Happy Thanksgiving! Um...no.

As much I as do wish every one of you a happy and safe and peaceful Thanksgiving, this post is not about that. There are enough people writing about how thankful they are today, so you don't need to read about how grateful I am for my home, my family, my friends, and my blog family. And my health. And my cat. And for the ability to be a pig for about three days straight. No, none of that for me please. I came here to bitch.

Someone called me abusive today. Can you believe that shit? I'm a bitch; everyone knows that. The name of the blog warns you that the author is not some perky, midwestern housewife. But abusive? I think that's a bit harsh. I yell at people when they deserve to be yelled at. Scratch that. Most of the time what I'm doing is raising my voice to be heard over someone else's yelling. Or maybe I'm yelling at you because speaking to you in a calm tone of voice is not getting through to you, so I assume that you must be hard of hearing. I'm trying to help out. When a person is civil and fair to me and mine, I'm the same way towards them. Unless they're just stupid. Then all bets are off.

On Sunday, I was visiting with my sister and she had an old friend over. Well, she's not exactly an old friend. Her dad dated my aunt for about 15 years and our families became close. We used to pretend we were all related. You've heard of 'play cousins' right? When we were children, this girl bullied me mercilessly. She sort of  'made me' be friends with her due to the fact that I was afraid to be her enemy. So, also, was half the neighborhood. She was big and boisterous and she fought boys. 'Nuff said.

Now we're adults and I fucking hate bullies. I once almost got into a fight with a police sergeant because she was bullying and humiliating an officer, who wasn't even in her squad, because she was showing cleavage on her day off while she was hanging out with her friends. They don't like me to come to the policeman's lounge, but they can't ban me because hubby has a right to be there. Fuck'em. Back to the story.

The woman hasn't changed a bit in all these years. She's still big, she's still loud, and she's still tough. Trouble is, she's having a tough time finding people who are afraid of her now. We're adults, bitch. Nobody gives a fuck if you flap your wings and act like an ass. We're not afraid of you anymore because your secret is out: you're an insecure little girl trying to look big to keep from feeling so small. Plus, I could totally kick your ass now.

I don't go around starting fights with people, but I do know I'm extra hard on her. Don't judge me. I haven't worked out all my childhood issues. I don't have any patience for her and/or her bullshit. I have a really low tolerance for her and so I can only take her in small doses. That is why we're now having a problem because I had an overdose of this bitch. I allowed her to order a cake from me.

Long story short so you can get back to the table for another turkey leg, I took her 'deposit' (if you want to know what the deposit was, you'll have to email me. I'm not tryna go to jail over a cake) and put her order on my calendar even though I don't usually take last minute orders. In hindsight, my first mistake was going against my own policy. I texted her on Monday to make sure she still wanted her cake because she's a flake like that. I let her know that she needed to pick her cake up on Tuesday and if she didn't call or text me, I wasn't baking her cake because I can't be bothered with unnecessary shit. No phone call, no return text. I baked the cake anyway because I did have her deposit.



Tuesday came and went. She didn't call or show or text. I talked to her Tuesday night and she said she still wanted her cake and please don't sell it. She would come at 10:30 on Wednesday morning to get it. Ten thirty came, then 11:30, then 1:30. She called at 2:21 PM and said she was on her way to my house to get her cake. Was this bitch serious? So between that time yesterday and about two hours I go, I repeatedly tried to explain to her why I owe her neither a cake nor a refund, but she's upset. She called me unprofessional and then when I cussed her ass out, I'm abusive.

To quote my new blog friend Bruce: fuck you, asshole!

Now stop avoiding your crazy ass family and go enjoy yourself. If nothing else, you can get wasted and 'accidentally' reveal all your family's secrets to each other. That'll make a good story to tell the rest of us tomorrow.

Oh! BTFW, please check out my guest post over at Can U Relate? I don't want to give you any hints on what it's about, but needless to say, I killed that shit. Thanks, Semi True Torystellar for letting me crash your blog!

