Patriotic Vajayjay? Just, NO!

With all of this flag business going on, I figured I'd throw my opinion in the ring.

There are lots of things I love: Rum punch, Kenny Chesney, Corona with a lime, the beach, my beloved island, Irish Coffee, and, of course, shiny things!

There are many things I hate, dislike, and find repugnant, and high on that list is American flags as bathing suits.

I'm all for being patriotic.  I love this country, warts and all.  I proudly display an American flag on my porch, support our constitution, inalienable rights, and have the utmost respect for our troops. However, some things just piss me off.

Today, I had to go to the store I loathe going to.  It's always crowded, there are only 4 registers open, EVER, and people are just fucking rude there, it rhymes with Walmart.  Now, everone knows it's not my favorite place, but seriously, where else can you get 487 rolls of toilet paper, a 20 gallon jug of laundry soap, ammo for the gun and a giant jar of beef jerky, all for under 30 bucks?

As I walked in the store, I was greeted by this on a sale rack:

Here’s the thing: the American flag isn’t even supposed to touch the ground! Did you know that the people handling the flag always wear gloves? Do you want to know why?

It’s a respect thing, asshole! If people have to wear gloves to touch the flag, I am pretty fucking sure rubbing your damn pleasure taco on it is NOT OKAY!

Like I said, I am all for freedoms and thankful for those that have fought and died to protect us.  BUT, perhaps while you are recreating a Girls Gone Wild type escapade while chugging beer from a fucking funnel, how about you wear something other than our nation’s colors? A corona bikini, or maybe something sinister airbrushed on those perky little ta-tas? Whatever, just leave Old Glory on the damn flag pole!

Hey Guys?  This request is for you all too.

Please don’t wear flag swimtrunks and have your saggy ass and wobbly man bits defiling the flag, dammit!

By all means. Celebrate. Get drunk on a plane, Watch fireworks on a boat... With beer... With fireworks and fucking sparklers for all I care.

However, for the love of Mom and apple pie, do NOT prance around in an American Flag bathing ensemble. I can’t fucking take it!

The Power Of The IRS

You can always tell when you're talking to someone who's been audited by the IRS.

You mention those three letters and beads of sweat pop out on their head. Their eyes take on that look you usually see on sheep right before they mow all of their fucking wool off - the one that says, "You're going to leave me naked and I really don't understand why, goddamnit."

A couple weeks ago, Duke and I received a letter stating we still owed a balance for a mistake (not my own, but, hey, who cares? It's the fucking IRS!) that was made for the 2008 tax year. The problem was that the amount I presently owe should have been reduced by the incredibly painful check that was cashed by the U.S. Treasury on November 8th in 2009. Holy shit that was a lot of fucking money. The notice I received did not reflect that payment or the fact that we ate nothing but dry motherfucking granola for the next 2 months because of that payment. And I had to sell a goddamn kidney.

I called to question the notice, thinking, like the Disney character that I am, it would be a painless procedure.

My daughter's head was 40 centimeters around. When I started screaming for someone to please kill me with the fucking speculum, the nurse gave me an aspirin and a pat on the head. THAT was less painful.

My "Hey, check this out!" moment that ended in the ER with electricity burns? Not as painful.

I BROKE MY PUBIC BONE ON A MECHANICAL BULL. (true story) MILDLY PLEASANT IN COMPARISON.

After answering a series of questions and working around the language barrier (there are 4 people in the whole fucking free world who could have interpreted her questions and 3 of them are native to her country. Seriously, the representative and I finally agreed that my payment was "misapplied".

"Well, what the hell does that mean?" I asked.

"I don't know," she answered.

"At least you're honest. What the hell do I do now?"

"I don't know."

"Ok, that won't work on this question, Paraguinamay. How do you know it's been misapplied?"

"I don't."

I put the phone down, banged my forehead into the wall four times and and made myself a triple shot Jim Beam and coke. When I returned, Paraguinamay was patiently waiting.

"I had to make a drink," I explained.

"I know. Everyone does," she said.

"So! We have no idea where my money is and you have no record of me ever paying that ridiculous amount. I have a cancelled check right in front of me, but you can't find it."

