I am so fucking sick of everyone thinking their kids are entitled to trophies, traveling sports teams, modeling gigs, dance solos, student of the week, and even fucking presidential fitness awards. Some people are winners and some are the losers. It is how life works, get a fucking helmet and get used to it, bitches. Not everyone can be on the team. Wanna know why?? Because then we have a team of 6 decent players, 4 mediocre ones, and 10 that stand and scratch their nuts or pick their noses or cry like little bitches because they don't REALLY want to play or work hard. They just want to wear the uniform and get the golden trophy all 20 asshole players get at the team banquet because GOD FORBID anyone fucking get their feelings hurt at the end of a season. I call bullshit.
My kids don't play sports. They are not interested and frankly, because I sucked as at any an all organized sporting activities that involved running, nets, or moving balls, I'm guessing they inherited their sporting skills from Mommy. My kids are dancers. I teach dance. We eat, sleep, and breathe dance. Dance is athletic as shit but I do not believe it's a sport--it's an art. I'd say they are pretty damn good at it but this was not a result of them being shot from my cooch doing a pirouette into the splits. I prodded and pushed and coerced and eventually they gave enough of a shit to work hard and and now they are good. And like it. I am not one of those crazy-ass stage moms who is fat as shit, who never got her turn to be in a tutu because the physics of the proportion of weight in her body in relation to the width of her toes in relation to the support of a pair of itty bitty satin pointe shoes never computed into anything less than a size "hefty" costume and sprained ankle. I encourage, I praise. I do not expect them to make every company, land every role, get chosen for every specialty dance routine that's ever put on. Why?? Because just because they are my hell-spawn does not mean they are perfect. Even in my eyes.
Sometimes it's tough to be objective when looking at your own child. You see your child as perfect, having all the necessary skills and strengths. Be realistic people. Your kid is not Superman. I was rejected from plenty of dance auditions. But it gave me good experience and made me tougher. If your kid doesn't make it into a team or whatever they are trying out for, it does not mean the teacher/coach hates them, is racist, or is a fucking asshole. Maybe your kid just isn't ready yet. It's a fact of life and the sooner we accept this, the better our kids will turn out. Does it teach them good lessons for life is EVERYONE makes it?? If EVERYONE gets a 1st place ribbon?? If EVERYONE gets the grand supreme tiara?? Nope. Because in the real world you get promoted by blood, sweat, and tears. Okay, there will be certain unethical situations where a friend or relative helps you get a job. But don't go sleeping with the boss to move your way up in the ranks, that will bite you in the ass quicker than having Lindsay Lohan or Winona Ryder as your personal shopper.
Maybe your kids IS great. Maybe they are some freak prodigy who can sing like a bird or run like a gazelle or catch balls better than Ricky Martin at a pride parade. Good for them. But maybe they suck. Maybe they are awkward and trip over their own two feet or despise you for making them try a sport YOU were star player in. Face it, it's not in the cards for them. Hang up the cleats or ballet shoes, maybe they're be good in art. Or playing an instrument. Or maybe they'll live in your basement until they're 35, playing video games, eating Doritos, you'll be doing their laundry, and they will never get married. Sorry, had to give you a grim reality check. Get that kid off the damn couch to do SOMETHING!!!!! I'd rather have a kid who is excellent at playing the trombone and drawing comics than whining at the pool because he is bored, tired of swimming for 6.2 minutes, wants another ice cream, and has moobs.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
For 25 Cents More.....
We live in a nation of upgrades. Of super-sizing. Of bigger is better. (It IS by the way, don't believe the "size doesn't matter" bullshit...) At every turn a sales person or cashier at the movies is telling me, "You know for only 25 cents more you can get an extra-large soda." Well.....okay?? I guess that sounds like a good deal, right? But then I realize that my diet Coke is basically a 2-liter with a straw. If I was trekking across the Mojave Desert for two days I doubt I'd be thirsty enough to finish this much soda. But it always seems like such a good deal. Those cashier cockteasers. And now I have to piss before the previews are even finished. Fuck you and your ginormo beverage. The mere condensation dripping on my foot the entire movie could satisfy my thirst. Can I also have a wheel barrow of popcorn, too?
American fast food chains make it so simple and mindless to order the 10-piece versus the 6-piece nuggets, the mega French fries versus a small bag, the add-on Hershey's fudge pie slice without batting an eye. And this is why we are a nation used to everything in excess. Bigger, better, faster, the best will only do for us. This spills over more than the waistlines of fatty-boom-ba-latty America. God forbid we have an outdated computer or an old-school Iphone that weighs more than 3 ounces. The shame and horror!!!!!!! Fuck, now I need the Mac Book, the Iphone 4G, the Butterfly Turbo Seizure-Inducing Vibrator. I can't fucking keep up with your technology updates!!!!!!
Then there's the lure of the in-store credit card. "But, ma'am, you will save 20% today on your entire purchase if you open a credit card. It will only take a couple of minutes! You can even pay it off right now!" First off, don't fucking call me "Ma'am". It makes me feel old as dirt. Just because I have a wedding ring, a few wrinkles, and a kid in tow doesn't mean I can't out-cool the SHIT out of you in the blink of an eye. Watch me get into a club in Vegas while you wait in line for two hours and probably STILL have to give the bouncer a hand job. Secondly, quit trying to credit rape me into opening your fucking store card. I happen to LIKE the dress I am buying. Do many of your other clothing selections suck balls? Why yes, they do. Lastly, I will simply pay cash if you expect me to pay off the whole God damn card on the spot. Screw you and your rote memorization sales training skills which are beaten into your head. I am sorry this is your summer job and you are hungover, trying to make commission, trying to score bonus points for opening 10 credit cards a day, and that you still have jiz in your hair from blowing the bouncer at Club Douche last night. Not my problem. Here's my debit card, bag that shit and back the fuck off.