A Funny Thing Happened on My Way To the Porcelain Throne

Veggies chopped? Check. Cheese shredded? Check. Bundt and cupcakes baked? Potatoes peeled? Turkey thawed? Check, check, and check? Why are you thawing your turkey so early, Mrs. Hyde? Three words: it's not mine. Not only do I have to prepare a Thanksgiving feast for my own household, including cakes and pies and make not one, but two banana puddings for my mother-in-law, but I also have to roast a turkey, bake stuffing (well, technically it's dressing since I'm not putting it inside the turkey), and make a Strawberry Shortcake for my sister. My baby sister claims she can't cook, so every year I make extra stuffing, cakes and sometimes pies for her household as well. I'm pretty sure it's a rouse because her kids don't starve the rest of the year. Mysteriously around Thanksgiving, though, she can't seem to remember what that big white thing in the kitchen is for. I love her anyway. Who cares if my eyes are bloodshot and I have the worst migraine I've had in months?

Speaking of turkey, it's time to fulfill the conditions of the Shiny Turkey Award I received from Jumble Mash. To review, I need to tell a story of food, cooking/baking, intoxication, and/or the holidays. If I had a story that encompassed all those subjects, that would be freakin' awesome. But I don't. I have an assload of falling down drunk stories (about myself and others) and I will tell you one of those right now.

About three years ago (or maybe more. Who knows? I've killed many brain cells in that time), my husband took me out to celebrate my birthday. He'd asked a few of our (read: his) friends to join us in the celebration. Keep in mind that I had just recently gotten my 'drinking legs' as I like to say. The night was set for excitement and fun. First, we went out to one of those hibachi style restaurants where they grill the food in front of you. Having known that we were going out to eat, I hadn't eaten much that day. Wish I had remembered that before I ordered a Zombie. And then another.

Some other woman at a different table was also celebrating her birthday, so when they started singing that lame ass song to her, I chimed in. Really. Loudly. And before you ask, no, I didn't know the words. I clapped, I waved somebody's cigarette lighter in the air. The brain cells that remembered her name are dead now, so let's just call her Becky. At first Becky was laughing along and cheering me on. Apparently, she'd had a zombie without having first eaten, too. Then you could tell she was a little annoyed because I wouldn't shut the hell up. I knew she was annoyed. I didn't give a fuck. Once hubby managed to settle me down, I told him he just had a stick up his ass because his best friend (also celebrating with us) had fucked more women at our table than he had. That went over well, needless to say. I didn't give a fuck.

Then we went to the Policeman's Lounge, where cops can go and morph into alcoholics for next to nothing. I consumed even more drinks and got into an argument with a cop. Hey! Not my fault; he was a prick. He was hitting on my friend, who has the equivalent of two black girl asses, and she wasn't interested. Being the awesome friend that I was, I told him to back the fuck off my woman before I kicked his ass. At first he found it amusing, but of course I took it too far. I proceeded to tell him that my girlfriend didn't want him because he had a little dick. But not only did he have a small pecker, but that it was so small that my dick was bigger than his. He didn't particularly like that, so he argued with me until my big black husband rolled up behind him after which he promptly shut the fuck up. And I called him a punk bitch as he walked away. We had to leave the policeman's lounge.

You think this story is over, don't you? Wrong. After we got kicked out of the lounge left the lounge willingly, dutiful hubby wanted to make sure everyone got home safely. I was looking a little green around the gills by then, so he dropped me off at home and followed our friends home. He carried me up the stairs and I told him I needed to use the bathroom and I was perfectly capable of going by myself. He made sure I made it to the toilet and asked me if I was okay.

"I'm fine," I assured him. "Make sure our friends get home." He left me in the bathroom. About 30 minutes later, I awaken to a knock on the bathroom door.

"Are you okay?"

"I said I'm fine. Go take them home so you can hurry back."

"Sweetie, I've already gone and come back. Are you still on the toilet?"

