flying Fucktardia Airlines!

Ladies and gentleman we want to take a moment to thank you for choosing Fucktardia Airlines for today's journey.  We will be taxing away from the terminal in just a moment so please feel free to look out the window and wave good-bye to all of your friends and relatives that have purchased your seats on today's flight.  Make sure to fasten your seat belts as you will be slapped around by fate a time or two before we land in lovely Fucktardia, off the coast of Hell.  In the event of a water landing, please remember to bend over and stick your head up your own ass and use it as a breathing apparatus.  Don't mind the smell as you are probably used to it, being completely full of shit as you all are.

If you look out to your left, you will see the beautiful lives that you've destroyed and the people that you've offended and irritated for the last fucking time.  While you were once a functioning member of regular society, you have chosen to contribute nothing lately and have actively become a pimple on the ass of life.  The balmy weather of the life you're leaving is nothing compared to scorching hot temperatures of Fucktardia because in Fucktardia, they know that nothing is more fitting for assholes like yourselves then to burn hotter than hemorrhoids for the rest of your unnatural lives.

On your right, this is -such- a great treat for all you bastards that love to do nothing more than fuck over the people foolish enough to love you in any way, it's called Moving On Mountain!  Isn't it beautiful?  Just look at the happy people climbing out of the swamp of despair you left them sinking in and see them work their way out to find people worthy of the gift that you threw away so thoughtlessly.  Let's have a hand for these brave, wonderful people!

Oh, now this IS a treat!  As the plane banks to your left, if you look toward the rear of the plane you can see Get A Clue Canyon!  It's a popular spot where thinking individuals frequent to brush up on the finer points in life all of you jackasses couldn't be bothered with.  You know....common sense, compassion, understanding....No?  I'm seeing a lot of confused faces here...Um...let me see if I can explain....Life isn't all about you.  There is a wide world of people out here that seem to learn how to live together and they frequently try to help morons like yourselves by giving you clues to how they feel and what they need.  They actually try very hard to give these clues to you but end up tossing them into Get A Clue Canyon since you all can't process anything that isn't actually affecting your personal existence.  So, others pick up the clues that you so diligently leave behind.

We are now about minutes away from our landing area.  Please form an orderly line at the side doors, don't worry about the fact that we don't seem to be slowing down.  We as a society decided long ago that your kind wasn't fit to live anyway so this is your one and only chance to take a flying leap.  But to aid in your hasty exit from our lives, we did put down a cushion to help you land.  This way you can begin your life on the island of Fucktardia, home of the biggest and baddest fucktards that life has to offer.  Um, yes...you there with your hand up.  Oh, a return flight?  Um...how can I put this gently....?  No one wants you in their lives anymore so we've classified Fucktardia as an island with no outside contact.  Yes, other than that big mat down there, we've done as much to make your lives here pleasant as you have done for ours all the years we've known you.  So, before you all get the fuck out of here, allow me to thank you once again for flying Fucktardia Airlines.  I'm your flight attendant Kissa Meassa and it has been a distinct displeasure to be near you in any capacity for longer than a millisecond.  If you tire of Fucktardia, just remember you can hop in the water and go to Hell.

The Last Will And Testament Of Kissa Meassa

This document was found among all of the balled up tissues and empty bottles of Tylenol following a horrifying bought with the flu.

I, Kissa Olive Meassa, being of foggy mind and sore, feverish body do hereby bequeath all of my worldly possessions to the first person who discovers a cure for the flu. I'm not talking about the "cures your symptoms for four to six hours and then fades away leaving you in a crying, puking ball of feverish snot" medicine. I want my crap to go to the one that invents the "holy shit! I can run, skip, dance, do advanced mathematical computations and dropped four dress sizes" wonder stuff! It can't wear off, it has to actually cure. If you are the lucky person who is able to invent such an advancement in medical technology then here's what you get:

1. Half my family's debt – Don't let it fool you, it's a fortune! Now, you may be dodging some phone calls for a few years and getting some threatening letters, but don't let that scare you. If you can hold out longer than they can, they might just forget the whole damn thing and walk away. So I'm doing you a favor by showing you how the rest of the real world actually has to live, thus reminding you that your medicine had BETTER be priced to allow people like me to afford it.
   
2. Half custody of my kids – Now this one may seem a bit alarming, but look at it this way, they help out a TON on tax return info! Not to mention, little hands can stir lots of little beakers in your labs. But no testing on my babies. I'll come back from the dead and beat the ever living shit outta you!
   
3. Half ownership of my husband – He might not like this one at first, but ladies, this should be an incentive for you to all up your game…He's hot…he's well-endowed….he's eager to please….*wink, wink*
   
4. Half of my crap – That's all the rest of the stuff that's floating around the house. If you feel like cleaning it, come and get it.
   

That's all I can leave for you, but this should make you work all that more diligently toward finding a cure. I know I'm fading fast…It's getting darker and darker…wait….never mind, it's actually getting dark out, but I know that if I could take my temperature I would see that it says 500 degrees. Sadly, it's at the foot of the bed and out of my immediate fingertip range, so we'll never know. As for my family, know that I loved you all and I'm sorry I didn't think a flu shot was needed. I WAS WRONG! I'm lying here in the dark, waiting for the sweet mist of oblivion to take me away…Oddly, it feels like the same sweet mist Nyquil brings…Damn it!!!! Stupid husband doped me up again! Ah, screw this….None of you rat bastards can have any of my fucking stuff. I'm keeping it all! You can all just….

 

Signed,

Kissa Olive Meassa

Mind Your Own Fucking Business

Hey gang, I'm back after a very restful and much needed internet break. I had a very lovely Valentine's Weekend and after giving my brain cells a vacation from the fast-paced world of online communications, I'm back and ready to start talking!