"That is correct."

"Ok. Transfer me on. You know you don't want to deal with this shit. Just tell your supervisor I became verbally fucking abusive."

"Ok, hold please."

As I sat and listened to the classical music (intended to calm us down and keep us from tearing our own jugular out. I got YOUR number, IRS), I wondered: if money is received at the U.S. Treasury but there's no House Representative who needs a sex change and a blow-up doll at that exact goddamn moment, does the money really exist?

According to the supervisor, that would be a resounding "no".

"Dutchess, I need you to read me the series of numbers on the back of the cancelled check. That will give me exact information as to where the payment went."

"Ok. 7825154541123484645433 and 8954162148545612345413 and 2555548884541548864545876454 and 3258878954562158546315 and 154154584786545123654dash 48654585598744121545645 dash 235969565458854554865. And a zero."

"Thank you. One moment."

"You seriously got all of that? Or are you dicking me?"

"Mmm. Searching..." supervisor said.

"What's the square root of 9,365?"

"I have no idea, but I can tell you that 9653449 is a stella octangula number."

"You need a whole fancy office just for your head, don't you?" I asked.

"Well, bad news. I can't find it."

"Your head?" (maybe the extra shot of Jim Beam the in the third refil wasn't a good idea)

"Your money."

"Oh, fuuuuuck," I groaned. "It was sent to some group in Africa who study the mating habits of dung beetles, wasn't it? You can tell me. I can take it."

"No clue. You'll have to send a copy of that check to our research department in Cleveland," he answered.

"Cleveland? Noooo You might as well tell me to send it to the fucking Taco R Us on Main street. I want you to research it. You have the office size brain."

"I can't do that, Ma'am."

"But you told me the medusa oblongata thing!"

"Stella octangula," supervisor corrected.

"Yes! Exactly! You'll find my money!"

"Do you have a pen to write this address down?"

"What happens if they don't find it?"

"You'll have to pay it, again."

The HELL?

"But...I paid it, I have a cancelled check. Money gone."

"I'm sorry, Ma'am."

"And what happens if I won't?"

"We'll put a lien on your assets," supervisor said ominously.

"Ha! I have an old Shaun Cassidy poster, a pair of Converse from 1985 and a stale bag of mother fucking Doritos! Can I send THAT to Cleveland?"

"Seriously. They'll even take your dog if it has any resale value."

"I'd like to see you try, bitch!" I choked and hung up the phone. Cleveland, indeed.

Twenty minutes later, a land hurricane with a tornado hit our area and lasted 3 fucking days . The IRS does not fuck around.

However, I WANT MY SHINGLES BACK, YOU IRS FUCKS.

BSF and Green With Envy

Well, it's Friday, and that means it's time for


Only, it's no longer CB's. Our Royal Bartender, Jen , is now hosting Blog Stalk Friday. Get over there and give her some love. It takes big cajones to voluntarily step into CB's stilettos, and Jen is doing a great job.

So, I know I have been a slacker when it comes to blogging lately. I do have a good reason though...other than the drunk factor, you asshats.

I am intimidated. That's right folks, I, your Drunken Dutchess of All Things That Fucking Rock, is feeling almost unworthy.

Why, you ask?

Well, have you been reading the rest of the Royal Family? If you said no, you must live under a fucking rock. Check out my Royal family page for all of the links. Fuck, they are some funny bitches, and the funny just keeps on growing.

Our newest Royal is


I believe her Royal Name will be The Countess of Kick-Ass, but we are awaiting confirmation from the Queen.

Go read THIS over at the Queen's place. After you finish laughing your ass off, add her to your blogroll and follow her. I promise that little fucking brat will become your favorite Royal (other than me, of course). She is that good.

However, it's really motherfucking hard to be as great as they are every single goddamn day. My asshole blinking cursor mocks me on a daily basis. It even whispers, "Forget about it Dutch, your blogging mojo has left the building".

I hate that fucking cursor.

Know what else I hate? Insecure women.

