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.

Hold On Just a Little While Longer

Okay...I get it now. Once I survive having raised teenagers while they simultaneously survive having not been killed by a rabid bitch they call mom, my fairy godmother will appear to grant my wildest dreams and wishes.

My home will be transformed into a majestic oasis of beauty and light. There will be bathrooms that smell of early Spring raindrops, Scotch-guarded walls, floors so sanitary that not only can you eat off them, but you will eat off them. There will be kick-ass pixies who'll make sure that everything stays immaculate because if they see so much as a dirty sock on the floor, they'll zap your ass to kingdom come.

Angels will sing me to sleep at night and larks will serenade me in the morning. The sun will kiss my cheek and say, "Arise, precious queen of Hyde. Behold your reward for a job well done."

And there will be...




Silence.

And all will be right with the world.

Forever and ever.

Let the church say, "Aaaaaamen."

Dear Whiny Little Girl

Yesterday I received my first hate mail. Hot damn! I have arrived! You're not anybody in this blorld (blog world) if no one hates you.

I did a post about an episode of My Strange Addiction on TLC where the woman was addicted to makeup. I found it hilarious and, indeed strange. Her daughter did not. I didn't give a shit. I still don't, but because she's just a young bitch girl, I feel the need to address her concerns. Blame it on my maternal instincts.

Here is the comment from IAMASADBITCH with some red-pen corrections from yours truly:



"okay mrs hyde!
apparently you need a job and/ or a new hobby because its (it's) obvious you have neither when you can sit here all day long on the computer & waste your time, write an entire article about my beautiful mother when you don't even no (the word you're looking for is 'know') her! its (it's) apparent your (you're) unhappy with yourself for you to sit there and write all these negative things about other people...my advice grow up, get a life & grow some class (I don't think class can be grown, but you wouldn't know that, having none yourself) you look & sound like a complete dirtbag with your trashy mouth! did you ever think for 2 seconds my mother got paid to do this show?! (Of course she did. I never said she was an idiot, I said she was crazy) & if you ask me, you could definatly (definitely) use just as much make up as shes (she's) wearing (Um, no thanks. Deep lines and wrinkles don't appeal to me)!! misery loves company thats probly (that's probably) why you sit on the computer (I don't actually sit on the computer. That would make it difficult to type) all day long for people to agree with your ridiculous nonscence (nonsense), your (you're) sad & i feel sorry for you!

p.s...whatever you have to say about me or my mother will never phase either one of us considering where (we're) happy with ourselves & who we are.. so have fun sitting your ass online all day long making fun out of other people...&& GOD BLESS u sad bitch (Isn't it blasphemous to say 'God' and 'bitch' in the same sentence? So Christian-like...I really believe she's sending blessings my way)! :) <3"

First, I'd like to point out that when a little, red squiggly line appears under a word you've typed, it means the word is misspelled. 
Because you're a child, I won't give you the standard ass whupping usually reserved for full-fledged adults. That would be like arguing with a toddler which, for all intents and purposes, you are.

Do you know what's really sad, IAMASADBITCH? That you actually believed that your mother could go on television, on a nationally broadcast reality show looking like the poltergeist clown and not have people laugh at her. You're not angry with me, honey. You're angry because you couldn't talk your mom out of doing something so ridiculously moronic, it has people begging for more episodes of Jersey Shore. With all the drug addiction and alcoholism and sex and food addictions out there, your mother is addicted to makeup? How the fuck is that not hilarious? Your mother, I'm sure, was well aware of the reactions people would have as we watched her recount all the effort she goes to just to make sure her makeup has staying power and is super intense at all times. It was a blog post waiting to happen, really. It was a stand-up comedian's dream. I wonder if Jay Leno received hate mail from you as well? No? You've gotta respect Maureen's hustle, though. If I, like she, had no job and spent all my money buying makeup in lieu of paying bills and someone offered me money to have my bullshit aired, I'd have to at least consider it. But also, I'd have enough sense to realize that many, many people would call me on said bullshit.

Calling me a bitch is redundant. I know I'm a bitch and so does everyone who reads my blog. It's in the blog title, in case you had too much makeup in your eyes to read it. This is my blog. I can say what the hell I want about whomever I choose. If you didn't like it, creating a bogus account and attempting to insult my readers and me was the wrong way to go. I guess they didn't teach you at Backwoods High that we live in a free country. Freedom of speech, freedom of religion, freedom to blog about dumbasses at will.