While relaxing in the hotel on Valentine's morning, I glanced up at the local news on the television as I enjoyed tasty scrambled eggs with American cheese. Finally calming down from my amazement at how the room service cart turned into a full sized dining table right in our room, I was amused at the teaser given about a teacher that had been up to something scandalous with her blog. When they came back from commercial and got through all the bullshit weather crap, they gave us the story of Natalie Munroe.

She is an English teacher who decided to create a blog (http://natalieshandbasket.blogspot.com/) to do what most of us do all the time, get shit out of our head before it explodes. She kept her blog anonymous and never used any real names. She wrote about her life as a mother, a wife, a woman and a teacher. She gave no geographical information and never disclosed her place of employment. She spoke about how her students were disrespectful, crude, lazy and disobedient. She didn't specify what grade they were in, what they looked like, or anything that could be used to identify them. She wrote 84 blogs between August 2009 and November 2010. She had nine followers, including herself and her husband; the others were friends of hers. Of her 84 postings, 24 were about or mentioned work. So, why is she on the local news? She committed the act of being discovered by a few students and parents. Somehow, these diligent web crawlers found her blog and took offense at her language and description of the students she worked with. The school took the proactive approach of suspending her and marching her out of the building, flanked by the principal and a security guard. Never mind the fact that she's eight and half months pregnant and hardly in a condition to fight. The hard hitting news report featured interviews with offended students and parents demanding an apology and teachers shocked by their colleague's lack of remorse for her vulgar actions. Then came the response from Natalie, she's not sorry and she's not apologizing. Fucking right on, Natalie!

She wrote an anonymous blog about her life and because some students decided to become investigators, she has to apologize for how she feels about the little bastards she has to attempt to educate? Why? What did she do wrong? Did she post the GPA of a particular dipshit? Did she upload shots taken on her cell of a pimple faced asshole as she handed the principal a write up? Did she post a picture of herself outside of the school proudly flashing the middle finger?? No? Then why the fuck gives that school the right to suspend a qualified teacher who did nothing but exercise her first amendment right of freedom of speech? She never slandered anyone and didn't identify herself in the postings. She signed her blog as Natalie M. She took care to respect the privacy of others, so why is she being forced to answer for sins she didn't commit? Any student in that school has the right to create a blog of their own slamming any teacher or administrator that they see fit. Most have Facebook pages featuring updates about the pains of being a teenage high school student. These all use actual names and identifying information. So why aren't they being escorted out of the building along with her? According to the news report, it's because teachers are being held to a higher standard. To that I say, "Fuck you and the horse you rode in on!"

Becoming an educator, politician, television evangelist or parent in no way negates your right to be a human being. You have the right to bitch about your job and if you take care to remove any identifying information and protect your identity as well, you have the right to use the same outlets that the rest of the country uses. She didn't degrade any student in detail and after reading her posts, she didn't lie either! In fact, she nailed these little irritating, hormonal lumps! They are moody, disrespectful, disgusting, sexually promiscuous and a terrifying glimpse into our country's future. The nosy little fuckers that read her posts and recognized themselves shouldn't have been offended, they should have been ashamed! They brought national attention on themselves by opening up their mouths and reading stuff that wasn't meant for them. If they had kept their noses out of her blog, the news would never have shed light on this woman's harmless outlet for her personal thoughts. She took the chance to use a release that so many of us enjoy and by being self-righteous little tattlers, her life is being shoved into the media for all to scrutinize. And they want her to apologize?

They ought to write a personal apology to her and their parents for being such horrible creatures in the first place. The parents need to be smacked in the back of the head for even taking this outside of their home. What they should have done was turn around and slap the shit out of their little DNA disappointment for being terrible little creatures mentioned in her posting. Then they should march themselves over to this woman's house to apologize for not doing more to teach their children to be respectful and a better example of their generation. Hey parents, your little bundles of joy are actually pain in the ass teenagers that make everyone's life a living hell and you do nothing to discipline them. You spoil them and protect them from the results of their actions. You teach them that they have a right to be respected even though they do nothing to earn it. You teach them that as long as they are young, there are no real consequences for their actions and that you will never hold them accountable for their bad decisions. They make it difficult to teach them the basic things they need to know to survive life outside of your house and they are a disgrace of your name. The things they do outside of your presence would horrify you and if you saw what they are actually like, you'd be less inclined to defend it. Your children make blogs like Natalie's necessary. Your children are the reason this country is so quick to sue for shit that has no business even being brought to a court. You are a poor example of a responsible parent because you have the nerve to violate this woman's privacy and demand that she give your child an apology for doing something that you and your child do freely. She spoke her mind and did it with a damn sight more class then you all did. She didn't expose your rotten children for the losers that they are to the media. She didn't stand in front of a camera and demand that you apologize for you not taking responsibility for your actions or lack of in regards to teaching your child respect. She wrote a message to her friends letting off steam that could have been taken into the classroom and delivered to the students directly. Instead, she wrote them down in a way that respected their rights and protected their identity. Yes, occasionally she used a bad word or two. So what? It's her fucking right! And it was your kid's fucking right to mind their own damned business! If they didn't like what they read, then they should have closed the window and moved on. Every one of those parents and students owe her family a HUGE fucking apology for shoving them into the media.