If you think your SO is having a torrid fucking affair with a women
a. He never met in person
b. that lives at least 1000 miles away
c. who is extremely busy feeding gators and running the Family Brothel Business
d. while keeping tabs on the beer tab crown
e. AND is the head of a lovable, but out of their fucking gourd, Royal Family?

Get a goddamn grip, pull the stick out of your ass and take the dick out of your ear. You need several stiff drinks, and a mighty kick in the ass for being fucking stupid.

However, I must also say congratulations. You have been nominated for the Dumb Bitch of The Year Award. That makes you a special kind of stupid.

Vegas, A Shower, and Elvis

They say that 90% of all fatal accidents occur in the home. Usually because someone did something stupid.

They didn’t say anything about flesh wounds in a 5 star goddamn hotel in Vegas.

I don’t know what’s worse. Doing something stupid that causes injury to yourself or having to tell your spouse that you’re an idiot.

The first night in Vegas, I couldn’t sleep. I don’t think I was able to close my eyes for more than a damn minute. By the next morning I was beyong fucking tired.

However, when in Vegas, you just suck up the free cocktails, and keep moving. There are things to buy and shoes to see people! After a marathon shopping expedition, I decided to head back to the room, shower, and catch a cat nap before dinner and our Carrot Top plans.

You know how the sounds of the ocean, of the waves crashing against the shore can help you relax? You know how just the sound of raindrops can make you feel totally at ease and at peace with the world?

There’s something about water that’s just calming.

Apparently, it’s not a good idea to get that calming feeling when you’re in the shower.

That’s right people. I fell asleep while I was taking a goddamn shower.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if there had been perpetually hot running water.

But there wasn't.

When the hot water ran out….

I woke up.

In what only could be described as a “WAAAHAAAAT THHHHHEEEE FUUUUUUCK!!!” moment.

In that moment, your body is not connected to your brain. Because if it was it wouldn’t have jerked my fucking head back striking the tile causing me to momentarily go back to sleep.

Oh I woke up again. But not until I had dropped to my knees. My brain at this point was saying to my body, “HEY DUMB BITCH GET OUT OF THE SHOWER!!!!”

Using my mad NINJA reflexes, I jumped out of the shower. Well... I started to jump and then my brain remembered that I don’t do that shit.

So now I’m wet, cold, naked and wedged between the toilet and the sink which is the spot I fell into coming out of my reverse 2 ½ with 2 ½ twists in the pike position while holding my ankles… or something like that.

I believe it had a 4.9 degree of difficulty.

“I’m okay!”

That’s what came out of my mouth a second before I realized I wasn’t okay. I don’t know why I said it. There was no one there to hear it accept me because the Duke was downstairs ganbling in the casino. Maybe I was trying to reassure myself that I had a shred of dignity left.

I felt the back of my head to make sure I wasn’t bleeding, saying out loud to myself, “I may have a concussion. Maybe I should go to the ER.”

Then the remainder of my stupid kicked in and I called the Duke on his cell phone. I needed the loving, caring, sympathetic ear of my soul mate.

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

“It’s not funny, assclown, I could have been killed.”

“That would have made a great episode of CSI, and since we are in Vegas, maybe I would get to meet that sexy Jorja Fox.” (hahaha…)

“Thanks babe, I fucking hate you.”

“Okay I’m done laughing. (hahahaha…) Are you bleeding?”

“No.”

“What hurts? (hahaha…)

“Other than my pride? Everyfuckingthing.”

“Do you think you should go to the (hahahaha…) doctor?”

“You’re still laughing.”

“I’m just picturing you explaining this to the ER Doctor. HAHAHA!!! I’m sorry babe. HAHAHAHAHA!!!!! I can’t help myself.”

"Would it help if I told you I was limping?"

"Yes.... (hahaha...)"

"In sickness and in health motherfucker, in sickness and in health."

"In sickness and in health maybe. But I don't remember anything about being stupid in our wedding vows."

"Ouch... Maybe we should renew them...with an Elvis impersonator in blue Suede Shoes"

I need a drink.

ALSO...there has been an apparent "Super Fuckstick" sighting over at the Queen's castle. I will have more on this tomorrow, but go check out the Queen's place. We have some troll ass to kick people.