Also please do not try to upsell me your crazy cheap-ass (and probably a day away from the "Best If Used By Date") extreme value crap at the check out. I do not need a family-size bag of Doritos, 10 bags of peanut M&M's, or jalepeno Corn Nuts. Save it for the chick behind me who clearly has a binder of coupons and is about to orgasm from her savings she's about to score. She is on an extreme couponing mission--to expand her nuclear food storage which is now overtaking all of her kids' bedrooms, the garage, and her husband's office. She also wants to increase the girth of her fupa so she will never see her pussy ever again. When you get 175 candy bars and 35 cans of Hormel chili, I don't give a shit if the store PAID you money to take it, you do not NEED all that bullshit. Really? Put down the case of Velveeta, head for the produce. Your waistline and colon will thank me.
I get about 10-12 magazines a month. I have bought so many of them from Girl Scouts and various renewal offers I have been out-of-my-mind to accept. But I have and now I have more reading selections than the doctor's office. I DO enjoy magazines. I do NOT ever, ever read newspapers. Call me uncultured, call me ignorant. I find newspapers tedious and filled with shit I either do not care about or comprehend. So when you approach me as I have exactly 37.3 minutes to complete a grocery trip before I pick up my kids, do not approach me with your shirt and tie dance over subscribing to the local newspaper. Guess what, ass clown? I do not even LIVE in this town!!! But you still persist!! Did your mama drop you on your head?? I fucking said NO!!!!!!!! Plus it's a shitty paper! If it has coupon inserts, save it for Fupa Fiona who is picking up her Rascal cart and will be over in about 5 minutes. She just has to arrange her coupon binder and spreadsheet. And king-size box of Butterfinger bites and 2-liter Dr. Pepper....
American fast food chains make it so simple and mindless to order the 10-piece versus the 6-piece nuggets, the mega French fries versus a small bag, the add-on Hershey's fudge pie slice without batting an eye. And this is why we are a nation used to everything in excess. Bigger, better, faster, the best will only do for us. This spills over more than the waistlines of fatty-boom-ba-latty America. God forbid we have an outdated computer or an old-school Iphone that weighs more than 3 ounces. The shame and horror!!!!!!! Fuck, now I need the Mac Book, the Iphone 4G, the Butterfly Turbo Seizure-Inducing Vibrator. I can't fucking keep up with your technology updates!!!!!!
Then there's the lure of the in-store credit card. "But, ma'am, you will save 20% today on your entire purchase if you open a credit card. It will only take a couple of minutes! You can even pay it off right now!" First off, don't fucking call me "Ma'am". It makes me feel old as dirt. Just because I have a wedding ring, a few wrinkles, and a kid in tow doesn't mean I can't out-cool the SHIT out of you in the blink of an eye. Watch me get into a club in Vegas while you wait in line for two hours and probably STILL have to give the bouncer a hand job. Secondly, quit trying to credit rape me into opening your fucking store card. I happen to LIKE the dress I am buying. Do many of your other clothing selections suck balls? Why yes, they do. Lastly, I will simply pay cash if you expect me to pay off the whole God damn card on the spot. Screw you and your rote memorization sales training skills which are beaten into your head. I am sorry this is your summer job and you are hungover, trying to make commission, trying to score bonus points for opening 10 credit cards a day, and that you still have jiz in your hair from blowing the bouncer at Club Douche last night. Not my problem. Here's my debit card, bag that shit and back the fuck off.
Also please do not try to upsell me your crazy cheap-ass (and probably a day away from the "Best If Used By Date") extreme value crap at the check out. I do not need a family-size bag of Doritos, 10 bags of peanut M&M's, or jalepeno Corn Nuts. Save it for the chick behind me who clearly has a binder of coupons and is about to orgasm from her savings she's about to score. She is on an extreme couponing mission--to expand her nuclear food storage which is now overtaking all of her kids' bedrooms, the garage, and her husband's office. She also wants to increase the girth of her fupa so she will never see her pussy ever again. When you get 175 candy bars and 35 cans of Hormel chili, I don't give a shit if the store PAID you money to take it, you do not NEED all that bullshit. Really? Put down the case of Velveeta, head for the produce. Your waistline and colon will thank me.
I get about 10-12 magazines a month. I have bought so many of them from Girl Scouts and various renewal offers I have been out-of-my-mind to accept. But I have and now I have more reading selections than the doctor's office. I DO enjoy magazines. I do NOT ever, ever read newspapers. Call me uncultured, call me ignorant. I find newspapers tedious and filled with shit I either do not care about or comprehend. So when you approach me as I have exactly 37.3 minutes to complete a grocery trip before I pick up my kids, do not approach me with your shirt and tie dance over subscribing to the local newspaper. Guess what, ass clown? I do not even LIVE in this town!!! But you still persist!! Did your mama drop you on your head?? I fucking said NO!!!!!!!! Plus it's a shitty paper! If it has coupon inserts, save it for Fupa Fiona who is picking up her Rascal cart and will be over in about 5 minutes. She just has to arrange her coupon binder and spreadsheet. And king-size box of Butterfinger bites and 2-liter Dr. Pepper....