Yes, I was asleep on the toilet. I say he came back 30 minutes later, but for all I know, it was three hours. He could have sexed one bitch six ways from Sunday or six bitches one way from Sunday and I would have been none the wiser. I opened my mouth to answer him and out came everything I'd ever eaten in my life. Good thing the bathtub is right next to the toilet. I was sick for three days after that.

That's my story of intoxication and holidays, if you count my birthday as one.

Note: While all of this did happen, it did not occur on the same night. I have condensed three stories for your enjoyment. You're welcome.

Writing Debut!!!!!!

OH EM GEE! I am so freakin' pumped! Mynx just posted my story on her naughty blog, Secret Pleasures and, so far, people actually like it!

I came on here to tell you all about the Shiny Turkey Award given to me by the too-cute-for-words Jumble Mash (I realize that young adults don't like to be called 'cute,' but trust me, when you're my age you'll pray every night for just that). I'm supposed to tell a story about food, intoxication, cooking, and/or the holidays. I have a doozy about intoxication, of course, but I'm too excited to write about it right now. I promise I will do it tomorrow if I can get some sleep tonight. I may just be up all night.

Please check it out. I hope you enjoy it!

Do you think I posted enough links?

TV-jacked

I was in my bedroom, minding my own business watching a tivo'ed episode of Modern Family and catching up on my favorite blogs. I looked up mid-comment and realized I was now watching football. Not wanting to stop reading/commenting/pissing my pants, I updated my Facebook status thusly:
Mrs. Hyde (not my real name, btw. shock and awe!) is trying to figure out how she started out watching a tivo'd episode of Modern family and ended up watching football.
Hubby's comment: cause you love the NFL
Me: Um...no.
Him: how bout the basketball game?
Me: It's cool. I'll just blog about how you're forcing me to watch sports.

Keep in mind that we're sitting right next to each other during this FB exchange. So, now I'm blogging about his forcing me at gunpoint to watch shit I don't want to watch and he's pissed 'cause I'm not paying him any attention.

Tough titty said the kitty, but the milk's still good.

I need to concentrate. I trying to tweak my erotic guest post for Mynx' blog Secret Pleasures fuck-you-very-much. It ain't easy striking the right balance of sexy and dirty, and the last thing I need is to be watching hot, sweaty, athletic rich men while I'm trying to create soft core porn.

Wait. Hold the fucking phone. That's exactly what the hell I need! Recharge those batteries, ladies! I'll be back with my story shortly. I've got massive cocks to spot!

I Ain't Afraid of No Ghost

Have you ever scared yourself shitless? I don't mean you're in the house alone and you walk past a mirror and startle yourself (I've done that, too btw). I'm talking Nightmare-on-Elm-Street-afraid-to-take-your-ass-to-bed scared. No? Too bad. I do that to myself all the time. Last night I did it to myself by taking pictures in the dark. Let me explain.

Ever since I was a little girl, I've been fascinated with all things spooky: ghosts or if you prefer, spirits, the supernatural, the occult. I started reading Stephen King novels when I was eleven years old and I haven't stopped yet. There was this urban legend that if you looked into a mirror in the dark and said, "Bloody Mary" three times, she would appear in the mirror behind you and kill you. I did that. She didn't come. Let's not talk about the fact that I had a death wish as a child. I absolutely love being scared out of my mind. Don't ask me why. So, fast forward today to my 29-year-old self (shut up) and I'm still doing things to scare the hell out of myself.

I have some friends who go ghost hunting once a month. They have been trying to get me to go for awhile now. Yeah. Good luck with that. Going to a graveyard at night and taking pictures in the dark is a little too up close and personal for me. They take their digital cameras and some thingy that lets them 'hear' and 'talk to' the spirits. Then they come back and show me pictures with thousands of orbs in them and suck me in with their ghostly tales. I love to flip through all their pictures and hear their stories when they come back, but going to a graveyard? At night? I think I'll pass.