I can appreciate your need to defend your mother. Even though mine was not the best, I was fiercely protective of her, so I get it. It's also very easy to be a badass in cyberspace. But, sweetie, anyone who puts their business on television for the whole world to see is fair game. Just ask celebrities. Everyone with the ability to type, speak, and/or aim a camera makes it a point to be all in their personal lives because once you let the public into your life, it's no longer personal. Your mother wanted her fifteen minutes of fame. She got it. If that has caused you pain, I suggest you take it up with her.

Clearly, you were so busy being offended and embarrassed that you missed my point. My point was that the term "addiction" is grossly overused. I've been guilty of it myself from time to time. People claim to be addicted to Farmville, to reality TV, to carbs, to sniffing cat shit. I don't really care, but it's not addiction. Nobody is addicted to makeup. Please. I can't even wrap my brain around how stupid an idea that is.

I'm not going to address your insults because they're juvenile and they prove just how young and naive and insecure you are. You can save your mean girl act for someone else because tantrums don't bother me. Why don't you go kick a puppy or something? Don't worry, you won't always be this way. You will grow up (hopefully) and you will be able to discern the productive from the counterproductive. I will address the statement you made about how happy you and your mother are with yourselves. You stated that you would not be phased by anything I said. Ah...you're showing your hand, little girl. I'd say you're quite phased, otherwise we wouldn't be having this conversation. I don't know anything about you aside from your being a coward, but it is obvious that your mother is not happy with herself. If she were, she would not believe that the only way she can be beautiful is to hide herself behind all that makeup. I hope she didn't pass that lesson on to you. As mothers, we try our best not to pass our insecurities on to our children, but our best efforts are not always enough.

I feel sorry for the both of you and don't think that your barely coherent rant didn't give me something to think about. When you see  people on TV, it's easy to forget that they are real people with real problems. They are set apart from you because you don't know them personally. And if they're doing something that you deem ridiculous, well, then they get what they deserve, right? I never thought of her as a real person until your anonymous comment on my blog. If someone had caused my daughter as much pain as my post has obviously caused you, I would be very upset and probably just as irrational. I did not intend to hurt your feelings, didn't even know you existed, but this is not a hole that was dug by me. You're angry with the wrong woman.

Do yourself a favor and stop trolling the internet looking to see who is bashing your mother. Instead, find her a good shrink. That is, if she actually does believe that she's addicted to makeup, which is probably not the case. It's not going to get any better. I doubt there is someone out there going, "I'm addicted to green eyeliner, too! Let's form a support group!" There is a chance, though, and if I find them, I will definitely send them your way. You can rest assured that neither you nor your mom will get anymore attention from me. Stop trying to stretch your fifteen minutes into a half an hour at my expense.

And please inform your mother that black eyeliner is equally dramatic and far less scary.


Every time I set out to rip someone a new one, I start to do that whole mom thing that pisses me off. Oh, well, I'll bring the bitch back tomorrow. Do you guys have any advice for our young visitor? She may never read it, but somehow, I think she'll be back. Remember when you were nineteen and you cared about what other people were saying about you?

BTW, so sorry about the clowns, my friends. I promise to give you plenty of warning next time.

Ten Things I Hate About You

I read a post yesterday (Hey, Barb!) where the blogger listed ten things she loves. I considered doing that. I've been extra specially bitchy lately and I could stand to impart a little gratitude. PMS is kicking my ass this month, y'all. I apologize to my male readers, but only a little. It's life. Deal.

After I read Barb's post, I tried to compile a list of things that I love. She had about three things on her list that I could have stolen, but I figured since I already hijacked her idea, I'd save any additional thievery for another day. I would like to post my list here for your enjoyment but...it doesn't exist. I gave up after about two minutes and decided to ride this extreme PMS to the end. Below you will find the list of:

Ten Things I Fucking Hate Only I Shortened It To Five Things Because My Attention Span Isn't That Long:

1. Stupid people. If you're new to this blog, you may not know of my strong dislike of the common sense-impaired. Read this and this and this to catch up. Don't worry, we'll wait. Well, I won't, but maybe my loyal readers will. Serves your ass right for getting here so late. While you're doing that, the rest of us will amuse ourselves with this hilarious video of Katt Williams.

Twenty on eleven, bitch! If I could get my hair as straight and bouncy as his, I'd have one less thing to bitch about. That would only leave 7428. Every little bit helps. One day at a time.

