A Party For WHAT?!

Do you remember when you got your first period? I was 11, and on a camping trip with my Mom, and her best friend. Anyway, after going to the bathroom, I was a little freaked out.  Dude, it was the 70's!  Sex education didn't cover much back then!  I called out for my Mom, she called her BFF into the melee, and then they gave me:

The Supplies:
 A thick ass maxi pad, with some kind of elastic torture device to hold it in place and a roll of toilet paper.

The Lowdown, Info, 411:
1. The toilet paper was to be used to wrap up your used pad before throwing it away. That way, no one really new you were on your period. (What?)

2. I was now a woman and could pregnant. The hell?! I'M ELEVEN! I"M NOT EVEN SURE I KNEW WHAT THAT MEANT, FOR FUCK SAKE!!  IT WAS ONLY THE 70'S!!

3.  A snicker, an eye roll and the sound of clinking ice in her highball glass was all I got.  I certainly was not the guest of honor at a Period Party.

Yep, you read that right. A motherfucking Period Party!  One of my cousin's daughter's just got an invitation to a Period Party!  Apparently, it’s not enough for a young girl to start menstruating; now that particular life event needs to be celebrated with a themed, invitation-only party. Much like everything else in some of these entitled little asshole's lives today.

Seriously people, are we raising a fucking generation that’s going to expect balloons animals and a godamn cupcake every time they fart or put the toilet seat down? When will this nonsensical bullshit end?

Sure, I agree it's an important time for a young woman, but is it necessary to do it with a party?
Especially seeing as how this will become her least favorite time of the month, starting one day after the "Hey, I'm bleeding" shindig and lasting until menopause or until she can convince a doctor to rip that shit out, roots, eggs and all.

As I sit here, I wonder... Do the guests eat red jelly beans, red Jell-O, drink Big Red soda and give their red balloons panty-liner mustaches?  Does the crazy ass Mother then read them excerpts from Judy Bloom's, "Are you thee God, It's Me, Margaret" or "The Period Book", while they dunk tampon shaped teacakes in their damn teacups?   Um, is it just me or does that sound like a scene out of some fucking whacko Woody Allen movie? 

How do you even plan a Period Party?  Are there places out there to go for supplies?  Are there sections in the party store that sell pretty princess period party pack that includes plates, cups, and pink feminine disposal goody bags? 

Are there games like, “Get The Egg Out Of The Ovary” (Don't get stuck in the fallopian tubes!), or "Tampon Basketball," or, "Pin the chocolate on the menstruating woman's mouth"?  Maybe there are word games like, "How many words can you make out of “Puberty Really Sucks!" or "Help I Have Cramps From Hell!" or my personal favorite, "Bitch, I have raging PMS and will kill you!"

Well, that sure sounds like way more fun than the traditional “run to the fucking bathroom and hope your period doesn’t go through your white pants or everyone in the 6th grade will taunt you until you fucking graduate, dumbass” game we all played, right?

What about gifts for the guest of honor?  What exactly are "Welcome to Womanhood" gifts?  How about a pocket calendar, a red candle, a case of douche, and pimple cream?  AWESOME!  Just what every 12 year old dreams of unwrapping!

And if that weren’t humiliating enough, does Mommy dearest invite older women to the party to “share their menstrual stories” with the tweens?  Yeah, because that's not fucking traumatizing at all!

“And then, girls, there was the time I had my period on my honeymoon, so my husband spent the entire time gambling in the casino while I cried and drank minibar vodka on the bathroom floor."

"Well, at least that was still better than that time I had cramps so painful that I took three Vicodin and crashed the car into Dunkin Donuts."

"OOH!  What about that time I got toxic shock syndrome and almost died from sepsis."

Such good times!  Welcome to womanhood, Sweetpea! Pass the Midol Martinis!”

Look, I know it's important to talk with our daughters about their bodies. Just do it without the fucking the red balloons, please.

The Summer Cycle

Every year, it's the same old routine.  Summer comes, pool is opened up, the deck furniture is put out, and pretty planters brimming with gorgeous flowers are put on the hanging plant hooks that surround the deck.  Poor things, will die long before summer is over, but that's a story for a different post. 

 

After all the prep work is finished, there is the reward of sweet summer days and warm, sultry evenings spent hanging out on the deck and in the pool.  It's riiight about then that I remember, HOLY FUCK I'M GOING TO HAVE TO WEAR A BATHING SUIT!

 

Cue the anxiety, the panic, the cursing and sobbing.  Then comes the self lecture about skipping breakfast and lunch for most of my teenage and young adult life.  Sounds like a good idea, but that shit catches up with you, and not in the way your think, trust me.

Next comes the reminder that a Corona drinking, Xanax popping, stay at home Mom that sits on the couch with my laptop, remote control and a stash of peeps close by has my ass spreading faster than the goddamn swine flu. I have to do something.

Okay, I got this!  I will join all the other crazy assholes who jog. Then I remembered that when I tried this last year, I made it through a quarter of a mile before my goddamn tits jumped off my chest and went home. I found them in the kitchen, eating frosting from the container and drinking my fucking boxed wine.

Scratch that, maybe Tae Bo!  I love that, and I know I have some dvds around here!  I just have to remember where I put them. wait!  I remember what happened!  Two years ago I made it 3 damn days before I cursed Billy fucking Blanks and his shiny, bald head to hell and back. I limped outside and set that fucking DVD on fire. I sat drinking a cold Corona and watching it delicately melt the edges off. I may have been maniacally giggling my ass off too.

Well, I probably won't do anything about the size my ass if I'm not held accountable, so I opened a phonebook.

"ACME Fitness Club, how can I help you?"

"I have an ass spread the size on fucking Montana. Help me."

She explained the process to me as I sat there dumbfounded. Basically, for the low, low price of HOLY SHIT YOU PEOPLE ARE FUCKING CRAZY??? I could pick a body out of a book and they would get me there. The fourth time I asked her to repeat the membership fee, I demanded it come with "a bodybuilder to ride around in my goddamn trunk and keep me pepped up. The Bitch hung up on me.

