Though my last post referred to bush trimming (and the innuendos were many I am sure...), this one is about trimming the bush that resides in your pants. It is a debate and personal choice, one which has become more and more practiced, some to the point of baldness, as the trends have changed. If you ever had the chance to look at a Playboy magazine from the 70's or early 80's, a woman's pubes were au natural. The bigger and bushier the better. It was like a bonsai tree of muff, a perfectly mounded afro that probably had to be combed down to fit into those Jordache jeans. The hubby and I watched a Russ Meyer movie when we were in Paris. (It seriously happened to be the only channel not in French or German so I succumbed.) The lead "actress" had a glorious mountain of hair on her box, she was fluffing it out with a pick it was so robust. As a kid who snuck a peek at my Grandpa's Playboys stolen by my brother or my parents' Joy of Sex book, I remember thinking it was quite normal to imagine that when I would become a woman, I would have a Michael Jackson afro on my cooch. Alas, this does not have to be the case.
I hate pussy hair. I think it is annoying. I am not trying to keep my twat cozy warm like it's hanging out, waiting for the bus in the rain, that's what fucking PANTS are for. So why does a woman's shit have to grow out, longer, and thicker, and WIDER every year she ages? If I went balls out and decided to forgo shaving, waxing, or trimming my poon for, let's say for the sake of argument, a year, I'm afraid I would have pubic hot pants. Is is really, really necessary to have that much hair growth down there? And what man likes that? It's like Indiana Jones trying to find the lost pussy cave if you don't maintain your muff. A nice bikini wax to keep your pubes neat and in line, maybe get out the scissors to trim them nice and short. Get it together, ladies. When I see you at the pool, in your mumu swimsuit, reaching for the Pringles can for your whiney kids, I don't want to mistakenly glance over and see Chewbacca peeking out between your legs. If it's too much to tuck up in there, get out the God damn weed whacker and go to town.
On the extremist opposite side, there is the school of thought that bald is better. A "Brazilian" leaves a small Hitler-looking mustache on your labes. Like a miniature landing strip at the O'Muff International Pussyport. Everywhere else, including your asshole, is hairless. Squeaky clean. Nary a pube in sight. Is it creepy to have no hair and feel like you did before you went through puberty? Naah. Unless you are wearing your daughter's Hannah Montana panties. Is it creepy to ask your esthetician to slap some wax on your stink star and rip it clean? Maybe. Depends on your relationship I guess. I say less is more. Less shit to get tangled in like a God damn boobie trap. I am anti-pube.
If you are a man you need to be responsible for maintaining your jungle, too. If you are flexible enough to bend over after a long day at the office and can take a whiff of your own balls, there are two things I am thinking. One, you are quite flexible and probably prefer Danny's Swingin' Salami Lounge to Hooters. And two, you now know what we women lovingly refer to as "swamp crotch". Not only does your nutsack need to be thoroughly washed before I even contemplate venturing South of the border but please, for the love of God, keep those nuggets pruned like Martha Stewart's vegetable garden, got it? We don't mind a few sprouts but if we need to de-thatch, aerate, and pull weeds just to find your zucchini, guess what? The ladies are gonna shop in another vegetable garden. Just don't think that because you have the Almighty Penis that your little Garden Fairy is supposed to drop over in awe and amazement at it. Please, at least make it palatable so we don't cough up a God damn hairball.
If you are a vegan beast who is anti-deodorant, anti-meat, anti-razor, you are whore-ganic. That is just fucking rank and nasty. Don't get me wrong, I am all about the tofu, but Jesus Christ, you fucking STINK! Please stop standing by me and my posse at the gym. Wanna know why? Because your bush and your pits look like you are wrestling squirrels, that's why. I am going to razor-rape you in the parking lot of Whole Foods so watch out. I'll be the hairless one who smells like Kukui Nuts and vanilla. Don't be afraid, you will thank me when your husband can actually see your twat and it doesn't smell like a red onion salad. You're welcome.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Yardwork Sucks Balls
To all of you out there who are either smart enough or rich enough to hire a professional to not only mow your lawn but trim your bushes and trees and weed all the nasty prickly shit that grows in like annoying ingrown pubes, kudos to you. Hell if you are "trading services" by fucking your gardener so he licks your bush while he trims the one outside, fucking brilliant I say. Maintaining one's yard suck ass. If someone is sucker enough to do it for you, have at it.
