Kids Are Dumbasses, Too

Since we're all missing Bruce during his hiatus, I thought I would put up his guest post next. For those who don't know, Bruce has four blogs that he writes. Four. Fucking. Blogs. Man. I'm still trying to keep up with my measly two and I'm not going through half the bullshit he is. Hang in there, Bruce. We love you and we're all pulling for you.

I try to encourage everyone who guest posts to embrace their inner 'fuck.' People tend to look at you funny or gasp in horror when an F-bomb is dropped, so, of course, I try to drop them every chance I get. Bruce, however, is no stranger to 'fuck.'  And since you read my blog on a regular basis, neither are you.

How about a little Evil Twin to go with your hot dog and potato salad? Join Bruce and I as we 'fuck' our way through the holiday weekend.




You people are such perverts.




hiya-


i am evilbruce the evil twin of JADIP bruce
for those that do not know me, i use the word fuck.
alot.
and rant.
alot.
about what ever pisses me off.
but.
like i always say....


sooner or later i will piss you off... 
consider this an apology in advance. 


no. 
fuck that. 


get over it! 


i offer no apologies.
none.
this is my rant.
i will rant and you will listen...


or go here.




oh and thank you to the most wonderful Mrs. Hyde for allowing me to come over here and fuck with your chi...whatthefuckever


on to the rant!


i was wandering up and down the street the other day.


you know, in a car.


well, actually my truck.


just. wasting. fuel.


driving.


cuz i am 'merican!


fucking driving.


(the kids to the bus stop.
ya know 5 feet down the street.
in everytown USA.)


and thinking.


a lot.


a.fuck.of.a.lot!


shit that people are looking for and find my fucked up site, cuz they were looking for it these fucktards and i am making fun of them...
1. porn (why does porn not trend more?)
2. stupid celebridicks (like the one that i do not mention)
3. stupid celebrichicks (like the one that i do not mention)
4. fuel prices, mortgage rates, and apple pie (well, not so fucking much on the apple pie)
5. some celebridick or celebrichick is (getting married, divorced, breaking up)
6. famous person (dies)
7. some disaster (happen everyday)
8. sports dingus (some overpaid athlete says/does some fucked up shit)
9. health shit (there is always some new miracle drug...i prefer pot)
10. wild card (some days something really new and different happens...not fuckin likely)


what to write for Mrs Hyde?
could i write about the insurance and pharmaceutical clusterfuck and the reason that healthcare has
skyrocketed?


oh simple, way to simple...greed.
no that will not do...


what about?


fucking fucktards that have pissed me off?


petulant little sniveling shits!


this includes my overly pampered snot nosed kids.


yes.
at times they have pissed me off.
to the point of killing them?
not quite.
not even close.
but they do piss me off.


this post is not about my kids.
i can tell them what it think about them to their faces.
but not when i am pissed.


nope.
i wait to calm down.
some times.
not always.
red hair.
a bit.


i am talking about the other peoples kids out there.


yep.
the kids in question?
the dumbass little shitdrippings that walk in front of your car as you are driving down the road and flip you off?


they piss me off...


yep.
but not as much as the whiney shitnosed little fucktards that think life is so unfair.


you know,
cuz they are driving a USED bmw...


i live in a well-to-do neighborhood...
we rent.
cuz the school system is good.
and cannot afford to buy and pay the taxes.
but that is another story for another day...
those taxes?
yes.
we still pay, in a way, by the inflated rent.


but these irritants are just that...irritants...
like gnats.


nope.
they are not my subjects today.


i am talking about the kids that run the fucked up bullshit we call...
the governmonster of the good old USofA.


wait? what?
they are not kids!
no?


then stop! the! fuck! acting! like someone's fuckedup little child.
take responsibility for the position you were fucking voted into!
stop pointing fingers like a petulant FUCKTARDED, BRAINDEADED child.
stop acting like the neighborhood bully!
stop fucking stealing from the poor and giving to the rich!
stop your incessant vitriol laden whinnyassed bullshit.