Monday, June 20, 2011
Hey, Mister DJ!!!!!!!
Everyone is entitled to their own personal choices in music. There are more than enough genres to satisfy hundreds of musical tastes. And that's a good thing. To a degree. I am not a fan of speed metal, country, bluegrass, hair bands, and did I mention any and all COUNTRY?? So if you are inclined to listen to your private collection of "Death Metal Pussy Lips" or "Cousin Redneck Lovers", have at it. Blast that shit till your ears bleed. If you can scrounge up a basement full of friends with permed mullets and acid wash jeans or Wrangler jeans and shit-kicker boots, even more power to you. It is only when the volume of your (shitty in my personal opinion) taste in music overflows onto the soundwaves of my OWN personal space, I take issue. Turn that fucking shit DOWN.
I recently walked 39.3 miles over the span of two days for the Avon Breast Cancer Walk. That is a lot of hours walking with thousands of women all over Chicago. Some ladies (and gentleman) took it upon themselves to become DJ's for the surrounding walkers. In a very vague way this in nice. But if their own mix of music does not please my ears and in fact makes me want to punch a baby, should said public mix perhaps be kept to themselves? I say FUCK YES. It would never happen that I would willingly walk into a country bar to listen to that type of music without someone drugging me, knocking me unconscious, and gagging me with a dirty sock. So why in God's name do you think I remotely want to hear your twangy, jingly-jangly "my man done me wrong" song sampler for as many miles as it takes me to speed up, pass you, and get within earshot of silence from your redneck remix?!!! The answer is I do not. So thank you for your generosity but save your inspirational jams for your own headphones or your roommate who will be paralyzed with blisters and dehydration after walking all those miles. She will either tolerate it because she is defenseless or suffocate you with her pillow as you slumber. I say sleep with one eye open, Shania.
Another musical sound violation I cannot fucking stand is when guys blast their booty jams and talentless rap with all the car windows down for everyone to enjoy. Typically offenders have some sort of SUV with obnoxious rims the size of a John Deere tractor. It looks like you bought the car from Toys 'R' Us and then went to the big boy car store for your wheels. You look like a huge asshole. And I think it's particularly classy when you have that ear-splitting bass cranked so high that my nipples vibrate when you are a parking lot away. No really, between your giant sparkly rims, your posse of 5 guy friends hanging out the windows, and that awesome music blaring, "Get up, bitch! Get up, bitch! Get up, bitch!" over and over it is a true conundrum as to why you cannot get laid. I am shocked you do not have a pussy posse lined up to carpool with you.
I know there's plenty of music I listen to which would annoy the shit out of some of you. (Cue Erasure, Yaz, Depeche Mode, and Abba now..) So I listen to it in my car, on my Ipod, or in my home or seek out places, parties, and dance clubs in which my own musical preferences are played. That's my prerogative. If you invite me into your home for a party and want to choose your own music, coolio. I can drink enough Patron to erase any memory of having to head bang or do the two step in your living room. If you are thinking about doing a bass-pumping drive-by and you notice me, be forewarned, I do not take kindly to this gesture. I will hunt you down and throw a flaming dog turn in the shape of a spinning tire rim into your open window. And no amount of Axe body spray, Kanye West shades, or "Get Up, Bitch" mega-mixes will rid you of the shame or odor. Roll up those windows and shut the fuck up.
I recently walked 39.3 miles over the span of two days for the Avon Breast Cancer Walk. That is a lot of hours walking with thousands of women all over Chicago. Some ladies (and gentleman) took it upon themselves to become DJ's for the surrounding walkers. In a very vague way this in nice. But if their own mix of music does not please my ears and in fact makes me want to punch a baby, should said public mix perhaps be kept to themselves? I say FUCK YES. It would never happen that I would willingly walk into a country bar to listen to that type of music without someone drugging me, knocking me unconscious, and gagging me with a dirty sock. So why in God's name do you think I remotely want to hear your twangy, jingly-jangly "my man done me wrong" song sampler for as many miles as it takes me to speed up, pass you, and get within earshot of silence from your redneck remix?!!! The answer is I do not. So thank you for your generosity but save your inspirational jams for your own headphones or your roommate who will be paralyzed with blisters and dehydration after walking all those miles. She will either tolerate it because she is defenseless or suffocate you with her pillow as you slumber. I say sleep with one eye open, Shania.
Another musical sound violation I cannot fucking stand is when guys blast their booty jams and talentless rap with all the car windows down for everyone to enjoy. Typically offenders have some sort of SUV with obnoxious rims the size of a John Deere tractor. It looks like you bought the car from Toys 'R' Us and then went to the big boy car store for your wheels. You look like a huge asshole. And I think it's particularly classy when you have that ear-splitting bass cranked so high that my nipples vibrate when you are a parking lot away. No really, between your giant sparkly rims, your posse of 5 guy friends hanging out the windows, and that awesome music blaring, "Get up, bitch! Get up, bitch! Get up, bitch!" over and over it is a true conundrum as to why you cannot get laid. I am shocked you do not have a pussy posse lined up to carpool with you.
