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.

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
-this
-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.

It Won't Kill You to be Normal

My ass hurts.

Ouch.

I'm sure all you perverts are coming up with countless scenarios as to why that is. Could I have given hubby an extra special valentine's day present?  Hell no. Exit only, please.

Could I have been taking horseback riding lessons? Yes, but not recently.

My ass hurts because people, in general, are a pain in my ass. Not just my kids and people I know, either. People from all over the world, all walks of life, people of all races and genders and religions and body mass indices get on my fucking nerves.

I know you're asking yourself, because you'd better not dare ask me, is it all those people or is it Mrs. Hyde? It stands to reason that if you have a problem between an entire group of people and one lone person, that the problem would lie with the [delusional] individual. It seems highly unlikely that the issue would be hundreds upon hundreds of other people instead of just the one little old me.

Trust me, it's them.

I even have a special name for them. I call them...dumbasses. Speaking of dumbasses, The Dumbass of the Week for the week ending 2/12 was Gangster Church. Google New Rising Missionary Baptist Church and tell them of the high honor they have achieved for themselves over at ABCM.

The dumbass about whom I'd like to bitch today is Maureen.

Maureen is a woman I saw on the TV show My Strange Addiction. Maureen is a fifty-something (don't quote me) woman who is addicted to makeup. More specifically, she is addicted to green eyeliner. Maureen, my friends, is a dumbass.

As I attempted to catch up on  my Tivo'd episodes of this show on TLC, I watched her talk about how severe her addiction to makeup really is. She spends four hours putting on makeup everyday. The only time her face goes unpainted is when she showers in the morning, which means that she sleeps in full fucking makeup. She visited a tattoo artist to see about having green eyeliner permanently tattooed to her eyelids. Green. Eyeliner. I shit you not. Even I can't make this stuff up. The tattoo artist was confused as to why a sane person would want permanent green eyeliner. She said to Maureen, "Bitch, if you wear a blue top one day, you're going to look real fucking stupid with permanent green eyeliner around your tired ass eyes." I'm paraphrasing, of course. Maureen replied, "I wear green eyeliner everyday no matter what color I have on." The tattoo artist was speechless. I wasn't. But then, she couldn't hear me screaming at her through the TV.

Apparently, somebody forgot to tell this bitch that she is FIFTY. Oh, and that she looks like the Poltergeist clown.


I realize that I am eating this voyeuristic crap up like a lard ass at a buffet...or...me...at a buffet, but since when does every dumbass thing that dumbass people like to hitch their dumbass brains to qualify as an addiction?

That bitch is not addicted to makeup.

That bitch is fucking crazy.

She got it in her head that if she never takes that ugly makeup off, she can, somehow, hold on to the way she looked in 1969 when that shit was in style. Question: was it ever in style? And if so, why? Her skin looks so leathery that if she opens her mouth in public, someone might mistake her head for an overnight bag. I'd shut the hell up if I were her.

If she wants to know about addiction, I'll tell her about the time my mother left an eight-year-old me and my four younger siblings at home alone for three days while she satisfied her heroine jones. That's addiction. Or the time the doctor told my father that if he didn't stop drinking, the corrosion of his liver and pancreas was going to kill him, yet my dad kept drinking. That's addiction. Makeup is not a fucking addiction. An obsession, maybe. Making your face look like a handbag, for sure. But an addiction? Fuck no.

Wash your face, get over the idea that the Six Million Dollar Man is going to leave the Bionic Woman for you,  and give your poor skin a rest, lady.

The sad part is, aside from all the damage she's done to her skin, she's actually pretty without all that goop. She looks about ten years younger than she does with it on. She looks normal.

Why the fuck does the whole world hate normal?

Random Acts of Dumbassness Revisited

Did you see it? Look to your left. How about now? Not that, silly. I'm talking about my Studio Thirty Plus 2011 Boomerang Award for Best Mommy Blog! Yay me! I want to extend my heartfelt thanks to each and every one of you who voted for me. I don't care if you weren't actually familiar with my blog at the time, but only voted because you liked the name A Bitch Called Mom. A vote is a vote. Besides, I did the same thing with the categories where I didn't recognize any of the blogs. This confirms my suspicions that I am the best thing since butter pecan ice cream. I knew it.