I loathe weeding. It's like dusting, every time you do it once the shit just comes back!! Pruning bushes and trees is hard-as-shit work that always results in multiple flesh wounds and a pile up of giant paper yard bags overflowing with unnecessary foliage. Why are weeds so God damn nasty?! Those little bitches have sharp as fuck prickers that poke through my SUEDE yard gloves. What the fuck did I ever do to you, ugly bitch-ass weed?! You take over my neatly mulched flower beds and fuck it up with your trashy, unkempt leaves. You are like the jackass redneck I seem to see at Meijer every week, with your permed mullet and trench coat in summer, who gets caught for shoplifting something gay, like deodorant. Weeds and rednecks are plain menaces to society. And the roots apparently reach China because I can never seem to pull them all the way from the ground without them breaking off. So the little cocksuckers can grow back.
I used my giant pruning shears which actually lengthen to reach into trees if I want. Yay! This makes them about 40 pounds heavier and harder to manage. Using these fuckers to trim my trees and bushes is like trying to control a 150-pound Pitbull on Ecstasy. They kind of have a mind of their own. These bitches are sharp enough to cut the balls off a rhinoceros with elephantiasis in his engorged nutsack. I wished to God I was more like Mr. Miyagi in Karate Kid with my bonsai tree trimming skills. I take more of a "whack this fucking bush to shreds so it doesn't hang over my neighbors fucking yard" approach. They now resemble the jacked Christmas tree in the Charlie Brown Christmas special. Sad, really sad. So there I was, whacking my bush (uhh-huhhh), and there are mounds of branches and leaves falling to the ground. I felt like a food-deprived member of Survivor on day 39 when I have dementia and dysentery from eating lizards and ants. I could have made a damn fine bed or hut or miniature cabin with the amount of branches I cut down. Instead I had to put all that bullshit into the 6-foot tall, 1-foot wide yard bags. To whoever invented these, thank you for making them so easy to open and stand upright. It would be easier to get inside a pre-op tranny's pussy than shove your wood into one of these.
Bugs were biting me, branches were scratching me to shit, I was getting sunburned in 55 degree weather, I smelled like a fucking deodorant-free vegan convention, and guess what?! I only finished HALF of my fucking front yard! What the FUCK?! I still have a weedy mess of shit in the backyard. There are more weeds than decorative bushes. (And I like some decorative bush, sometimes with glitter...) Our Birch tree which is like that fucking tree in Poltergeist that eats that little kid, it scratches at my dining room window as if to say, "Trim my shit, you lazy twat! I am more overgrown than Rosie O'Donnell's cunt!" I have another massive bush that is literally blocking my side gate. The fact that the crew of Mexican lawn mowers can even get into the back yard to mow is probably because they are so short. Or maybe they crawl under the rabbit hole that Peter Rabbit and His Busy Pecker have dug so he can hit that bunny poon on my weed patch. Great, another reason I need to yank that shit up. I am running a bunny brothel and I am the pimp of my weed patch. I feel like busting out the napalm and just going for a desert theme. Bunnies won't fuck in the sand.
P.S. If you're panties are in a wad over my Mexican comment, chill. They ARE in fact Mexican, they ARE short, and you are jealous because you are still mowing your own lawn. At least I was smart enough to hire someone out for SOMETHING. Anyone into bush trimming?
I loathe weeding. It's like dusting, every time you do it once the shit just comes back!! Pruning bushes and trees is hard-as-shit work that always results in multiple flesh wounds and a pile up of giant paper yard bags overflowing with unnecessary foliage. Why are weeds so God damn nasty?! Those little bitches have sharp as fuck prickers that poke through my SUEDE yard gloves. What the fuck did I ever do to you, ugly bitch-ass weed?! You take over my neatly mulched flower beds and fuck it up with your trashy, unkempt leaves. You are like the jackass redneck I seem to see at Meijer every week, with your permed mullet and trench coat in summer, who gets caught for shoplifting something gay, like deodorant. Weeds and rednecks are plain menaces to society. And the roots apparently reach China because I can never seem to pull them all the way from the ground without them breaking off. So the little cocksuckers can grow back.
