Friday, March 25, 2011

Gimme That Good...Um...Love

Mary J. Blige has a song called Good Love. I couldn't find a video on YouTube (imagine that), but if you're interested, here's the song.

Good Love features a rapper by the name of T.I. I'm not about to bore you with the details of his rap sheet, no pun intended, I actually want to talk about this song. Specifically, T.I.'s part of the song. There is a line he has that I consider to be the ultimate hook-up line. Ordinarily, I'm not big on corny pick-up/hook-up lines, or pick-up/hook-up lines in general, but I can appreciate a good one when I hear it.

T.I. says, "Now, not only will I hit it if you throw it to me, but I'ma beat it like you stole it and you owe it to me." Wow! I'm not into skinny guys, but I suspect that if he said that to me after a few lemon drop shooters, I'd be pantyless in the backseat of his smoky, pot-infused limo.

For those of you not well-versed in the hip hop language, let me give you some alternate meanings for the above term "beat it":

1. Tear that ass up.
2. Lay some good pipe.
3. Have you climbing the walls with unadulterated sexual pleasure
4. Fuck the shit out of you
5. Make love to you so deliciously that you will be in awe of his sexual brilliance.

Now imagine that someone has stolen something very precious to you. Imagine the fervor with which you would kick some thieving booty if you so happened to catch up with them. Got that in your head? Okay, now put the two together.

See what I mean? From zero to pantyless in 2.5 seconds. I'll wait while you go open a window...or take a cold shower. Whatever flies your kite. Whatever flies your freak flag as my friend The Empress would say.

Hopefully, though, he can back up all his big talk. Don't you hate when a guy (or woman. can't leave out my two male followers) raves about his (her) sexual prowess and gets you all excited only to later discover that he (she) is a horrible lay? That's the worse. In fact, I can't think of anything worse than a disappointing sexcapade. World hunger? Wars and rumors of wars? Republicans? Nope, not as bad. If I got myself all hot and underpants-free and T.I. was incapable of "laying it down," there wouldn't be enough banana pudding milkshakes in the world to stop me from kicking his bony ass.

On the other hand, good dick will have a woman doing things she never thought she'd do. Since I'm so fucking awesome at making lists, I shall create one that declares all the things a woman might do in the name of good dick.

-hold illicit drugs that will be available at a later date for purchase
-when caught with said drugs, refuse to rat out her good dick. After all, should he be imprisoned, he might be forced to share that good dick with a 300-pound killer named Tiny
-ignore her children, friends, boss, mama, and/or husband
-gain the sudden urge to take up cooking, baking, and cosmetology, specifically nail grooming in order to give her good dick a relaxing pedi after a hard day's work restocking the napkin dispenser at McDonald's
-quit her job two years before retirement, sell her house, and move across the country to be with good dick while he attempts to break into the acting biz at the age of 45
-walk in on good dick having a threesome with two hookers and quietly close the door to give them their privacy
-pay good dick's way through bible college
-give good dick her car to go shopping while she catches the bus in a thunderstorm with her three small children
-spend her tax refund on video games for good dick's Xbox 360
-or do anything else that skyrockets her into "dumb bitch" status

Come on ladies, you know you've been a dumb bitch for good dick before. I dare say that I am doing that right now. Damn you, good dick!

Fellas, if you don't naturally have good dick, you damn sure better go out and buy you one. It'll change the whole course of your relationship. You know how you like to pretend that you're in charge? Well, good dick actually is.

Ladies, as well as gentlemen who can appreciate its power, tell me what dumb ass regrettable things you've done in the name of good dick.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

Sister Wife Wanted

Like I have a tendency to do when I'm getting my lazy, fat girl on, I sat down with a big piece of birthday pie to catch up on my favorite TV shows and others that pique my interest. Here is where I gloss over the fact that not one of you came over here on Sunday to wish me a happy birthday. It's okay. It's not like I feel unloved or anything. I'll have to tell you about how I went to Atlantic City to celebrate all by myself in another post.

Okay, so maybe I should have mentioned that my birthday was coming up. Whatever. Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, it really doesn't matter because when people ask about my age, I will continue to say "thirty" like it's the truest thing since the Big Bad Wolf.

Speaking of wolves, why is there a wolf in so many fairy tales? What the hell do we have against wolves? What do wolves really represent in fairy tales? I'll have to look into that.

Sorry ADD moment over...maybe.