In case you missed it, here it is again.

Isn't she purty?

I think is says something that the Best Mommy Blog title went to a blog that bitches about motherhood (and countless other things).  I think women are grateful that I am not ashamed that, while I adore my children, motherhood can be a bitch. A big, sexy bitch at that.

While I was dicking around otherwise occupied this week, I also received this award from Chief a.k.a. Dad over at Unsound Reasoning. I usually don't bother with all that a.k.a. crap, but apparently, some of you were uncomfortable calling him Dad, so he changed his moniker for his loyal readers. You're lucky it was him and not me because if my blog name was Pussy Willow and my readers had a problem calling me 'Pussy', then that would just be your fucking problem, wouldn't it? Don't worry, Chief, you'll always be my daddy Dad to me. ;)


Hannah at Erratic Questions About a Simple Life gave me this one

The Stylish Blogger Award. This is the third time I've received this award and I just have one question: how do you people know I'm stylish? Most of you have only seen the one picture of me, and in that pic I just so happen to be dressed up (it was my 20th high school reunion. More on that at a later date). I really don't care, award whore that I am, I was just wondering.

Thank you, lady and gentleman, for your kind words and blog love. I eat this shit up like king crab legs and melted butter. It's fucking orgasmic. It's also apparent to me that every time I ignore you guys for a few days, you shower me with awards to gain my attention. So to keep our dysfunctional relationship going, I shall continue to abuse you.

A few months back, I attempted to create a regular weekly series called Random Acts of Dumbassness. In this series, I would comb the internet for stupidity, and there is stupidity a-fucking-plenty on there, post my faves, and have my readers vote on the best one, dubbed Dumbass of the Week. That series never had a chance to get to get off the ground because the following week, my friend was killed over a parking space. I plunged into an abyss of sadness and anger for awhile, and by the time I emerged, I'd forgotten all about it.

Well, it's back! I couldn't just let all that stupidity go un-bitched about. I don't think it will be a weekly occurrence, but I will pull it out and dust it off for you occasionally. I meant that in the dirtiest way possible.

Click this link to see our first contestant, Ass to Mouth Disease. Sue me, okay. I couldn't figure out how to embed the picture into this post, so I just provided a link. What? The website wouldn't let me copy and paste, which is pretty much all I know how to do. How stupid or stoned do you have to be to brush your teeth with Preparation H? When his mouth starts to smell like itchy, burning ass, I'm sure he'll learn his lesson and read the label next time, ten shots of tequila or not.

Our second contestant is Cancer Head:

God didn't make crack heads for our amusement, people.

This has got to be one of those things where they pay homeless people to do stupid shit and then post it on the net. I'll bet he's got one up his ass, too. Why the hell not? It's no worse than this.

Next, we have Boy-Stuffed Shark:

I wonder what's eating little Timmy?

Sadly, this was the last time Timmy was ever seen alive. Let's bow our heads in a moment of silence and pray that the rest of his siblings don't make the mistake of taunting a hungry shark. Seriously, he couldn't be sending a bigger dinner invitation to the shark if he jumped into the shark's mouth himself. BTW, that would have been his next trick...had he survived.

And finally our last contestant and my personal fave, Gangster Church:

That little window of text on the pic? I didn't do that. You know I'm tech challenged.

If you're not a member of this church, you ain't shit. And not only are you not shit, they won't hesitate to do a drive by on your punk ass or straight jack you for your papers if they catch yo ass in the streets. I want to know who's idea this was. And I want to know who approved of it. And I want to know who sold the shirts at the church bazaar. And I want to know how many of said members thought it was a good idea to not only buy one, but also wear it proudly outside the four walls of their bedrooms. I guess it's true that sheep will follow you anywhere you lead them. Can you imagine what one of their Sunday services looks like? I can see it now...a 400 pound bouncer at the door to keep out the riffraff,  he doesn't speak a word, but if you get out of hand, he slowly opens his blazer to reveal the Glock that's strapped to his waist. Video ho attire and colorful weaves are the norm. Instead of playing hymns as they pass the collection plate, they play songs like Get Money by Junior Mafia. The ushers crip walk down the aisle and little old ladies throw their hands in the air and praise the Lord like they just don't care as the choir sings  In Da Club by 50 Cent. After all, God is in da club, right? The pastor comes out looking like an unholy cross between Dolemite and the pope. He is lavished with praise and amens as he informs the congregation that the deacons will be pimp-slapping all the non-tithers. 