BSF and Fuck You

Ok, normally this is Blog Stalk Friday with CB. I have no idea who CB is passing her BSF baby off to, but I'm sure it will be back very soon.

This has been a super shitty week for your Dutchess. So, today, after having been knee deep for most of this week, in the shit slinging sty that is my extended real-life family, I decided to pull into Burger King for a large Dr. pepper.

Oh yes, my dear assclowns, you know where this must be going, right?

I was desperate for a Dr. Pepper and I decided to give them another chance.

But of course, they never fail to send me on my way gripping the fucking steering wheel in a blind rage, screaming, "My way, motherfuckers! MY WAY!"

So, I swing through the drive-thru and I order a simple large Dr. Pepper. Here's where it gets fucking strange...

I pull up to the first window and a guy opens it up with a huge smile on his face. I flinch and cower in my seat. I'm not fucking prepared for this unexpected turn in my relationship with BK. After I calm myself, I hand him 5 dollars.

Freaky BK Guy With Shit Eating Grin: "Ha! Can I keep the change?"

Me, with an equally dazzling sneer: "If you'll stop smiling like you just killed your mother and ate her goddamn ear, absofuckinglutely!"

Freaky BKGrin: "Huh? Ha! You're pretty!"

Me (rolling my window up and leaving just enough room for him to slide the bills through. Fuck the change): "And you're creepy! Ha!"

Freaky BKGrin: "Think we got enough rain?"

Me: "Well, you didn't drown, so I guess fucking not."

It dawns on me by now that this guy can't possibly hear a word I'm saying. He is only hearing the voices in his head.

Freaky BKGrin: "It didn't dampen your spirits, did it? Ha!"

Me: "Me? Oh, nooooooo, I'm the happ-happ-happiest motherfucker you've ever seen. I take my meds every single day. You should try it Mc-fucking-Grinner."

Freaky BKGrin holds out my money. I roll the window down enough to snatch it and roll it back up before he can eat my damn head. He just smiles. I move up to the next window.

BK Girl With Scowl and The Dull, Lifeless Eyes of The Mentally Void: "Here."

She hands me my drink and I relax because this is the BK I am use to.

The drink is a medium. Of fucking course.

Me: "Excuse me. I asked for a large."

She glares at me and turns to whatever ass pirate they call a manager.

BKScowl: "She said she asked for an large."

Now, I haven't been back to BK in a while for one reason: They hate me and they remember my face.

The last time I was there, I was hungover, I was smack in the middle of a goddamn hot flash, and it was 8 a.m.

They're all just fucking lucky to be alive after they did the exact same shit to me then as they were doing today.

Don't they know you never, ever, ever doubt a customers word when all it will cost is a measly .44 cents (which I was sure I had already paid).

I pulled out a dollar bill when Scowl came back because I am in no mood to fuck around and just want my goddamn Dr. Pepper. I didn't want to argue or go to fucking jail either. With CB leaving this week and throwing the whole fucking blogosphere into mourning, it would have taken DAYS for someone to realize I was missing.

I silently handed BKScowl her the dollar and watched her walk away. She came back, gave me my large Dr. Pepper and shut the window without saying a word.

Oh. No. She. Didn't. Now I was pissed. Defcon 5 motherfucking pissed. I reached over and rapped on the window.

Scowl: "Yes?"

So, I paid the difference for the medium to large size, but you still didn't give me any change. That dollar was not a tip, sugarbitch."

Scowl: "What?"

I glanced behind me. It is a shitty, cold, rainy day and there is no one behind me. I put my car in reverse and back up to Freaky BKGrin's window. He opens. Grinning.

Me: "Steve, I don't want to deal with Beckky The goddamn Wonder Bimbo anymore. Can you please give me my fucking dollar back?"

BKGrin: "My name's not Steve!"

Me: "Whatever. Can I get my dollar?"

BKGrin: "Hang on! Ha!"

He disappears for a couple seconds and returns with my dollar. See how fucking simple that was?

Me: "Sam, you've been wonderful. Oh, and the girl at the next window? She said you're hot. Ha!"