I used my giant pruning shears which actually lengthen to reach into trees if I want. Yay! This makes them about 40 pounds heavier and harder to manage. Using these fuckers to trim my trees and bushes is like trying to control a 150-pound Pitbull on Ecstasy. They kind of have a mind of their own. These bitches are sharp enough to cut the balls off a rhinoceros with elephantiasis in his engorged nutsack. I wished to God I was more like Mr. Miyagi in Karate Kid with my bonsai tree trimming skills. I take more of a "whack this fucking bush to shreds so it doesn't hang over my neighbors fucking yard" approach. They now resemble the jacked Christmas tree in the Charlie Brown Christmas special. Sad, really sad. So there I was, whacking my bush (uhh-huhhh), and there are mounds of branches and leaves falling to the ground. I felt like a food-deprived member of Survivor on day 39 when I have dementia and dysentery from eating lizards and ants. I could have made a damn fine bed or hut or miniature cabin with the amount of branches I cut down. Instead I had to put all that bullshit into the 6-foot tall, 1-foot wide yard bags. To whoever invented these, thank you for making them so easy to open and stand upright. It would be easier to get inside a pre-op tranny's pussy than shove your wood into one of these.
Bugs were biting me, branches were scratching me to shit, I was getting sunburned in 55 degree weather, I smelled like a fucking deodorant-free vegan convention, and guess what?! I only finished HALF of my fucking front yard! What the FUCK?! I still have a weedy mess of shit in the backyard. There are more weeds than decorative bushes. (And I like some decorative bush, sometimes with glitter...) Our Birch tree which is like that fucking tree in Poltergeist that eats that little kid, it scratches at my dining room window as if to say, "Trim my shit, you lazy twat! I am more overgrown than Rosie O'Donnell's cunt!" I have another massive bush that is literally blocking my side gate. The fact that the crew of Mexican lawn mowers can even get into the back yard to mow is probably because they are so short. Or maybe they crawl under the rabbit hole that Peter Rabbit and His Busy Pecker have dug so he can hit that bunny poon on my weed patch. Great, another reason I need to yank that shit up. I am running a bunny brothel and I am the pimp of my weed patch. I feel like busting out the napalm and just going for a desert theme. Bunnies won't fuck in the sand.
P.S. If you're panties are in a wad over my Mexican comment, chill. They ARE in fact Mexican, they ARE short, and you are jealous because you are still mowing your own lawn. At least I was smart enough to hire someone out for SOMETHING. Anyone into bush trimming?
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Fucking Meth Labs
I needed to purchase a few items from my pharmacy counter today which contained pseudoephedrine. Not heroin. Not LSD. Not crack cocaine. But sincere thanks to the toothless, sleep-deprived, Walmart shoplifting freaks who decided making meth in their basements and ignoring their babies for a week so DCFS comes a knockin' was a fucking genius business opportunity. No, really, THANK YOU.
Have you ever been close to being over your limit on your bank account or credit card? You play the "let's see how much I can put on THIS one" game at the register. That's exactly how I felt today when I needed to buy Children's Sudafed liquid, Claritin D, and regular Sudafed. I felt like saying, "No whammies, no whammies, no whammies..." But then BAM! You may NOT buy that much pseudoephedrine-containing drugs, Miss Dressed Like a Ballet Teacher But Is Clearly the Head Dealer of the Meth Ring in Bolingbrook!!! Suck my right one, fucktard. I know what the hell is gonna make me, my hubby, and my sniffly-nosed kids feel better and it sure as hell ain't that bullshit alternative phenylalalalalalalanine or whatever the hell it's called. That shit makes me feel dizzier than Pamela Anderson on the spinning teacups at Disneyworld. Give me the good stuff and I will give you a personal tour of my basement, bring your ephedrine-sniffing canines, do a body cavity search for all I fucking care.
Why do a few bad apples have to spoil the bunch? It saddens, shocks, and pisses me off that it really was such a fucking problem that now you have to sign away your stored cord blood of your first born, your 401K, and your dead cat's ashes just to buy a God damn box of those little red pills. And the gum-smacking bitch behind the counter has no sympathy, in fact she was eyeing me up and down to make me flinch. I am not guilty of SHIT, Laquonda, so avert your eyes from my miniscule pile of the good shit!