Sorry for rambling on that one. I'm just trying to wrap my head around a church that openly condones stupidity in the name of God.

Cast your votes in the comments below. If you don't cast a vote for Dumbass of the Week, you ain't shit! 

Texting While Dumb

This is a post I did when I was a guest over at Can U Relate? in November. Some of you may have read it already, but that doesn't stop it from being a good read. Read it again. You  know you want to. It'll make you feel good. 


That's me being subliminal. The reason I'm semi-reposting is that I'm tired as hell. In the interest of not acquiring LADLE, I decided to shovel some snow this morning. My other interest was in not assaulting my kids. They've been home for five days now; that's the weekend, two days for Professional Dicking Off Development, and one snow day. I love my children (95% of the time), but too much of a good thing is not such a good thing. Look at me and Cuervo. See?


Thank you, Semi True Torystellar, if I haven't said it already, for letting me stomp your yard. That sounds vaguely sexual, doesn't it? Insert an inappropriate, yet funny joke here and we'll move on.


It's difficult to know what to write when called upon to guest blog for someone. Several things need to be taken into consideration. You have to consider what type of readers their blog has. Are they the sensitive, religious sort or are they heavy drinking party people? Or somewhere in between? What does one write as a guest blog post, anyway? I know what I write on A Bitch Called Mom, but is it appropriate for Can U Relate? Will Semi True Torystellar's readers like me or will they pelt me with stones for not being as wonderful and witty as she? Will they identify with what I have to say or will they shake their heads and wonder why I've wasted three minutes of their lives?

Fuck it. I gotta be me. If you don't like it, don't complain to me. This ain't my blog.

In keeping with the basic format of my own blog, I shall do what I do best: bitch. Not only will I bitch, but I will bitch about one of my favorite subjects. Drum roll, please...dumbasses.

Have you noticed lately that people appear to be getting dumber? With all this wonderful technology, with more people attending college, with slavery being abolished over 200 years ago, with women having had the right to vote since 1920, you would think that we would be rising. As a nation, as a society, as a whole. Instead we're falling. Then we get back up and fall again. Okay, so slavery and women's rights have little to do with this particular bitchfest, but roll with it.

Take texting for instance.



Calm the fuck down, I'm not about to bash texting. I, for one, don't like to have actual contact with people if at all possible. I love texting because that way people don't keep me occupied for hours with their annoying ass problems. If I could text sex in, my husband would get it way more often than he does now. Actually, if I took my cues from teenage girls, I guess I could text in sex. But I have a headache, so maybe tomorrow.

I get that it is easier and faster to type
idk y ur getn on my fukn nervs stop plz b4 i prk my fut up ur ass
rather than
I don't know why you're getting on my fucking nerves. Stop please, before I park my foot up your ass.

It's succinct, streamlined, expeditious. I appreciate quick answers because I have too much shit to do and not nearly enough time to do it. Gt 2 the fukn pt alredy.

This is what I've been seeing a lot on Facebook lately:

I Aint Gon ' Lieee , Yuh Lorr Butt Beh Loud As Ah Motha - Eff ' Err

And 

Gettinqq Hair Donee Todayy . Permm Is Callinnqq My Name Wooohhh Childdd , Lmboooo ! Noww I Gottaa Waitt For My Movah Too Cum Home ! Listen To Nicki Nd Customizinq Piksss ! Hmu !

Correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought the whole point of the texting/IMing thing was that you could type in less letters and still have people understand what you're trying to say. As you can see from my examples above, and hell no I did not make them up, we're apparently now supposed to use text misspellings with additional letters added at the end. WTBFF? (nobody was brave enough to ask what this meant in the original post, so I'll tell you now. What The Bloody Flying Fuck. Genius, I know.)

I don't understand why, if you have the inclination to type in additional letters, can't you just type in the correct spelling of the original word? Why does it seem like people are using texting as an excuse to be stupid?