My way, motherfuckers. MINE.

And to my fucked up, drama desperate, shit slinging good for fucking nothing dicklick ex-brother in-law....This is for you

Holidaze

Halloween is my favorite for a reason. Give me some spooky stories and a truckload of chocolate over Santa and his bastard reindeer, any day.

So, I am just recovering from the labor-day picnic, closing the pool, and putting the summer away and into the back of the closet, with that yoga mat I'm gonna use again some day. I had to run to the drug store for some condoms and beer , to refill my prescription, and that is when I saw it. That isle.

You know the one I'm talking about, people. It's usually stocked with cheap flip-flops, sunscreen and school supplies. However, now, it's overloaded with tinsel and an animatronic snowman who grabs its belly and loudly laughs when you pass by giving you a mild fucking heart-attack in the process.

WTF people? It's OCTOBER. Stop shoving Christmas down my motherfucking throat! There's a lot of things I'd rather have in that isle; red foil wrapping paper is not one of them.

I decided to try and ignore it. Fuck it, I'm going to avoid that area of whatever store I go into. Which is decidedly difficult since I'm the queen of retail therapy and find myself cruising through stores on a regular basis.

I was doing O.K. I have been able to mentally block out the bells hanging from the rafters, the Grinch slippers, and the stupid singing snowmen. But yesterday was just too much.

I needed to go the mall. Shut up. The Duke bought a new Mustang convertible on Saturday. He called all fucking giddy and shit saying, "Dutch? I wasn't planning on it, but I just bought a new car."

The hell?

After thinking about it, I decided that I needed some new shoes to match the new car. And maybe I'll pick up a goddamn Rolex that I wasn't planning on buying.

Anyway... As it happens, my best friend was already there and we decided to meet up for some much needed girl-time. Everything was going great until we made our way to the center of the mall.

Now, I'd been able to turned a blind eye to the ornament store, and didn't acknowledge the stockings hung with care in shop windows. Then, I saw it.

There in all it's motherfucking glory was an 80 foot. 1/2 decorated, fake Christmas tree. And to top it all off, nestled under its huge boughs, was none-other than Santa fucking Claus's "workshop" being built.

I say W? T? F? and call BULLSHIT!

IT'S NOT EVEN HALLOWEEN YET!!

Isn't this against some kind of damn holiday rule?

Are we going to see the goddamn Easter Bunny traipsing around with that naked New Year's baby?

Should we give heart-shaped boxes of candy to our lovers on the goddamn fourth of July??

Preparation and early shopping is one thing, but come the fuck on! You store owner people are push the limit every year to ridiculous fucking proportions.

Do you realize that we are bastardizing turkey day? Which, in my opinion, is far superior to X-mas anyway. You don't have to do a damn thing except show up at someone's house wearing stuff your pie hole-accommodating stretchy pants.

Thanksgiving is being totally glossed over. How can we going to lose sight of celebrating the raping, pillaging and ripping-off of our native fore people?

Is it nothing more than a goddamn race to see who will get the Hershey kisses wrapped in brown foil 4 months before you sit down for Turkey Day Dinner?

Christ on a cupcake, fuckers! Stop it!!!

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.

Chocolate and Bullshit

I have a sweet tooth, especially when I'm out of Jim Beam emotionally upset. So, my question is this.

Is it possible to consume so many Hershey Kisses that you accidentally poison yourself due to the fucked up mid-quality chocolate they are made of?

Is 483 too many?

Is it a bad sign that the Duke's head now has a little point with a goddamn paper streamer sticking out the top?

Is there a fucking cure?

Anyway...

Everyone embellishes, stretches the truth, fibs a little. It’s part of human nature. We can’t escape it. And sometimes it’s necessary. There is a time and a place for brutal truth, and appropriate reasons to blur it. However, the level of bullshit that we encounter in our daily adult lives is fucking staggering.

Even though I totally appreciate it when anyone is trying to make me feel better with well-intentioned assvice, I sincerely wish they’d save the tired fucking cliches for someone who’s less hostile.

There are some sayings that just make me want to beat the hell out of people with a flaming fucking 2 by 4. Such as...

