Welcome to this Sunday's edition of......
(I'm sorry Niece Skankypants. I have no fucking clue where my new bathtub button is. If you have it, please fix it for your favorite drunken Auntie.)
As we have previously established, my boobs are huge. My bras are the size of a goddamn party tent. I bought new bras the other day had to move the TV and entertainment center just to make room to for those bad boys.
When it rains, I can just whip off my bra and blanket everyone as we run for the fucking car. Hell, with a few support beams, I could probably rent my tits out when it rains during the SoS's football games for use as a lento/shelter.
Apparently, my bra also doubles as the Bermuda fucking Triangle. It collects random shit throughout the day, without me noticing. You'd be surprised (or not) as to what I find in my bra when I strip my clothes off.
There are always food crumbs. If I ate something particularly crunchy or crusty, there could be enough fucking food particles to feed a starving Ethiopian child for a day.
There is an occasional stray strand of hair, a few ashes from a cigarette, spare change, a wayward olive from my dirty martini, and hey lookie there, a fucking Cheeto.
I love my boobs when I'm in the water. Look at them girls!! They are hoovering where they are suppose to be instead of skimming my kneecaps. The are round, and buoyant. Fuck, they look good in the water.
Then, I spot my unkempt love box. I've been a little lax on landscaping lately. Now, I am not a shave it naked kind of girl. I fucking prayed and said Hail Mary's for 2 goddamn years, begging for pubic hair when I was 10. There is no fucking way I'm shaving that shit off now. However, the Duke prefers it nearly bare, so we compromise. I leave a nice landing strip, and he is happy.
Right now it looks like some damn brillo pads revolted, had a meeting near my crotch and fucking died there. While walking around naked this morning, the Duke said, "Damn Dutch, I bet we could find Amelia Earhart in there." Good one, assclown.
I often wonder what would happen if I quit drinking.
**The Duke wouldn't have to pull over every five minutes so I can pee, and then watch me come out of the Quickie Mart with useless shit like glow sticks and a twelve-dollar bottle of fucking barbecue sauce.
**I would remember where my keys and pants are Every! Single! Day!
**The Royal Family could spend the extra cash they reserve just for my bail money.
**That fucking weirdo from the liquor store would stop calling me to tell me about the new shipment of Jim Beam arriving, asking if he should hold a case for me.
**There would be no more stupid sobriety checks. FYI the Po-Po has no sense of humor when you say, "Fuck no I'm not drunk. I don't remember drinking a thing.".
**No more being afraid to answer the phone the next morning and hearing a detailed account of exactly how many people saw me run fucking naked through the neighborhood the night before, screaming, "Viva la Royal Family Bitches!"
**Never, ever having to ask, again, "What kind of respectable place pierces a goddamn body part when you're too fucking drunk to blink?"
**No more arguments about the shear fucking genius of Buck Owens.
**When I accidentally call the 12-year-old cashier at Wal-Mart a fucking dumb ass, the Duke would not be able to say, "Don't mind her. She's just hammered."
**I would have nothing in common with the homeless guy behind the fucking dumpster.
**My family would have to deal with new and exciting meals instead of my favorite go to meal, Drunken Barbecue.
**My body would probably freeze up, refusing to process things and I would be in the bathroom sobbing and screaming "Why the fuck won't it just come out? WHY?!"
Oh the horror!
Now, if you will excuse me, I need a fucking drink....make it a double.