So now in a few weeks I might be eligible to have 10 more pills, or whatever the government has decided is my legal ration. I am guessing it takes an assload of those little pills to create any decent amount of meth. Two boxes of 20 pills and a bottle of grape-flavored kids' Sudafed is really gonna put my over the edge? REALLY? Fuck you, FDA. Fuck you, meth lab tweaktards. And fuck you Walgreen's. Now my house will stay congestion-free for maybe a week. See you soon, ephedrine whorehouse.
Have you ever been close to being over your limit on your bank account or credit card? You play the "let's see how much I can put on THIS one" game at the register. That's exactly how I felt today when I needed to buy Children's Sudafed liquid, Claritin D, and regular Sudafed. I felt like saying, "No whammies, no whammies, no whammies..." But then BAM! You may NOT buy that much pseudoephedrine-containing drugs, Miss Dressed Like a Ballet Teacher But Is Clearly the Head Dealer of the Meth Ring in Bolingbrook!!! Suck my right one, fucktard. I know what the hell is gonna make me, my hubby, and my sniffly-nosed kids feel better and it sure as hell ain't that bullshit alternative phenylalalalalalalanine or whatever the hell it's called. That shit makes me feel dizzier than Pamela Anderson on the spinning teacups at Disneyworld. Give me the good stuff and I will give you a personal tour of my basement, bring your ephedrine-sniffing canines, do a body cavity search for all I fucking care.
Why do a few bad apples have to spoil the bunch? It saddens, shocks, and pisses me off that it really was such a fucking problem that now you have to sign away your stored cord blood of your first born, your 401K, and your dead cat's ashes just to buy a God damn box of those little red pills. And the gum-smacking bitch behind the counter has no sympathy, in fact she was eyeing me up and down to make me flinch. I am not guilty of SHIT, Laquonda, so avert your eyes from my miniscule pile of the good shit!
So now in a few weeks I might be eligible to have 10 more pills, or whatever the government has decided is my legal ration. I am guessing it takes an assload of those little pills to create any decent amount of meth. Two boxes of 20 pills and a bottle of grape-flavored kids' Sudafed is really gonna put my over the edge? REALLY? Fuck you, FDA. Fuck you, meth lab tweaktards. And fuck you Walgreen's. Now my house will stay congestion-free for maybe a week. See you soon, ephedrine whorehouse.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Lure Me In
In these trying economic times several retailers have had to file for bankruptcy, thus closing their doors and liquidating their inventory. When it comes time to move merchandise these stores have to figure out a way to lure extra customers into their places of business. Enter Awkward Giant Sign Holding Guy. This dude is probably paid $40 per day to stand on a corner with a 7-foot sign plastered with info about "Total Liquidation!", "20-70% off all MERCHANDISE!", and "Everything Must Go!". Most of the men (I have yet to see a chick do this job) I have seen look like the dregs of society. The hispanic dude who was advertising for our local Linens and Things had greasy hair, dirty grey jeans, a Sony Discman probably playing Journey's Greatest Hits, and a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. Hardly caused me to feel inspired to go buy some clearance comforters and sheets. The skinny black guy who held the towering sign for Circuit City was drinking a beverage clad in it's secret paper bag cozy (Mad Dog or Colt 45), also had filthy jeans, and the same dangling cig from his lips. This dude HATED this job and it showed on his "Fuck you, I am Sweaty, Hungover, and Hoping to Escape my Probation Officer" expression. Most of the poor souls who commit to this dreary mindless job have the same sort of look and enthusiasm. Why bother? I can smell your 3 day old stank through my car window. I don't really want to buy anything you are selling. And yes, though no one else wants to do this shitty job, this hobo-looking mother-fucker represents YOUR store. So maybe you should rethink the hiring. A shower and no cigarette perhaps? The best representation I saw recently was in front of a going-out-of-business sale at a store I cannot even recall. Want to know WHY I don't remember the store? Because the guy holding the sign had enthusiasm, hygiene, and DANCE MOVES! If I had to guess his name I might wager Lance or Skippy. His Heather Locklear-highlighted coif was swept back by a few coats of Aussie Sprunch Spray. (You have to remember that shit--it smells like grape candy!). He was jumping up and down, SMILING, and no cigarette was in sight! I am not sure if there was a song in his head or he had a boom box resting beneath his enormous sale sign. He was popping side to side around that sign not unlike the VonTrapp kids in The Sound Of Music when they were "cuckooing" in the "So Long, Farewell" montage. It was inspiring. One thing was for sure, he was not drunk, not hungover, potentially a super-closeted child of Jesus freak parents who home school, and wearing a dapper ensemble that included white jeans and penny loafers. PENNY FUCKING LOAFERS. His smiled, popped aside the "Clearance NOW" in neon yellow letters and did a suave kick ball-change. I felt like putting him on the Hot Tamale Train a' la' Mary Murphy from So You Think You Can Dance. Had I not been driving at semi-warp speed to drop my daughter at Girl Scout camp I would have stopped to buy whatever the hell he was selling. Which looking back might have included crystal meth and a Book of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints....with a Lance Bass bookmark....