My next call was to a fitness boot camp. When the dickwad screamed at me with so much enthusiasm that I smelled his fucking breath over the phone, I quietly disconnected the call and then ripped the goddamn phone out of the wall for good measure.

I have decided to say, fuck it and just buy a mu mu.  I'm old and fucking tired. Give me my goddamn peeps, a cold Corona and a container of  Ben & Jerry's, then go fuck yourselves.

Like A Good Neighbor...

Guess what?     No!  Willie is NOT using my shed as a grow house!  NO!  I have not put up the  "Hookers "R" Us" "OPEN for Business" door sign!  I haven't even been found passed out naked in the front bird bath while yammering about the fucking sky falling and the pool shrinking!  Your guesses suck tits, people!

"I have new neighbors!  Yep!  That's right!  Brand spankin' new neighbors!  Now, I know what you're thinking,

"OH HOLY HELL! NO ONE WARNED THEM!"
"ABORT!! ABORT!! DON'T BUY THE HOUSE, PEOPLE!
RUUUNNNNNN, YOU DUMB FUCKS, RUUUUUNNNNN!

I know, I know, but hang on!  History doesn't have to repeat itself, right?  I'm the simpler, kinder, changed by life, Dutchess.  I am the Dutch that can learn from history instead of being confined by it!  I can be informed, and empowered by it instead of being dictated by it!  This is going to be GREAT!  I'm finally going to be a good neighbor!

I cut a pretty bouquet of fresh cut Peonies from my front flower bed, wrapped them in a pretty bow, and went and welcomed them to the neighborhood.  I smiled, made nice, and I was charming, dammit!  I was feeling pretty great about my new self! 

Well, a couple days later, the wife of the new neighborhood BFF's knocked on the door.  She noticed my grandbaby playing outside earlier and figured him to be close to the same age as her darling rug rat.  She went on to say that she really needed to run to the grocery store and wondered if I'd be interested in watching kid dynamo for an hour.

SHUT UP!    I can hear you laughing, asshats!  These people don't know old me!  I have too changed!  I even took down the pentagram, and the sign over the door that says we keep and eat all girl scouts whom dare enter!

So, of course I said yes!  She then tells me her little angel is gluten free, and she doesn't believe in sugary soda.  The hell?  Believe in it or not, bitch, the soda exists!  But, I smile, say sure, and wave buh-bye.

Ok, here I am going to stop and explain that I am old.  I'm not even sure what the fuck gluten free means, but I decide a snack is in order.  What better way to get to know a child than to feed them?  Genius.  I called for my grandson, and he and rug rat sit at the breakfast table. 

I decide Kool-aid isn't a soda, and grab a couple boxes and hand them to the boys.  The phone rang, and it was some asshole telemarketer.  I swear, I had my back to the boys for 3.437 seconds and I turn around to ask the boys if they would like an apple, because an applies healthy, right?

Holy Fuck!  The grandson and his angelic rug rat sidekick have managed to get the lid off of a box of Costco cupcakes and have crammed as many as they could into those darling little piranha mouths in some whacked out competition!

I glance at this once angelic kid who now is in a wild eyed eating frenzy with a face smeared in frosting muttering something about how could his commie bitch parents never have told of this bliss!

Well, fuck!  I don't think those are gluten free, and maybe the kool-aid wasn't such a good idea.

Needless to say, when Mom picked up kid dynamo, he was at the height of his sugar rush and kinda reminded me my Uncle Shorty.  A tiny, sugared up, flesh colored blur of fury with incoherent stuttering, and swearing, pinging off the walls.  Sorry!

I think my neighborhood BFF status just lost an F.

Pass the wine, Please.  This good neighbor shit is hard!

WARNING: The Royal Family Is At It Again

Lock up your husbands
Lock up your sons
Lock up your whiskey cabinets
Girls lock up your guns
Lock up the beauty shop
No telling if they’ve heard the news
Call the boys downtown at Neiman Marcus
Tell ’em lock up them high-heeled shoes

When the Royals take a road trip
There ain’t no slap dab a-tellin’ what they’re gonna do
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
You heard right, you lucky bastards. The Royal Family is about to embark on another adventure...

The Royal Spring Break Road Trip

Stay tuned for more details. The bus leaves at the end of the week!

New Year, New Dutchess

Well, hello lovers! I'm finally back from Christmas vacation.

Aww, you are overcome with pure unabashed joy, right? Right!

Well, this is a new year, (Happy 2011 Hookers!), and that means another chance to start afresh. I don't usually do resolutions because, quite frankly, it's hard to remember things made while smashed and stoned on New Year's Eve.

This year, I knew you all would be wondering what the Dutchess will do in 2011, so I wrote them down!

1. I will stop suggesting that we go streaking at every party I attend.

2. I will get a mammogram and not be embarrassed when the Doctor opens the door and calls, "We're gonna need the Biggun's 2000 for this set!"

3. I will always “check for paper” before leaving the restroom. (shut the fuck up asswipes, like it has never happened to you!)

4. I will try to figure out why I *really* need nine e-mail addresses.

5. I will spend less than one hour a day on the Internet

6. I will stop lying to myself. (see above)

7. I will never again take a sleeping pill and a laxative on the same night.

8. I will learn to forgive and forget when it comes to my blood sucking, ass chapping, worthless waste of air beathing oxygen people I call my In-laws.

9. See number 6 and read number 8 again.

10. I will strive to shave my legs more than once every couple weeks. I caught the goddamn sheets on fire three times last year and spent $20,000 on Draino.

11. I will try a new haircut and never again think anyone can ever rock the Roseann Rosanadana look.

I'll let you know how it goes.

BSF, Genetics and an Award

It's time for...



slutcode: whips and chains.
Go link up assclowns.

This Friday I give a big FUCK YOU to my genetic make-up.

My Mother is in her 60's, and knows how to use and navigate the computer system at her job, but the Internet? Not so much. She calls it "the MSN thingy inside the little blue 'e' on the screen", because I set MSN as her homepage on Explorer.

I bought her a laptop for her birthday this past May. Even though she doesn't know anything about the world wide web, she really wanted one and more than anything, she really wanted to learn how to use it. For the first two weeks her laptop was a $2,000 electronic solitaire game. Once she began to familiarize herself with that, she "found" pinball.