stop politics as usual 


stop doing what is in your best interest.


kids are selfish.
i understand that.
but they are kids.
that we mold.
into adulthood.
by teaching!


but no!
all you prostiticians!
stop being part of the fucktarded problem and become the fucking solution!


figures, tho.
these kids
they are all lawyers.
born from rich parents.
silverspoon and all in hand!


born to argue
and prove points.
and talk in circles.
to confuse.
and divide.
and conquer.


just like a couple little rich kids
trying to win mommy's and daddy's love.
and making the other sibling look bad.


fucking SHAME ON YOU!
all of you.
there is not one of you worthy of holding my jockstrap.
let alone the future of my kids.


grow the fuck up.
and do your job.
lead the fucking country!
stop the bickering like a couple fucktarded children.
mrs. red, mr. red
mr. blue, mrs. blue


red and blue together make purple.


i love being purple.


he said
she said
fuck you
bullshit!


fuck you and your dirty little fucking agendas
for the people that bankrolled your bankstarded fuckeroo into fuckity fuck land.
where you instantly forget the reason you are there.


to govern


of the people
for the people
and by the people...


not of the unions.
not for the corporations.
and by the big businesses


for the common good.
not the wealthy good
not the moneygod.


for us.


the people that pay your fucking salary
and give you life-time bennies.
and retirement.
and luxury.


while we lick the scraps of your pots
like a junkyard dog.

fuck you!

cuz you have fucked me for the last time.

fuck you!
and the whores you rode in with...
your fucking rich agenda bedfellows.


SHAME THE FUCK ON YOU!
children of a fucked up moneygod.
fuck you for all the reasons...
and more


the revolution is here.


who will stand with me?


till next time,
keep it stupid, simple


vote BET  in 2012!

The Art of Bitchdom

Today I'm up to a bit of thievery. I'm stealing a post from my friend Jumble Mash, but as it was a guest post I did for her, it may or may not actually count as larceny. I don't really care whether it does or not because my eyes hurt after staring at a computer screen for five straight hours.

Yup, this is all the effort you get from me today...just enough to copy and paste. I'm sure there are a few readers that we don't share and, therefore, have not read this particular post before today. If you did read it a few months ago at Jumble Mash, just put on your best shit-eatin' grin and pretend like you didn't.

Before my eyes completely disengage from my head, I will be popping over to catch up with as many of you as I can. Stay tuned for more guest posts coming both this week and next. Awesome stuff, folks. You won't want to miss it.

Well...here ya go.




Bitchin' ain't easy. You'd think it would be what with celebrities running around making it look like a piece of cake. Like Ellen Degeneres. Helping people and giving away prizes on fake game shows and dancing her skinny ass all over the place... What a bitch, right? It takes finely honed skill, nay, talent to perfect the art of bitchdom. I should know. I practice my craft every single day.


Just the other day, for example, I was in one of my "classes" (I parenthesize the word because I have no intention of telling you what kind of class it is. I can't have you all up in my business. I don't know you like that.) and the "teacher" was trying to recall a certain song that would go a long way toward helping her make her point. I thought I might know the song, as did several others, but none of us could think of the name. Except this one woman.


I want to interject that this woman is a psycho. Her very existence depends upon her getting married and having kids before she turns 40. She'll be thirty-nine in a couple of weeks. Needless to say, she drives me batshit crazy with her incessant whining about not having a man and not being married and not having kids. She asks everybody for advice and we all try to help her, but all she does is piss and moan some more. Maybe if she'd shut the fuck up for two seconds, she could get a man to do her. There are plenty of ways she could use her mouth to land herself a man and none of them involve whining. Just saying. Also, she doesn't listen and she always has to be right. Always.


Now for my part, I was going nuts trying to think of the name of this song. You know how you're trying to recall some tidbit of information, but it's playing hide and seek in the crumbling crevices of your rum-soaked brain? No? It's just me? Well, anyway, the teacher and I had already established that she and I were thinking of two completely different songs, but it was still driving me crazy trying to remember the name of my song, the one that was sitting on the tip of my tongue taunting me with its elusiveness.