If you're a poor, stupid shlub who can't spell, that's fine. We laugh at you behind your back, but we understand. Anyone who's ever had a brain fart and forgotten how to spell a simple word like "been" or "is" or something like that understands. If you're stuck in forever text mode and have a tendency to use text language in your emails to your boss, that's fine. You may not have a job for long, but we get it. But if you're an unpleasant combination of the two who also writessss innnn snakeeeee languageeee, I have a fucking problem. And if I have a problem, other people have to listen to me bitch about it.

Please do the world a favor and save it from my bitching. I think that's something we could all be thankful for.

To review, let's see what we've learned today:

1. stupid people chap my ass

2. I'm a bitch

3. I don't give a fuck doesn't like it

Amen.

P.S. Please like me. I need friends.

Dollar Store Danger

First, I'd like to thank the blog gods, without whom none of this would be possible. Next, I want to thank my husband who has been so supportive of  my need to bitch to strangers. Thank you, honey! Oh, and I can't forget all the dumbasses who have given me endless blogging topics what with all their dumb ass antics. I love you all. Without you, there is no me.

I'm back now. Just having a little dream of blog fame. Seriously, though, I would like to thank all of my wonderful friends and readers who have given me awards and nominated me for The 2011 Bloggies. I am honored and deeply touched. I knew that I was going to nominate my favorite blogs, but it never even occurred to me that people would nominate me. Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! This is my new Stylish Blogger award from Jumble Mash:

and here's my Life Is Good award from Semi True Torystellar:


I will get to passing the awards on and their conditions later. Right now I have a promise to fulfill...the Dollar General story.

Last week, I promised to tell you the harrowing story of why I refuse to go to the dollar store on Friday mornings. Here goes. May my pain be your entertainment.

Follow me, if you will, to a cold Friday morning in the winter of 2008. Our antique washing machine (or was it the dryer? I forget) was on the fritz, again, so I had to venture out into the cold to wash, dry, and fold a week's worth of laundry for six people at my local laundromat. The one good thing about using the laundromat is that you can get it all done in one swoop. So, instead of taking a whole day to do laundry, you could be finished in roughly two hours. That's good shit.

This laundromat was located in a shopping center, some of you may refer to it as a strip mall, so in addition to laundry, you could have lunch at the Chinese carry-out, replenish your liquor cabinet, stock up on synthetic hair, buy a year's worth of unhealthy groceries for under $100, or peruse the inexpensive, low-quality wares of the Dollar General store.

There I was in the second stretch of the laundry games, drying my delicates at an unnaturally high temperature,  when I decided to take a short walk down to Dollar General. I had 56 minutes to kill. My fridge was already overflowing with cheap, unhealthy food. Of course, you already know that both my liquor cabinet and weave were tight, and greasy Chinese gives me the trots. Yes, Dollar General it was.

I was in there browsing, trying not to brush up against anything lest my clothing be covered in three month old dust. I briefly considered calling my husband to chit chat, but then I remembered he was asleep having just gotten in from work about three hours prior. No sooner had I put my phone back inside my coat pocket that I heard a commotion from the front of the store. There was a distinctly masculine voice yelling at someone. I couldn't understand what he was saying because, although I could tell it was male, the voice was muffled.

That's odd, I thought as I walked toward the front of the store like the stupid woman in the horror movie running from the killer in six inch stilettos. You know the one. You're screaming at the screen, "Bitch, take off the damn heels! He's right behind you!" But for all your helpful screaming, she leaves them on and trips over a log the size of a German Shepard and somehow, can't figure out how to get back up. I'm her now, walking my dumb ass toward the danger instead of away from it.

I get to the front and realize that the yelling is coming from the manager's office, the one cleverly concealed by a two-way mirror. Whomever thought of that one is a fucking genius. I would have never guessed that there was an office back there. You mean this isn't a regular mirror placed here for customer convenience in the baby care section? But I need to see myself as I shop for diapers and nursing pads. Whatever.

There's lots of movement and yelling going on in there now. It sounds like the manager is being attacked, but I still can't make out what the attacker is saying. I look toward the door and there is a guy in a ski mask kneeling and tying his shoe. Yes, folks, he was tying his shoe. That's how you ensure that you won't fall when your ass is being chased.