"Yes, mother! Oh, sure. I bet you are! You're right. No one plays pinball better than you, for you are the one, the only, Pinball Wizard!"

I have sat down at the computer (for many painful fucking hours followed by Xanax blackouts) showing this woman step-by-step how to do basic computer shit. I also have handwritten and typed (saved on her desktop in case she loses the paper version) instructions for each task.

She still calls every single time she logs into explorer. She has been doing this for seven fucking months. I've decided, she is either...
A) trying to kill me slowly and painfully
B) fucking with me to find the breaking point she couldn't find when I was a child
C) really a goddamn airhead in need of a refill
D) hitting the sauce again
E) all of the above

Guess the answer and you'll win a prize. If you said "E - all of the above", I say, ding-ding-ding, we have a winner folks. Step right up and claim your prize. It's a lovely prize really. It's the goddamn sanity I no longer have. Congratulations!

When I was little, I thought this was not only the prettiest lady in the universe but the smartest. I must have been a crack baby to think such bullshit!

Don't even waste your damn breath with, "Dutchess, shame on you, that's your mom!" or "Dutchess, that's not nice!"

I'll tell ya what's not so fucking nice. Last night I was at home,drinking heavily and watching Celebrity Rehab minding my very own business. My phone rang, and it was my mother.

We exchanged the regular bullshit pleasantries and before long, she was going in for the kill. I e-mailed her some photos taken of my Step-Dad at our last get together and she was having "a devil of a time" retrieving them.

I decided to send her the photos again, but this time through instant messenger. She said she had to have these pictures right away. I wondered if my Step-Dad was trying out for some modeling gig I didn't know about.

"Okay Mom, first open your MSN IM."
"My what?"
"The little blue guy with the butterfly thingy."
"I don't see that."
"It should be on your far right, at the bottom of your screen."
"There's nothing down there."

"Mom, do you remember where I told you to find the volume to listen to Cher?"
"Oh, down there! I see."
"Okay, click on the little blue guy."
"The little blue guy?"
"Yes. Your MSN instant messenger."

"Honey, I don't want to chit chat. I want to get those pictures of Dad."
"Trust me Mom, I don't want to chit chat either! This is how I plan to send the pictures to you. Could you please click on the blue guy two times, very fast for fuck sake?"
"With my left clicker or my right clicker?"
"Always your left Mom. Unless I say, 'right click', it's always your left."

I am now hand signaling the Duke to bring me the bottle of Jim Beam

"I don't know why I can't remember that. You say it all the time."
"I know."
"Oh, there it is!"

She said this with such surprise, it was almost hard to be mad at her. Almost.

"Great! Now you need to sign in. Did you keep the password saved?"
"The password?"
"Never mind that. Is there a place for you to hit 'Sign in'?"
"Yes, right on the little rectangle box."
"Good! Hit that."
"Sign in?"
"Yes."

"Okay. Well now it's doing this weird thing and the little blue guy is spinning around and around."
"That's okay. It's signing in."
"Remember when you were little and would spin for hours and hours. You were such a cute kid."
"Yes, I remember." (It was what I did when you were making me lose my fucking marbles mother, of course I remember.)

"Oh look! The Dutchess is online."
"Yes I am. I am waiting for you."
"Well, here I am," she giggled. I beat my head on my desk.

This went on for quite some time but she finally made it to MSN IM. I was proud, for a second.

"What you need to do now is hit 'Accept'."
"I don't see that."
"It's in the little blue flashing box at the bottom of your screen. The one that says, 'Dutchess conversation'. Do you see that?"

"Oh, that's you."
"Yep, still me." (big swig of whiskey)

Then I noticed something. She seemed distracted. I could tell I didn't have 100% of her attention, more so than normal.

"What the hell are you doing Mom?"
"Oh my god! The president's legs just went out from under him. Oh my god!"

I hop on CNN's website. I checkout US, Homepage, World news and nothing.

"Was this during a press conference Mom? Where is the president?"
"On the television."

I run to the television, only to figure out that my mother was watching her fucking West Wing DVD's on her television!

"Mom, I gotta go."
"What about my pictures?"

I'm thinking, fuck your pictures and fuck West Wing and while you're at it, fuck me for being so goddamn stupid. What was I thinking, buying you something you are too damn insane to operate!

"When I come over next week, I'll retrieve them from your e-mail, okay?"
"Oh, that's a great idea! I just wish I could look at them right now. But it's okay. I can wait."

"How nice of you. Thanks for being so patient with me Mom. I have to go STAB MYSELF IN THE FUCKING HEAD WITH A BUTTER KNIFE take a bath.

If this is what I have to look forward to, I think I got fucked, big time in the DNA lottery.

At least I won an award this week. Check it out...


I'm a fucking rock star, yo! Thank you Jen.

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.

A Box of Wine, The Flu and A Drunken Dutchess

Welcome to the Halloween Edition of


I love Halloween. It's the one time of year you get to dress outrageously hooker-ish, get tanked, and eat candy until your teeth fall out.

Ok, ok, asshats. It's the one time a year outside of the Royal castle, you can dress outrageously hooker-ish, get tanked and eat candy until your teeth fall out.

However, Halloween 2010 was not one for the record books. Here are a few highlights from the Dutchess' Halloween Debacle 2010.

Bad wine - It started last night at friend's Halloween pre-party. You know, the house drinks you have before going to the real party. She had some cheap ass bottles of wine, but I'm all about cheap wine, so I decided, what the hell. I don't know what the fuck it was, but the damn bottle had a penguin on the label. That should have been my first warning. Penguins are not found in Napa Valley, or the South of France. I don't think the Hostess was amused when I kept giggling and telling her to "pour me some more of that Ripple!"

Five inch heels - Super cute...Super fucking stupid for a drunken Dutchess at a rockin' bar crammed with people and stairs in the most fucked up places. The bonus was a quick hoo-ha shot after tumbling off the fuckers as I was stepping down from the dance floor.

Stress - the Duke is determined to see how long it takes me, after a thousand fucking phone calls when I'm out for "Girls Night", to go fucking sniper and mow everyone down with a goddamn Uzi. I've developed a tic in my face, for fuck's sake.