Friday, July 10, 2009
About That Disco Stick
I curse in the privacy of my own home. Okay, so that's a lie, I curse wherever the mood strikes me but I AM able to practice discretion. If I'm really pissed off I will fucking swear, even in front of my kids. But that's MY choice. What really gets my panties in a wad is the direction musicians are taking with their lyrics. Between the raunchiness of their subject matter and the leniency of what radio stations play it is nearly impossible to find anything suitable (that's not the douche-bag Disney channel radio) to listen to with my kids in the car. My kids are dancers, they like current music but even the radio edits these days are off the charts dirty. Today I heard a song called "I'm That Bitch". Nice. Lady Gaga sings about wanting to take a ride on your disco stick. The Black Eyed Peas are amazing artists but their album is littered with "shit", "bitch", "fuck" and "nigga". There's even a silly song called "Don't Be a Douche Bag". I get it. You are bad-ass. You are really, really rich. You don't want to compromise your artistic integrity. But why does your great music has to have such growingly explicit content? Can't you just chill out on that shit a little bit? It's like you are trying to "out-motherfucker" each other. What's next a ballad called "Lick My Throbbing Nips and Make Me Scream"? Or maybe "You've Got A Trouser Snake I Wanna Lick"? How about "Baby Want a Blowjob"? And don't give me the "there are edited versions" bullshit because that's only for the three or four songs actually released for radio from the album. You greedy-ass, dirty-mouthed bitches. Don't get me wrong, I love me some f-bombs. I guess I want to have my cake and eat it, too. I'm just getting a little burned out on my Camp Rock and High School Musical soundtracks, folks.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Lane Fucker
When I am ready to unload my merchandise onto the conveyor belt at Target would you kindly back up off my grill?! It is a huge pet peeve of mine when my personal shopping space is invaded as I complete my shopping adventure at a store which requires a conveyor belt, such as the grocery store or Target. Why is God's name do you insist on inching your cart forward till it's literally 4 inches away from my achilles tendon as I unload my shit? Do you think I don't see you waiting for me to put the plastic bar down to signify the end of my shit? Is your time more valuable than mine because you keep glancing at your watch? I fucking get it but my kids need to picked up in 20 minutes, too, beeotch. Do you think that just because I have spent 15 minutes unloading my probably close to $300 worth of groceries and am now sweating profusely I should let you go ahead of me because all you have is a 6-pack of Coors Light and three Hungry man dinners? Nope, sorry dude. Why don't you pick up a copy of Local Singles magazine because those dinners and beer aren't exactly gonna lure the ladies. I also cannot stand it when parents let their young kids encroach upon my zone. There was a little girl today at Target who had her grimy mitts resting on the belt as it rolled forward, decreasing my merchandise load zone by a full 10 inches. She was staring up at me like I had a baby's arm growing from my forehead. I never made eye contact because I wanted to deny gratification for this inappropriate behavior. I also noticed her mother staring at me as well. She never said, "Gee honey, why don't you step back and let this nice lady load her 50 pound cat litter and Tide detergent and sofa-sized packs of Bounty and Charmin?" Instead I could feel the white trash glare of her and her Nascar tank top-clad husband, Bubba. I think the family had a handful of items which is why I think they expected me to give up my precious space ahead of them. Fuck that shit! Maybe if you controlled your daughter's belt fondling problem I might have considered it. FINALLY it was time for me to load my ginormous toilet paper package and the mom snidely said, "Honey, be careful so she doesn't pinch your fingers!" Well excuse the fuck out of me! Bitch, you'd better hurry up and get home because you left your Jello and cottage cheese salad out on the coffee table. And Wheel of Fortune starts in 15 minutes.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
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