Think fast, Mrs. Hyde...the door is blocked by a possibly dangerous assailant...what do you do? Return to the rear of the store, of course. Get as far away from these thugs as possible and maybe they won't notice you. I walk back down the aisle and my heart is pounding in my chest. A man and a woman who apparently had the same idea, join me in the back. I remember that I have my cell phone right there in my right pocket. I can dial 911 while the criminals are occupied at the front! Then a little voice in my head said, "That's not a good idea. What if they hear you?" Right. I'll wait until they leave and then call.

A split second later, a split-fucking-second, the shoe-tying bandit rounded the corner, seemingly from nowhere, pointing a huge silver gun at us. "Everybody face down on the floor," he said, gesturing with the menacing weapon. We got our asses down on that floor but quick. He lingered a second too long, and in that moment, I thought sure he would shoot me in the back of my head.


No! I thought. I am not going to die like this on the dirty floor of the Dollar General. I am going to get up from here soon and I am going to get my clothes out of that god awful laundromat and I am going to pick my kids up from school. I am going to see my kids and husband again. I am going to talk to my sister again. I'm going to leave this place alive.

By the time my inner pep talk was over, they were gone. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief that we were all still alive. The police were called and one man, who probably had warrants pending, made himself scarce real fast.

And now for the part that pissed me off.

While we waited for the police to arrive, my bossiness kicked into overdrive. I had worked at a bank for several years, so I knew what to do in case of a robbery. The manager was pretty shaken, she couldn't do much to help. I told everyone not to leave until the police arrived. I told them not to talk to each other about the description of the robbers, so their answers wouldn't influence the memory of the others. And would somebody puh-lease get this female off-duty police officer who's having a nervous breakdown a drink of water and a chair?

Listen, I understand that the woman was traumatized. I understand that she'd thought her life was in danger. Her life probably flashed before her eyes and all that. But....BUT doesn't this bitch get paid for this shit? More than that, isn't this bitch trained specifically to handle dangerous situations? I didn't expect her to whip out her nine millimeter and get to capping, but I damn sure didn't expect her to bawl like a fucking toddler. Anyone who carries a semi-automatic weapon around on a regular basis should not be a blubbering fool under pressure. All the take-charge shit I was doing, she was supposed to be doing. Why wasn't that bitch getting my ass a drink of water? If ever there was a bitch in the wrong fucking profession, it was she, and don't think I didn't tell her that shit, either.

To ease your minds, I want you to know that I wasn't mean to her. I made somebody bring her weeping ass a chair, didn't I? What I said to her was more like, "Honey, maybe you should think about a new career. The dangerous job you have now is, obviously, not for you." Her face flushed and wet, snot making a slimy path toward her mouth, she nodded and said, "You might be right."

Um...Ya think?

Fuck!

I can't tell you how honored I am to do today's post. I have asked one of my favorite bloggers in the world to guest post and she has graciously agreed.

As you know, it is my mission in life to corrupt the world one 'fuck' at a time.


I believe the quickest way to do that is to start with the nicest, classiest people you can find and influence them so that 'fuck' becomes a regular part of their vocabulary. Like 'hello' or 'peanut butter' or 'I am a Christian.' You know, normal stuff. To that end, I have asked the sweetest woman I know to crash my blog and unleash a whirlwind of 'fucks' all over it.

This shit is gonna be fucking fun.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Mynx, author of Dribble and Secret Pleasures. Enjoy!

Look where I have landed.  

On a “Bitch called Mum  Mom,  oops, nearly Aussied your blog Mrs Hyde.

Firstly let me tell you how fucking glad I am to be asked to guest here.  Did you see that? I said the “F” word and not even on the naughty blog I also have.

Surprise you did I?

I never really say “fuck” on my blog.  Well I must have a couple of times because one day I did one of those word cloud thingys and there it was. 

In real life I do tend to say it more, but usually only when I am really stressed.  You see, I am/was a bit of a goody two shoes.  But here I am, where not only am I allowed to say “fuck”, I can even say it lots and lots.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, hehehe.

Said it out loud in the car the other day.  Big C said “Mum, the word is Fudge, FUDGE”.  

Fuck, I am being told off for bad words by a 14 year old.