And finally, the school needs to get on their knees and beg forgiveness for ever making this a big deal. Instead of trying to please Mommy and Daddy, they should have told them to pay more attention to the message that was written. They are so scared of bad publicity that they don't even bother to do their damn jobs! You would rather suspend an excellent teacher for using her talent for writing to express herself creatively than suspend the little bastard mouthing off regularly in class? I hope that this becomes the biggest embarrassment to the Central Bucks East High School and that they realize the error of their ways. Protect your teachers and stop bowing to pressure from offended parents and pampered delinquents. Otherwise, create a policy that forbids any teacher, administrator, staff, or student from using any social media site in any way. Prevent all people in your district from expressing themselves in any manner and create a taskforce that does nothing but scan the internet for any mention of your school in a derogatory manner. Make sure that they become full-time Facebook patrollers that monitor any mention of any student, teacher, staff member, administrator or parent. Unless you can do that, give Natalie back her job immediately and get back to work. And stay out of MY fucking blog!

And The Award For Biggest Fucking Loser For 2011 So Far Goes To…

Man, today is the WORST day for me to have to type with my new nails (a part of a very sweet Valentine's Day gift from my sweetheart) because I have to slow down my typing. I got the head's up from Pat to check the local paper yesterday to read about a janitor that hit a kid in the school district. I got distracted and didn't get to read it until a few minutes ago. Reading it made my fingers itch, so let's get to it!

Kid helps clean cafeteria. Kid is being smartass and throws damp rag at janitor. Janitor is 5 foot 2 inches tall. Most kids in that school are taller. Janitor goes to kid's class and smacks him around in front of everyone. Teacher tells class to stay seated. Other students break up fight as teacher stands by watching. Little janitor is hauled away the next day by police. That's the general breakdown of all the players In the story and the nominees for BIGGEST FUCKING LOSER 2011!

At my old elementary school, some things never change. Kids are disrespectful little bastards and the favorite target to direct their torment to that goes unpunished will always be the janitor. The janitor is an adult, but one that has very little authority in the school and is given the thankless task of cleaning up after rude little shits all day long. Most are not very attractive and they usually are pretty quiet. A perfect target for loser bullies-in-training. They put up with shit that would get a kid knocked out if they did it to their parents. And they do all this to get paid next to nothing. Sometimes, psychos get past the district diligent screening process, a background check to see if you ever tossed a kid against a wall or committed grand larceny. Forget covering important things like, "Do you understand that you can't actually beat the hell out of a little prick if they disrespect you?" or " You are in no position to discipline a child with playground style justice."

No need to cover topics like that with a man small enough to stand eye to eye with my 10 year old. Clearly this is a man who has never found his height to be an issue and he probably has found that being small takes him so far in life that becoming a school janitor is a daily celebration for him. What we need to do is make sure that someone like this is placed in direct contact with arrogant little fuckers who have never been taught by their parents to respect adults, no matter their size or occupation. That will show that we value our lovely tiny cleaner and we're responsible educators! What could go wrong? This is a well thought out plan complete with a responsible teacher who would dive in front of a student to protect them from an attack by an obviously deranged adult.

Wait…what was that last part? She did run to her student's aid and protect him from an adult beating his ass in her classroom, right? I mean, only a completely incompetent, fucking worthless, lump of dog shit would stand by and let a child get smacked around by an adult that wasn't in any way related to the child as her entire class witnesses it. And our district only hires the very best educators that minimum wage has to offer! They know that we put our children's lives and minds in their hands everyday and they wouldn't hire immature crack heads who sooner scold the class for standing up and reacting to the horrifying act over the mentally deranged leprechaun who decided to be the shillelagh off of her student.

So, who should receive the award? The honor of being the biggest fucking loser 2011 has to offer so far? Let's give a big hand to LaToya Robinson, folks! Yes, she is a shining example of how an educated person who has taken on the dubious task of teaching some of our community's most disrespectful, annoying, vulgar, angering delinquents can still manage to look like cat vomit compared to a tiny Incredible Hulk trying to settle a score with an 11-year old! She is the epitome of dedication and control. By her deciding to tell her class to remain seated, she shows us that the most important thing to do in a crisis like this is to sit back and watch because we all know the police are going to need plenty of witness accounts and it's easier to say what happened if you stand back and view the whole scene. No need to protect the child from assault because we parents have done an amazing job of teaching our children that we protect children from attacks from adults. Students became enraged by the sight before them and selflessly inserted their young bodies into the altercation and moved Mighty Mouse away from his prepubescent punching bag. Here they come to save day! And does Ms. Robinson instantly race to the phone to call the main office to let them know that a lunatic entered her classroom and punched a child? No! She spares the district the hassle of having to report this to the authorities by doing…NOTHING! My heart swells with pride at Ms. Robinson's heroic deeds! She knew she had a job to do and nothing was going to distract her from that. Her job is to continue to teach her class all they need to know to pass the state standard achievement test and nothing more! She is not a bodyguard, she is not a protector of young lives, she is not a hero, she is a teacher, damn it! So on your feet people and raise a finger in salute to LaToya Robinson, Biggest Fucking Loser Of 2011 So Far! Ms. Robinson, this well manicured finger is for you, congratulations!

Who The Fuck Comes Up With This Shit?

Hey gang, sorry I didn't post yesterday, but with my lovely hormones raging, it wouldn't have been a very nice post. During that special time in my life, the voices in my head say some truly bizarre things and most are not fit for sharing. Here's today's post.

Like most American's, I look forward to Super Bowl Sunday. For all my non-American friends, this is a day reserved for the ultimate game of professional football, (not soccer, football. Deal with it.) and has a very odd tradition of being THE day to watch commercials. Yes, we have made commercial watching a sport! In between plays on the field, millions glue themselves to the television, not to keep track of a battle of which team owns the field, but to find out what will become the best commercial of the Super Bowl. For years, if you wanted to see the funny, innovative, unusual, or just plain fucking expensive commercials, you had to sit through a game that unless you gave a flying shit about either team, your life would be just as wonderful without it. Then came the invention of the internet! No longer do I have to pretend that I give a flea's fart about the game and I can enjoy the commercials anytime I want online.

