Saturday, September 25, 2010

You Talkin' To Me?

No the fuck he did not just complain about the dinner I cooked for him! Did I just open up a hot dog package, grill them, toast sub rolls, slice tomatoes, chop onions, wash lettuce, and set out the Italian Giardiniera I've been marinating for three days all to have this asshole complain that I only grilled him one hot dog? It's a fucking hot dog sub! How many heart attacks are you trying to have?

For my friends in other countries who may or may not know what a sub is, it's any kind of sandwich on a big ass 8-12 inch roll. Google submarine sandwich or hoagie. I'll wait.

See? That bitch could feed a whole village in Ethiopia and he's complaining that I only made him one. Can anyone say fat bastard?

How about fat, ungrateful bastard? I'm going to have a shot of something before I catch a murder charge. Don't be surprised if you see me on an upcoming episode of Snapped. I'll be the bitch wearing a boiled testicle talisman around her neck.

Don't you fucking love that show?

How Do I Hate Thee? Let Me Count The Tequila Shots

Wow. I haven't bitched in three weeks. That's a huge record for me. It's not that I haven't had anything about which to bitch, I just didn't feel like bitching to you. Bitches are fickle that way. Well, hold on to your margaritas 'cause a major bitch storm is a-brewing.

I have a friend, although maybe not anymore after this, who is so ecstatically freakin' happy because she's getting married. She's texting me 35 times a day with wedding updates. She expects me to not only pay for my $200 dress that I'll never wear again, but also my daughter's $200 dress that she'll never wear again. She wants me to pay God knows how many thousands of dollars for the pleasure of attending her destination wedding. And all of this crap would be fine with me (okay, I'd still bitch about it) if her "fiance" wasn't a complete jerk. I apologize for offending all the regular, run-of-the-mill jerks out there. This asshole is a fucking super jerk.

How do I hate this mother fucker? Let me count the ways:
1. he refuses to stop smoking weed around their three children. Preventing his kids from getting contact highs isn't on his list of priorities.
2. he allows his family and his friends to disrespect the mother of his children cum fiancee. And they treat his children like they're not part of the family.
3. a few years ago, he had an "accident" at work where he hit his head and lost his memory (yeah, right). when he woke up, there were two women at his bedside whom he didn't remember: my friend and some other bitch who also claimed to be his girlfriend. She was a fat, ugly bitch, too, but I digress.
4. after his "head trauma" his fat girlfriend moved him back to the city where his family lives. A city, mind you, that's in a whole different state than where my friend and her children live. Nobody bothered to even tell my friend and her kids where he was. She was worried sick and her kids were wondering what the hell happened to their dad. She only found out after his family got sick of her calling and finally answered the phone.
5. she moved to this new state to be with him while he recovered. she had no friends, no family, and as previously stated, his family disrespected her every chance they got. Meanwhile, he maintained that he never had a relationship with Fat Bitch, she was just a co-worker who had the hots for him.
6. when he got his memory back (very slowly and painfully), he applied for Social Security Disability and was approved. Since he didn't really have a need to work now, four children be damned (yes, there's a 4th child from a previous marriage), he decided to get a job at a car wash. He has no plans to find other, more stable employment.
7. oh, did i mention that while he was still in the hospital for his head injury, although he didn't remember who my friend was, he did remember who I was. So he has these two strangers (both his girlfriends) sitting on either side of his hospital bed and he says to me, "Oh, I remember you! We came to your surprise birthday party, right?" Right.
8. while at his mother's house one day, my friend discovered a family picture that they all had taken at his aunt's birthday party. My friend and her children hadn't been invited to this party, btw. In the picture were him, his mother, his sister, his step-father, his sister's children...and, you guessed it, Fat Bitch.
9. he disappears for days at a time and she can't get in touch with him. She'll call me and say, "I haven't heard from him in three days." I wonder where he could be? Riding a fat bitch, maybe?
10. Fat Bitch comes to their state regularly to visit his family...but not him. She's just so frickin' close with his sister, you know.
11. this is by far the worst one, so I'm going to give it the emphasis it deserves by typing it in all caps: HE ASKED FAT BITCH IF ANYTHING HAPPENED TO MY FRIEND, WOULD SHE HELP HIM RAISE HIS KIDS. FAT BITCH SAID NO. SHORTLY AFTERWARD (LIKE HOURS) HE AND MY FRIEND WERE ENGAGED. There are so many things wrong with this one that if I start listing them, we'd be here all frickin' day

I know you're thinking I should warn her or talk to her or hit her over the head with a fucking bong and a nickel bag, but I refuse. For the past decade, I have been pointing out red flags to her. GOD has been pointing out red flags to her. I have been angry, confrontational, and hostile on her behalf. I have consoled her and reassured her and I've done the best job I could of loving her. But the madness has to end some fucking where. I'm sick of being a bitch for her. It's her turn now. Her turn to defend her own damn-near-middle-aged self.

