WARNING: This blog is written by a PMSing mom. There will be lots of bitching. Here moms can say all the things they wish they could in real life if no one would be traumatized by it. SPEAK YOUR MIND. If you don't, I'll just say it for you. So you can either live vicariously through me or grow some big, clean-shaven ovaries and say it yourself. BTW if you're a bitch, but not necessarily a mom or a woman or PMSing, you're welcome, too. ALL BITCHES ARE WELCOME. Amen.
Hi, all my friends out there in the blogosphere! I bet you didn't expect to hear from me, huh? Hey, cut a bitch a break. I've been doing big things and I'm here to bring you along for the ride.
As you know, I've been enrolled in an accelerated PhD program since 2011. Yeah...turns out...not so accelerated. You can blame me for that. I was about as diligent with that as I am with this blog. You see how that turns out, right? However, I did manage to complete it within the allotted time (four months to five years). I came in at four years and ten months. Sweet.
So, it's official!
Just call me Dr. Bitch! You know you want to and several of you were waiting expressly for this opportunity. Have at it! I'm so cool with that. On this blog anyway. You know I don't go for that shit on the zen blog.
Along with my newfound doctor-hood, I've started a spiritual counseling practice. In light of this, I've had to make a few changes to this blog. Some of your favorite posts as well as some comments that I may or may not have made in the past, have been deleted. Also, there will not be nearly as many f-bombs dropped as usual. I'm not eliminating them altogether though. Because fuck. That's how I roll.
But I'm making these changes in order to spruce up my image for all my new and future clients. Once they get to know me, they will understand both sides of the complexity that is me, but I can't scare them off right at the beginning.
I want to take a minute, though, to thank all of my lovely blog friends who have supported me from the very beginning. Your kind words of wisdom and support have been invaluable to me. Even though I look around blogger and can no longer find most of you, I hope that one day you will see this and know that you are loved. I hope that your lives are happy and that your journeys have taken you to new and pleasantly unexpected places.
There I go getting the zen bitch mixed up with the bitch bitch again.
Anyway, stay tuned for the fun. I promise not to leave you hanging just because I'm all doctored up and shit.
I know nobody probably cares anymore, but I just felt like posting today. I don't know why. Probably because what I wanted to say was more than 140 characters long. Since it's my blog that I set up originally so I could bitch when I'm PMSing, I think I'll do just that. Bitch. It's what I do best.
So...
There was one slice of cake leftover from my boss' baby shower at work yesterday. It was just sitting there on the break room counter, minding its own business. It wasn't bothering a soul. Honey, I walked past that thing five times, casting subtle glances upon its deliciousness as I went about my morning, just praying that someone else would eat it.
Then around 11:30 am, my stomach started doing that thing where it's insisting on being fed. You know that thing where your stomach is basically making you its bitch? Yeah, that. I said to myself, "Mrs. Hyde, maybe the Universe will intervene and the cake will be gone." It would be better for all concerned if it played out that way. No tummy ache. No guilt. No buttercream icing clinging to my chin at the staff meeting.
The Universe did not intervene. The Universe was all, "I'ma need you to eat the healthy snack you planned and not run up those stairs, grab the cake and scarf it down as fast as you can so no one will see you because everyone knows you're trying to eat better and exercise and what will people think if you devour a piece of luscious, delicious, decadent red velvet cake?" Ok, so at some point the Universe stopped talking and it was all me, bad grammar, run-on sentence and all.
Then I remembered that I don't give a fuck what people think, so I ate the cake. It was so good! But I will not feel guilty about it. What I will do is eat better for the rest of the day and resume my health(ier) eating and trying to get in some exercise, for the love of all that is good.
Hey guys! I just wanted to jump on here quickly and apologize for my absence. Sometime before our anniversary celebration was over, I got a full-time job. Like, an actual job that pays actual money. Good for me, right? Add that to my accelerated PhD studies, kids (three or four, depending on whom you ask), marriage drama, and several weekly workshops and I'm sure you'll understand why I haven't had time to blog.
I haven't forgotten about you, though. I still love you guys and I will definitely try and find time to come on here and bitch about the new job. And the missing, now-adult kid. And the possibly-soon-to-be-ex.
