Not My Goddamn Fault and An Asshole

I have been busy this week, and have not had time to read your blogs. Last night I was playing catch up and found out someone is fucking with the Queen. I am pissed off.

Listen up you intellectually bankrupt, impotent, cocksucking, prick. The smothering weight of your life-long failures are pressing down on that pickled, ineffectual, tiny brain of yours causing you to become confused.

I will extend one meager favor and clarify a few points for you now, since you don't seem to have the capacity to put a short string of thoughts together to gather a valid conclusion.

YOUR wife got the wrong idea. YOUR wife sent ridiculous e-mails spewing bullshit and typos all over hell and back. YOU acted like none of this was your responsibility to fix or clean up. I know you are pussy whipped, but, much like that unused, shriveled dick hanging between your cheesy thighs. No one is responsible for your weak existence except you.

YOU put the Queen's real name out on the world wide web for all to see. Just because you always use your real name (or so you say), doesn't means everyone else does. It wasn't your call to make. You know nothing if her struggles or why she chooses not to use her real name for blogging.

I know it must be difficult living with your nut squeezing wife in the sack-of-shit-no-life-to-conceive-of-I'll-try-and-fuck-with-someone-else's skin of yours. But the person you're fucking with happens to be my sister. And if you've EVER in your life encountered someone that won't hesitate to rip your fucking throat out and laugh into the gaping hole of what's left of your soul, that would be me.

Enough is enough.

And Now.....The Rest Of The Story...

Hi, I'm The Dutchess, and I am a shopoholic. (Hi Dutchess!) I can't help it. I cannot be blamed. It's ingrained in my damn DNA.

I'm convinced that if a lab ran my chromosomes through their chromosomometer, at least one pair would resemble dollar signs. I'm hard-wired to spend money and I'm a believer in retail therapy.

Since I spend a fair amount of my time meandering through department stores feeling up clothing and molesting the merchandise, I seem to find myself occasionally resembling a bull in a china shop. Fuck you. This too, is not my goddamn fault. (Well, most of the time).

I will admit that I am accident-prone to the 11th degree. I'm the person who's shakin' her ass on the dance floor like a pro, and then slips on an olive, sails under the nearest table, pulling a groin muscle and ripping my favorite jeans.

I believe this charming trait of mine also acts a some kind of magnet. Chairs jump into my path, walls lean over and smash my damn head and drawers magically shut on my fingers. If being in the comfort of my own home wasn't dangerous enough, deciding to go out into the retail world can be deadly.

There's the clothing that always, always, always, comes spontaneously flying off the fucking hanger as soon as I get near it. There are stores that jam all their shit so tight and stacked so high that you can't help but pull it all onto your head when you're just trying to find your goddamn size!

And it's because of this, that I'm now afraid of an inanimate object. An innocent collectible my middle daughter has been collecting since she was born. A harmless, insignificant knickknack that should not cause anxiety and ass-squenching. A new phobia was created for the Dutchess today, and it's not my goddamn fault.

I was cruising the gifty areas of a large department store, relaxed and happy, silently gathering useful potential-gift information. I'd hit the jewelry counter, sauntered through the shoes then headed up to the third floor to check out housewares. After nixing the knives and poo-pooing the plates, I came upon a large display of snow globes. There were globes of all sizes. Big ones, small ones, medium ones, and itty-bitty teeny-tiny ones.

They were mostly Christmas scenes with little houses, wintry trees and snowmen. A few contained a maniacal Santa busting a gut with his gloved paws on what I'm sure was supposed to be his big jolly belly. However, Inspector 17 must have been drinking spiked fucking eggnog at her station. The drunken bitch let a shitload of Kris Kringle's go by with him obviously grabbing his North Pole and Jingle Bells.

I continued to check out the dozens of orb's filled with their glitter and snow and drifty drift shit inside. I picked up a few and gave a tester shake to watch the magical sparkly filler spin and float around, landing on the permanently attached objects inside.

Then I saw a really elaborate large-sized globe that seemed pretty cool. It was a winter wonderland scene complete with several cabins, their tiny windows glowing from fireplaces inside, a forest surrounding the houses, children's sleighs resting in the snow banks. It was colorful and festive. And fucking HUGE.

I don't know why I treated this one differently than all the previous globes I'd so thoughtfully and gently looked at. However, this time I decided to turn it totally upside down instead of giving a delicate wee shake. It wasn't even a conscience decision. It was a reflex really. In fact, maybe I had had a miniature shopping seizure. Whatever it was, it wasn't my goddamn fault.

I held the globe in both hands, and with a quick turn of my wrists, I flipped it. Before I could blink...CRASH!!! The globe separated from its base faster than whale shit in an motherfucking ice flow.

In what seemed like slow motion, I watched it fall to the ground and literally explode on the floor. My ears were ringing from the deafening shatter of glass. It sounded like a goddamn grenade had had been launched right there in the middle of Macy's, briefly silencing the Christmas muzak playing overhead.

I was mortified. I was frozen. I tried to kick-start my brain and process what the hell just happened. My only thought? GET THE HELL OUT! I quickly put down what was left of the globe, the little wooden corpse that was still in my hand, and did an about-face; sweat tickling my stupid forehead as I made a b-line back to the escalator. My face hot and flushed with horror.

I thought I was home free until I spied a sales lady staring at me, her lips puckered into a tight frown, while she glared at me. Her steely eyes focused on my feet. She hadn't seen it, I was sure, so how could she know that apocalypse had been me??

That's when I looked down and saw the evidence of my snow-globe murder. My jeans and shoes were shimmering with the dripping evidence. From the knees down I was saturated with magical sparkly globe water and covered with fake fucking snowflakes.

Our eyes locked on each other. Mine wide with guilt. I mustered a panicked, phony grin, nervously giggled, said "Merry Christmas". Then ran away.

It wasn't my goddamn fault.