Attention! I Have An Important Announcement

After an extended stay in an undisclosed mental hospital leave of absence

I'M BACK BITCHES!!!!

The Royals are gearing up for the annual Christmas reunion, and I hear we are going on a cruise! The high seas will never be the same!

Stay tuned assholes, you are not going to want to miss this!

LIES I Tell You...ALL LIES!

As you know, the Kingdom has been overrun with a fucking plethora of Swaggers. At first, it was a cute little hobby. However, that cute little hobby soon turned into a great big poo flinging monkey on the back the monarchy.

The entire fucking Kingdom was in jeopardy, so I took matters into my own hands...or hand because one of mine is broken. Adrianna, my my kick-ass bodyguard and I staged an intervention.

For the most part, it worked. However, our beloved, Drunken Queen, would like you to think otherwise. She would like you to believe she got one over on us. She wants you to believe her...uh...less than brilliant bodyguard was actually able to sneak in an IPhone, 2 laptops, and a list of Swagging sites into Swag rehab. She wants you to believe she Swagged in the shitter.

I call bullshit with a side of ugly donkey balls. She was not Swagging.

Check THIS out. Did you see her new, fancy, animated blog header? Did you see the darling little animated heart beating Royal buttons? Did you see the sweet little pop up boxes that say random things when you hover over certain areas of her blog? Yeah...that's what I'm talking about.

The truth is that she was holed up in the goddamn shitter trying to learn new code for her blog. We all know good and goddamn well that the Queen is as blog code stupid as I am. It took weeks for her to learn how to log the fuck in when she first started blogging. Now she wants you to believe that while in Swag-hab she not only Swagged her tits off, but that in her spare time, she also learned and implemented new blog code?

Oh hell no. The jig is up, my lovely Drunken Queen. That gin soaked brain of yours can swag with the best of them. That gin soaked brain can also, apparently, learn new cool blog code tricks. But, there is no way in hell your gin soaked brain can do both at the same time. Your cute little animated, button beating, pop up boxed blog tells the story sweetie.

It's okay Sister dear, your just going through Swag with drawls. Here honey, have another brownie. It will all be okay.

And? Tell that bodyguard of yours to watch her effin back, the REAL bodyguard is looking for her.

Now, I have four episodes of Gossip Girl (fuck you, don't judge me), an ice cold Corona and a fresh baked pan of brownies that demands my attention.
Carry On.

All Good Things Must Come To..

...a screeching fucking stop. That's right gang, the
is over.

Between broken bones, food poisoning, a fake kidnapping, a fake ransom note, a missing Princess (PWT), enough Mardi Gras beads collected to make every goddamn Drag Queen in America happy, and the realization that the Queen and I were embarking on a blogging milestone, it became apparent that it was time to rally the buses and hookers, and head home. (How's THAT for a giant run on sentence? BOO-YA motherfuckers!)

What is the milestone the Queen and I are approaching? Well, you nosey asshats, we are celebrating our 10th anniversary of finding each other, and blogging together.

Yes, that's right. Queenie and I have been kicking ass, taking names, and generally pointing, laughing, and making fun of people at this shit for 10 years. That's longer than my first and second marriage put together! (yes I'm on number 3..Shut UP fuckers!)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ok, so that up there was a post I started a while ago, and right in the middle of composing it, Blogger Duct taped Momma Duck . All Royals were called to action, and by the time I got back to my post, because I eat too many special brownies and drink way too many Coronas I was so upset, I lost my train of thought.
Fuck off! I'm old, my memory isn't what it use to be. Onward and upward
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Now I want to address something...something I think is damn near as evil as that goddamn Facebook... It's called Swagging. That's right, I said Swagging. The drunken Queen stumbled across this site one evening while hopping around the Internet.

I showed up at the castle for our weekly business meeting and found her almost manic. She was all "Free Money!" and "Gift Cards!" and "EASIEST SHIT EVER TO PAD THE GIN SUPPLY!"

I watched her cackling like a mad woman, filling out surveys, searching with their engine, and collecting points. Her bony little fingers were flying so fast over the goddamn keyboard, I swear I saw smoke. She was starting to scare me, so I told her we would postpone the meeting and to call me in the morning. I went home.