I know there's plenty of music I listen to which would annoy the shit out of some of you. (Cue Erasure, Yaz, Depeche Mode, and Abba now..) So I listen to it in my car, on my Ipod, or in my home or seek out places, parties, and dance clubs in which my own musical preferences are played. That's my prerogative. If you invite me into your home for a party and want to choose your own music, coolio. I can drink enough Patron to erase any memory of having to head bang or do the two step in your living room. If you are thinking about doing a bass-pumping drive-by and you notice me, be forewarned, I do not take kindly to this gesture. I will hunt you down and throw a flaming dog turn in the shape of a spinning tire rim into your open window. And no amount of Axe body spray, Kanye West shades, or "Get Up, Bitch" mega-mixes will rid you of the shame or odor. Roll up those windows and shut the fuck up.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Would You Rather?
Ever play that game? I love playing the "would you rather get explosive, gut-wrenching diarrhea OR spontaneously vomit" game. Totally gross and entertaining for the kids. But lately I have been wondering. Would you rather be really slim, I mean we're talking size 0 or a 2 (yes, that's damn skinny if you happen to already be that size, bitch) but be ugly as fuck? OR would you rather be slightly chubby (maybe a 14 or 16) but have a really "pretty face". And by this I mean truly a pretty face, not just what grandmas say about their fat grand kids. Which would you choose?
The fuel which made me ponder this was from watching an episode of Say Yes to The Dress. There was a teeny tiny bride who was waif-like in stature. But she has the schnoz the size of a Twinkie and too-close eyes, complete with a cackling Fran Drescher laugh. That was a bonus because it made her seem uglier. This bitch could have used that mega nose for a doorstop or a paper weight or even a bottle opener. But she was skinny. That's a conundrum.
But then I've seen sweet women with dazzling smiles and impeccable taste, they just happen to be large and in-charge. I've never ever been a size 0 or 2 in my own natural life. But I like how I look and as a matter of fact how I feel in this rather curvy body of mine. I certainly do not crave more fat or curves, I struggle daily with eating and diligent workouts. I cannot drive my body to another level of 7 days-a week fitness. I think eating organic and vegan could could be great and cleansing and spiritual and all that bullshit. I see my Food TV Magazine every month and I declare how delicious and fresh and easy it all looks. But pictures in a damn magazine do not translate well into my life. I am busy, often lazy, terribly disorganized, and busy during the point of most days were those all-American families are sitting down together to enjoy a nice meatloaf, a salad, mashed potatoes, homemade rolls, a veggie from their communal garden, and tofu blackberry cobbler with soy ice cream for dessert. I applaud them.....with only my middle fingers for being such show-offs. 6 nights a week show-offs.
We had Portillo's last night. I hurt my back today so though I was ambitious in making a shrimp Mediterranean pesto pizza for lunch and the kids assembled their own, complete with raw pizza dough spun in the air. The pain got worse, as did my giving a flying shit as to what the dinner menu would be. It's call "Mommy doesn't have to fucking figure it out every damn night. Mommy's medicated and drooling and would feed you raw pasta if it was up to me. Does that make me mean or a bad mommy? No, I am hurting and someone else can figure the nourishment needs up in here. I am done for tonight.
As we sat on the benches overlooking the channel feeding into Lake Michigan enjoying our Dairy Treat cones this weekend, I have to people watch. It is hilarious fun, somewhat immature, and definitely not Christian of me. And I cannot merely watch, I feel the need to maintain a running commentary going to analyze certain scary/misfit/short a few chromosomes people as they de board from their vessels or subject me to watch their potpourri of problems manifest themselves right before my eyes. I referred to a rag tag dinghy as the SS Food Stamp. Yes I am stereotyping folks but it you witnessed the abundance who really should have a tether and police warrant barring from fornicating. You can so easily predict when a deadbeat, jail-hopping dad hooks up with a woman who has 3 kids from different daddies. It is a slew of ugly babies with problems and no future . Do us taxpayers a favor and head to school first. Get a job, save some money. And wear a damn condom.
I suppose I get my own coming to me whether I know it or not. I will preach forever, I do not think I'm perfect. I am mathematically retarded. I cannot count change. I suck at sports and have no hand/eye coordination. I dress inappropriately for my age and act younger that I am. So the fuck what? Is there a guidebook on how to act at a certain age? Keep it real, people. If you find it funny, laugh your ass off. Someone will join in. Because politically correct or not, it IS funny. Today I walked into my nail salon, annoyed another woman stepped in front of me. Then I noticed she had only one real arm, the other was prosthetic. My immediate though,"Well at least her manicure will be short because it will take half as long..." does this make me a bitch or just practical?
The fuel which made me ponder this was from watching an episode of Say Yes to The Dress. There was a teeny tiny bride who was waif-like in stature. But she has the schnoz the size of a Twinkie and too-close eyes, complete with a cackling Fran Drescher laugh. That was a bonus because it made her seem uglier. This bitch could have used that mega nose for a doorstop or a paper weight or even a bottle opener. But she was skinny. That's a conundrum.