A couple days ago, one of my ghost hunting friends suggested I take pictures in my backyard. Since it's pitch black out there at night, it's a perfect setting to catch orbs flying around. In case you don't know or haven't at least figured it out by now, the orbs are spirits, ghosts, the dead floating around undetected until you take a flash picture of them in the dark. And she wants me to do this in my backyard? Has this bitch lost her mind?

Apparently not because I did that shit. I saw two orbs floating their happy asses around my yard without a care in the world.


Can you see them? One is directly in the middle of the picture and the other one is off to the left. That one, technically, is in my neighbor's yard. I got so excited that I decided to take some pictures inside my house. Dumbass. What a stupid, stupid thing to do.

I tried to point them out, but it's really tiny.

AND

Right beneath the picture on the wall. There's also one on the curtain. 

Okay, I suck at the picture posting/paint thing, but they're there, dammit! And not one word about my messy ass house.

What was that? Oh, the cat just walked up the stairs.

Anyway, now I know that there are spirits floating around in my house. I always suspected 'cause weird shit happens in here all the time, but suspecting and knowing are two entirely different animals. The doorbell rings and no one is at the door. My kids leave the satellite receiver on and when I go to turn it off, it turns off by itself. Why the hell does the 'spirit' let me walk all the way over to the receiver if 'it' is going to turn it off itself? I know I need the exercise; I don't need some fucking entity from another dimension to tell me that. And now I see these orbs flying around. I think I'm about to jump on the bandwagon with my friend Mynx and look for a new house.

It was about 12:30 AM and I was sleepy as all hell, but I was afraid to go to sleep. Hubs was working the second half of his double shift, so it was just the kids and me. The kids were knocked out in their own beds, in their own rooms. Even the cat didn't want to be anywhere near my ass. He looked at me like, "You did this shit to yourself, bitch. You're on your own." I had visions of spirits dancing above me while I slept and making noises just to fuck with me. Actually, I did hear the floorboards creek a few times. Finally, I got too sleepy to care and fell asleep. I awoke in the morning wondering what the hell I was so afraid of. There's just something about morning that makes everything seem okay. It's so...non-threatening. So unlike the evil nighttime.

I'll give you until the end of the day to stop laughing at my dumb ass. Then pray to every god you know that I manage to fall asleep tonight.

Honestly?

I am very honored to have received a blog award, for honesty no less, from Semi True Torystellar at Can U Relate? Here it is:



Ain't it grand? If I'm to be completely honest, and of course I have to be now, this is the fourth award I've received from the awesome people who dare to read my chaotic ramblings. Sometimes those awards come with conditions and I almost always flake out on those obligations. What can I say? I'm a fucking rebel. This doesn't mean I'm ungrateful; far from it. It amazes me that there exists in this world people who want to hear what I have to say.  I am deeply humbled by your loyal readership (all of you) and I will do my best to stay as bitchy and vocal as I possibly can. Hug, hug, kiss, kiss. You know the drill.

In the interest of honesty and going totally balls-to-the-wall, I will honor the conditions of this award. I have to list ten honest things about myself. This is going to be hard 'cause I don't want to just list any old thing. People have to read this crap, so I at least want it to be interesting.

Hmmm. Ten whole things? How about five? Okay, okay.