I was busy last Sunday, so I totally forgot about the game and I was surprised to see that most of the people in the Wal-Mart with Pat and I seemed not to give a damn either, probably because our home team didn't make it this year. We still throw support to the Steelers since they're from our state, but honestly, we'd rather be shopping than watching. Realizing that I had missed the commercials, I decided today to look them up to see all the cool stuff I missed. So far, I've gotten through the first quarter commercials and part of the second. At best, I gave a chuckle at the wife that threw a can of Pepsi upside a chick's head when her husband, who was checking the chick out, ducked and she missed. Out of 21 commercials, NONE were anything worth seeing!

Why are companies relying on fucking loser dipshits that probably live in their parent's basement, playing fantasy games while jerking off to Queen Amidala posters on their wall for their advertising focus groups? Who the fuck thinks that these dumbass commercials featuring smiling morons and computer generated dragons are going to make us suddenly say "Yes the product is grossly expensive and it tastes like piss water, but damn it, I gotta have it because that commercial made me realize that I need to purchase it right now?" These were the most boring, unoriginal, corny, lame, retarded commercials I've seen in a while. What happened to the days of coming up with a funny, catchy slogan or a commercial that's so awesome that you have to send it to your friend? Even annoying commercials like the old Budwiser "Wuzzup" had a catchphrase that lived well past the point of being funny! I know that traditionally the commercials shown during the game are supposed to be targeting a certain audience, males 18-49, but when are they going to realize that once the game is over, they have to try to use those things again to sell to the rest of us?

Quizzno's used to have a talking…I have no idea what that thing was, poop? It was, and always will be, one of the worst fucking things I've ever had the misfortune of fast forwarding through. I have never in my life wanted to eat at that place and showing talking poop or a fucked up squirrel is going to change my mind. If the food tastes good, I'll never know because I can't shake the image of that nasty fucking thing making me go, "why the fuck did they just show me that?" The latest trend in car commercials is to do shit that has NOTHING to do with what you'd ever use the car for, like watching your child run toward your car while he's being chased by a group of bullies and smiling sweetly as he dives into the trunk and quickly buckles his seatbelt and makes faces at the bullies. (I so would have loved for that mom to tell him to get out and put his backpack in the house while the kids were standing there to see his oh shit face!) They also like to have annoying little shits with hair that needs to be cut talking like they have a hard life of dealing with parents who seem to have never slapped the ever loving crap out of him for opening his smartass mouth. (You don't like what your parents are singing? Get the fuck out and walk, you little bastards!) Or they show the cars driving down the streets not doing anything special at all with the words "Do not attempt. Professional driver on a closed course." This is soooo helpful! I was going to take my car out on a city street to and drive with both hands on the wheel! Thank goodness that you told me not to try THAT! Much safer to talk on my phone while flipping off the cab that just cut in front of me as I circle the building for the eighth time looking for a parking space!

The top commercial of Super Bowl XLV was so damn stupid, I thought I had watched the wrong one! There was absolutely no way that a damn kid wearing a Darth Vader costume and trying to "use the force" on things, learning that he can't because IT'S NOT FUCKING REAL, and standing in front of his father's new car holding out his hands to use his "powers" on it as Mom and Dad stand in the kitchen watching their precious DNA disappointment prove that there is no real use for a college fund. Finally, in an attempt to continue to let this spoiled, future bully target believe what so many basement dwelling manchildren pray for every night, he hits the remote start making the car come to life. I have children, small children and I can assure you, not one has ever believed that they had a magical power to start a car. The second that the car would have started, they would have looked around to see where we were because they know how a remote start works. Why? Because they have fucking brain cells. Instead of buying that kid an expensive way to embarrass them in front of company when he races into a room declaring that he their father, buy the kid a damn book. Or teach him how to throw a ball. Teach him anything that may make up for the fact that you didn't realize that kids get their asses kicked for doing far less dorky things. Most importantly, DON'T FUCKING TRICK ME INTO THINKING THAT THIS IS A FUNNY OR WORTHWHILE COMMERCIAL THAT I NEED TO SEE TO IN ORDER TO DECIDE TO BUY YOUR OVEREXPENSIVE PIECE OF SHIT!

By the time I got to that little gem and saw that it was the "best" commercial of the game, I stopped looking at the rest. What would be the point when clearly all they are showing is shit? I'm not going to waste my time watching a man suck Dorito flavor off a co-worker's fingers or snatch another's pants off and sniff them. (That one was so bizarre that I waited to see if he'd start sucking on the pants before deciding to just get on his knees and suck the guy off!) Advertisers have given up trying to appeal to intellect or actual humor. No more will we see clever commercials like my personal favorite, the Citibank identity theft ones with the voiceovers. (Whatever! It lifts and separates!) No more will we smile as we hear a unique catchphrase like "time to make the doughnuts" or "where's the beef". Companies have now given control of our televisions to 13 year old boys who are fascinated with boobs and farts. Watching these disasters, I couldn't help but hear their target group laughing in my head. Bevis and Butthead, this is your year, here's the remote. I'm going to read a fucking book instead.

Think Before You Fucking Speak!

Can I ask you a question? Why on earth do people seem to ask permission to ask you a question? Just by saying that sentence you've already asked the fucking question! Spit it out!!! Stop asking people for permission to irritate the hell out of them! As much as this question annoys the hell out of me, I'm guilty of it at times too. I think everyone has those moments when we do things that would normally drive us up a wall. Here are a few more of the most annoying damn questions and statements that people use all the time:

1. Where's the last place you had it? (Usually a follow up to a hunt for keys or other items that you frantically tear the house apart looking for.)
   