For instance, I would have thought that being a receptionist in a medical office would allow me to sit on my ass for hours, thereby adding extra layers of cellulite to an already cellulite-riddled ass. But no. That would be too much like right. I have never been so fucking exhausted in my life.
The good news is, all that walking and faxing and filing and copying and shit has gotten me off my ass enough to not get LADLE again.
We'll see how long this job lasts. The last job I had lasted exactly thirty-six minutes. And I will never look at banana cream pie the same again.
Try not to get into too much trouble until I get back. Ha! I just gave someone advice on staying out of trouble. That's some funny shit...
Today's blast from the past comes from December 2010. I was on a bitchy roll in December. People were pissing me off left and right around the holidays. Must be why there are so many gems from that time.
Five down; two to go. Who remembers this fat ass dog?
PSA: Dog Love is in the Heart of the Beholder
I get it. Your dog is the cutest thing since those funny looking Olsen twins. Aw, come on. When Full House premiered and they rolled out those buggers as one little baby "Michelle," didn't you think, "What the hell is that?" Eventually, we grew accustomed to their weird little faces and they became adorable to us. That's how I feel about your dog. He's cute in the same way as any creature who licks his own ass is cute---from a distance.
The reason I've got a bug up my ass about canines today, aside from not getting any for at least five days (sleep, that is. the other thing either now that you bring it up. thanks), is because some woman whom I don't know felt it necessary to send us a picture of her dog in a Christmas card. My husband knows her from work, so there are a couple ways I could look at this. On one hand, she could be some old bitty whose only companion is her beloved dog and who wants to share her love of said dog with the world because he makes her so happy. On the other hand, this could be hubby's other wife on the other side of town making sure 'daddy' has a picture of his cherished pet to carry with him at all times. Either way, I don't give a shit. I don't want a picture of that bitch's bitch in my house.
Let me clear something up for all you psycho dog owners out there: You love your dog. You want to dress your dog up in tiny designer outfits and carry it in your purse and take portraits of it and feed it caviar and oysters. You want to look up from the desk of your dead-end job and gaze into the blue/green/brown eyes of the loyal pup waiting patiently at home for your return. You. Not me.
There's a way to gauge whether or not you should send those $200 Petco portraits out to someone. Ask yourself a couple of questions. The first one should be, "Does this person know my dog?" If the answer is no, stop, calm your hyper ass down, remove the address label from the envelope, and step away from the postal worker. Your third grade teacher couldn't give less of a fuck about Trixie or how good she was when you took her to see Santa. The second question is, "Does this person love my dog?" Again, if the answer is no, save that precious portrait for someone who does. Don't waste your money; we're in a recession in case you didn't know. If you send a picture of your dog to someone who doesn't love him, it will end up in the trash. Or, and this is probably just me, it will get folded origami-style into the shape of a mouse and given to my cat. Sure, I may like your dog, it's not likely, but stranger things have happened. I may even think he's cute. But if I'm not falling all over myself trying to get to your house to play with the pwetty wittle puppy wuppy who's a cute dog? who's the cutest wittle puppy in da whole wide world? then I DON'T WANT A PICTURE OF YOUR FUCKING DOG.
As I was writing this, a commercial for an animal shelter came on. The dog was cute and the voice over was funny. Now that the commercial is over, I have no desire to ever see that dog again. See how that works?
While we're on the subject, the same thing goes for your kids. I don't know how many pictures of anonymous kids I have in my goddamn photo albums. A girl I worked with once gave me an8x10 of her five-year-old. An 8x10, are you kidding me? What do you have a stash of gi-fucking-normous pictures stuffed in your bra to pass out like pro-life flyers? I had never even met the little heifer. Are people so proud of their little bundles of joy that they must insist on forcing their likenesses onto virtual strangers? Or are they so desperate for human companionship that they must create connections where clearly none exists?
Just to be clear any and all pictures of pets and children (let's throw in old people while we're at it) for whom I don't personally have love and/or affection will be trashed and burned, not necessarily in that order. You can waste your money, your Christmas card, your postage, and your time cutting those huge sheets into individual pictures if you want to. It won't last five minutes in my house.