But then I've seen sweet women with dazzling smiles and impeccable taste, they just happen to be large and in-charge. I've never ever been a size 0 or 2 in my own natural life. But I like how I look and as a matter of fact how I feel in this rather curvy body of mine. I certainly do not crave more fat or curves, I struggle daily with eating and diligent workouts. I cannot drive my body to another level of 7 days-a week fitness. I think eating organic and vegan could could be great and cleansing and spiritual and all that bullshit. I see my Food TV Magazine every month and I declare how delicious and fresh and easy it all looks. But pictures in a damn magazine do not translate well into my life. I am busy, often lazy, terribly disorganized, and busy during the point of most days were those all-American families are sitting down together to enjoy a nice meatloaf, a salad, mashed potatoes, homemade rolls, a veggie from their communal garden, and tofu blackberry cobbler with soy ice cream for dessert. I applaud them.....with only my middle fingers for being such show-offs. 6 nights a week show-offs.
We had Portillo's last night. I hurt my back today so though I was ambitious in making a shrimp Mediterranean pesto pizza for lunch and the kids assembled their own, complete with raw pizza dough spun in the air. The pain got worse, as did my giving a flying shit as to what the dinner menu would be. It's call "Mommy doesn't have to fucking figure it out every damn night. Mommy's medicated and drooling and would feed you raw pasta if it was up to me. Does that make me mean or a bad mommy? No, I am hurting and someone else can figure the nourishment needs up in here. I am done for tonight.
As we sat on the benches overlooking the channel feeding into Lake Michigan enjoying our Dairy Treat cones this weekend, I have to people watch. It is hilarious fun, somewhat immature, and definitely not Christian of me. And I cannot merely watch, I feel the need to maintain a running commentary going to analyze certain scary/misfit/short a few chromosomes people as they de board from their vessels or subject me to watch their potpourri of problems manifest themselves right before my eyes. I referred to a rag tag dinghy as the SS Food Stamp. Yes I am stereotyping folks but it you witnessed the abundance who really should have a tether and police warrant barring from fornicating. You can so easily predict when a deadbeat, jail-hopping dad hooks up with a woman who has 3 kids from different daddies. It is a slew of ugly babies with problems and no future . Do us taxpayers a favor and head to school first. Get a job, save some money. And wear a damn condom.
I suppose I get my own coming to me whether I know it or not. I will preach forever, I do not think I'm perfect. I am mathematically retarded. I cannot count change. I suck at sports and have no hand/eye coordination. I dress inappropriately for my age and act younger that I am. So the fuck what? Is there a guidebook on how to act at a certain age? Keep it real, people. If you find it funny, laugh your ass off. Someone will join in. Because politically correct or not, it IS funny. Today I walked into my nail salon, annoyed another woman stepped in front of me. Then I noticed she had only one real arm, the other was prosthetic. My immediate though,"Well at least her manicure will be short because it will take half as long..." does this make me a bitch or just practical?
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Why???
I realize it's been a long-ass time since I wrote. Why the fuck is that? I've been busy but who isn't? I haven't felt inspired, motivated, funny or like I have a purpose. What the hell do I need, a God damn Dr. Phil intervention? Christ.... I need to get back on this shit already. What a pussy.
I was watching some videos on YouTube today, a venue for a shit pot of folks lacking any sort of talent. There's a funny-ass girl who goes by the name of Jenna Marbles. She rants about everyday shit with quite a colorful vocabulary, one I am also fluent in. Trouble is I cannot possibly post anything remotely similar because I am a parent and teacher and have far too many people who will probably think less of me. Well maybe not think less of me but maybe have a hard time with me as their kid's dance teacher just because I want to say "cocksucker" or "Fucktard". That really, really blows. Son of a bitch.My mouth never ceases to get me in trouble.
Frankly I am tired in general of pussyfooting around, afraid to possibly write anything that people might fucking assume is about them. To use a phrase that my husband hates (and has nothing to do with sexual orientation), that is so gay. Everyone is so God damn touchy nowadays. Annoying as fuck if you ask me. Get over your damn high school self already. I have had people see a post on Facebook, the crack pipe of this era, and try to guess who it's about. This starts a gossip frenzy of assumptions, madness, accusations, total mayhem. And when I allude to something, don't take it seriously. Have you ever even MET me?? I am sarcastic as fuck. It's not like I'm spreading rumors you are a necrophiliac or have a crusty underwear collection. Unless you DO keep your yeasty panties after you screw corpses, then you really deserve public humiliation. Everyone takes themselves so God damn seriously!!!!!!!!!
I wish I could be more honest about my humor. But though I can be crass and raunchy, I try to keep it in the proper venue. I'd love to post a link to my blog on my Facebook page. But not everyone, like your cool-as-shit selves reading this and laughing, are as open. I have some friends who are Jesus freaks. Don't get your ironed, white cotton panties in a wad, I struggle with my faith so I guess its cool you post biblical quotes and praise-your-Lord phrases all day long. I don't read all of them because sometimes it feels a little preachy (being honest here). I try to lead a good, honest life and all that koom-ba-ya shit. I just have a hard time making it to church on Sunday when it is boring as all holy hell and if I can't get into it and even understand what the priest is even talking about, how do I push that on my kids???? Maybe I'm in the wrong church, I don't know. I'm cool having my Sunday mornings free right now. Do I think I'm going to hell for it? No fucking way.
I often rant about my kids, another topic some people find taboo. And suffer my frustration in silence?? I don't think so. This is a generation of emotional dysentery in which spewing forth that which ails you causes immediate relief. It's like I've said, moms and dads who NEVER complain about their kids and life once in awhile are raging fucking liars. Get it off your chest, your daughter acted like a raging bitch this morning and you wanted to nail gun her to the wall for how she talked to you. I GET IT. Not the "bite your tongue and ignore her while you remain angry and hurt for a day". Fuck. That. I love my kids, I seriously am enjoying the ages they are right now more than any phase or age they've been so far. But I have my moments. Some weeks LOTS of them. So I'm being real here. Fake is for tits and tans, not emotions.