I must admit that reading it in a lot of blogs tends to make it easier to say.  If my blog wasn’t a secret from my real life I might have replied “Awwww but Mrs Hyde says fuck all the time and her kids don’t tell her off”.

When Mrs Hyde asked me to write this guest, I suddenly remembered a situation when I said Fuck a lot, and very loudly.  And surprised a fuck load of people in the process.  

As I was a full time Mum, I got involved in the boys Kindergarten (preschool for 4 year olds).  So fucking involved, I was made chairperson of the fucking parents committee.  (see how good I am getting at using the f bomb)

Part of the role was planning and organising fundraising and the committee decided this particular year to have a massive garage sale (yard sale?).

Weeks of collecting stuff from parents, promoting it around the area. Sorting pricing and storing until the day.  An early start (5 am) to get things ready.  A sausage sizzle to keep the men happy while the women browsed.

If you think this was hard work, you are not wrong Narelle.  

The partner of one of the women on the committee had volunteered to help.  Yay, we thought, needed a guy or two to be useful.  

How wrong were we?

While we women worked our tushies off, this guy (let’s call him John) decided it was much more fun to sit on his arse and play on the computer half the morning.

Anytime something that needed a guy happened, he became the invisible man.  

Finally the day was over and while taking the money to a room to count, John approached me and said,“Gee this was an easy way to make a pile of cash, we should do it every month”

And being the lady I am, I gave him the death glare and walked away.

Jenny, who had seen him speak to me, but not heard the comment came over and asked me what was making me look so steamed.

It was then, for the first time in anybody’s memory that I let it really rip.

“That fucking, John, he fucking thinks that this was a fucking easy fucking way to fucking make money and has suggested that we fucking do it every fucking month.  Well if he wants to fucking organise this fucking nightmare, he fucking can, because there is no fucking way we are doing it again for at least another fucking year.”

When I finally came up for air, I looked at the girls around me and their stunned faces.

And then we laughed.

And it became a bit of a legend.  How John made Mynx say fuck more times in one minute than she had said in an entire year.

And the fucking Garage Sale, well it made a shit load of money and became a fucking annual event. 

And John, he remained a fucking lazy dumb ass.

Wasn't that fucking awesomeness dipped in chocolate and deep fried on a stick? And my two favorite subjects: fuck and dumnasses!

Thanks for dropping by and entertaining us today, Mynx. You can bring your arse over here and Aussie my blog any day! Love you!

Oh! Had to come back and edit to add this on: if any of my other readers would like to guest on either of my blogs, please let me know. Just remember that there are rules for The Well-Fed Spirit, but absolutely no rules whatsoever for A Bitch Called Mom. Well...maybe one or two rules, but you know what I mean. Rabbit and The Empress, I know you're busy, but as soon as things die down over there, I'm coming for you two...

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.

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.

Random Acts of Dumbassness

I was driving down Eastern Ave this afternoon when I saw something that lit a big spark of inspiration in me. It was a man dressed in a wife beater, camo capri pants, tube socks, flip flops, and a straw hat. Take a minute to truly appreciate the visual. I'll wait.

"He looks like a dumbass," I thought, but couldn't say aloud because I had my son's soccer team in my van at the time. From the smallest spark grows a mighty flame. It was then that I came up with the idea to do a regular segment on this blog entitled, you guessed it, Random Acts of Dumbassness.

This is how it will work: I will troll the internet for pictures and/or videos of people engaged in the art of stupidity. I'll also keep my eyes peeled in the real world. Then I will post said media here for all seven of my followers and you guys get to vote on the winner.

Ready?

Contestant #1: Throw Nana From the Gang


Yes, somebody's nana is throwing up gang signs. Don't wear red in the wrong part of town, Nana.



Contestant #2: Sex Education



Children, pay close attention to the way Sapphire claps her ass cheeks together and spins around the pole with one leg. There will be a quiz.



Contestant #3: Worst. Tramp Stamp. Ever.



Come one! Come all! Step right up, folks! (damn, I didn't even have to try for that one)



And last, but not least, Contestant #4: If Mama Ain't Happy, Ain't Nobody Happy



Mommy, this red one looks like the one you keep under your bed.

Cast your votes now! There are other dumbasses waiting for their 15 minutes of shame.