BSF, Football Moms and Dead Pants

It's time for Blog Stalk Friday.

Read CB's rules, or she will cut you.

Dear Football Moms Booster Club, Thank you ladies for working hard. Here’s my 50 dollars, now go the fuck away already.

But that’s never good enough. Oh no, once they see you have a hard time saying no they keep after you like a great big group of motherfucking stalkers.

They are everywhere. In the grocery store, at Starbucks, the bar, and even the goddamn car wash. I can’t go anywhere that I don’t run into one of them.

And if that’s not bad enough, the fuckers are huggers.

When I run into one of them somewhere it never fails that they screech my goddamn name and and then bounce over to throw their fake tan arms around me making my eyes water with their fucking Chanel No 5 perfume.

Have you ever wanted to slowly roll your car over the Football Moms Booster Club President just to make her shut her endlessly yammering goddamn mouth once and for all?

Yeah, me either, but I bet it would work.

I also had to lay my favorite pants to rest today.

These pants… They were fucking perfect and I was fucking perfect in them!

Oh, its true that on the outside they were nothing special- draw string black cotton active wear kind of pants- but it was the 5% spandex that made them motherfucking magic.

That touch of spandex that wasn’t enough to make people say ‘EW! That old woman is wearing spandex pants!” but still made them cling to my ass just a little so that I looked like I had one sweet ass.

It was the touch of spandex that made them so forgiving to my pot belly- holding it in when it needed holding, but letting it out when I sat down so that they never created that goddamn roll of fat that pushes up over the waist band of too tight pants when worn by chubby women like me.

A girl could fucking breathe in these pants and they carried me through many bouts of PMS, never faulting me for the bloating and the bitchiness. And they were black.

Both versatile and slimming!

So when they started to wear a little thin in the butt I was willing to forgive them, and when they got a little hole in the butt I shrugged and did my best to sew the bastard up.

Even when the material was so thin that trying to sew the holes did nothing more then add new goddamn holes, I still thought they were great pants and wore them around the house or to sleep in.

But its all over now- last night they came out of the dryer torn from the butt seam all the way down to the knee area.

More loin cloth than pants now.

My damn screams could be heard all over the neighborhood when I shook my fists at the sky and screamed WHY....fucking dammit all to hell... WHY!!!??

One would think Duke Asshat would have recognized my anguish and offered me comfort by way of hugs, Coronas and ice cream sprinkled with Xanax, or at least a small fucking backrub or something.

But, oh hell No.

What he did instead, when I came running from the laundry room screaming, crazy-eyed and waving my motherfucking loin cloth pants over my head, was say- Well, it's about damn time, I really hated those stupid ass pants.

I’m so getting a fucking divorce!