Who the fuck is that? I don't know. Some dumbass I met on the bus stop gave me a picture of her twin rhesus monkeys. They were on a hit sitcom back in the '90's and then they grew up to vaguely resemble humans.
I apologize if this message is late and you've already purchased the Best Value package of pictures this year. Just think of it as advanced warning for next year. Besides, the dog will be a year older and a lot less cute. So will the kids.
I hear ya! I know someone who had a giant ass portrait of their dog taken so they could hang it over their fireplace. Do they have a name for crazy old dog ladies?
Hugs!
To which I replied:
Let's think of some now: dog crones, bitch bitches, wiener geysers...
A quick update to the story about the liquor store opening up next door to the church: the liquor store won. And I spend as much money as I possibly can there. Just for shits and giggles. I don't even need all this alcohol...but you and I both know it will be consumed.
For my next act, I will perform great feats of entertainment and education...sexual education, that is. This post, from December 2010, is the most popular post I've had to date. I wonder why?
The sex? The numerous penis references? The laughter at the expense of the not-so-heavily-schlonged? (I invented that term, btw. Go check it out at UrbanDictionary.com.)
Who knows? It's anybody's guess really. I'll let you decide, loyal reader. If by some coincidence your Nana is visiting you today, do her a favor and steer her away from the steamy video added here for your horn dog viewing pleasure.
But if she's anything like my Nana, she may have already seen it.
Sick Bed Sex Ed
WARNING: THIS POST CONTAINS A PICTURE OF PEOPLE IN THEIR BIRTHDAY SUITS. THEY'RE NAKED. IF YOUR DELICATE SENSIBILITIES WILL BE OFFENDED, COME BACK TOMORROW WHEN THIS POST WILL STILL BE HERE, BUT MAYBE YOU WON'T BE SO UPTIGHT.
I'm sick. And not in my usual "what the hell is wrong with that woman?" way. I'm sick in the sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, stuffy head, fever so get the fuck outta my face way. I hate being sick for lots of reasons, but the biggest one is because I have to sit still. I suck at sitting still which means I don't get much rest which means I stay sick for longer than I should have. Does the flu know that it's three days before Christmas? Does the flu know that it ruined the Winter Solstice party my youngest kids and I planned? My nine-year-old cut paper up into confetti-sized pieces to serve as "snow" and we couldn't even use them. You mean to tell me that I don't get to vacuum up a trillion tiny pieces of paper? Darn.
I dragged myself to the computer today so as to interact with the outside world and I came across this video. Now before you even think about it, you must watch the video. It's imperative to your understanding of the rest of this post. And it's hot. Pay close attention to the condom wrapper that will appear in the lower right quadrant of the screen. Don't blink because it's only there for a second.
Hot, right? Wtf? What happened to the other font I was using?
Hopefully, your eye is keen enough to have noticed the Magnum condom package. Magnum, for all you rock-dwellers, is a line of condoms designed by Trojan for the comfort of well-endowed men. I feel I should say that again for those who may not have understood.
MAGNUM is designed for the comfort of WELL-ENDOWED men.
The problem is, most men think they're well-endowed. The truth is that a large number of Magnum users are not. Would you like to know how you can tell if you should save your extra 35 cents per condom and go with the standard size? No? I'm going to tell you anyway, Nubby, because it's bad enough that you suck at oral sex, but now you're flopping around in a condom that's two sizes too big and the shit is starting to piss me off!
I'm sorry. I'll try to keep the flashbacks to a minimum.
If the condom slides off every time you extract your pocket rocket from a honey pot, you might have a little dick (imagine I just said that in my Jeff Foxworthy voice). I'm just kidding. Sort of. It might not be small, but it is too small for those Magnums.
Have you ever blown up a condom like a balloon?
As you can see, standard condoms can hold a lot of...what's the word I'm looking for...weight. If your pecker is bigger than the above picture, forget the Magnums and go straight to hot air balloons. And please upload a porn so that the rest of us can see this mythical beast.
Don't get upset and click the 'next blog' button, Wee Willy Winkie, all hope is not lost.