1. I hardly ever answer my cell phone or return phone calls. I'm sorry, but I have way too much shit to do to be on the phone all day. Send me a text or an email. I will return a text. I might return an email.
2. I don't watch the news. Being inundated with up-to-the-minute negativity isn't exactly my idea of a good time.
3. Here are some of the jobs I've had: barmaid, daycare provider, phone sex operator, substitute teacher. My work history is but a small indication of the good vs. evil battle I fight on a daily basis.
4. I have a 26-year-old sister whom I've never met. Papa was a rolling stone. He rolled his ass to Virginia for awhile, met a woman, fathered a child, died and didn't leave any information on how to find her. Oprah won't help me and apparently, baby sis hasn't heard of social networking. So, if anyone knows a Jessica Brown in or around the Richmond area, give a holler. How many Jessica Browns can there be in Richmond?
5. I can spot a big dick from a mile away. Oh, now you're awake. I didn't just do that for shock value, it's actually true. I have a penchant for sniffing out the heavily schlonged. It's the gift that keeps on giving.
6. I've been trying to complete this post for two hours, so I'm going to stop now and come back in ten years when I think of more things.
7. My mother has been a drug addict for over 30 years. If you can't say anything else about her, you can say that she is consistent. When she decides to do something, she sticks to that shit like glue. She sold me to a man when I was eight years old. That's all I have to say about that (imagine I'm Forrest Gump).
8. My favorite color is purple. Yeah, I know that's lame, but #7 is a tough act to follow. Okay, I'll give you a real one. I hate crying. If you make me cry, be sure to sleep with one eye open for the rest of your life.
9. I have a girl crush on Portia de Rossi. I like that she's a little bit insane just like me. With my muffin top, four kids, and empty bank account, I'm sure I could give Ellen and her millions a run for their money.
10. I shot the sheriff, but I did not shoot the deputy. Give me a break, I tried, didn't I?

It's not a requirement to pimp out blogs, but I'm going to do it anyway. These blogs don't get as much recognition as they should, so please visit and follow them if you like what you see.

Rants from the Hormonally Challenged Love her and I'm sure you will, too!
The Well-Fed Spirit This bitch is AWEsome!
Simple Dude in a Complex World He doesn't follow this blog, but don't hold that against him.
Jumble Mash Makes you feel all warm and fuzzy.

All right, so, that's it. I know I cheated a little bit, but when you're a control freak like me, you have a hard time being vulnerable. Some of my fellow award recipients were worried about losing followers if they posted true, honest-to-goodness things about themselves. I'm not. If you don't love me for the bitch I am, then fuck you and I'm happy to be rid of you.

But if I come back on here in the morning and all of you are gone, oh, I will stalk you.

Dear Ass Clown

Let me start by saying that I have made a sincere effort to let this go. I wanted to chalk it up as one person's opinion, but I can't. Yesterday, I read a post that chapped my ass so badly that all the cocoa butter in the world won't help. The woman dedicated an entire blog post to a letter she wrote to "sorry ass mothers". In said letter, she unleashed a tsunami of scathing remarks toward mothers who: 1. don't strap their children in seat belts, 2. smoke inside the car with their children on board, and 3. scream at their children.

It's never okay to put the safety of children at risk, you may say. I agree. Secondhand smoke is very bad for a child's lungs, or anyone's lungs for that matter, you may respond. Again, I agree. Why would this upset you, Mrs. Hyde?

I'm so fucking glad you asked!

There are several reasons why that post bothered me. I'll give each its own bullet point and subsequent explanation.

*Don't presume to tell a mother how to be a mother.
I get that it pissed her off to see a small child not strapped in his/her car seat. And I understand her concern for the child inhaling the toxic fumes. But did anybody notice that this self-righteous woman didn't bother to voice her opinions to the mothers themselves? No? You know why? Because she would have gotten her ass handed to her in a used McDonald's bag. Everyday you see people doing stupid shit. There are dumbasses everywhere, but that doesn't give you the right to tell them that they are dumbasses, at least not without accepting the fallout that will surely come. That's why we don't do it. We might give them a dirty look, shake our heads in disgust, but if you're not going to call them on their bullshit, shut your fat ass pie hole. Maybe the child was strapped in, but as small children tend to be curious and mischievous, maybe the child unstrapped himself. With the cigarette-smoking mom, as far as I'm concerned if you've never had a nicotine addiction, you have no opinion. I'm going to let you in on a little secret: moms are human. Which brings me to my next point.