After a couple days without a blog post or a peep from the Queen, I began to get concerned. A couple days later, we all got an e-mail from the Queen. In the e-mail, she never mentioned gin, hookers, gators or Willie. It was a call to Swag. She talked of silver, gold, and Amazon Gift Cards. Most of the Royals, because they are fucking afraid of her jumped on the Swag Wagon.

Not me. No-fucking-siree. I was alarmed. When the Queen doesn't mention gin in an e-mail, something is defiantly not right. I knew I had to head over to her castle.

Along the way, it dawned on me that all kinds of things were amiss. No Royals were posting on the blogs, except PWT , and her posts were more like a fucking Swag survey instead of her usual brilliance.

All of our best hookers were MIA from their corner. I noticed the grass needed mowing at the Retirement Home, and I swear I heard a baby crying from the back room.

I noticed the The Royal Prison was being run by the fucking inmates, The Royal Newspaper hadn't been published in over a week, and The Ogre Child hasn't been heard from in over a month! Holy fuck! This is not good.

When I arrived at Queenie's, I noticed the gators were almost dead, the pool was dirty, and the bartender had a sign on the bar that said "Be Back...Whenever". WTF?

All of a sudden, I rounded the corner, and there she was. She was sitting at the computer, in a ratty ass bathrobe, her hair sticking up in every direction, the ashtray was over flowing, and her glass was EMPTY! I shit you not people.

As I slowly approached her, I noticed her eyes were glazed over, there was drool coming out one side of her mouth, her fingers were gnarled over the keyboard and she was mumbling about gift cards and only a few more pooooiiiinnttts!!!


What. The. Hell. Then it dawned on me. This Swag shit is a mother fucking cult! A David Korech and the Branch Davidian type, mother fucking cult!

People are sucked in, brainwashed, and then just shut out the rest of the damn world. No blogging, no wild partying, no blog smack downs, no nothing! Their entire existence seems to become clicking, swagging, and points.

We've got to figure out how to save the Monarchy from this Jim Jones like madness before the entire fucking kingdom falls apart!

It's time to come up with a plan. Put on your thinking cap, asshats, and for fuck sake, DO NOT DRINK ANY GODDAMN KOOL-AID!

Commie Bastards And Halloween

It’s October, and that means Halloween is just around the corner.

Naturally, my son's school came out with a list of the “best” treats and “worst” treats for Halloween.

Here’s a partial list of their “best” treats:

“Pretzels, crackers, and popcorn. If you get whole-grain versions of crackers and pretzels, you can add some much needed fiber to the season’s high-chocolate diet.”

Yeah, right. That’s just what we need. A bunch of little crotch parasites running around with too much fiber in their diet from all the whole grains they’re scarfing down. There will be legions of little farters roaming our neighborhoods.

Well, that's just fucking beautiful.

“Pumpkin seeds, almonds, peanuts, and trail mix”.

Peanuts? Aren’t they constantly warning us about peanut allergies and now we’re supposed to hand this shit out?

Trail mix? Are you shitting me? Trail mix? Where are these kids Trick or Treating? The fucking old west?

“Juice boxes. (just check the label to make sure it’s juice & not colored sugar water!).”

What the hell is wrong with colored sugar water? I grew up on motherfucking Kool-Aid and Tang, and I turned out okay. Maybe if more kids had good old Kool-Aid they’d be able to stay awake in their goddamn math class.

Here’s their “worst” list of treats.

“Gummy bears, jelly beans, caramels, fruit leather, gum, and other sticky treats. Full-sized chocolate bars. Cookies and snack cakes. Stay away from the following snacks voted worst vending machine snacks for kids by the Center for Science in the Public Interest: Chips Ahoy!, Oreos, Hostess HOHOs & other snack cakes, Keebler Club & Cheddar Sandwich Crackers, & Starburst Fruit Chews.”

Um… Back the fucking pimpmobile up.

Who in the hell gives out Keebler Cheddar Sandwich Crackers for Halloween? If I’m Trick or Treating that’s a house that is getting toilet papered.

And who are these fucking communists at the “Center for Science in the Public Interest”? That’s right communists. Anyone who doesn’t like a fucking Hostess HOHO has to be a goddamn commie bastard.