Psycho Betty, not her real name, decided that the song we were both looking for was "The Climb" by Miley Cyrus. I said, "No, that's not the song I'm thinking of. The song I'm thinking of is sung by a dude."


She says, "No, it's not. It's The Climb by Miley Cyrus." Wow! I didn't know that bitch could read minds. Even so, her skills are grossly underdeveloped because I hear a man's voice singing in my head. I think I know the difference between Miley Cyrus' annoying feminine twang and the smooth baritone of a man. I guess when you're single for as long as she's been, the lines between bass and soprano get blurred.


By this time, I had completely given up on the teacher's song. I tried to relay this to Psycho Betty, but she didn't hear me. All she heard was her inner psycho telling her that she was correct. I went into the hall to call home and ask my ten-year-old if she could remember the song that was, at this point, about to cause either a psychotic break on my part or an early death on Psycho Betty's part. That's how much both the song and the bitch were getting on my nerves.


"'Live Like We're Dying' by Kris Allen," my brilliant daughter says.


Yes! I can relax now.


Not quite.


Psycho Betty insists, "Mrs. Hyde, the song you're looking for is The Climb by Miley Cyrus."


I lost it. "That's not the fucking song, you neurotic moron! If you say "The Climb" one more time, my foot is going to climb right up your ass." The whole class went silent, even Betty and the teacher. Oops. Let that be a lesson to all you Psycho Bettys out there: just shut the hell up and listen sometimes.


I didn't mean to go off on Betty. I actually like her and I did apologize to her later. I normally try to restrain my bitchdom in public. But sometimes...every now and then when the psychos threaten your sanity, you just gotta let that Bitch roam free.


I love you guys! Thanks for hanging in there with me!

Slut stigma

Everyone knows how much I love to talk about sex. Truth be told, I talk about it way more than I actually engage in it. Which sucks. Big time. 


But enough about my stagnant love life... One of my very dear bloggy friends, Holly over at Bitchin'... But Not A Bitch, has graced me with the pleasure of a guest post. Her post is about America's favorite past time. Baseball, you say? I think not. Today, we're talking about sex. More specifically, all the sex people assume you're having once the hymen is breached. Crude, I know, but let's remember whose blog you're on.


Holly's blog, I think, has accomplished something on one blog that I need two blogs to do: she has blended a mixture of warmth and wisdom with a little touch of bitch thrown in for good measure. Please stop by her blog and tell her the Bitch sent you. 


Now that all the niceties are out of the way, bloggers and blogettes, I give you Holly...



Post-baby and pre-marriage, a stigma follows you, telling people you're a slut. It might be true, or it might not; but the cat is out of the bag regarding your virginity. And not being a virgin is all it takes to become a slut.

Before the stitches had even dissolved, men were trying to have sex with me. But not really trying, because they didn't think they had to, so more just making lewd comments and inviting me into their bed or futon in their apartment or van, depending on their degree of creepy.

This is one such story.

I worked at the Olive Garden: a breeding ground for single people of all ages who like to fool around with their co-workers (I didn't know that when I took the job [or I would have offered to waitress for free]). One of the joys of working in a restaurant is never having a set schedule, but being at their beck and call for every lunch and every dinner. So it was one of these days when I was working a double (knowing Ms. Hyde's readers must be bright to keep up with her sharp wit, I will not explain the obviousness of this term) that a co-worker approached me about hanging out with me between meals. He had some innocuous one syllable name, like Ron or Rob - either of which he was too young for. He wasn't particularly attractive (balding but not quite bald - and still at that awkward length where he isn't sure if he's going to grow it into a comb-over or shave it off completely). These factors considered, I should have told him to fuck off. But I mistook his patheticness for harmlessness. 