   Proper answer to this is, "Let me think. I do remember them being shoved up your ass the last time I had them, so do me a favor, cram your head up there for me and take a peek!
2.  This is gross….taste this!
   
   I'm sure that someone thinks that they are doing you a favor by offering you the opportunity to share in the disgust, but the proper thing to do is to take your hand and slap the shit out of the one offering it. If that doesn't work, make them eat the entire offending object. This also goes for that lovely, "This stinks, smell this!"
3. Guess who I ran into?
   
   Unless it's my foot, I don't really give a damn who you ran into. The possibilities are endless when it comes to figuring out who on this tiny planet you could have seen. If you want to tell me who you saw, FUCKING TELL ME!! I'm not guessing!
4. Who does the baby look like?
   This question usually comes up immediately after birth. If you have never had the pleasure of looking at a newborn baby, let me help you out. They look like an alien. They are not going to pop out looking like a carbon copy of any human because they just fucking got here! If you want to prove paternity, get a blood test, stop pretending that E.T. looks like his grandfather twice removed!
5. What do you want to eat?
   This is an interesting question. What the person is actually saying is, "What do I want to eat?" The next time this happens, inform them that you are in the mood for monkey scrotums, cooked to perfection and dipped in ketchup.
6. What do you do for a living?
   Punch the person in the face and tell them that you rid the earth of morons who have nothing to talk about so they ask stupid questions.

I'm sure I could go on and on about stupid things people say, but I'd rather hear from you about the stupid things you hate being asked. Let me know what gets your hand itching to deliver a bit of education to the smiling jackasses that utter these jewels every day!

My Foot Tastes So Delicious!

Have you ever been in a situation where you couldn't get your foot further in your mouth? Where every word you say crams it in up to your ankle? Or been near someone committing that dreaded sin of saying the WORST thing possible at the WORST possible time? We've all been there.
I've actually been there several times. So many, in fact, that I think I should consider starting a cookbook entitled, "Sole Cooking: The Tastiest Heels You'll Ever Love!" 

 There was the time when I met one of my husband's co-workers at a holiday party. He had been so sweet and proceeded to tell me all about his co-workers and filled me in on what topics I should avoid. Now, an intelligent person would have paid close attention and taken care to remember what they were told. I, being a fucking moron, grew quickly bored and stopped listening after about the first sentence. So, it was no surprise to anyone that I walked over to a sweet lady that he introduced me to and sat next to her. She seemed kind of shy and quiet, but really sweet. I looked over and said, "You look so hot! You should be out there on the floor with your husband." I looked around and then asked, "Is your date here?" She smiled sweetly and informed me that her husband had passed away the month prior. Pat's face was completely white and pretty much confirmed with just a look that he had JUST told me not to bring that up. She was honestly super nice about it. All I could do was say, "Do you like my shoes? They taste awesome!"

Sometimes you're able to get out of a situation before you have to begin chewing on the heel. I was lucky this past summer during cheerleading camp. I, being a coach, was absolutely tired of dealing with one particularly irritating kid. This kid couldn't cheer, couldn't jump, never had a clue what she was doing, and loved to complain. She also loved to critique others. In short, she was a huge fucking pain in my ass. One lovely summer day, a hive of bees decided to attack the area where we were cheering. A coach and one child got stung. Of course, it HAD to be my lovely drama queen. She proceeded to scream as if the bee had held a knife to her throat while another punched her repeatedly in the gut. After finally getting her to calm down and tell me what happened, I went on a hunt for bee sting medicine. I asked one of the football coaches and he said he would look. As he was looking, he asked what was going on over there because they could hear the screaming an ENTIRE football field away. I told him that a drama queen was working on her Oscar. Then I said that if I was lucky, she'd decide to quit because she was the biggest pain in my ass. I also said that I was sure she'd find a way to miss a week of practice over this little sting and not that it mattered because she was the WORST cheerleader I had ever seen. Another man had been standing off to our right, watching the players. He looked over and said, "My daughter is one of the people who got stung. Are you talking about her?" My heart stopped and my foot began vibrating that lovely tune of, "Open wide, I'm coming inside!" I smiled sweetly and said, "Well, we had three people get stung, which one is your daughter?" He confirmed that I was talking about his precious little ray of sunshine. I laughed and waved him off. "No, I wasn't talking about her! I was talking about the other girl! Your daughter is amazing!" The football coach was looking into his bag, desperately trying not to laugh as he shook his head no indicating that they didn't have the bee sting medication. I smiled and waved to them both and went back to practice, praying that he bought it. He did and told his little flower to rest her sore leg; practice might be too taxing on her fragile body.

One of the most delicious shoe meals came as a result of me not saying one word. Pat and I were at the bank when a woman decided to have a conversation with the teller. We were waiting in the slowest moving line possible, so we were treated to her entire dramatic story. She continued to talk about the most bizarre things possible, like walking to the bank every day to help her butt get tighter so that it wouldn't jiggle so much as she moved, how she hated the way people smelled, but the moment that caused me sheer agony was when she informed her teller that her boyfriend smacked her upside the head. With the same sweet tempo she had been speaking with, she suddenly said, "But I don't want to talk about that!" Now, I'm sure you're thinking, why the hell is this important? This conversation has nothing to do with you, and it sounds horrible. You are correct. So WHY was it that I was standing mere feet away, dying from silent laughter? I tried everything in the world to not listen to this woman's crazy rant, but with each sentence she made it harder for me to hold it in. Have you ever had to hold in a laugh and just by doing that, feel that little giggle turn into a fit of laughter that has tears running down your cheeks? That's what was happening to me. The first few things she said were bad enough to cause me to giggle, but being in a deathly silent bank, it would be obvious that I was laughing at her. The teller was looking at me and doing her best not to laugh either, but I'm not sure if it was because of the story, or me holding in a laugh that threatened to bring me to my knees. The woman finished her transaction and I walked forward with Pat to the teller. She took one look at my tear streaked face and tightly pursed lips and shook her head laughing. All she could say was, "You're going to hell." I couldn't contain it one second longer, and as I collapsed in giggles, I could clearly hear every other person in that back roaring in laughter too!