There are two ways in which one could consider his trouser snake to be "big": length and width (girth, if you will). Most women prefer a nice healthy girth. Change the word 'healthy' to 'hefty' for me. Length can be a good thing, too, but if you're blessed with a lengthy tube steak, please consider the following. The average unaroused vagina is 3 to 4 inches long. When a woman is properly aroused, her vagina elongates to accommodate the pork sword. So that takes it to, say, 5 to 7 inches. If your mutton dagger is longer than the depth of her vagina and you get a little overzealous in your love making, you will be slamming repeatedly into her cervix.
That shit hurts. Stop it.
All you girthy men pay close attention. The key words to either facet of well-endowment are properly aroused. You know how it's so much easier and pleasant to remove a ring that's stuck on your finger if you lubricate it before attempting to yank it off? Yeah, like that.
Please don't confuse the two. If a woman tells you that you are big, ask that bitch to be specific. Am I wide or am I long? It's big, but is it strong? Can I make you scream on a train? In Spain? While dancing in the rain? Men, it's important that you know which one she means, so that you can give her pleasure accordingly, with little to no discomfort (see cervix slamming above).
And lastly, for all you gentlemen who are neither average nor big, don't fret.
Not everyone is laughing at you. No, really. All you need to do is get really fucking good at cunnilingus and pack some big, powerful toys in your overnight bag.
And please, for the love of multiple orgasms, walk past the Magnums in the drug store.
I'd like to thank The Empress at The Ranter's Box for teaching me all the nice new references to male genitalia. I had fun with them. There are plenty of words for vagina on her blog, too, but since we've only recently gotten "permission" to say vagina out loud, I thought I'd stick to vagina instead of beating around the, um, bush.
...As for the Magnums, the DC schools give that brand out to kids because they're considered the "cool" condom. It's part of their pregnancy prevention program. I guess they grow em big in DC!
Indeed, Lolamouse. Indeed. Nobody under 21 should be allowed to pack that much heat.
I apologize for the break in the action. As I am constantly trying to be a better person, I went on a spiritual retreat this past weekend. Spiritual, not religious. Many of you know that I have "issues" with organized religion in general, so I can assure you that no one was waving a Bible in my face, proving to me that I am a wretched, wretched person. I have no problem with God; His "children" are who I generally have problems with.
Now I'm back and feeling all enlightened and what not, so I thought I'd share a post that sought to bring enlightenment to one reader who was finding it difficult to mind her own damn business. Enjoy!
Dear Mrs. Hyde, the ABCM Version (from January 2010)
So...this woman emailed me at thewellfedspirit@gmail.com because she needed a fresh take on a situation at work. Apparently, she was gossiping about a co-worker, only to find out that her assumptions were untrue. She asked for my opinion as to what her next move should be, and as I specified previously, she chose from which of my personalities she wanted to get an answer. She chose both. I just want it to go on record that she chose to do this. Okay? I will not be held responsible for any trauma caused by my response. Let's all keep that in mind as we're wondering what the fuck she's on and how we can get a prescription that strong.
Here, I'll let her tell the story.
Okay, here's the deal. At my job, there was a rumor going around that one of the married women in my department (Mrs. K) was slipping down to the mail room and having noontime quickies with a guy down there. Now, I don't really like Mrs. K--she's the kind of person who is always talking about her new this or that. I can barely afford to put gas in the car. So, like everybody else I started whispering when she disappeared at lunch time. Last week, I just happened to be in the mail room when she came down with her lunch. I hovered around to see which guy she would disappear with... Well, they didn't disappear. Her and the dude who wears eyeliner (Mr. E) were watching Ellen on a portable tv. So, now I feel like an ass, and I'm not sure what to do. Mrs. K notices that people are acting funny around her, but I don't think she knows why. I don't want to point out the obvious (Mr. E doesn't seem to be interested in women) because that's an HR violation. What should I do?
Um...yeah...how can I put this delicately? Oh, I know. Mind your fucking business. You said that you feel like an ass? Congratulations, you are. I mean, why in the name of Idris Elba's edible chocolate abs are you so concerned with what Mrs. K is doing on her lunch break? Get a life, boo. Because if you had a life, you'd be too busy to concern yourself with the potential sex lives of co-workers, married or otherwise.