Anger - Someone did a really shitty thing to my bestie. I will be calling the relatives in the bayou to perform some bad ass gris-gris on the offender, mark my words. I hope all your children have extra appendages, you fuckstick.


The goddamn flu - I woke up this morning and started throwing up. My bowels were jealous of the attention that my esophagus was getting, so they decided to get in on the action. I felt wretched and everything that wasn't nailed down was coming out one end or the other. Now, I know this is far more information than anyone truly needs, but you have to know how dismal my situation is to truly appreciate the fact I'm here writing for you all.

I'm pretty sure that while I was on my knees yakking, I was anally raped by some fucking ass pirate with a goddamn penis that was on fire. For the first time in my life, I'm considering buying Tucks Medicated Pads for my pissed off no-no hole.

I need a vacation...and some ointment.

East Bound and Down

Where was Sheriff Buford T. Justice when I needed him?

Here’s a phrase that will never come out of my mouth again, “Let’s just rent a U-Haul and move this shit ourselves.”

I was a little girl (ok, so I was 13, whatever) when Eddie Rabbit sang about "Driving His Life Away". The minute I heard that song, I knew I wanted to drive a big rig for a living. (That was livin' large and dreaming the dream, huh?)

I have already stated that the vehicles I prefer to drive are my truck and the SUV. I love them, and don't tell me about my carbon fucking footprint, m'kay?.

I figured a little U-haul truck would be a piece of fucking cake. Apparently that’s incorrect and a fail.

You see, the Duke has been busy lately and I needed to put some old furniture into storage. I got sick of waiting for him to get around to it, so I decided to do it my damn self.

If you’ve never been to one of these storage mausoleums, it’s a real fucking treat. Here is a place, full of shit that people don’t want, but pay to store, that is more secure that Alcatraz.

First of all, they get nervous when The Royals want to put something into storage, but they try to be funny about it. “I see your part of the Royal Family. Who are you putting in there? Ha ha ha.”

“Nobody you know.”

Then they ask the token Homeland Security question. “You’re not planning on storing any chemical or biological agents in here are you?”

“Planning? No… I’m not “planning” on it.” The asshat then asks me to take my shoes off and go through a metal detector.

Meanwhile, seven guys who sound like they’re spitting when they talk are unloading drums of goddamn fertilizer, and screaming something about jihad in the space next to mine.

So I rent my space, on the third floor, and head over to U-Haul with my youngest son and daughter to rent “El Trucko.”

I called it “El Trucko” because anything that fucking big needed a title. I had reserved a small truck but they were all out so we got “El Trucko” at the small truck rates.

This fucking truck could have moved all of Mexico in one goddamn load.

I only needed to move a 241 pound 36 inch Sony TV, TV Stand, Dining Room Set and a bed.

When I hopped up into “El Trucko” I was immediately disappointed. There was no CB Radio.

How the hell was I gonna ask my good buddies if they’ve got their ears on without my goddamn CB radio?

I improvised and got out my cell phone and called my kids who were following behind me.

“Hey good buddies, I just passed another Kojak with a Kodak, this place is crawling with bears, where the hell are you? Bandit to Snowman, you got your ears on?" Can ya hear me now?”

My son was afraid.

“Mom, please don’t screw around in that truck. This isn’t “Smokey and the Bandit.”

Side Note: Line from the movie that makes me laugh every. single. time.
"Nobody, and I mean NOBODY makes Sheriff Buford T. Justice look like a possum's pecker. (Junior: "Except for that-") Shut your ass."

Too Late, I had already turned into Burt Reynolds or Jerry Reed. Actually I was more like Dom Delouise in “Smokey and the Bandit II, but whatever.”

As I’m driving back to my house to “load up” (that’s trucker talk, yo!) I started thinking of the wide open road, fresh air, country scenery, and where I could get a basset hound I could name Fred, it dawned on me. Maybe I was supposed to join a union to drive something this big. Maybe I was supposed to be a member of the Teamsters.

But the Teamster mind set wasn’t as much fun as the Smokey and the Bandit mind set so I kind of improvised it a little.

“So... How y’all doin? "What we're dealing with here is a complete lack of respect for the law."


Anyway not only am I not a truck driver... I’m no mover either. We dropped the fucking TV three times.

I knew we should have given it to the goddamn homeless guy.

Driving back to the self storage place, I started to sing, “East bound and down, loaded up and truckin, we gonna do what they say can't be done…..”

My daughter was crying.

When I pulled into the self storage lot there was only one space to park in and it was between two other very large trucks...of course.

Here’s another phrase you never want to hear yourself utter, “I think I can squeeze this baby in if I get the right angle.”

So, after I hit the front end and ripped the fucking bumper off the first truck, I found that although I was now fitting neatly into the space, there was no room to pull the ramp out of the damn truck to unload.

So I nudged it forward…ever so slowly…..

Now my front bumper is locked with the rear bumper of the goddamn truck in front of me.

My son was now suicidal.

“Jesus Christ Mom! Now what do we do?”

“We unload the fucking truck.”

We dropped the TV two more times and snapped a leg off of one of the dining room chairs, but I packed that stuff into that space like a shopping cart at a Mississippi Wal-Mart sale.

Then I went to the front office to confess to the crash while my son figured out how to unhook the trucks. I think he let air out of the tires to lower “El Trucko”.

“I kind of hit a truck back there.”

“We know we have you on our video surveillance cameras.”

Video surveillance?

This is a self storage facility filled with shit that people will eventually forget about.

Video surveillance?

Who designed this fucking place? The same guy that came up with the wrapping on DVD’s?

For a nice twist, the truck I tore the bumper off of is owned by a Korean swap meet vendor.

I told him I’d give him a 36 inch Sony TV if I didn’t have to report this to my insurance company.

I’m 10-7 good buddies...come back.

Somebody Will Be Shanked

I received an emergency shout this morning from The Queen. Bloody fucking hell.

It's my day off and, after my encounter with the man-eating-axe-murdering raccoon, I really needed my goddamn day off.