Gummy bears? Come on! What are old people and babies supposed to eat?

And Chips Ahoy? How can you knock a food that’s basically saying hello every time you look at the bag. That’s not a bad treat. That’s a motherfucking happy treat. That’s a treat that welcomes you home, goddamn it.

They’re bashing Starburst fruit chews too? What the fuck? It says fruit right on them. We’re supposed to have five servings a day of that shit, right?

I say fuck these commie assholes. Don’t listen to these people that want to ruin Halloween.

Load up your kids with their trick or treat candy and chocolate. Thousands of fucking dentists are depending on us. Just make sure to check out their bags first and snag a few of the good treats for yourself.

You know… Like the Keebler Cheddar Sandwich Crackers….

A Rare Saturday Post

Listen up gang bangers/bad-asses/throat punchers and the rest of you kick ass motherfuckers.

The Queen has sent forth a kingdom wide demand request. She wants to assemble a security detail for the Royal Family.

Fuck knows we could use some. Dame Penis has Sir, and he fucking rocks, but even he cannot handle all of our collective bullshit at the same time.

CB aka Princess of Class, Trash and Sass also had a shout out for a few Good Men or Women and you can read about it HERE .

And the Princess of Slut Town also has a few requirements for her security detail input.

To sum it all up, we tend to piss people off. If fuckers would just agree with us and do what the fuck we want them to do, this could all be avoided.

But noooo, there is always a fukstick asswipe in the bunch. Inevitably, said Fuckstick asswipe pisses one of us off, and we end up kicking some serious ass. Then all fucking hell breaks loose.

We tend to pass out, run amok, fall off bar stools and/or lawn chairs, trip on our stilettos, trip over things that jump out at us like modgepodge and art supplies, and occasionally cut, or bruise ourselves from said falling and tripping.

We have also been known to break hearts, faces, random dishes, the bank, car windows, small appliances, and other things thrown in the heat of a drunken moment.

There are times we even fuck up things on our body like toes, vaginas, lips, asses, and... well, you get the idea.

We also tend to have to run from the Po-Po or an angry John at least once a week.

So, as you can see, we need security. Not just any security, but bad ass mother fuckers. Some of you have thrown a hat into the ring to be considered, and here is where you can be of some use.

We are going to allow you asshats to vote!

I know RIIIGHT! Yes, we're awesome that way

That said, and the fact that today is my fucking day off, I'm going to end this here.

GO AND VOTE! NOW!!! WHAT ARE YOU FUCKERS WAITING FOR? The Royal's well being and safety are at stake. GOOOOOOOO!


Now....did someone say steak?

I Have To Do EVERYTHING Around Here! /FUFF

Since my whorefaced niece The Crazy Brunette seems to be MIA, I am going to host her Fucked Up Friday Follow, right here in Dorkville.

CB, BTW, is in deep shit. I brought my goddamn laptop on vacation. Little bitch said she would cut her arm off before ever leaving her laptop behind for her vacation. So, where are the goddamn posts?Hmm? She isn't in goddamn Siberia, she is in California, where they have Wifi everyfuckingwhere.

Anyway... If you are new, go HERE TO READ THE RULES

BUT YOU WILL HAVE TO COME BACK HERE (Dorkville) TO LINK UP

Anyway, on to Fucked Up Friday Follow

I have some things to get off my chest.

To Every Burger King or McDonald's Employee Who Ever Lived: Why do you choose a job working with the goddamn public when it's obvious that you utterly despise all living creatures? Why didn't you go work at the DMV where people expect to be treated like peasant shit? Why can you not just give me my fucking McSalad without causing me mental anguish because my total was $6.68 and I gave you $21.18? Why????

To The Guy Who Left A Message For Me While I Was Gone: You win today's "Most Worthless Strand of DNA" title. Here. I'll tell you why.

I get back home today and I have a message to call Angus (named changed to protect the stupid) from the company that is remodeling the guest bathroom. So, I call.

*ringing*

"Hello?"

"Hi, Angus, it's Dutchess calling. How are you?'

"Did you get my message to call me?"

*blink. blink*

"Nope. I just wanted to see if you watched CSI last night."

"Uhh. Yeah, actually, I did."