*Why in the name of sweet June Cleaver is the whole world so hard on mothers?
A mother can't step the tiniest bit outside the line without having the wrath of God brought down on her. It's like we're not human, and therefore not allowed to make mistakes. Don't yell at your kids, don't let them watch TV, don't feed them sugary cereals? WHAT? If you think I won't plop a bowl of cereal in front of a kid when I'm too tired to cook or tell them to go watch Spongebob so I can take a goddamn bath, you are sadly mistaken, asshole. While I do know that opinions are, in fact, like assholes, it leaves me wondering why all the bitter disdain for 'bad' mothers, but none for 'bad' fathers? Is it okay for deadbeats to abandon their children and not pay child support? Is it all honky fucking doory for a man to neglect his fatherly duties. If this woman had seen the child unstrapped in the car with his father, she would have shaken her head and said, "Hmmph, men!" and left it the hell alone. She wouldn't have thought twice about his smoking while driving his babies around because at least his ass is present, right? If a man screams at his kids, they call it tough love. And that shit brings me to my final point.

*Yelling at your kids is absolutely necessary.
Okay, not all the time, but sometimes, yes. It's very necessary. There are all different kinds of scenarios I could cite as excellent times for yelling, but I'd be here all fucking day and my kitchen floor isn't going to mop itself. I'll just say this: yelling at your children is the litmus test to make sure you are paying attention. If you're yelling at them, that means you caught their little sneaky asses doing something they had no business doing. You know why my kids aren't making pipe bombs in the basement? Because if it gets quiet for more than five minutes in this house, I know somebody is doing some shit they shouldn't. So, after five minutes free of bickering and mom I need money for xyz, my mommy senses start tingling and I go on a bullshit hunt. No, mom, I'm mixing these chemicals for my science project. Bullshit! No, mom, this isn't a hit list. These are all the people I'm inviting to my birthday party. Bullshit! No, mom, I'm not forwarding naked pictures of my former best friend to the entire sophomore class. Bullshit! I'm not saying my kids don't ever get one over on me, but if they do, it's not for long. I have a special brand of bitchy, guilt-inducing, disappointed, I-will-kick-your-assness that my kids try to avoid, if at all possible.

And no self-righteous, judgmental, childless, mean-girl-turned-fuckwad is going to take that away from me.

Some Of My Best Friends Are White

Well, it's the holiday season. That means I'm about to be busier than a toothless hooker on pay day. As soon as November 1st rolled around, the cake, pie, and banana pudding orders started pouring in. Oh, I'm not complaining because I sure as shit appreciate the money. The banana pudding recipe I use is an easy, no-cook recipe that I got from the Food Network. I tell people this and still they would rather pay me $25 to make one for them than just pay $10 for the ingredients and make it themselves. Who the fuck am I to stop them from giving me their money?

Anyway, I didn't come on here to talk about dessert; I just wanted you to know why my posts may or may not be few and far between for the next two months.

What I really want to talk about is something that happened to me at the grocery store yesterday. That's a bit melodramatic; nothing happened to me. I just had a curious encounter with a bitch at a market.

Are you familiar with Aldi? 
It's a discount grocery store with franchises all over the world. If you shop for more than two items at a time, it will be necessary for you to "rent" a shopping cart for twenty-five cents. After your shopping is done and your bags are loaded safely in your car, you return the cart to the corral, stick the little chain thingy in the slot on the handle, and your quarter is returned to you. If, upon returning my cart, I notice another shopper about to enter the store, I'll offer them the one I have and they'll give me their quarter.

I'm bored to tears, too, but I had to make sure you knew what I was talking about before I told you the story. Okay, so I saw this family of three about to get a cart as I was returning mine. I offered them my cart and they took it. The husband thanked me and offered me a big smile. The kid even gave me an appreciative grin. The mother, who neither smiled nor thanked me, positioned the quarter about a foot away from my hand and dropped it into my palm. She then raised her hand even higher and moved her whole arm in a backward arc (away from me) before dropping her arm to her side. She took painstaking care in making sure she did not touch my hand. Then she pursed her lips, wrapped her jacket tightly around her bosom, and walked into the store.