Anyway, I was watching an episode of Sister Wives that I had recorded. I used to record the whole series, but there's enough bitching about husbands and kids in my life as it is, so now I just record on an as-needed basis. As in I need to know how this one dude convinced four separate women, fucking four, to marry him and have his babies...concurrently. Women can't share bathrooms, opinions on parenting, or recipes, let alone husbands. You know you left out an ingredient when you gave your best friend your grandmother's apple pie recipe. Here she is wondering why hers doesn't even come close to tasting like yours and you're giggling inside your head. Don't even get me started on the discovery that some other woman owns the same outfit as you, like the designer only made one. But this man actually made it sound like a good idea to four different women that they all be married to him and share his love, affection, home, and penis at the same time. That's a charming mother fucker right there, folks.

As I watched yesterday's episode (don't know what day it originally aired as I hardly ever watch live TV) I started thinking about what the advantages would be of having a sister wife. Let's bullet point them, shall we?

  • It would be nice to have someone around who can be calm when I'm being a bitch. I can't count how many times I've said to hubby, "When I'm in bitch mode, you need to pick up my slack like I do for you. We can't both be bitches at the same time. They may be poster kids for birth control, but we do love them. Don't we? Really, I need you to tell me how we feel about them." I need someone who gets that. Someone who will relay the message to my clueless kids that I'm in a crappy grumpy mood and should be given some space at that time.  
  • Do you know how much money I would pay when I'm not in the mood for sex to simply say, "It's Mabel's turn. Go ask her."? Then Mabel would do the wifely duties thing and I wouldn't have to deal with the morning-after-no-sex grouchiness. Big. I'd pay big.
  • And speaking of sex, it would be cool to have someone with whom to commiserate and share notes on hubby's, um, style. Don't get me wrong, he has a knack for getting me there (TMI, I know), but after 17 years of marriage (which I also recently celebrated), things have a tendency to get predictable. Tweak nipples...vulva a little oral...stroke, stroke, stroke, BIG FINISH...damn, I don't feel like getting up to go pee. Not necessarily in that order or time frame. Mabel and I could brainstorm ways to spice up chandelier-swinging and I wouldn't be left to scour the internet for hours on end all by my lonesome. (If you don't hear from me in awhile, it's because this bullet point has caused my demise.)
  • If there were a second or third or fourth woman around here, I could drop the guilt about how I only occasionally contribute to the family's finances. I'd put those bitches to work and I could continue to run the household and write and blog and get fat without a trace of guilt. Why the hell should I worry about getting fat? He has three other wives to gawk at. Let their asses be anorexic. Pardon me while I get another slice of Lemon Supreme Pie. No, really. I'm about to stop typing to take the clothes out of the dryer and since I'll be downstairs anyway, cut myself a fucking enormous modest slice of pie. Be right back.

Okay, where was I?

I'm just saying that they might be on to something. They are under investigation right now and the husband could possibly go to jail for being a bigamist. I don't understand that at all. He's only legally married to the first wife, but lives with and raises families with all the others. Since when is that a crime? If living with a whole shitload of people is a crime, I know a whole lot of families in the 'hood that now have one more thing to worry about.

So what's the problem? They're just saying that he has four wives. Forget about the love and values they share, he doesn't really, legally have four wives. It's not a crime to say shit, freedom of speech and all that. I could say that I'm the Queen of England, but if I roll my black ass up in Buckingham Palace with that bullshit, I'm coming back out feet first. Does that make it wrong that I said it? Maybe in the UK, but I'm not really sure and I don't give enough of a shit to look it up right now.

The government is just mad because they can't tax him four times. Or perhaps that their chronic state of stick-up-my-assness prevents them from being charismatic enough to have four women, who get along with each other, agree to bear their seed and fuck them proper like.

Suggestion, assholes: stop trying to deny people the label of 'family.' There are all different kinds of families. My best friend is more like a sister to me and I sometimes introduce her as such. Will I be arrested for that? Growing up, and I still see kids do this today, I used to pretend that my friends were my cousins. How come you didn't lock me up and throw away the key? Surely, I was a menace to society showing all that love to people who didn't even share my blood.

This is a free fucking country! Why are we letting these bastards decide whom and how we can love?

I'll tell you one thing, though. I'd hate to be around when all four of those bitches hit PMS at the same time.