So I drove him back to my place (he didn't have a car - see previous sentences). I had no intention of even saying his god-awful name, let alone fooling around with him. So I went about my daily chores - like feeding my puppy in an upside-down frisbee since I had spent all my money boozing. It was while I was putting the Kibbles back under the sink that Ro(b/n) called out from my bedroom. I turned around (it was a tiny one-bedroom apartment and you could see the entire place from the kitchen) to see his blue sailboat boxers around his ankles. And that's when he said it:

"Are we going to have sex or what?"

I went for the "or what" and drove him back to the OG in what has to have been the most awkward 3.1 miles of all time.

The next day, neither Rob nor Ron reported for his scheduled shift.

I have never seen him since. And in all these days since, I have never lost a moment of sleep about the one that got away.

But I'm sure he has. I have that affect on pathetic people.

Let this be a lesson to you men: if you want to wow a girl, get a car.
And more than that, wait to drop trou until she wants to see what you've got underneath.
Yeah, the second one is more important. Unless she's a gold-digger.

Sexy Vamp

I have a few hours to kill (ha!), so I thought I'd type up a post on my favorite subject (besides dumbasses, that is): me. I know what you're saying. Bitch, you always talk about yourself. What else is new? It's true, but I want to talk about something that will really clue you in as to the magnificence that is me.

Some of you know that I recently cut off all my hair and went "natural." To the clueless few of you who don't know what "went natural" means, I stopped relaxing my hair. This is a far bigger deal than you think, both the haircut and the lack of a relaxer.

Hair is a big part of what makes a woman feel special and/or beautiful. For at least the last 15 years of my life, I've worn my hair long and luxurious. It was instrumental in the creation of my sexy bitchitude and the main thing holding it together. I don't really know who I am without my hair. When I made the decision to cut off all my hair and never (well, maybe not never) relax it again, I was worried about how my self-image would change.

I cut it off and the first thing I felt was...


Wait for it...



Fat.

Nothing like extremely short hair to accentuate the bigness of your ass. Already having struggled with weight issues since giving birth almost 17 years ago, I was none too please about having my extra poundage so clearly...defined. I decided to shrug it off, hit the track, and significantly decrease my chocolate intake.

So as I sit here munching on a chocolate bar, licking its melty goodness from my fingers between keystrokes, I'm almost giddy to tell you about an experience I had yesterday, big ass and all.

I had to get a much needed oil change for the minivan that certain of my blog friends who shall remain nameless seem to despise. (Rhymes with The Pimptress) Realizing that it had been eight months since the van had had one (don't tell hubby), I hightailed to the cheapest oil and lube shop to get 'r done.

As I pulled up, I noticed that one of the mechanic or technicians or whatever the hell they're called followed me with his eyes from the moment I drove up, watched me get out of my car, and never took his eyes off me until I walked inside the building and up to the counter where he stood.

During this eye bath, I became self-conscious. I looked over my modest clothing to see if I had inadvertently spilled something on my shirt. My boobs tend to be food magnets; their favorites being mustard, spaghetti sauce and red wine. But no, he couldn't have seen that while I was still in the car...could he? As my muffin top was securely jammed into my jeans, I knew he wasn't staring at that particular "problem area." I had already done the cursory makeup and hair check before I exited the van, so I was good there. Finally, I said to myself, "fuck it" and went about the business I had come for.

When I walked up to the counter, I immediately noticed that the guy's breathing increased. I only noticed this because for the past week, I've been reading this vampire series and vamps can, apparently, notice subtle changes in things like that. Call me a wannabe, but that shit has me fascinated to the point that I've been acting like a vamp ever since I started reading the books: watching how people breathe, noticing smells and other things I wouldn't normally notice, biting people. Don't judge me. Last month I was acting like a werewolf. Okay, you can judge me. A little.

Thinking it was curious that he was suddenly breathing a lot heavier than he had been a few seconds ago, I proceeded to tell him what I was there for. He asked me a question, but he spoke so softly that I didn't understand what he'd asked. He cleared his throat, mentally strengthened his resolve, increased the volume of his voice and asked again. I gave him all the info he needed, then took a seat to wait.