However, when one of the Royals blow the emergency whistle, we drop everything and come running. We're family, a chosen posse, per say, and THAT'S how we fucking roll. So, here I am...on my day off.

Apparently, Asshole Annie decided that the best thing to say to a fellow blogger whose 22 year marriage had been blown to hell in a million pieces, was that it was most likely Karma that got her.

She went on to play computer psychoanalyst with diarrhea of the goddamn mouth. She was spewing stupid cliches, lessons to be learned, and various other shit. Her comment to this blogger in pain was longer than most books the Duke reads.

To Asshole Annie I say, "Are you fucking dicking me? "

Unless you are paid $150.00 an hour for your assvice and guidance, shut your motherfucking pie hole.

I know you are not the brightest fucking crayon in the box, but unless you were raised by a pack of fucking dogs, you should have at least a smidgen of empathy.

At the very least, you should have been able to tell (from the author's post), that she was in pain and heartbroken. She was walking through her own personal hell and common fucking sense SHOULD have been your cue to either wish her well or just fucking move along, keeping your criticism and assvice to yourself.

As if that wasn't enough, you then hid your profile. Hmmm, you can dish it out, but can't take it, huh?

Silly bitch, you can run from the Royals, but you can't hide. You did, however, fuck up my day off. For that alone? You just earned an automatic nomination to the Dumb Bitch Hall of Fame! For the rest of your bullshit? You just earned a Royal Blog Ass Whipping.

There will be shanking.

See you all on Sunday.

BSF and A Raccoon

It's time for Blog Stalk Friday.

Today's fuck you is to the giant man eating raccoon that has moved into the woods near the side of the castle. It is also for the scary movies that cause this Drunken Dutchess to freak the fuck out.

It was The Duke's turn to pick a movie. He chose to watch "The Road". I loved the book, so I agreed.

Big fucking mistake.

It wasn't "Saw" scary, it was creep me out and make me fucking jumpy scary.

After the movie, the Duke went to bed and I decided to stay up and catch up on some shit I had recorded on the DVR.

Our Family Room is at the back of the castle. It has french doors that open up to the back deck, pool, hot tub, and past that, the back yard. The castle borders State Prairie land along the back and one side. That makes the back deck, completely private, so I don't have curtains or shades on the doors in the Family room. We do have outside motion detection lights.

You see where this is going, don't you?

I was drinking a corona, watching a little TV, enjoying a midnight toke or two, and in general, minding my own damn business. That's when it happened...

I ran to the kitchen to grab a new pack of cigarettes and was just walking back into the family room when the motion detector got set off. Now, normally, I wouldn't even think twice. We have had deer, skunk, raccoon, an occasional fox, and I've even seen a wolf, mosey through the backyard because of the dense wooded land surrounding it.

However, because of the fucking movie, and the paranoia inducing pot I was smoking my brain immediately thought, "OH MY FUCKING HELL A SERIAL KILLING AXE MURDERER IS ON MY DECK RIGHT OUTSIDE THE DOOR!!!!"

So I freeze. Because that’s what you’re supposed to do when confronted with a wild animal or serial killer.

But then I realized that I was just a stationary fucking target. Then I thought of that episode of Swamp People where if you run in a zig zag pattern an alligator is not supposed to be able to catch you. I figured alligator....serial killer... fuck it, close enough! I was about to zig when it dawned on me that there was not enough room to zag.

By this point my heart is beating through my chest. I am going to die….. Oh fuck!!!

Then my ninja survival skillz kicked in and I started to bob and weave. So I’m bobbing and weaving, weaving and bobbing trying to make myself as small as possible
when I actually see something moving on the goddamn deck!!!

STOP DROP AND ROLL DUTCH! STOP DROP AND ROLL!

That’s what my brain was telling me.

I dropped.

It wasn’t a clean drop.

And I forgot to motherfucking roll.

It was more like Tiiiiimmmmmbbbbbberrrrrr!!!!!

So I’m on the ground and because I'm scared fucking shitless, I’m too afraid to get up and look at what is on the deck.

I start to belly crawl out of the room like I’m a goddamn Navy SEAL. I’m trying to blend into my surroundings. Become invisible. I am the night. For a brief moment I became fucking Rambo.

A very brief moment.

Then the Duke came around the corner.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Ummm I don't know!?”

“Get up off the damn floor and give me a good, I repeat, good explanation for why in the hell you are making enough fucking noise to wake the dead and crawling on your belly....HOLY SHIT! There is a huge raccoon in the deck!"

I'm all, "Motion light, serial killer, axe, and...what the hell did you just say?"

"A raccoon just ran off the deck... Wait a minute. You thought the raccoon was a serial killer and then thought that crawling on your belly would stop him from killing you? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!"

Fuck you, fuck your movie, and fuck you Mr. Raccoon.
_____________________________________________________________
Our Skanktacular host is looking for a few ideas for the BSF, so click the button and give her some love.

A Bathtub, Some Wine and TMI

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.

A Vicious Circle

You all have been witness to my love/hate (mostly hate)relationship with exercise.

In my teens and twenties, I had been employed in places where I was on my feet for ten to eighteen hours a day. Your Dutchess is a kick ass Jack of all Trades. There is a whole array of jobs in my work history. Whatever I was doing, I was always ass busting busy and skipped breakfast and lunch most days. That shit catches up to you eventually, btw.

In my thirties, I started teaching and then, at 40, traded my 2 inch heeled work shoes for 5 inch stilettos and became the Sexy Vice President of Duke and My's company (big title, little work from home) and a Corona drinking, Xanax popping, stay at home Mom.

All that sitting behind a teaching desk all those years, and then sitting on the fucking couch with my laptop and eating bon-bons the past 3 years has my ass spreading faster than the goddamn swine flu. I knew I had to do something.

My first thought was that I would join all the other crazy assholes who jog. I made it through a quarter of a mile before my goddamn boobs jumped off my chest and went home. I found them in the kitchen, eating frosting from the container and drinking my fucking boxed wine.

My next bright idea was Tae Bo. I made it 3 damn days before I cursed Billy fucking Blanks and his shiny, bald head to hell and back. I limped outside and set that fucking DVD on fire. I sat drinking a cold Corona and watching it delicately melt the edges off. I may have been maniacally giggling my ass off too.