Thursday, March 17, 2011


Apparently my penchant for diabetic, coma-inducing dairy foods has caused me to piss off some friends, gay and straight alike. My colon was also pissed off because I'm lactose intolerant. Neither of those facts was enough to stop me from consuming it and tweeting about it yesterday: a Chick-fil-A Banana Pudding milkshake. It was actually the producer of the best orgasm I've ever had. And all I had to do to achieve it was offend about 10 million of my closest friends. That's a record even for me.

Read this if you don't know why my mistake was so egregious.

Honestly, I forgot. That's the extent of it, really. With so many corporations giving American citizens their asses to kiss, it's sometimes hard for me to keep up with all the bastards whom I should be boycotting. You can bet I won't forget again, but just know that karma has already kicked my ass for this one. I trotted my lactose intolerance back and forth to the bathroom for the remainder of yesterday. My family was not happy with the smell that permeated the entire house. It was enough to make 3/16/2011 a day to be remembered in Hyde family history.

My stomach and I are like a guy and his schlong. We both know we should pass on those cookies, but we just can't help ourselves.

I apologize. I absolutely support marriage rights for same-sex couples. With the way we piss all over the institution of marriage in this country, I can't honestly understand how they think gay and lesbian couples are going to make it worse. It's just another excuse to discriminate and I will not give my dollars to any company who supports discrimination.

So long as I remember...I think I'll start a running list of all the asshole companies who can't have my money. Does anyone know how to make a blog button to that effect? We could add to the list as the jackwagons present themselves.

Damn...I guess I should take those paper towels back to Target, huh?

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

Victoria's Dirty Little Secret

Victoria has a dirty little secret. Amidst the lace and the frills, the satin and the silk, the padding and the bigger padding, she hides it. Among the fragrances, the body washes, and the diamond-studded brassieres, she conceals it. She's a sly fox, that Victoria.

If you look closely, though, the secret is not that hard to find. Discreetly open one of the drawers all the way at the bottom of the display case and you will find it. Open a closet deep into the recesses of the storage room and you will discover her secret: it's me. Me and all the other amply-endowed women of the world whose bras are hidden like wine stains on a white carpet.

They need to bury us under tables, in drawers, and behind closet doors lest they offend the delicate sensibilities of the Itty Bitty Tittie Committee. We wouldn't want the IBTC to go on a rampage, thrashing their barren chests about in protest, would we? Oh, the horror! The absolute insanely hilarious fucking horror!

I'm sorry. I don't mean to lash out at you flat-chested small-boobed women. I tend to do that when I feel judged. I'm working on it. No, really.

My question is this: if everyone wants to look like us, shouldn't the biggest boulder-like flopper stoppers be on brilliant display? Shouldn't underwear models be shaped like me (at least on top)? Shouldn't the Victoria's Secret fashion show feature women who, through no control of their own, come bouncing happily down the runway? I feel robbed of my rightful place in bobby royalty. Women are praying at night to deities in whom they don't even believe just so they can wake up with the body of a bombshell. Women are paying doctors thousands of dollars and enduring weeks of excruciating pain just so they can complain about how men no longer look into their eyes, but rather stare at their chests. And yet they bury us under mountains of glorified training bras and tiny thongs like we have the plague...

What would happen, Victoria, if you leave us all out there, big and small boobies alike? Might we lock bra straps in peace and harmony? Might we stand side-by-side, hand-in-hand and sing our henceforth self-proclaimed national anthem: Man! I Feel Like a Woman by Shania Twain? I think that the mixing of bra sizes would serve as evidence that real women do exist, and would therefore provide no plausible reason for anyone to purchase your padded, pinching monstrosities because the world would realize that women come in all different shapes and sizes. And that all their boobies are beautiful.

Fuck Victoria!

I'll take my business to Lane Bryant. True, I'd have to hide in the bushes on delivery day so I could knock the driver out and take my pick before the general public has access to the five measly bras in my size, but I'd get a bra. A pretty one, not the white one my grandmother wore. One with lace or animal print or polka dots or stripes or any color other than black or white or a nude that looks nothing like my nude skin. In my size.

And it damned sure won't be hidden in some obscure little drawer in the back.

I apologize, loyal readers, for my absence. Well, I haven't really been absent. I've been reading your posts, but I don't feel I'm in a good position to comment on anyone's life other than mine right now. I'm going through some things and as I work through them, I will keep you posted. Know that I haven't forgotten about you and I still love you to teeny tiny pieces.