I understand the mind of the hating ass bitch. (In case this is unclear, the hating ass bitch is you) You see a woman who has more material possessions than you. She drives a nice car, wears expensive clothes, owns a nice home, and has a gorgeous dick slinger to boot. She has worked hard for those things and is proud of her accomplishments, so she flaunts them. But that's not what you see. You, with your bad credit, hooptie, broken down slum apartment, and four baby's daddies see not the hard-working woman who has her shit together, but instead a stuck-up, bourgeoisie bitch who throws her wealth in the face of others. You know what? Maybe she is, but that's not the reason you hate her. You hate her because your shit is not together.
Your time can be much better spent if you focused more on achieving your goals and less on being a bitch about hers. You can spread rumors about her. You can put sugar in the gas tank of her BMW Z4 Roadster 2.5i (don't get caught because that's reasonable cause for a beat down). You could give her man the best blow job of his life in the parking lot while he waits for her to clock out from her high-paying job, but that won't change your situation. I get it. Misery loves company. What misery should start loving is effective fucking solutions.
What 's the difference between a happy bitch and a miserable bitch on one hand, and two miserable bitches on the other? Well, that's obvious, but the constant in both situations is that the original miserable bitch is still miserable. Think about it: do you really want her to be unhappy or is what you really want is for you to be happy, too?
Whether or not Mr. E is gay, because that's your implication, is none of your concern. There you go minding someone's business again. You should have no HR issues if you remember this: gay man or adulterous woman...there's no difference when you're slandering people.
To help your jealous ass save face, I submit the following. Go to your co-workers, you know, the ones with whom you've actively engaged in Mrs. K-bashing, and say, nonchalantly, "Girl(s), we were tripping. That bitch is down there watching Ellen with Mr. E, harming no one. I think I'll take this as a sign and mind my own dumb ass business from now on." Then eat your ramen noodles and shut the fuck up.
From now on, concentrate more on 'doing you' than 'fucking her' (over). Jealousy is not attractive. It's an ugly, poor, insecure, low self-esteem having punta.
Now ya know I'm not one to complain...but ya might have expanded on "You could give her man the best blow job of his life in the parking lot while he waits for her to clock out from her high-paying job" to include "and anyone else in the parking lot"...and provided a map to the parking lot...just a suggestion :-)
Does anyone know where Dad is? Haven't seen him in awhile. I guess I could just go ask Jumble Mash, but I don't really feel like it, so...
I just stumbled on your blog and I have one thing to say: You are a bitch-ass fucking genius!!!! I'm pullin' up a chair, parkin' my fat ass right here on your blog and waiting to be entertained some more! LOVE IT HERE!
Anybody who thinks I'm a bitch ass fucking genius is all right with me.
Today's Best of ABCM is a post from December 2010. The holidays always make me sappy...
Bottoms Up!
In the spirit of celebration, I have decided topiss off as many people as possibletoday. Those of you who usually find me lovable or at least entertaining might want to tighten your big girl/boy drawers. It's about to get bumpy in this bitch. I was on my way inside my favorite grocery store,Aldi, yesterday when I noticed a protest going on just a few yards away. About 15 people with signs that read, "Church and liquor don't mix" and "God doesn't approve" were shouting at anyone within earshot about the travesty that was unfolding before our eyes. A liquor store was opening right next door to their church and they were not happy about it. And worse, God wasn't happy about it. Let me briefly interject that I find it hilariously ironic that someone decided to build a liquor store right beside a church, but that's just me. Anyway, a young man approached me as I struggled to shut the trunk of my van while maintaining a death grip on my reusable bags so they wouldn't fly away in the 40 mph winds. He politely asked if I would sign their petition to prevent the liquor store from opening next to their awesome, wonderful, sent-straight-from- heaven church. I told him I didn't really care whether there was a liquor store next to his church because hey, it ain't my fricking church, but that I would sign the petition if that would make him happy enough to skip his little ass out of my face. "I don't understand, Ma'am." He was so well-mannered. His mama would have been proud. I explained to him that it's all a matter of perspective. What if, instead of seeing this situation as a curse, they looked at it as a blessing. If there is a liquor store next door to your church, doesn't that give you countless opportunities to "save" the "sinners" who might have a "drinking problem"? He said, "Ma'am, I can see how you would think that, but there