That little faux pas pales in comparison of my final tale. It wasn't even my slip up. It was Pat's. We were dating and both worked in a department store. I was being trained for the customer service counter and it was his day off. He came up to visit me and moved to the side as a lady came up to make a purchase. She was very beautiful and elegantly dressed. She was also completely bald. I have no idea if it was due to a medical ailment or just her choice, but she was bald. That was not a big deal to me; I've seen lots of bald people, men and women. I tried to figure out where to begin on the transaction when Pat decided to help me out. His eyes were locked on the woman's scalp and when I asked how I should begin, he replied, "Scan her head." My eyes widened as did the woman's, the employee training me, the security guard standing off to the side and Pat's. His mouth dropped open in horror and he said almost apologetically, "No! I mean scan her BALD head!" My mouth dropped open and my trainer immediately ran behind a partition and fell to her knees in laughter, as the security guard completely walked away, not even bothering to disguise his giggling. Pat looked like he was going to throw up and he held up his hands as he yelled, "I mean scan her bill head!" He then immediately ran away, leaving me face to face with a woman who was CLEARLY pissed. I was mortified and all I could do was say, "I'm so sorry about that!" I ran her up as quickly as possible and ran over to him, ready to punch his lights out for leaving me standing there with her, apologizing for him. 

So, I truly think that when it comes to putting my foot in my mouth, I'm pretty good at it! I'm even so good, I can put other's feet in my mouth without even trying! This brings me to my first challenge. I want to know about your very worst, "oh shit" moment. Leave a comment or email it to me and I'll include it in a future post. I'd hate to be the only one nibbling sneaker, and if I know my people like I know my people, you've got some great recipes to share! That's all for now, get back to work!

My Fucking Breasts

I have no idea what suddenly made me want to talk about my two girls, but here it is. I truly love my fucking breasts. They've been with me through thick and thin, literally, and I keep them around, even though they tend to pull me down at times. They make me feel sexy, but sometimes, they make me feel matronly. They look good dancing and at times, they strut their own stuff. So I'm going to give a shout out to the ladies that make the boys take notice.

We weren't always friends. There was a long period of my life when I had no friends to call my own. Sadly, I looked around the middle school locker room and noticed that I seemed to be the only one without friends. Most boys didn't notice me because I didn't have my friends to help boost my popularity, because you're a nobody if you don't have great friends. So I stayed to myself and dreamed of the day when I would be able to rub my crush's nose in my new friends' faces.

I even practiced getting to know my friends. Leggs pantyhose used to come in big, plastic eggs and I used to steal my mother's containers and stick them under my shirt, seeing what I would look like. I was slightly alarmed to think that there was a possibility that I would look like I had bullets smuggled under my shirt, but you can't pick your friends based on their looks, so I prepared for anything that would come along. I even heard girls at school talking about training for their friends by buying bras. Not understanding what they really meant, I snuck into my mother's drawer and grabbed a bra to see how it would help train me for the arrival of friends. If I had even a crumb of common sense, I would have realized that my mother's DDD bra that I could have easily curled up into and hidden away from sight might not be the best item for me to use. Either way, I decided to train like I was headed to the Olympics. I shoved t-shirts, because a whole box of tissue would have been no challenge for one cup, and a few pairs of socks into the device that fit around my waist like Batman's utility belt. Properly stuffed, I pulled up the straps and looked in the mirror. I was completely confused why looking like a cartoon character would help me train for friends. I gave up after the third time my right cup spilled the contents on the floor.

One day I began to notice that hugs were becoming a bit harder to give because I was experiencing a pain in my chest kind of like poking a really sore bruise. When I finally thought of why that could be happening, I raced to my room to peek to see if I had new friends on the horizon. I was disappointed to see the same things I always saw. I felt like it would never happen for me. I had seen adults that had gone their whole lives without ever having friends. Some even resorted to buying friends, but everyone could tell they were fake and nothing is worse than a fake friend. I went to sleep one night, praying, as always, for God to send me some friends. I was never picky, they didn't have to be perfect, they just had to be mine. My prayer was always the same, "Lord, please send me some real friends soon." One night, God answered my prayers.

I woke up and could barely move. Two strangers had snuck into my bed and I had absolutely no idea what I was supposed to do with them. After my mother found out how I had tried to train with her bra, she bought me a training bra of my own and I have to say, there was NO way that my little trainer was ever going to prepare me for what I had gotten. I was the new owner of two big, painful friends. My mother told me that we had to go shopping and I was kind of excited. My first chance to spoil my new friends! Turns out that we just went to the bra department and I had to try on a million of the confusing things to find ones that Mom told me would help support them. I was just hoping that I could find a way to keep anything from touching them because they REALLY didn't like to be touched by anything. None of my usual shirts seemed to fit my friends' style so we had to buy a couple of new shirts. Not cute ones, my Mom went cheap. I got button down shirts that I hated but had to wear because I couldn't get away with what I used to like. Damn friends were costing me a wardrobe.