Ten minutes later, he came back to report on what the dude under my car found, and he kept tripping over his words. "Mrs. Hyde, um, my guy said you have two tucked up fliers, I mean fucked up tires, I mean...DAMN...I shouldn'ta said that. Um...(chuckle) I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me...He said your tront fliers...UGH!...your FRONT TIRES are bad and you need to change them soon (mumbles something unintelligible under his breathe). You want us to undress them CHANGE them or are you, um, good?"

So...I sat there, brow furrowed, trying to figure out if the guy was having some sort of breakdown and if so, should I grab my shit and leave or call 911 and then grab my shit and leave? Even better, I should grab my shit and leave, and call 911 from the comfort and safety of my home. Swallowing hard, I informed him that I would tell hubby about the tires, I just needed his flustered ass to get my oil changed. I'll let you imagine the conversation about whether I wanted the regular or the premium oil change.

See how I casually threw in the fact that I have a husband? He was starting to freak me out and my vamp senses were telling me to get the fuck outta there. But, bad ass bloodsucker that I am, I stayed.

Fifteen more minutes later, this was now officially the longest fucking oil change I'd ever had considering there was no one before me. Urkel told me my car was ready. I walked over to him to pay for my services and he started breathing heavy again. I eyed him cautiously as I removed my credit card from my wallet and tossed it on the counter so as not to touch his creepy ass hands. He ripped the paper off the printer thing, picked up a pen so that I could sign the invoice thingy, and promptly lost control of the pen. It flew in the air, did a few somersaults, and came down millimeters from my face. Urkel damn near killed himself trying to apologize.

What did I do?

I grabbed my shit and left...fast.

I came to the conclusion, as I ran scared from the Oil and Lube, that I made Urkel nervous. I guess this means short hair or long, fat ass or no, I've still...got it? I don't know if I want it that fucking badly. If I wasn't so freaked out, I might have gotten my oil change and new tires for free. Oh well, live and learn. Right?

Maybe I'll post a pic after I put a couple layers of makeup and shit on my face. Maybe not. Don't know if I'm ready for the whole world to see my new look.

Thanks, you guys, for hanging in there with me during my procrastination studies. I have a few more guest posts coming up in the next couple of weeks. I'm going to try and alternate between my personal posts and my guest posts just so you won't forget me. No promises, though. Please come back and support my guests.

Love you!

Hug you, Asshole!

Wow.

We're ten days into May and I haven't had time to post anything on this blog. That's just wrong. Oh, I've had plenty to bitch about, like the dumbass who almost ran into my van and had the nerve to yell at me from his speeding car. Or my seventeen-year-old playing hooky, telling me she didn't, and sticking with the lie long after it was apparent that I had proof that she did it. Teenagers are so stupid. I hate them. All of them. Yours, mine, the Pope's. All. Of. Them.

Excuse me while I call President Obama and find out how I can arrange one of those convenient burials at sea.

I want to thank those that offered to do a guest post for me. I want to send a special thanks to those who actually sent guest posts. Thank you so much for enabling my need to ignore my readers at this busy time in my life. Bartender! Cuervo for all!

Before I present the first guest post by that awesome Aussie, Mynx, I want to post some of the homeless tweets that were submitted in the comments of the last blog. This is probably grossly un-PC of me, but I adored the homeless tweets. I'm not exactly sure what that says about me, but there you go.

From Annabelle: New Fridge box WOOT! Party at my corner. Bring your own sterno.

From Lovkyne: to the person who stole my water while i slept: i've been constipated for days and mixed my laxatives in there.

From The Onion: @smellsUNLIKEteenspirit don't go with the chinese food behind Lings. Too much fire, gave me the runs, TP?


AmandaO submitted these gems: @BoxCarWillie Hey man, left my jar at your box behind the station. Don't open it - those ain't pickles....