are many members of our church, including myself, who are recovering from alcoholism and it's not a good idea to have a liquor store there while we're trying to worship." At this point, I'm about two seconds away from cursing him out because he's called me "ma'am" twice already. Asshole. He starts to rattle off a list of the long line of alcoholics in his ancestry and I told him to save the drama for his mama. My father was both an alcoholic and a drug addict, my mother still is a drug addict, I have at least six other family members with addictions of some kind and my husband is just a shot away from being an alcoholic himself. I, myself have at leastthree shots to gobefore I get there, so I'm good. The point is I'm familiar with addiction, so you don't need to sell me on it, Little Preacher Boy. Here's my question: at what point do we make addicts responsible for their own sobriety? For that matter, when do we make people, in general, responsible for their own lives? I understand that it is a daily struggle for addicts to maintain their sobriety. I applaud anyone who battles with this disease and manages to come out on top most of the time. Temptation is everywhere. How will a recovering addict learn to deal with temptation in a healthy, productive way if we shield them from it? How can they know the victory of overcoming an obstacle, if we hide the obstacles from them? If you're an alcoholic and you work at a dentist's office in a shopping center that just so happens to be three doors down from a bar, are you going to quit your job? Petition that they uproot their entire business so that you won't have to walk past it everyday? Or will you walk right past it and, when you feel tempted, keep on going until you find an AA meeting? Isn't that what's supposed to happen? When you find yourself in a situation that you feel you can't handle without the assistance of alcohol, you need to seek the assistance of those who are there to support you because they all have been where you are and will not judge you. Right? If that's not how it works, you definitely won't find my ass parked at an AA meeting when I finally fall off the edge of this cliff. Fuck that. If you walk down the street in any poor neighborhood in America, you will find a church on the corner. If you keep walking in the same direction, you will find a liquor store one block down. Keep walking and you'll find that the pattern repeats itself: church, liquor store, church, liquor store. This is where poor people find solace. If it can't be found in church, we'll just walk down a block and find it at the bottom of a bottle. I wonder if the protesters would have been as up-in-arms if the store were opening a block away. Is proximity the issue? Is God okay with liquor stores being erected a whole city block away from the church, just not right next door? And wouldn't the recovering alcoholics still have to walk past the liquor to get to the Lord? Or vice versa? What's your take? To those who will un-follow me now, I say, "Hey, it's been real." I'll see you at the next meeting. To those of you who will stick around, I say, "Thanks for having my back whether you agree with me or not." And feel free to cuss my ass out if you think I'm being offensive. You know I'd extend the same courtesy to you. That's how love works: I piss you off, you put your foot up my ass, we have a good laugh or cry, and then start that shit all over again. Oh, well...bottoms up!
****Update: I just remembered that I'm supposed to include a comment or two from the original post. Sorry about that. Here you go!
Sullie said...
I wonder if that church has a problem with Jesus turning water into wine...
Anyway, you know good in well that the liquor store is supposed to be a block away--so that everyone can pretend NOT to see fellow church goers patronizing the establishment...
Isn't the whole point of church to come repent after getting too drunk and _____? I'm confused as to what these people were all up in arms about. Apparently alcohol is the root of all sin: not the pedophile deacons or judgmental snobs or anything...God forbid we blame our sin on ourselves - there's always something else you can blame.
But hey, that's a whole soap box of mine I don't need to get into on your comments. Glad you took away the warning before entering your site - it made me feel naughty.
Approximately one year ago today, give or take a week, the creation that you all know and love came to be: A Bitch Called Mom. I approximate its inception because I don't know the exact date that I started this blog. I don't know the exact date because, well, this is what happened.
I started blogging because: 1. I read somewhere that every writer should have a blog. Sheep that I am, I signed up for a blogger account. 2. I honestly wanted to share my experience and wisdom with the world. I thought I could help people, women especially, go through some of the toughest times in their lives and come out on the other end happy. If you're not familiar with my blog The Well-Fed Spirit and you only know me from this one, you're in for a rude awakening if you should ever end up over there.