This is a tangent here, no rhyme or reason as to what the fuck I'm writing. I just know that making people laugh till they cramp up or piss their pants gets me going. So I will seriously make more of an effort to be on this whole blog shit again. I apologize for my delinquency. If you are friends with me on Facebook, keep topics flowing so I can have material to bitch about. If you aren't friends with me and are a total creeper who I have NO friends in common with, piss off. I don't friend people for sheer quantity. (Another rant for another day...) And for you people who are fans of "Jesus Is Awesome", don't be offended if I have to block you for awhile. Your holiness is God damn annoying. Peace........
I was watching some videos on YouTube today, a venue for a shit pot of folks lacking any sort of talent. There's a funny-ass girl who goes by the name of Jenna Marbles. She rants about everyday shit with quite a colorful vocabulary, one I am also fluent in. Trouble is I cannot possibly post anything remotely similar because I am a parent and teacher and have far too many people who will probably think less of me. Well maybe not think less of me but maybe have a hard time with me as their kid's dance teacher just because I want to say "cocksucker" or "Fucktard". That really, really blows. Son of a bitch.My mouth never ceases to get me in trouble.
Frankly I am tired in general of pussyfooting around, afraid to possibly write anything that people might fucking assume is about them. To use a phrase that my husband hates (and has nothing to do with sexual orientation), that is so gay. Everyone is so God damn touchy nowadays. Annoying as fuck if you ask me. Get over your damn high school self already. I have had people see a post on Facebook, the crack pipe of this era, and try to guess who it's about. This starts a gossip frenzy of assumptions, madness, accusations, total mayhem. And when I allude to something, don't take it seriously. Have you ever even MET me?? I am sarcastic as fuck. It's not like I'm spreading rumors you are a necrophiliac or have a crusty underwear collection. Unless you DO keep your yeasty panties after you screw corpses, then you really deserve public humiliation. Everyone takes themselves so God damn seriously!!!!!!!!!
I wish I could be more honest about my humor. But though I can be crass and raunchy, I try to keep it in the proper venue. I'd love to post a link to my blog on my Facebook page. But not everyone, like your cool-as-shit selves reading this and laughing, are as open. I have some friends who are Jesus freaks. Don't get your ironed, white cotton panties in a wad, I struggle with my faith so I guess its cool you post biblical quotes and praise-your-Lord phrases all day long. I don't read all of them because sometimes it feels a little preachy (being honest here). I try to lead a good, honest life and all that koom-ba-ya shit. I just have a hard time making it to church on Sunday when it is boring as all holy hell and if I can't get into it and even understand what the priest is even talking about, how do I push that on my kids???? Maybe I'm in the wrong church, I don't know. I'm cool having my Sunday mornings free right now. Do I think I'm going to hell for it? No fucking way.
I often rant about my kids, another topic some people find taboo. And suffer my frustration in silence?? I don't think so. This is a generation of emotional dysentery in which spewing forth that which ails you causes immediate relief. It's like I've said, moms and dads who NEVER complain about their kids and life once in awhile are raging fucking liars. Get it off your chest, your daughter acted like a raging bitch this morning and you wanted to nail gun her to the wall for how she talked to you. I GET IT. Not the "bite your tongue and ignore her while you remain angry and hurt for a day". Fuck. That. I love my kids, I seriously am enjoying the ages they are right now more than any phase or age they've been so far. But I have my moments. Some weeks LOTS of them. So I'm being real here. Fake is for tits and tans, not emotions.
This is a tangent here, no rhyme or reason as to what the fuck I'm writing. I just know that making people laugh till they cramp up or piss their pants gets me going. So I will seriously make more of an effort to be on this whole blog shit again. I apologize for my delinquency. If you are friends with me on Facebook, keep topics flowing so I can have material to bitch about. If you aren't friends with me and are a total creeper who I have NO friends in common with, piss off. I don't friend people for sheer quantity. (Another rant for another day...) And for you people who are fans of "Jesus Is Awesome", don't be offended if I have to block you for awhile. Your holiness is God damn annoying. Peace........
Friday, April 29, 2011
Fuck Running
I loathe running with every sense of my being. I don't get it. I have tried and tried but I never get that Oprah "Aha!" moment where I think, "Damn! Why haven't I tried this before?? This is fun as HELL!"
Nope. Instead every time I try to run I get the horrible burning in my lungs as if I smoked a pack of unfiltered Camels last night. (I didn't.) My legs feel like they weigh 300 lbs. each. My hips begin to ache and I already know the SHORT amount of time I have committed will make me so tense in my lower extremities tomorrow I will walk like I had a double hip replacement. And then there's the side cramps. And the inevitable "holy-shit-I-really-hope-I-don't-yack-my-shit-all-over-this-treadmill" sensation.
Fuck running.
I've heard the "I'm an adrenaline junkie!" Or the "It's SOOOO good for you!" Or "It feels so great! I could go all day!"