Showering was a new challenge. I loved hot showers, but my friends didn't like water touching them, hot or cold. So I had to do things gently, or else they would protest and make me cry. I slept carefully at night because they didn't like certain positions, and they would wake me up painfully if I didn't lie in a position they preferred. They were some demanding bitches! I guess that's what people mean when they say you have to go through growing pains. I had to grow to accept these new painful friends, in the hopes that one day we would get along.

The first time I let people at school know that I had new friends of my own was a day I'd truly love to forget. I walked in proudly and watched as boys stared at me as if I had suddenly sprouted a chalkboard on my chest. They stopped talking to me completely and only ever talked to my friends. These bitches were stealing my thunder! Not to mention, they were still hard as hell to deal with. I couldn't play the way I used to, I had to run differently because the lazy bitches wouldn't pull their own weight and just jumped up and down like fucking huge cheerleaders and I had to keep my arm across them to keep them in their seats in order to run anywhere. They were no fucking help at all! So far, these friends had become more of a hassle than blessing.

We did have a fight once. It was the most painful fight I've ever had with them. It happened while looking through a slightly opened door as we were trying to look out for a surprise guest at a party. When I saw the guest coming, I leaned back to slam the door shut and tell everyone, but my friends didn't pay attention. I shut the door and they were still in the way! They screamed at me so badly, I couldn't stop tears from dripping down my cheek as I tried not to cry in front of a room full of little kids and strange adults. I went home as soon as I could and cried in my room while my friends continued to scream painfully at me. Those crazy bitches didn't get over that one for a few days!

Over time, we discovered that we could live together and even have some fun! Being young and having a mother like mine meant that I had to hide my friends most of the time and I didn't get to buy them pretty things until I was 18. Then I started buying them things that got to let them peek out and let the world know that they existed. They LOVED that! Not to mention that I introduced them to a couple of my boyfriends and they got along beautifully. I even let them have a bit of fun with a couple! Guys loved them but they paid more attention to me. I guess they realized that my girls really didn't have too much to offer in the way of conversation. Hell, I can go days without talking to them! But they did offer some interesting entertainment during special times with one of my boyfriends who eventually became my husband.

We've been through highs and lows. We've been through ups and downs. They've gotten me some lovely things at times like drinks, flowers, and I do believe that they had something to do with getting me jewelry! They've embarrassed me (demanding to be seen fully by dropping the strap of my dress to the side in front of a men's room at the ballet and again that same night at a restaurant where the same man from the men's room was eating dinner with his family as I passed his table. I have no idea if they had a crush on the guy and wanted to make sure that he noticed them or what, but that was the last time that I let them go out that dress!), they've gotten a chance to shine (showing off in a skimpy bra in the middle of thousands of drunk, horny men watching a chicken wing eating contest), and they've taken care of my kids (discovering that breastfeeding is a lot harder than it looks, but rising to the challenge!). We've come a long way together and we still have so much further to go. I hope they decide to get their act together and stop looking so droopy! They may be a pain in my ass (back, actually), but I love them dearly. I never leave home without them and I can't imagine looking sexy without their help. I love getting dressed up with them and making men purr, I even love when they decide to tease and drive Pat crazy! But most of all, I love that they are real friends, they never leave my side, even when I'm sick of them. I think it's a shame that so many women have fake friends because they can't feel the pride that having real friends like mine gives. I think I'm going to treat them to a little massage in the shower in a little bit, they deserve it! If you've got real friends like mine, give them a squeeze for me!

Thanks for the fucking edumakashun!

I'm treating all my lovely friends to a treat tonight. Yes, you are getting, two postings! Whoot!!! Why, you may ask, would I feel this burning need to get something off my chest at this late hour? And to you I say, because it's MY blog and I'll do anything I damn well want!

This is more of a thank you to the educational system. I'm so grateful that I was educated before the time of text messaging! I may have no idea why someone would tell me "smh" when they really mean "shaking my head" or why everyone feels the need to tell me that they are currently "rotflmao" instead of telling me that they are rolling on the floor laughing their ass off, but I can actually type out a message to a person using not only correct spelling but using damn fine grammar too! I thought that perhaps I was showing my age, and if you don't know me personally you can best believe I'm not telling you! I receive messages from my friends that leave me going, WHAT THE HELL ARE THEY TALKING ABOUT!

I'm fine with lol. I'm fine with ttyl. Hell, even Tigger started the whole crap with his sign off, "ta-ta for now, ttfn!" Where I have a problem is when I look at a message to the outside world coming from someone that I expect to set the standard for education. Anyone who's been reading my messages knows that it's been snowing around here. So anytime we hear that the white stuff is going to sprinkled over the city, the first thing we parents do is check the local news for school closings. You wait to see if there will be school and if it will be starting on time. So why on earth would a school district ever want to broadcast the start time for their high school students by using the words "hi skul"? Not HS. Not Hi-school. Hi Skul. Yup. That's what the folks decided to use to let the entire viewing area know that our students would be too fucking stupid to read the words HIGH SCHOOL.

I'm known for throwing around a good wtf, especially when I see shit like this. I can even give a good LMAO when I see things that make me go, "that's it! I'm writing about this because this is too damn good!" But these people have fucked around with our school district so badly that I begin to fear that if I turn my diploma over, I'll see that it's printed on the back of a Teletubby placemat! We as a country are doing a piss poor job of educating today's youth. And if the country as a whole is fucked then how the hell could this district embarrass us further by broadcasting that we are putting our children's future in the hands of an idiot that can't tell the difference between an important communication and the latest text to their bbf.