When I go grocery shopping, I try to dress as comfortably as possible. I am buying food for a family of six at several different stores and that shit can take forever. So I'll be damned if I'm going in there in my Sunday best only to smell like a mixture of seafood and laundry detergent by the time I leave. But there is no way I looked like the kind of person that you wouldn't want to touch.

The first thing I thought was, "No, bitch, the black doesn't rub off." Then I thought that was a little unfair. Having that thought made me realize that I can be overly sensitive, thinking that white people are judging me all the time. Logically, I know that's not true. My head knows that most people, regardless of race, have way too much shit to deal with everyday to bother themselves with my weave, or lack thereof, my parenting skills, or my grammar. But my heart worries about it just the same. I know, it's sad. I didn't even realize how much the opinions of Caucasians mattered to me until now. And here I was thinking I was evolved.

When I was a little girl, my mother could take a lot of our crap, but she would kill us if we embarrassed her in front of white people. One of her favorite things to say was, "Child, if you embarrass me in front of these white people, so help me God, I will beat the black off you." And she wasn't bullshitting either, so we sat our asses down and acted like we 'had some sense.' Parents sometimes don't realize how much impact their words and actions have on their children. I'm damned near forty (don't EVER tell anybody I told you that) and I'm still afraid to embarrass my dead mother in front of the white people.

I understand that this probably makes some of you uncomfortable, but if we don't talk about our differences, we'll always be afraid of them. Where the hell has that fear gotten us so far? I don't know about you, but I can't fucking stand being afraid.

Now back to my new best friend. I've come up with some (semi) PC reasons why this uptight woman didn't dare graze my hand with hers:

1. She doesn't know my ass. I'm not too keen on touching strangers either, so how the hell can I be mad at her?
2. She's a crazy germaphobe. You know those people who are afraid to even leave the house because of all the potential germs they might meet. She did seem awful pristine for the grocery store.
3. She thought I was evil. You think maybe I scared her with the huge gothic cross I sometimes wear around my neck? You know, you can't be too leery of people who don't wear 'normal' religious paraphernalia.
4. She was overwhelmed by my sexy. And who the fuck isn't?
5. Maybe, and I am leaning toward this one, she thought, "Eek! There's a big, sexy black bitch I don't know wearing the goddamn mother of gothic crosses! Think of all the fucking germs she must have!"

Feel free to post any reasons you might come up with. I don't offend easily, so have the fuck at it. Afterwards, we'll hold hands and sing, "We Are The World."

Chitty Chitty Bang Bang

You remember that childhood rhyme, right? "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, sittin' on a fence, tryna make a dollar out of fifteen cents..." Yeah, now you remember. I hate that bitch. Well, I don't hate her so much as I hate that I've become her.
 I don't know what the fuck this pic is about. Just found it on Google images.

Wait...is CCBB a prostitute? I just realized mid-thought, that I'm pretty sure that bitch was a whore. I mean, who the hell else sits on a fence? Tryna make a dollar out of fifteen cents? And how would anyone else, who had nothing better to do than hang out on fences actually make any money? She has to be a whore! I can see it all in my head (insert dream sequence)...

An eighty-two pound crackhead dressed in skinny jeans, a dirty lime green t-shirt that says I ♥ the 80's, high top Reeboks, and a red feather boa sits atop a rusted and damaged chain-link fence. Her legs swing side to side as the tremors begin to kick in. It has been two whole hours since her last hit and in that time, she hasn't managed to convince anyone to let her earn the money she needs via a toothless blowjob. She absentmindedly rubs her front right pocket. The dirty imprint of the only money she has in the world strains against the denim of her tight jeans: three nickels. She must be losing her touch. A toothless BJ used to be like, well, crack.