"Wow. Thursday nights must be very confusing for you. Anyway, I just called to see if you could give me a brief synopsis cos' I fucking missed it. I had to give myself an enema."

"What? Who is this?"

"The Dutchess...we are your clients..you're remodeling our guest bathroom..."

"I left a message for you to call me."

"Huh. Well, I tell you what, I'll call you as soon as you tell me what happened on CSI last night."

Seriously, Fucktard. Stop smoking crack or raming your fucking head into a wall every night or whatever the hell you're doing because it's KILLING YOUR BRAIN. JUST FUCKING STOP. Or just stop trying to communicate with the outside world. jesus christ on a cracker.

To The Mid-Life Crisis Motherfucker with the hairy arms and the Dodge Viper who happened to be in front of me at the bank:

I come to the bank as a courtesy to my Hubby, for our business, not because I enjoy the witty banter from the goddamn tellers. I am late for my regular Corona pick up, you fucking stain. Do you think that maybe while we sat in line for 10 minutes you could have filled out the damn deposit slip instead of waiting until the receiving box actually opened??

I know that your money really needs to hit the account before 2 pm or your check for that Maxim subscription is going to bounce like my tits without a bra, but bugging the fuck out of the teller while she's trying to process your deposit isn't helping. It made it douche bag.

It shoots up that fucking plastic tube and goes straight to her. I know you can't see it, but, trust me on this. It's a PLASTIC TUBE. Not a portal into another world, you big hairy ball sac.

Oh, and when the slip comes back, can you please just put the receptacle back in and leave? What the hell are you looking for in there? Your goddamn misspent youth? MOVE, YOU ASSHAT.

To the Amazon Bitch who almost knocked me down in her hurry to get into The Deli: It happens all the time. You're walking on the sidewalk into an establishment and someone is crossing the parking lot to walk in. You know that one of you needs to pause and let the other go first or there will be a collision.

I saw you coming, cunt nugget. I hesitated to stop because I had already lost 30 minutes to Mid-Life Dicklick, so why the hell not you too. You, on the other hand, had other plans. You lowered your head like a motherfucking bull about to charge and even skipped a little as you rushed in front of me and then let the door close In. My. Face.

Newsflash, you Amazon whore. There's no shortage of salami. They aren't rationing the cheesecake or the goddamn ham. I could maybe understand your urgency if a bus full of Ethiopian refugees had pulled up at the same time as you did, but we are the only ones in the restaurant. I hope they were out of cheesecake. Bitch. Fuckyouverymuch


Now, link-up bitches. Tell me about your FUFF post. And for fuck sake assbags, please follow CB's rules. I don't need her crazy ass bitching at me.

Ice Cream and Mental Health

I hate the goddamn grocery store. While I was there today, I noticed something.
Skinny people fucking window shop when they’re grocery shopping!

I shit you not.

I was in the goddamn ice cream aisle trying to get my fix, and there they were, shivering, drooling, and staring into the glass.

They came in from the SKN & BONE Fitness Center next door dressed all in their tiny fucking ass shorts and matching tank tops. Then they stood there mumbling shit about carbs or calories or some other bullshit.

They had this pathetic fucking look on their faces like they just saw the cutest puppy ever.

But, also just found out they can’t take it home.

Ya know, it would be sad if it wasn’t so goddamn annoying.

See, they’re blocking my fucking lane. I am there to find my lovers, Chunky Monkey, Cherry Garcia, and Chubby Hubby. I’m there to grab and get the fuck out.

I’ve got the meltage factor, and my pissy parole officer to worry about. I’m on a fucking mission asshats. Lives damn well depend on me!

Just get out of my goddamn way and move over to the produce section. The rest of your sprout munching liberal pussy friends are gathering for a quick support meeting.

Why do Skinny people usually have paper products and cleaning supplies in their carts. Well, that and precut, washed and packaged, salad and fruit.

Why is it that they spend 16 hours a day in the goddamn gym working out until they can crack a walnut with their motherfucking ass cheeks, but they can’t cut their own friggin watermelon? What. The. Hell?

I hate when there are a lot of skinny bitches in the grocery store at once. I felt like I was being stalked.

My cart was piled high with beer, suzyQ's, and pork rinds. you know, real food. As I walk past, I feel eyes on my every move, and yep, these little waif-ish whores are following me around just waiting to fucking strike at my calorie laden shopping cart of love.