There is nothing, not one goddamn thing that I could tell her that she doesn't already know. I have said all the fuck I could possibly say. Everyone has their bullshit limit and I guess she hasn't reached hers yet. So I will paint a smile on my face, pay $400 for single-use dresses, and resist the urge to cause him further head trauma while I watch her make what could be the biggest mistake of her life.

It's sad, though, because she's convinced herself that she is actually happy. You should hear her go on and on about her newfound happiness. It breaks my heart. Why do people think that getting married will effect positive change in a relationship that is hanging on by a thread? I've been married for 16 years. I was a bitch when my husband met me 18 years ago and, surprise!, I'm still a bitch. My husband was a hothead when I met him, and he's still a hothead. Even when people do change, it's usually not that fucking drastic.

If he smokes pot in front of your (his!) children before you get married, he'll do it afterward. If you have to beg him to buy something his child needs before you get married, you'll be begging afterward. If you have to work full-time to pay your bills, take care of your kids, AND pay for an elaborate wedding beforehand, you'll be all alone on a Saturday night wondering where your husband is and why you haven't heard from him in three days. Here's a hint: he won't be washing cars.

If you're reading this, dear friend, I know you're angry at me right now. You probably think I have betrayed you. But have I betrayed you or have you betrayed yourself? Have you traded in your right to a happy life for a chance to just not be alone.  Or are you simply blinded by the wedding bells? I hope this doesn't end our friendship, but if it makes you see this whole situation for what it really is, it will have been worth it. I'd rather you not be my friend and stand up for yourself, than to live the rest of your life in unhappiness.

I'm not saying your man should be perfect. The perfect man doesn't exist. I'm just saying that, at the very least, he should respect you. He should care about your feelings. He should put you first.

I'm asking everyone who reads this to have a shot of tequila in remembrance of the 25 year friendship that may come to an end today. I'll be accepting applications for new friends. Bitches with inconsiderate assholes for boyfriends/husbands/girlfriends/wives need not apply.

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

I ♥ Teenagers. Let's Ship Them All To Sweden

Teenagers make me reconsider my position on child abuse. I don't beat my kids, which is difficult considering they beg for ass whuppings on a regular basis. I wonder if I could pay someone to do it for me? You know, like a mob hit only still living but unable to sit for a week. If anyone out there has been considering going into business for themselves, I think this is an excellent entrepreneurial venture. I don't want to say that I just discovered the next big money-making trend, but...

All I'm saying is that I would pay big money for someone to slap my older kids around, and I know I'm not the only one. Think about it: you get the satisfaction of Corporeal punishment without the Liberal guilt. If you're a Liberal, that is. If you're a Conservative, you could always hire someone to kick your own ass.

I know, I know. I'm getting political on a blog that transcends party lines. Do you really think I give a fat rat's ass? I take the opportunity to piss off as many people as possible. I'm an equal opportunity pisser-offer.


I baked the husband a cake for his birthday. Okay, so his birthday was yesterday and I baked the cake yesterday, but didn't get around to decorating it until today. Who cares? He's thirty-nine; just curl up in the fetal position, massage your balding scalp, and get out of my way already.

The two youngest kids, who are still happy all the time because they don't realize how much the world sucks, wanted to surprise him and sing Happy Birthday when he walked in the door. So, everyone is gathered around the cake with three candles (so as not to start a fire) singing at the top of their lungs, and the two teenagers are just sitting there. No singing, no smiles, no enthusiasm whatsoever. Now, if I can bake a cake, decorate it, and sing while in the throes of debilitating menstrual cramps, surely these (insert cruelly inappropriate name here) can open their fucking mouths and sing for two minutes. This man works his ass off providing a good home and life for them and they can't even sing Happy fucking Birthday?

You know I lit into their asses. But not as harshly as I wanted to, though. I didn't want to ruin the entire celebration. Needless to say, I hope they feel like crap. On a stick. In a tornado. At the bottom of a sewer drain.

And please, I beg you, if anyone takes my suggestion about the kid-abusing business, shoot me an email.