Monday, March 7, 2011

Wasted Bitch Writing

So.....I want to apologize in advance because this is a drunk ass post by a pissed off wife and mother of four fucking children. Four. Did y'all know I had four fucking kids? How the fuck did that happen? I didn't even want any damned kids. If you get nothing from this intoxicated post, please tell your daughters not to let charming mother fuckers talk them into shit they never wanted to do.

Anyway, I'm getting white boy wasted (sorry, it's hard to distinguish what's racist and what's not when you're drunk. I get it now, Charlie Sheen) all by my fucking self because my "husband" decided that it would be more fun for him to get wasted with his friends/brothers/all the cops in any major city EVER than to commiserate with his wife at home over the fact that BOTH of our teenagers are failing classes. Fuck'em. Fuck him. Fuck all their asses.

Okay, I'll admit I'm a borderline alki, but before 8:30 PM (bedtime for my youngest two), I'm fucking Supermom. I don't even think about Jose (Cuervo) before then because that's just how fucking awesome a mom I am. I delay my sorrow drowning personal gratification to make sure my kids are taken care of. If that's not supermom, I don't know what is.

I started this blog because I was PMSing and didn't feel like fucking being nice and shit like I do on my other blog. That was the goddamn point. So, tonight is a bad night. It's a PMS night. It's a PMDD night. Which is why I needed the alcohol. Truth be told, it started last night, but that's neither here nor there.

I can't really remember what the point is, exactly. That's the price you pay after your fifth lemon drop, but I DO fucking remember that my husband is an asshole. That's right. I said it! You're an asshole, sweetheart.

He is the kind of person that likes to have the whole world thinking that everything is peachy when, in fact, it's quite shitty. That's why I'm posting this. Why the fuck should I be the only pissed off bitch in this relationship tonight? Rut roh, Shaggy! The world now knows that you're not perfect. How will you ever survive?

You know? I couldn't possibly give less of a fuck than I do right now. Maybe you'll still love my psycho ass tomorrow, maybe you won't. Right now, guess what?

I don't give a fuck.

What's that I spy? An empty shot glass? That's not right.

See ya when I see ya!

Saturday, March 5, 2011

Half-Assed Weekend Post: Ben Gay and Milkshakes, Mmm Mmm Good

Has this ever happened to you?

You're walking down a city street/country road/Indian burial ground, minding your own business. It's a bright, sunny day, so there is a little pep in your step. Naturally, if you're boobylicious like me, pep makes your girls bounce. And wiggle. And dance. And otherwise just cause a goddamn scene. A dirty old man notices the ensuing commotion ten inches below your chin and proceeds to make a lame yet somehow lewd remark about your ample bosom like, "Got milk?" I think that's my least favorite of all the big tit jokes. I like to respond with, "Got a surgeon to remove my foot from your ass?" or "Got a baby carrot to hold next to your dick so it will look huge by comparison?" I'm no good at snappy comebacks. I'm too wordy for that. Who'da thunk?

I also hate it when they burst into a rousing chorus of "my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard..." This one I can't stand because I'm not entirely sure she's talking about boobs in that song. I shudder to think what she is talking about. Whatever it is that that bitch is charging people for, I'm damn sure not teaching it to some old dude.

But I digress.

So you're walking down the street, having a nice day when you're verbally assaulted by Jesus' uncle. You are appalled that this ancient ass man has the fucking nerve to think that he has a chance with you. What nimrod forgot to take Grandpa back to Shady Pines? Who in the hell left the gate open? And furthermore, what in the name of Ben Gay and support hose would make him think that I would even visualize his wrinkled, flaccid body let alone allow him to rest his glassy, jaundiced eyes on mine? Why, he has to be twice my age! At least! He's gotta be, what, 42? 43? And I'm only...



Never mind.

Snobby bitch tantrum over. Pick your pride and your youth up off the ground. Dust them off. Dammit! They've got old all over them. This shit'll never come out.

A similar thing happened to me last year. I was being mauled by a guy who I mistook for a dirty old man.  Oh, that asshole was dirty all right, but upon closer inspection I realized that he couldn't have been that much older than me.

You know you're getting old when the dirty old men are the same age as you.

That's some bullshit right there.

When did you realize you were getting old(er)? If you're under 30, a simple I-could-only-hope-to-rock-half-as-hard-as-you-Mrs-Hyde-when-I'm-a-sexy-38-year-old-bombshell will suffice.