I then decided that I probably wouldn't do anything about the size my ass if I wasn't held accountable, so I opened a phonebook.

"Buff Bods, how can I help you?"

"I have an ass spread the size on fucking Montana. Help me."

She explained the process to me as I sat there dumbfounded. Basically, for the low, low price of HOLY SHIT YOU PEOPLE ARE FUCKING CRAZY??? I could pick a body out of a book and they would get me there. The fourth time I asked her to repeat the fee, I demanded it come with "a bodybuilder to ride around in my goddamn trunk and keep me pepped up. A body builder wearing a fucking super-hero costume. Red tights. I like red." The Bitch hung up on me.

My next call was to a fitness boot camp. When the dickwad screamed at me with so much enthusiasm that I smelled his fucking breath over the phone, I quietly disconnected the call and then ripped the goddamn phone out of the wall for good measure.

Finally, I found Barbie. Barbie worked at a local fitness club and I'm sure, was delivered to our planet from a solar system three-hundred-trillion light fucking years away. She was sent here to destroy us.

Barbie was happy to be up and stretching in the morning and wearing makeup. I was one, "Whoo! Feel that burn!", away from beating her to fucking death with my 3 pound dumbbell.

Barbie called my ass a, "problem area". I called Barbie's calfs "Mr. & Mrs. Beefcake".

Every morning, we would begin our workout the same way. She would stand outside my truck window and beg me to open the door and I would cry and tell her to go make me a motherfucking sandwich. All in all, I thought we had a good relationship.

I ran and stretched and pivoted and climbed and burned and burned and burned. I squeezed and pictured the thin me and portioned my food and drank water, that's right, I DRANK FUCKING WATER, MOM, AND IT DIDN'T DO JACK FUCKING SQUAT FOR MY SKIN. (And I know that bubble gum doesn't stick to your goddamn ribs, either, you sadist)

Sadly, Barbie and I had to part ways when she couldn't handle the crying any more. I will always remember thoes 10 days fondly and I'm sure she will forever remember me since I sent her flowers for firing my ass.

Once I was fired by Barbie the Bitchy Trainer, I decided fuck it, I'm old and fucking tired. Give me the goddamn Hershey's kisses, the Ben & Jerry's and go fuck yourselves. (BTW Coffee Coffee Buzz Buzz is my new obsession)

Last night it dawned on me that now, I'm really fucked. The Duke and I are going to the Caribbean in early November, and I need a few more bathing suits. Bathing suits are all on sale right now here in the frozen fucking tundra because winter is breathing down out damn necks. So I foolishly thought today would be a damn fine day to go shopping for the Caribbean trip. I was in such a delicious mood, (read stoned) I decided to invite my Mother along.

"Mom...what is that?" I was standing in front of a full-length mirror at a department store trying on bathing suits. I should have just thrown myself face-first into a fucking wood chipper.

"What?" She pulled her glasses down from her head and placed them on the end of her nose. "Your ass?"

"No, Mom. I can see my ass. The whole northern fucking hemisphere can see my ass. That. Right there."

She leaned in for a closer look and wrinkled her nose in concentration. I prayed to the god's of dressing room's that the attendant wouldn't choose that second to open the goddamn door. I mean, what the hell would I say? Just a sniff test! Minty clean ass and all that!

"That?" She poked at my right butt cheek. "It's a dimple."

I stared at her in horror. "No," I breathed. "No. No. NO. Look again. It could be a ... tumor. Maybe it's a tumor."

"You would rather have a tumor than a dimple?"

"Yes. No! I ... it can't ... don't they make cream for this shit?"

"No, but they make those little skirts that go around the bathing suit. Want me to go get you one?"

I sat down, cursed Ben & Jerry and whimpered. "Shit. Why don't you just get me a fucking mu mu and a bucket of fried chicken while you're at it."

"Oh, suck it up. Exercise."

So, now, I'm ready to try, again. I bought Lean Cuisines and stuck them in the freezer and that's half the goddamn battle, I think. (I haven't actually eaten them, but I bought them. Baby steps, asshats. Baby steps)

Also, I am now a proud owner of the Wii Jillian Michael's fitness program. It looks fucking awesome and I think I can really make a go of it. I only need to know one thing. Does the fucker come with a beer/cup holder?

Sis? Get the Epsom salt, Xanax, and copious amounts of Corona ready. I have a bad feeling about this.

Shoulder Monkeys and A Nightcap

It's time for...

Read the rules, and if you are a fuckstick, don't link up.


My daughter dropped off The Master of Destruction at 5:00 last night. She had a class that went until 10PM, and then had to be at work at 6:00 this morning, so he spent the night with us. Do you know what that means? The MoD was here for 22 fucking hours.

Now, I love that sweet smiling, blue eyed, curly blond headed little boy. He almost makes me want to shoot rainbows and butterflies out of my ass, but today? He was not a little boy.

Today, the MoD was a cranky, whiny, teething, toy chucking, throw himself on the motherfucking ground throwing a temper tantrum, screaming the word of the day...NOOOOOOOOOOOOo as loud and long as he fucking could, demon asshole.

Holy fuck, at one point I was sure his motherfucking head would pop off, spin around ala Linda Blair, and eat the goddamn dogs while flipping me the bird.

With the miracle that is Jim Beam, about 205 Popsicles and 1246 Dum-Dum suckers, we somehow made it through the day without any casualties or loss of limbs.

I am fucking exhausted.

After I pushed MoD and his Mother out of the fucking door at 3:30 this afternoon, I headed to the kitchen where I proceeded to make a ham & Xanax sandwich. After a trip to the liquor store, I came home and was preparing to tap a goddamn main line in my arm and hook up the Corona.

That's when I heard what sounded like a goddamn Bloods vs Crip gang war coming from my living room. I immediately dropped to the fucking floor because my tired ass brain relayed the message, "Yo, the gang bangers from the hood are in the living room vato! We are gonna get smoked or shanked!!"

After a few minutes, I realized that Duke and my lovely Spawn of Satan son were playing XBOX Live on the big screen with the surround sound speakers cranked to ear bleed volume. Asshats about gave me a fucking heart attack.