@ the subway trynn 2 hustle sum nickls. im sooooo booarrredddd txt me:)


And my absolute favorite from You're Lucky I Don't Have A Gun: @maninthemirror look at me like that one more time and i'm going to punch you in the fucking face.


What? Did you think I was going to take the heat for ragging on the technologically advanced homeless all by myself? Um...hell no.

For those who don't know my first guest poster, Mynx, she is the awesome Aussie author of two blogs. (Bow before my kick ass alliteration skills.) Dribble... is her journal. "I don't know where this is going," Mynx says. "But you are welcome to join me for the ride." If you want to take a ride of a whole 'nother kind, stop over to her naughty blog Simple Pleasures and prepare to be...stimulated.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Mynx. Bow chicka wow wow...




I am thrilled to have the opportunity to guest again here on “A Bitch Called Mum”
I have partied here before, when Mrs Hyde gave me the opportunity to release my inner “fuck” and tell a story all about how I surprised everybody on the Kindy Committee with my ability to not only say it loudly but multiple times.


The post below doesn’t use the fabulous Fbomb but was written when I was feeling rather fierce.


For those that know me, know I often sign off comments and posts with an affectionate “hugs”


One time, a male blogger (who I am no longer in contact with) struck up an email friendship with me which soon become obvious he was hoping for a bit more “Naughty Mynx” than the regular everyday Mynx from Dribble. (So not interested in that stuff)


He followed my blog and I started following his.  And commenting.  And the rest as you say is history...


You might consider this to be an overreaction, perhaps, but considering his attitude (and the way he kept hitting on me), I think his wife was probably right to be a little suspicious of him...




December 21st 2010


I have been chewing on this all day and I think it is time to spit it out. 


The other day I left a comment on another blog that was basically "get well soon, Hugs".  Now the blogger happens to be male and also had spent the weekend suffering from food poisoning and was apparently rather unwell.  


Now this morning, I woke up to an email asking me (very nicely) to "be careful" what I wrote in the comments on his blog as he found it tricky to explain to his wife why I sent "hugs".  


Now those that have been following me for a while would know that I often send hugs.  


Sometimes I even send kisses....to men even.  And if you get hugs and kisses WOW.  


That is me.  I do that.  Deal with it.


So being me I decided that the best thing to do would be to prepare a form letter for use in future, should I slip up and leave hugs where I shouldn't.


As with form letters, just print and delete unnecessary words.





Dear wife/ husband/ girlfriend/ boyfriend/ significant other/ sex slave/ doormat


It has been brought to my attention that you are concerned/ upset/ jealous/ miffed/ peeved/ curious/ about the fact that I left hugs/ kisses/ smooches/ death threats/ lace underwear/ chocolate cake on your husband/wife/boyfriend/ girlfriend/ partner in life/ master/ housekeepers blog.


Please be reassured that I have no intention of 
1/ Flying ..................(insert distance) to have a mad passionate affair
2/ Driving..................(insert distance) to have a mad passionate affair
3/ Walking................(insert distance) to have a mad passionate affair


In fact, I am too bloody tired to have a mad passionate affair with the man already in my bed so why the hell would I want one with ..................................?


Just because I write stories of a rather naughty nature and my profile pic focuses on my luscious /delightful/ glorious cleavage/smile/wineglass, doesn't mean I am looking to jump the bones of anybody other than my sexy husband.


Please accept that if ................................. blogs that they are sick /dying /in debt to the tax man / just ran over their dog /got yelled at by you, I am most likely to offer sympathy.


Standard sympathy includes virtual hugs.  


Hugs/ Smooches/ Love/ Kisses/ regards/ Happy Holidays/ yours sincerely


Mynx   xxxxxx (delete if considered offensive)




The blog world is the only part of my life where I don't have to deal with people telling me what I can and can't do.   
I have enough bullshit in my real life.  


Don't like my comments, delete them.  I am a big girl, I will survive.
Just don't try to tell me how to write them.  


It only pisses me off.


Whew! Remind me not to get on Mynx's bad side.