2. I hate when I'm trying to do something I shouldn't be doing, and a kid walks in and catches me. I quit smoking officially about five years ago. Unofficially, I still smoke the occasional cigarette or Black and Mild (the wine flavor is awesome). Mostly, I do it when some kid has catapulted me into crisis mode or when I'm out drinking with the hubs. He smokes cigars and I can't stand the smoke unless I'm smoking, too. Go figure. So the other day, I found out my sixteen year old hooked school and was "discovered" at his girlfriend's grandmother's house sleeping on the sofa in the middle of the day. Nobody was at home but those two and when they were found, the girl was on top of the boy...sleeping. Yeah, that's what I said. After comparing notes, the other mother and I concluded that they had, indeed, had sex.

I'm so not ready for this bullshit.

I ripped him a new asshole and then hightailed it to the liquor store where I purchased one Black and Mild. For those that don't know, a Black and Mild is like a small, cheap cigar that comes in various flavors for your ghetto ass enjoyment. As I was sitting in my parked car on the driveway smoking my cheap cigar and minding my own fucking business, guess who comes barreling out the front door having the nerve to look at me like he's disappointed? My late son. May his soul rest in peace 'cause there's not much left of his body.

3. I hate when I fold a load of freshly washed and dried towels and place them neatly inside the linen closet only to come back ten minutes later and discover that my once neat pile has been overturned because some kid or grown ass man needed to get his/her favorite towel from the bottom of the fucking pile. You don't understand. That shit is like nails on a chalkboard to me. No, worse. It's like leaving a teaspoon of butter pecan ice cream in an otherwise empty container. Somebody should die.

4. I hate when I want to be left alone and people don't take the hint. "Are you okay, Mrs. Hyde? Is something wrong? It sure seems like something is wrong. Are you sure nothing is wrong 'cause I'd hate to find out that something was wrong and I left it alone because you told me nothing was wrong." Let me make this clear: EVEN IF SOMETHING IS WRONG, IF I SAY THERE'S NOT, ASSUME THAT EVERYTHING IS PEACHY FUCKING KEEN.

5. I hate when people can't read my mind. If I know what's going on in my chaotic head, why the hell don't you? If you cared, you'd know what I was thinking. Okay, I'll give you one clue. When I bare my teeth like this, it means I'm considering sprinkling cat nip in your crotch and letting my cat go to town. Pop quiz: what am I thinking now? Damn shame...I thought you loved me.

This looks like a job for Jose Cuervo.

I ♥ Teenagers. Let's Ship Them All To Sweden

Teenagers make me reconsider my position on child abuse. I don't beat my kids, which is difficult considering they beg for ass whuppings on a regular basis. I wonder if I could pay someone to do it for me? You know, like a mob hit only still living but unable to sit for a week. If anyone out there has been considering going into business for themselves, I think this is an excellent entrepreneurial venture. I don't want to say that I just discovered the next big money-making trend, but...

All I'm saying is that I would pay big money for someone to slap my older kids around, and I know I'm not the only one. Think about it: you get the satisfaction of Corporeal punishment without the Liberal guilt. If you're a Liberal, that is. If you're a Conservative, you could always hire someone to kick your own ass.

I know, I know. I'm getting political on a blog that transcends party lines. Do you really think I give a fat rat's ass? I take the opportunity to piss off as many people as possible. I'm an equal opportunity pisser-offer.

Anyway...

I baked the husband a cake for his birthday. Okay, so his birthday was yesterday and I baked the cake yesterday, but didn't get around to decorating it until today. Who cares? He's thirty-nine; just curl up in the fetal position, massage your balding scalp, and get out of my way already.

The two youngest kids, who are still happy all the time because they don't realize how much the world sucks, wanted to surprise him and sing Happy Birthday when he walked in the door. So, everyone is gathered around the cake with three candles (so as not to start a fire) singing at the top of their lungs, and the two teenagers are just sitting there. No singing, no smiles, no enthusiasm whatsoever. Now, if I can bake a cake, decorate it, and sing while in the throes of debilitating menstrual cramps, surely these (insert cruelly inappropriate name here) can open their fucking mouths and sing for two minutes. This man works his ass off providing a good home and life for them and they can't even sing Happy fucking Birthday?

You know I lit into their asses. But not as harshly as I wanted to, though. I didn't want to ruin the entire celebration. Needless to say, I hope they feel like crap. On a stick. In a tornado. At the bottom of a sewer drain.

And please, I beg you, if anyone takes my suggestion about the kid-abusing business, shoot me an email.

Seriously.