I created the Well-Fed Spirit and everything was going fine until one day, the bitch came out. PMS was wreaking havoc on the villagers and scaring the crap out of them, to boot. It occurred to me, during one particular tongue-lashing my husband was receiving, that I could blog my frustrations and unwelcome hormones away. Hopefully.
And so the bitch that you now know as Mrs. Hyde was born. But then the zen bitch felt bad about putting all that negativity out into the Universe and deleted the first two posts. Then the PMS bitch said, "Better on the internet than in my head," so I started it again.
A few months back, a blog friend Semi-True Torystellar, Tory to me because I'm cool like that, recommended I do sort of an ABCM Hall of Fame for my most popular posts. I don't remember her exact words or even when she said it, but I wrote it down so that I wouldn't forget. And I would have forgotten. I don't know how many brain cells I have left, but let's just say that they live so far apart, they only get together on the holidays to cry about how they're the last of a dying breed. I'm not going to re-post the most popular, though; sometimes what is popular is not necessarily good. I'm going to post the ones I think are the best of the best from past year.
It took me awhile to come up with the posts I think are the best ones because I think that all of my shit is gold. But I didn't want to bore you with three straight months of reruns, so I had to pick. I'll also include one or two funny/interesting comments that the post originally received. They will appear in no particular order, which means one day you might get a re-post from January 2011 and the next you might get one from July 2010. Gotta keep you guys on your toes.
Our first post is a blast way back from August 2010. It's a special post to me because it was the first time I met The Empress of The Ranter's Box fame. She's my sister from another mister and I love her to pieces. Go check her out if you haven't already. It's a relatively short one since I've probably bored you enough for one post today.
And now our first Best of ABCM post:
Fuck Meat Eaters
I just read a post by my all-time favorite blogger. Now just because he's my favorite doesn't mean I agree with everything he says. I'm not his fucking clone after all.
His post was about vegetarians. But not just about us, totally and completely trashing us. And his stalkers, um, followers just made the discussion even worse. There were racist comments, ignorant comments, dumb-as-fuck comments. It made me sick.
Don't get me wrong, I know that there are A LOT of vegetarians and/or vegans who take that shit too far. I, however, am not one of them and I get sick and tired of defending my goddamn personal decision. Bitch, I didn't say your ass had to be a vegetarian; I said I'm a fucking vegetarian. If you want to eat a big ass pile of fucking meat, I don't give a shit. Knock yourself out. But don't fucking judge me because I choose not to.
Stop being so fucking stupid. "Vegetarian" is not synonymous with "punching bag." Please stop saying stupid shit to me. No, dumb ass, plants do not have feelings, too. Yes, dumb ass, vegetarians do, in fact, give head and probably a helluva lot better than you because we know how to give pleasure as well as receive it.
This is the last time, the last fucking time, I will defend my personal decision to be a vegetarian. From this moment on, all you hypocritical assholes will get a kick in the nuts or a serious punch in the tits when you demand I defend my position. See, I really don't care whether animals are harmed or not.
BTW, fuck you.
Here's the only comment I received from that post:
Hi Mrs. Hyde! I found you through our favorite blogger The Bitchy Waiter. Like you I too am a vegetarian. That fucknugget who wrote those nasty racist comments on BW's vegetarian posts pissed my ass off. And I said so. I even wrote my own follow up blog post relating to being a vegetarian. ...You are funny and I look forward to reading more of your blog posts. Have a great week, The Empress http://rantersbox.blogspot.com
I know I'm supposed to be posting The Best of ABCM, but I have a funny, yet painful story to tell you. After you laugh your asses off at my expense today, you'll be happy I waited. To my male readers, I apologize in advance for the numerous vagina references that will ensue. Here's a link to something you'd rather occupy your time with. Don't click it if you're at work. Or school. Or church. Or your kids are within fifty feet of your computer. You've been warned.
I hope I don't gross you out too much because this is a story about my recent, failed attempt at hair removal.