I spent twenty goddamn minutes lecturing the Duke and the SoS about their driving me to the goddamn brink of madness, and how horrible they will feel if I end up on a fucking highway overpass somewhere with an goddamn AK47 strapped to my chest, picking off motorists and talking to the imaginary fucking monkeys on my shoulder.

Fuck this week, fuck this long ass day, and fuck that goddamn XBOX. It's time for my ambien and wine nightcap.

I will be in a self-induced drunken coma on Saturday so I will see you assclowns on Sunday for our weekly Drunken Reflections from a Bathtub.

Munchies and A Burnt Nipple

You want to know the story behind that title, huh? Well...


I have had no Internet for 2 1/2 goddamn days. That makes me all stabby with idle hands. You know what they say about idle hands, right?

Idle hands means my fucking brain has no outlet. No outlet, no Internet and idle hands means you have to smoke more doobies. More doobies means the goddamn munchies.

It was 1:00AM, and I was hungry.

Inside my head my brain was saying to me…

“You should probably have some fruit Dutchess, maybe a carrot or. Think of your Caribbean vacation and your bathing suit....and for fuck sake, think of Barbie the Torturer!”

Inside my body, my traitor asshole stomach was saying…

“Bitch please. Fruit? Carrots? Come on you can’t eat that shit and Barbie? I can snap that tiny pencil over my fucking knee.

I decided I would eat a tiny little personal pizza. Fuck you, don't judge me.

I get the pizza out of the freezer.

Did I mention it is 1:00AM? Everyone is sleeping, so I was trying to be quiet. Did you ever notice how when you’re trying to be quiet you fucking squeak?

I squeak goddamn it.

I was like the fucking Tin Man. Where the hell was that noise inside my asshole body coming from? I think I need looser goddamn underwear.

I don’t turn on the lights. I don’t want to wake up the Duke.

You don’t want to wake his ass after midnight because the last thing he’s going to turn into is a fucking pumpkin.

I figure I’ll just work with the light from the freezer.

You know nuking pizza after midnight with just the light from the freezer and the microwave is actually kind of warm and fuzzy.

Normally, I use the regular oven. The microwave just doesn't do it for me. But, I had the munchies and speed was important.

I didn’t read the stupid fucking directions. It was dark, I was stoned. I figure it’s frozen; five minutes should be about right.

Fuck me, I should have known better.

With each personal pizza is some kind of magic box that you set the pizza on in the microwave. Guess what happens after five minutes?


This magical box turns the goddamn cheese on the pizza into lava.

I’ve seen lava on Tv.

I know lava bitches.

That shit was lava.

So I’m staring at the bubbling lava through the window on the microwave waiting for the fucker to be done.

The one thing I hadn’t remembered was the “beep”.

My goddamn microwave beeps. Three times when whatever you’re cooking is done. It’s a loud beep. A really loud fucking beep.

10, 9, 8, ooey gooey cheese 7, 6, oh baby here it comes, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, BEEP… BEE….. SON OF A BITCH!!!!!

I grab the microwave door and yank it open to stop the goddamn beep! I don’t know why I thought I needed to grab the fucking pizza and yank it out of the microwave at the same goddamn time.

Have you ever touched lava motherfuckers?

I have.

Picture a middle aged overweight Dutchess standing in the kitchen ,in the dark, with her hands in molten fucking pizza lava.

My survival mode kicked in and I pulled back from the pizza of motherfucking death.

The assbag wouldn’t let go.

It was now melted to my right fucking thumb and index finger.

The whole thing seemed to be happening in slow fucking motion. The pizza was flying through the air towards me. I used my mad Ninja skillz and fucking ducked. Why? Because it was dark and I didn’t want the lava to hit me in the goddamn face, duh!

Well the fucking pizza wasn’t going anywhere. It was now a part of my hand, the hand that was coming right at my goddamn body.

The pizza landed lava side up on my right tit. I had burning molten motherfucking lava pizza cheese on my right nipple.

I was wearing my pajamas so it wasn’t direct lava on nipple hit, but let me tell you asshats something, it wasn’t much fucking different. At this point I knock the evil lava pizza of motherfucking death to the goddamn floor. I have lava pizza on the floor and a burnt fucking nipple.

I mean a really burnt fucking nipple.

Well what the hell do you do when you have a burn?

You put ice on it, right?

Immediately.

Because the last thing you want is a blistered fucking nipple.

So I whip off my fucking top and drop it on the floor. I go to the freezer and get an ice cube and put it on my nipple.

You know how timing is every-fucking-thing?

All of a sudden the kitchen light pops on and guess who is looking at his wife putting an ice cube on her nipple in the fucking kitchen, in the dark, with her shirt and a pizza stuck to the goddamn floor?

You guessed it.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Umm..Putting ice on my nipple. What the hell does it look like I’m doing? You’re always fucking questioning me!”

“WHY ARE YOU PUTTING ICE ON YOU’RE NIPPLE?”

“Uh… I burnt my nipple.”

“WHAT?”

“I didn’t want a goddamn blistered nipple.”

“How the fuck did you burn your nipple at 1:00 in the morning??? Better yet why did you burn your nipple at all??? Who burns their godamn nipple???

“I don't fucking know! I was trying to make pizza in the goddamn microwave. I was trying to be quiet and not wake your damn ass up.”

“Uh huh…. That worked well. Is that your pizza’s on the floor?”

“No. That is the molten lava pizza of motherfucking death.”

“What the hell is wrong with you Dutchess? Why didn't you have an apple for Christ’s sake.”

“I DON'T KNOW!"


"Don't say it Duke Assface, or I will cut your fucking ass."

FUFF Blog Stalk Friday and A Pissy Post

CB changed FUFF to Blog Stalk Friday. Jeeze...just when I could remember FUFF, it's now BSF. Whatever, on with the show...

It was time for my yearly physical, and as usual, the Doc. ordered lab work, blood work, and other shit.

After taking my blood,
Which BTW, why in the fuck do you need 8 goddamn tubes worth? Is Team fucking Edward running the goddamn lab now?