I'm going to make this short and sweet. Listen up all you ass-sucking, nose picking, texting bastards! I'm trusting you to educate my children. Put down the fucking iPhone and pick up a fucking book! Stop talking to people in a language that even Webster can't figure out. (Webster…as in the dictionary people…learn to fucking read.) Unplug the iPod and stop cheating by having all your books downloaded into .m4b form. Learn to actually write a sentence that has a proper subject and predicate. You shouldn't have to have spell check bail your ass out of every report, learn to fucking spell!!!! Come on, get fucking smarter people! We're getting spanked by the globe and becoming a more stupid nation with every text!!

Now that I've gotten that out of my system, I'm going to kick back and watch some Vicar of Dibley. That Vicar makes me rotflmao! Knim? (Know what I mean?)

This Just In…We Have Fucking Nothing To Report!

(Yesterday I was floored by a migraine, so you're going to have to deal with one less day of Kissa! Enjoy!)

Watching the news has become an attack on common sense. After listening to the anchors thrill me with two minute reports on fires, deaths, governmental unrest, and the all important weather peep show, I am shown an image that I truly hope I never have to see again, granny panties with foam. I'm sure you're probably wondering what horrifying fate did the wearer suffer for it to have made onto my screen during the late night news. I was on pins and needles, hardly able to concentrate on the brutal beating of a teenager that was videotaped and posted by the seven little fuckers that did it while people walked all around. (Those little bastards got jail time, so at least there was a bright side to the newscast!) After yet another teaser that was beginning to rival my favorite weather bitch's, they took care of my agonizing suspense and began to report on…Booty Pop.

What the fuck? You mean you are actually going to do a fucking infomercial on a pair of ugly ass panties that have foam in the ass to make you look like you sat on it all day?? Are you fucking kidding me? I have to fucking turn on my news if I want to be pitched moronic products that will make some people's lives better, but that will also end up on a list of "what the fuck" inventions later on when we as a people realize that the ass we have is just fine? This is some bullshit! I waited and watched in the hopes that they would give a hint as to the newsworthiness by telling folks that the foam could turn your skin sage and cause painful blisters. They actually did a close up on a warning label on the package. FINALLY! Give it to me! What could this fucking gag gift do if I'm stupid enough to wear it? It could cause my behind to get more attention than when I'm not wearing it. Are you fucking serious?? The thoughts that ran through my mind included taking that fucking pair of undies and making that news whore swallow them whole.

Yes folks, we as a nation have begun to give gag gifts way too much attention. We now interrupt actual new broadcast to show smiling images of men and women in a gym staring at a pair of black granny panties with bumps in the ass that look NOTHING like an actual ass. While actually doing something to take care of their own asses, they are being forced to play with a product that caters to people who are too lazy to actually do a fucking squat thrust on their own. My favorite part? They continued to interview people who had absolutely no need for these panties. We are talking people who could have probably used a Booty Not device instead. Why not talk to the stick figures that are walking around sitting directly on their spine? Probably because they don't want their faces on television admitting that they wear false asses! Instead of taking it as a sign that perhaps it wouldn't be a great idea to continue with this story, the creative reporter decided to enter a gym and harass people trapped on treadmills and, I swear to you, a man in the middle of lifting weights. I don't know about you, but when I'm doing anything to improve my body the last thing I want to have is a pair of panties dangled over my face. I'm a little disappointed that he didn't toss the weight at her head. Now THAT would have been must see tv!

The final wrap up was 3am infomercial worthy. These sexy panties that will ride up to the top of your rib cage will change the way that your jeans look on your body. Um…maybe it's just me, but when you buy jeans, you buy them to fit your current ass, don't you? I mean if you have the ass of a two by four, your jeans probably won't accommodate the ass the size of a gorilla, right? So does this mean that I have to buy not only fake ass cheeks, but I also have to buy a wardrobe for them? Damn news people! Now my ass is itching to look bloated! No price is too high in the goal to look like a damn cartoon! Here's my credit card, are the operators sitting on their natural asses standing by to take my info??

Why do they do this to the news? Why cheapen it to the type of shit I avoid morning shows for? I can't stand perky people telling me how I can give my cat the most beautiful false nails in lots of fun colors. (It's real, I swear!) I don't want to see the latest styles of the Snuggie, the biggest fucking joke that was taking way too seriously of all time! I take a pass on watching old people trying to figure out how the hell to work an iphone. Why? Because I don't watch news to be entertained by shit that you could buy at the fucking mall! Infomercials aren't fucking news!! If you want news, then report how someone was strangled with a pair of Booty Pop undies after the man figured out that he was pinching a glob of foam all night. THAT would be news! The fact that they have men on camera saying that this product isn't that great because they don't want to touch a fake ass, while true, isn't news! Neither is the assurance that this waste of a product is not just for women, they've come up with a line of the fake dumpers for men too! YES! I was just saying that I love nothing more than starring at the plumber's ass when he bends over and I've noticed that he's not packing as much as he used to. An answer to my prayers? Thanks, Booty Pop!

Why do they do it then? Simple, to get the manufacturer to hand over free samples for them to keep! Duh! It's underwear, they don't return underwear! You call the place up and tell them you're doing a story on it and they fall all over themselves to get you some freebies to make sure that you are able to put their shit all over the camera! Can we say free publicity? You didn't think that anyone truly thought that this was something that the country NEEDED to know about, did you? The news has become a place to pitch shit that the reporters and producers are dying to own. That's it. If we don't like it, we can just change the channel! Fine, I'll do that! Here we go, a story on a product to cover up the anus on my cat coming up before the sports (It's real, I swear). DAMN IT!!! Where's my fucking remote?