I don't like using razors because, as some of you know, the texture of a black person's hair makes shaving an almost painful venture. Add to that the fact that razor bumps look atrocious and I'm sure you see my point. I'm not a big fan of using clippers because you have to do it damn near everyday and it leaves a look that's similar to stubble. Also not attractive. Home waxing kits have a tendency to take off your skin. Ouch. So being gainfully unemployed and therefore unable to indulge in spa hair removal, I was down to my last option: depilatories. Yes, I tried to use Nair for my personal...um... landscaping.
I know you're laughing at my stupidity by now, but in my defense, the bottle said it was "safe for the bikini area." Who knew that crap was going to seep into my lady bits?
So there I was with Nair carefully placed along the perimeter of my hoo ha, Nair covering both of my hands because boy, can that shit get messy, and suddenly my clitoris was on fire. And not in a good way. It had taken me all of fifteen seconds to apply it and by second number sixteen, I felt like there was something eating through my skin. Turns out, that's exactly what was happening.
It took fifteen more seconds to get all the gunk off my hands and yet another fifteen to get it off my crotch. All total, the depilatory from hell was on my body for approximately forty-five seconds. In those forty-five painful seconds, it had broken my skin and left me bleeding and raw. I felt like a cat had clawed its way into my pants. And although there are long lines of people waiting to get into my pants, that's just not the way.
It took me and my friend, a Reiki II and a Reiki master respectively, to heal my aching lady parts. Truthfully, I probably could have done it myself, but there are some things with which you take no chances. Vaginas fit in that category. I could barely even walk on Saturday, but by Sunday morning, thanks to Reiki healing and a healthy dose of Percocet leftover from some surgery or another, I was 99% better. Today, I'm at 100 percent.
It's times like this that I'm glad I don't have a job. How the hell do you call your supervisor and explain that you can't come to work because you burned your cooch?
I guess this means I have to go back to shaving. I know everyone is going to come on here and give me advice about the best razors and what not, and that's fine, but I think I've tried them all. Maybe I'll go all rogue hippie and just let it grow into a wild, wiry overgrown garden kinda thing. I do like gardens...
You can stop laughing at my dumb ass now. It was a momentary, albeit tortuous, lapse in intelligence. Okay, you don't have to stop. That shit is hilarious and even I know it. When I told a few of my friends, they were very sympathetic, but I know they were laughing inside. All except one friend who just laughed outright in my face. Bitch. That's one of the reasons I love her, though because I always know where she stands. Gotta love a bitch who will laugh in your face and not behind your back.
Tomorrow, for sure, I'll feature my best posts from this past year. You won't want to miss the bitching, the name-calling and the judgments that I've passed on people this year. I even called a woman the "c" word once, and I hate that word.
I just had one, so since I know that many of you aren't getting it regularly either, I thought I'd share mine. You can thank me with cash. That would make me a blog whore, huh? Oh, well, it's better than giving it away for free.
Jazz.
What is that about?
It's as difficult to navigate as Shakespearean poetry. It's akin to nails scratching a a chalkboard. In a word, annoying.
Whenever a man wants to impress a woman, he tells her he likes Jazz. I thought guys stopped doing that, but I swear, I heard a guy saying that to a blonde with big boobs just yesterday. Every time someone wants to seem "deep" or "mature," they proclaim to like Jazz.
Nobody likes Jazz.
That's the biggest crock of bullshit since Tom Cruise pretending to be in love with Katie Holmes so no one would know he was gay. Please. Jumping up and down on Oprah's couch. Who does that? He looked like a fucking idiot.
Straight guys were like, "Dude! Get your dumb ass off that couch and go to a gay bar or something."
Gay guys were like, "Don't send his jazzy ass over here. We don't fuck with him like that."
So yeah.
Jazz. Tom Cruise. Bullshit.
Don't ask me why I keep fucking with Tom Cruise. Something about him just bothers me. Maybe it was how he was on TV telling women they shouldn't take medication for postpartum depression. Hey, asshole: no uterus, no fucking place in the conversation.
And yes, I realize that I've used the word 'fuck' a lot today, maybe even more than usual. Well...it's that kind of fucking day.
My one year anniversary is coming up soon, so stay tuned for The Best of ABCM. I've written some gems that many of you have yet to read. Needless to say, you're in for a treat.
