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!)

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!