Anyway...The nurse handed me a piss cup and said Doc ordered a urine test too, so I headed to the restroom.

Now, you all know I have mad Ninja skillz, but not many people know that I also have piss test skills too. Since I've been on probation and parole before, I've peed in more goddamn cups than Lindsey fucking Lohan.

I've perfected the skill of aiming without looking and for the guys out there? It's a completely different story when you have a twat. We can't just stick it in the cup and let fucking fly. We have to carefully hold the cup so that our stream, at the very fucking least, hits the side of the cup and runs down. Fuck this up and you walk around with pissy goddamn panties.

Add that to having to hover over the damn toilet (because you don't sit down and then put the cup in place or you end up accidentally touching the fucking toilet water and just, eww, cut my whole fucking arm off, please) and trying to keep your damn dress from getting in the line of fire and you have one tricky fucking dance that takes mad skillz.

I lifted my dress, dropped my thong, and guided the cup into the piss zone. Even though I'm sure I'm in the right spot, I slowly begin to pee just in case.

jesus fucking christ on a cupcake!, I felt the warm piss hit my motherfucking hand. I clenched, stopped the piss flow and readjusted the fucking cup. This cup must be small," I told myself. After making some minor corrections, I relaxed and once again, started pissing. Again, warm piss trickled down hand.

"What. The. Hell." Is my goddamn pussy crooked? I tried a third time, adjusting the cup to where the pee should be coming from. This time, there was no stopping the stream of piss and I gritted my teeth in disgust as I pissed all over my motherfucking hand, the toilet seat and the floor.

When I was finished, I sat down on the toilet and looked at the goddamn cup up to see if any piss got inside.

Well, fuck me. I forgot to take fucking lid off.

I really shouldn't drink before going for these fucking tests.

Then, I noticed that the label on the cup was paper. Just fucking Fabulous. Any other time, it was written on the cup with a goddamn permanent marker. Nope! Not this time.

I tried to wash off the cup and that drenched the fucking paper label, causing it to start peeling off. You couldn't even read my goddamn name anymore.

I whipped that piece of shit cup into the garbage and washed my hands with scalding water. After cleaning the seat and floor and washing my fucking hands, again, I opened the door and called for the nurse.

"Um, I need another pee cup."

"What happened Dutchess?"

"I...I sat on this one. Um...Broke it."

"You sat on it?"

"Yep. Snapped the piece of shit right in half."

"Ok. Just give me the broken one and I'll get you another."

"I can't. I threw it away."

"Oh, well I'll just come in and -"

"Why?"

"We have to account for all medical supplies. I just need to document it."

"So, write it down. This isn't a fucking drug test. I just need another goddamn cup."

"Well, if you could just-"

"OK NURSE RATCHED!! I pissed all over it and tried to wash it off and now it's fucked up, CAN I JUST HAVE ANOTHER GODDAMN CUP?"

"Oh. Yes..um sure...one sec."

I bet there is no fucking piss cup count. The bitch just wanted to make me fucking admit it. Fuck You Nurse Ratched.

Now, go check out the rest of the kick ass people who participate in fuff Blog Stalk Friday.
This is not for the weak and timid. Twat waffles need not click.


It's Friday, BEER ME!!!

Dutchess Jackassery and The Ball of Carnage

Sometimes I do things without really thinking about it.
Shut-UP fuckers!

Later, when The Duke asks, and it’s always The Duke who asks (very sternly I might add, like he’s my fucking dad or something) “What the hell did you think was going to happen?” All I can do is shrug and say “I don’t fucking know!”.

There was the time I tried to fling old coffee out of my cup while speeding down the freeway at 70 MPH. Yep, it all just sprayed right back in my goddamn face and all over the side of the SUV.

Or the time I grabbed a piping hot mozzarella stick and because it was burning my motherfucking fingers, I shoved the whole thing into my mouth. You know, to save my damn fingers.

Are you asshats wondering why I didn’t just drop the mozzarella stick? I’m telling you the same thing I told The Duke. I DON’T FUCKING KNOW WHY!

That brings us to today. While I will NEVER be a skinny bitch drooling in the ice cream isle, the New Year deal I made with myself was to be a healthy fat chick. (again...shut-UP!) To help me with this task, I hired a trainer 2 days a week.

I love, love, loved, my trainer. He was a hot piece of eye candy (shhhhyea!) but he only put up with my fat ass lasted 3 months. He packed his shit and family, and hightailed it to the other side of the motherfucking country. (Whatever!)

Since then, I've been in trainer limbo. After spending time in Las-everyone is beautiful and could hide behind a goddamn fence post skinny- Vegas last week, I decided I needed to jump back on the exercise wagon.

In a moment of drunken stupidity sheer brilliance, I decided to try my hand at Yogalates. curse those goddamn infomercials at 3AM, It looked easy enough, and who doesn't want to be able to be all bendy and shit too? I mean, come on! Just the word alone is fun to say.. YOGALAAATES... see? That is a motherfucking fun ass word to say.

So today, I went and bought the key piece of equipment for the YOGALAAATES Experiment. An exercise ball.

I decided to start tomorrow, because, obviously, so I set it down in the corner and went about my day of doing laundry and shit.

Then it fucking happened.

I don’t know why in the hell I thought it would be a good idea to plop my big fat middle aged ass down on this new exercise ball.

I walked by and saw it sitting there and it looked kind of fun. I sat down and bounced a couple times. Holy fuck! It WAS fun!

So I bounced a couple more times with wild abandon and somehow, the goddamn ball shot out from under my ass.

That fucker went flying into the kitchen, bounced up onto the damn table where it took out my salt and pepper shakers and a glass of damn orange juice left behind this morning.

Juice, salt and glass went everyfuckingwhere!

What the hell?

What did I think was going to happen? I don’t fucking know!

When I sat on that fucking ball, the idea that it would fly through the air and destroy everything in it’s goddamn path never really entered my mind.

That is NOT a fucking exercise ball, it's a goddamn wrecking ball.

Needless to say, I shit canned the exercising on my own idea, returned the fucking ball and decided my money would be better spent in the goddamn drive thru lane.

One super size fry and a chocolate shake please.