A familiar cloud of smoke engulfs her. She raises her head to the Heavens and inhales deeply. Damn! She simultaneously loved and hated the smell of crack smoke. Burning diamonds and poverty. It was both titillating and depressing; exhilarating and sickening. Her tremors, a combination of crack cocaine withdrawal and the sting of the cold night air against her bare arms, grow increasingly violent. She watches impatiently the stupid whores who jump at their pimps' becks and calls. Yes, daddy this and no, daddy that. She hated them.

"Stupid bitches," she thinks. "Why would any sane whore work so hard just to give her money to some clown-ass pimp? Fuck that. That money could be pulsing through my veins right now. Must be nice to be so mutha fuckin' smooth that you can charm a bitch into working to feed your ass...clothe your ass. Must be one sweet mutha fuckin' ride..."

Inspiration strikes as she begins to think about just how nice a gig pimping must really be. She could smoke crack and shoot heroin all day and all she'd have to do in return is protect her whores. "I can do that! I protect my damn self all day everyday. It ain't no easy task, either. These mutha fuckas try to catch a bitch slipping every chance they get."

She hops down from the rusty fence and takes off in the direction of the neighborhood. The gears in her head work furiously as she calculates both her brilliant plan and all the rewards she will surely reap. She races past overflowing dumpsters, crying babies, city buses, and an illegal craps game. She sees none of those things. Her focus and attention are on her new business venture.

"Hey, Chitty! Chitty! Bitch, don't you hear me calling you? Oh, that's how you goin' be? I was bout to pay your crackhead ass to hook me up with one of them toothless brain drains, but fuck you now! I'll spend my money elsewhere."

Somewhere in the recesses of her brain, she hears this one-sided exchange and thinks to herself, Why would I suck your nasty dick when I can get some dummy to do it for me? Then she spots her. The one woman in the neighborhood that's worse off than she is. Sure, Chitty was a crackhead, but Little Red Riding Hood was a stupid crackhead.

"Hey, Red! What you up to tonight?" she asks as she sidles up to the unsuspecting Little Red.

"Girl, not a damn thing. Jonesing like a motha fucka, though. These dudes ain't tryna do nothin' to help me out.   I need my shit, Chitty. I don't know what I'ma do if things don't turn around tonight."

Music to Chitty's ears.

"I was having a bad night, too, 'til I came up with my idea. That shit worked like a charm, too."

"Chit, please tell me what it is. I need some help. Hook me up, bitch."

"All you gotta do is go fuck one of these young dope boys for money to get your hit."

"Bitch, that ain't new! What the fuck you think my ass been out here tryna do all night? I been walking these streets practically begging these dudes to fuck me. I told you that shit ain't working."

"Naw, bitch, you doin' it wrong. You can't beg mutha fuckas; you gotta make them beg you."

"How I'ma do that, Chitty?" Little Red asks, scratching her lice-infested weave. Her face bears an unexpected air of innocence.

"It's all about confidence, bitch. If you think you're the sexiest whore in the world, so will they. Dudes'll be coming out of the woodwork tryna fuck you. You might be desperate and at your wit's end, but you can't let them know that. You gotta be confident."

"Well, it's not exactly easy being confident when you ain't washed your ass or shampooed your hair in a week. Ms. Johnson at the halfway house used to let the whores come in there to get clean and fresh a couple times a week, but now you gotta pay her. You know that bitch charging fifteen cents a day now?"

"Is that so? You know, I just so happen to have fifteen cents left to my name. I already been to Ms. Johnson's today so I'm good. I could lend it to you...if you want."

"And what do I have to give you in return? Bitch, don't say you want me to eat your pussy, 'cause I don't swing that way."

"No, nothing like that. I'm all dick, all the time myself. Come on. Let's talk about it on the way to the halfway house."

And that, my friends, is how Chitty Chitty Bang Bang finally got her ass off that fence and turned her fifteen cents into a dollar. For several years to come.

I hope you enjoyed my impromptu story. I really did come on here with something completely different to bitch about. I guess the gods got tired of my ass complaining and decided to give me something different to say.

I am truly grateful to them.