I want to scream, "Back off you skinny salad bitches and keep your goddamn bony hands off my piping hot French bread before I have to go all Mamma Cass fighting for a chicken leg on your asses!"

Depriving oneself of the basic pleasures of life will take a toll on ones mental well being. I'm pretty sure one of them skinny bitches will snap soon.

I'll round the ice cream isle one day, and some waif-ish whore will be. sitting down cross-legged (skinny bitches can do that) in the ice cream aisle, with sixteen pints of Ben and motherfucking Jerry popping the lids off, ninja style, while scooping the ice-cream out with her bare bony hands smearing it all over her body while speaking in tongues about the goddamn diet of the month.

Do yourself (and the rest of us) a favor, skinny bitches of the world.

Eat the motherfucking ice cream!

Votes, Vacations, and Vegas

Well, hello my lovely asshats.

I was going to take off one more day to give my alcohol soaked and sun fried brain a chance to regroup and formulate a post.

However, it seems as if the entire Royal goddamn Family has flown the drunken castle.

One of us went to Vegas.
One of us is MIA in California and may or may not be licking things off of Gucci Momma ,
One of us is in the middle of blowing fighting the Zoning Commission so we can complete the move to the new Stinky House Bunny Ranch.

That left my poor little niece, Princess Skankypants, to handle the entire whorehouse, alone. Normally, she would have rocked that shit. But, halfway through the third Peep Show, she got all verklempt in thinking about her Dad and started singing a beautiful, albeit sad, song.

Next thing you know, people are crying in their fucking beers and blowing their goddamn noses in the cocktail napkins.

Queenie got wind of the whole debacle and, without thinking, put up a quick, post about the beach , (shudders at the memory). That fucking thing resulted in some of us poking our already bleeding eyes out with a goddamn cocktail fork and even caused a little throwing up in our mouths.

That? Does not make people want to party and spend their mad money at the Royal Whorehouse.

And that? Means revenue is down.

And that? Means our supply of condoms, xanax, funny cigarettes and Queenie's required gin provisions, are getting disturbingly low.

And that shit? Just will not do motherfuckers.

So I, being full of the awesome, am here to save the goddamn day again. Pull up a bar stool, drinks and doobage are on me. I am going to impart a little wisdom on to you assclowns while the rest of the Royal Family gets the new location for the family business up and running.

Without giving too much detail, (by order of my attorney), here are some things I learned you should NOT do while in Vegas.

1. Don't assume that just because you are in a fancy schmancy two story suite with a full bar and spiral staircase, that the floor to ceiling windows must be tinted. Apparently, some people have no sense of humor when it comes to a fat ass, drunken Dutchess singing loudly and window dancing to "Boogie Wonderland" (shut-UP!) while naked.

2. When the Po-Po show up, to discuss said naked window dancing, it's probably not a good idea to say..
***You must be the Village People strippers I sent for! Where is the Indian Chief and Construction worker!?
***Yo! That uniform makes your ass look really big!
***Oh! You're real cops? Which is Barney and which one is Andy?
***Aren't there real criminals you should be fucking catching?
***If you had some of the stuff I just had, maybe you wouldn't be so fucking uptight!
***It's tobacco.....honest!
***Hey! I bet I can grab that gun faster that you can write that citation asshat!
***A hundred dollar fine?!! Well, maybe a couple Abe Lincoln's can change your mind!
***Umm...you don't happen to have any beer in this car do you?
***Can you say "Book 'em Danno?" just like Steve McGarrett? That's sooo HOT!

3. Don't try to smuggle tiny bottles of vodka into the Indoor Skydiving Chamber. That fucking shit hurts when it explodes out of your flight suit, causing vodka and bottle pieces to be strewn about at 300 mph. (Yes indoor skydiving. The Dutchess is only jumping from a real airplane if that bitch is on fire and going down).

One more thing, a skanktacular friend of the Royal Family is in a contest. I think her entry (number 2) is bitchin, and I'm sure you will too. So, by order/bribery of the Royal Family, go HERE , and vote for number 2.

Move along dicklicks! Nothing more here to see today. Just make sure you GO VOTE!