Shut your God damn, lightweight, overpriced Nike track shoe-wearing pie holes. I like the adrenaline I get when I ride a roller coaster. Or see a scary movie. Or before I go onstage. Running "adrenaline" is my body's way of saying, "Slow the hell down, bitch! Those tits are WAY too big to move like that!!" And let me add that to my long list of anti-running reasons. Big boobs and feet slapping on the pavement while your body bounces up and down can only lead to a few things: bad back, nipple erection/tig ol' bitty wardrobe malfunction, or black eyes. I will power walk ANY day to save my tits from beating the shit out of myself.
Running is good for me? So is a colon cleanse but I sure as shit can't do that every day. I will choose things that are good for me and make me GOOD to be around. Like copious amounts of caffeine, new shoes, and vacations to tropical islands. Run next to me and you will hear me whine more than Demi Lovato at eating disorder camp. Not cool.
You know what feels great? Taking a good shit every morning. Or sleeping through the night without insomnia. Or wearing your skinny jeans and being able to zip them up without sweating. Running does not feel good. I imagine getting ass-raped by an elephant would be more soothing.
I've tried the treadmill, I've tried a track, I've tried the sidewalk and the street. Unless I can run and use someone else's body to get the same energetic bullshit adrenaline crackhead results, it will not be happening. I am not signing up for any "short little 5K's" or plan on training by running and walking with you. I will run for only a few reasons: if I am about to shit my pants, if I am on fire, if anyone is trying to fuck with my kids, or if there is an All You Can Carry Jimmy Choos For $10 Sale. Other than that, yes, the treadmill I am standing next to is free. Enjoy your torture, you masochistic freak.
Nope. Instead every time I try to run I get the horrible burning in my lungs as if I smoked a pack of unfiltered Camels last night. (I didn't.) My legs feel like they weigh 300 lbs. each. My hips begin to ache and I already know the SHORT amount of time I have committed will make me so tense in my lower extremities tomorrow I will walk like I had a double hip replacement. And then there's the side cramps. And the inevitable "holy-shit-I-really-hope-I-don't-yack-my-shit-all-over-this-treadmill" sensation.
Fuck running.
I've heard the "I'm an adrenaline junkie!" Or the "It's SOOOO good for you!" Or "It feels so great! I could go all day!"
Shut your God damn, lightweight, overpriced Nike track shoe-wearing pie holes. I like the adrenaline I get when I ride a roller coaster. Or see a scary movie. Or before I go onstage. Running "adrenaline" is my body's way of saying, "Slow the hell down, bitch! Those tits are WAY too big to move like that!!" And let me add that to my long list of anti-running reasons. Big boobs and feet slapping on the pavement while your body bounces up and down can only lead to a few things: bad back, nipple erection/tig ol' bitty wardrobe malfunction, or black eyes. I will power walk ANY day to save my tits from beating the shit out of myself.
Running is good for me? So is a colon cleanse but I sure as shit can't do that every day. I will choose things that are good for me and make me GOOD to be around. Like copious amounts of caffeine, new shoes, and vacations to tropical islands. Run next to me and you will hear me whine more than Demi Lovato at eating disorder camp. Not cool.
You know what feels great? Taking a good shit every morning. Or sleeping through the night without insomnia. Or wearing your skinny jeans and being able to zip them up without sweating. Running does not feel good. I imagine getting ass-raped by an elephant would be more soothing.
I've tried the treadmill, I've tried a track, I've tried the sidewalk and the street. Unless I can run and use someone else's body to get the same energetic bullshit adrenaline crackhead results, it will not be happening. I am not signing up for any "short little 5K's" or plan on training by running and walking with you. I will run for only a few reasons: if I am about to shit my pants, if I am on fire, if anyone is trying to fuck with my kids, or if there is an All You Can Carry Jimmy Choos For $10 Sale. Other than that, yes, the treadmill I am standing next to is free. Enjoy your torture, you masochistic freak.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Lazy Fucking People
I really am annoyed at the complete lazy nature of people I encounter these days. It is occasionally because they are grossly overweight but not always. You know how irritated I can be if you are obese AND lazy. Sheeeeiiiiit....
I cannot stand it when I go to my car after spending way too long at the dreaded grocery store only to find some douche cock has neglected to walk the 2 extra car lengths to the cart corral to put their cart away. Instead they find it perfectly acceptable to rest it on the bumper of the front of my car. I don't give a shit if it's a monsoon and I have a sick kid in the car, I ALWAYS put my damn cart away. And a friend pointed out sometimes these lazy mother fuckers have the gall to leave the cart in a HANDICAPPED space. I think many of the people who do this are not just lazy but self-entitled as well. They are too good to have to "clean up after themselves". If you able to shop for your own Polish deli ham and generic Fruit Loops with an envelope of coupons then you are not a diva. You are thrifty and lazy.
As we enter this pre-spring ugliness I am noticing a few things. One, the brown dead landscape is enough to make me want to go into a Xanax/Zoloft/Wellbutrin coma. I need something to make me happy and the dead-ass nature spread ain't cutting it. Two, to top off the complete lack of greenery as the snow is now gone I am noticing everyone in the city has decided it is suddenly PC to toss any and all trash from their cars, especially as they drive past my subdivision. I will occasionally throw a banana peel or an apple core out my window but only if we are near woods or a corn field. Some animal might eat it and also it is biodegradable. I'll tell you what is NOT biodegradable--a smelly Pampers diaper full of your two year-old's dookie, that's what. Neither is an empty case, bottles and all, of Coors Light. I'd like to shove those 12 empties of silver bullets right up your ass, you fucktard. I see entire bags from McDonald's, coffee cups, plastic bottles, even a pile of old clothes someone was too fucking lazy to drop off at Goodwill. As far as I know we do not have some scavenger refuge in the woods whose inhabitants create artwork or building materials out of your trash so kindly wait until you get to your own fucking house and throw it in the TRASH. If I see you toss a diaper steamer I am going to buy one of those metal grabber tools people use to reach things, carry that turd bomb to your house, carefully open it, and spell out "SHADOOBIE BRIGADE" with your toddler's feces on your car.
People who take up 1 1/2 car spaces in the lot also make me want to swear a lot. What makes your car that much more special than mine? Nothing. And when my kids cannot get in because they don't want to scratch your car and they have a backpack and a school project and it's pouring rain, then a big fat FUCK YOU to you, kind sir or madam. It's not a Ferrari you are driving, it's a God damn Explorer. I recall being 7 months pregnant with Sophie when I came from my OB appointment at Northwestern Hospital only to find someone has parked a mere inches from my little car. I physically could NOT get in. After yelling, swearing, and eventually crying a bit, I keyed the shit out of Mr. Close Parker's car and had to climb through the passenger side to fit my fat ass in. If I had a freshly laid diaper bomb you can bet they would have gotten that as a gift also.
Another behavior I will qualify as lazy is when you are behind someone who has been standing in line at a restaurant for a lengthy amount of time like yourself and they get to the front and HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHAT THEY WANT. You have had fifteen minutes to peruse the 10-foot menu board, at least have an IDEA of what might please your palate for lunch. Do you have random amnesia and forgot you were hungry? Did you forget your wallet and are trying to come up with ways to beg for free food? Are you trying to clench your butt cheeks because you have spastic colon problems and are trying not to shit your skinny jeans? Let me help you out, she'll have the Pick Two---a bowl of fucktard soup with an asshole baguette and a douche bag sandwich with extra dipshit sauce.
I cannot stand it when I go to my car after spending way too long at the dreaded grocery store only to find some douche cock has neglected to walk the 2 extra car lengths to the cart corral to put their cart away. Instead they find it perfectly acceptable to rest it on the bumper of the front of my car. I don't give a shit if it's a monsoon and I have a sick kid in the car, I ALWAYS put my damn cart away. And a friend pointed out sometimes these lazy mother fuckers have the gall to leave the cart in a HANDICAPPED space. I think many of the people who do this are not just lazy but self-entitled as well. They are too good to have to "clean up after themselves". If you able to shop for your own Polish deli ham and generic Fruit Loops with an envelope of coupons then you are not a diva. You are thrifty and lazy.
As we enter this pre-spring ugliness I am noticing a few things. One, the brown dead landscape is enough to make me want to go into a Xanax/Zoloft/Wellbutrin coma. I need something to make me happy and the dead-ass nature spread ain't cutting it. Two, to top off the complete lack of greenery as the snow is now gone I am noticing everyone in the city has decided it is suddenly PC to toss any and all trash from their cars, especially as they drive past my subdivision. I will occasionally throw a banana peel or an apple core out my window but only if we are near woods or a corn field. Some animal might eat it and also it is biodegradable. I'll tell you what is NOT biodegradable--a smelly Pampers diaper full of your two year-old's dookie, that's what. Neither is an empty case, bottles and all, of Coors Light. I'd like to shove those 12 empties of silver bullets right up your ass, you fucktard. I see entire bags from McDonald's, coffee cups, plastic bottles, even a pile of old clothes someone was too fucking lazy to drop off at Goodwill. As far as I know we do not have some scavenger refuge in the woods whose inhabitants create artwork or building materials out of your trash so kindly wait until you get to your own fucking house and throw it in the TRASH. If I see you toss a diaper steamer I am going to buy one of those metal grabber tools people use to reach things, carry that turd bomb to your house, carefully open it, and spell out "SHADOOBIE BRIGADE" with your toddler's feces on your car.
People who take up 1 1/2 car spaces in the lot also make me want to swear a lot. What makes your car that much more special than mine? Nothing. And when my kids cannot get in because they don't want to scratch your car and they have a backpack and a school project and it's pouring rain, then a big fat FUCK YOU to you, kind sir or madam. It's not a Ferrari you are driving, it's a God damn Explorer. I recall being 7 months pregnant with Sophie when I came from my OB appointment at Northwestern Hospital only to find someone has parked a mere inches from my little car. I physically could NOT get in. After yelling, swearing, and eventually crying a bit, I keyed the shit out of Mr. Close Parker's car and had to climb through the passenger side to fit my fat ass in. If I had a freshly laid diaper bomb you can bet they would have gotten that as a gift also.
Another behavior I will qualify as lazy is when you are behind someone who has been standing in line at a restaurant for a lengthy amount of time like yourself and they get to the front and HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHAT THEY WANT. You have had fifteen minutes to peruse the 10-foot menu board, at least have an IDEA of what might please your palate for lunch. Do you have random amnesia and forgot you were hungry? Did you forget your wallet and are trying to come up with ways to beg for free food? Are you trying to clench your butt cheeks because you have spastic colon problems and are trying not to shit your skinny jeans? Let me help you out, she'll have the Pick Two---a bowl of fucktard soup with an asshole baguette and a douche bag sandwich with extra dipshit sauce.
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