Age doesn't matter, you can do anything you set your mind to.
One of the biggest goddamn lies ever told to anyone in the history of the motherfucking world. I mean come on. You can not!

I'm never going to be a defensive tackle for the Bears. (Damn, I love those shiny fucking pants). I can't become a trapeze artist. Besides the fact I'd have to work with fucking clowns, you know I'd fall and kill myself. And I'm sure as fuck never going to be President. The pay sucks and I already have a million fucking people who don’t like me, I don’t need whole countries trying to bomb my ass.

You have nothing to fear but fear itself.
Oh yea? Tell that to the guy with the rattlesnake happily sharing his fucking sleeping bag. What a load of shit. Thanks for trying to convince me that spiders can be useful, and I just need to face my fear. But...Fuck. You. I don't need to face anything, I don't need to get over my goddamn fear either. I need to take prescription medication and mix it with alcohol, fuckstick.

It's just going to be a little pinch.
Bull-fucking-shit! Little pinch my ass. Why don't I take that gleaming needle and plunge it into the soft part of your fucking gum and we'll see if it feels like a little pinch. Lying whore.

It's not you its me.
Ha-Ha motherfucker! It's SO you.

If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say it at all.
What a crock of shit. Everybody wants the fucking dirt. We love gossip. The dirty fucking details and the sordid secrets. Most people lick their lips with anticipation when being let in on the juicy fucking secret. That's why I prefer "If you don't have anything nice to say, come sit by me"! Now there's a fucking cliche I can get behind.

Now, speaking of lies and dirty secrets, it's time for a couple ice cold Coronas and the season premiere of 90210...Fuck you, don't judge me.

This Is Why I Hate To Leave The Castle

I had to take the Spawn of Satan to football practice early today. I was hungry and since I will forever be traumatized from the motherfucking pizza debacle, I opted to treat myself with a Grilled Chicken Caesar Salad from somewhere that rhymes with McFonalds.

The drive-thru was wrapped around the fucking building, so I thought going in would be the right thing to do. Of fucking course, there is a lady in front of me that wanted to assure that her kids get that extra fifty fucking cents an hour when landing a job, all because they can count.

When she ordered her damn McNuggets and fries I sighed in relief. It took her five minutes to decide on the type of fucking dipping sauce they wanted, but, please, take your sweet fucking time lady.

"Oh, my daughter wants a shake." She gazed down at the youngest spawn. "Go ahead, Susie."

Shit.

Shit shit motherfucking shit.

"I want a shake. A pink one," Susie declared. The elderly cashier looked positively orgasmic with delight. Well, roll me in fucking sugar and call me goddamn cookie, isn't that fucking precious.

"That will be ONE DOLLAR, AND EIGHTEEN CENTS!" the cashier hollered. Because we all know that if you don't understand the math? Shout. No speaka dee English? Shout. If The Dutchess has a migraine? Shout.

"Ok." Susie whipped out her Hannah Montana coin purse and with her tongue poking out, began counting out pennies.

jesus christ on a cupcake, someone fucking gut me and cover me in bleach. It will be less painful.

"And eighteen cents!" Susie squealed, after what seemed like an hour. The entire line behind her breathed a collective sigh of relief.

As I inched forward, using that "breathe down your neck so you'll move faster" mentality, the mother spoke.

"Now, your turn, Julie."

Oh, HELL TO THE NO. Somebody better get that little bitch a tissue because she's about to be upset when I tell her the shake machine is OUT OF MOTHERFUCKIN ORDER.

I intervened. "Ma'am, no offense, but could the rest of us order and pay? And then little Janie-"

"Julie."

"Whatever, she can count out pennies till doomsday."

"We were here first."

I was stumped.

The cashier still had the stupid smile on. "ONE DOLLAR AND EIGHTEEN-!"

"We can all hear you, Grammy. Me, them, the next county over. No need to shout," the man behind me said. I think I fell a little in love with him.

"Oh, well, just so cute, learning to count-"

"Darling. Super. Moving right along. Julie? Shall we?" I flapped my hand at her. She turned and began the painstakingly slow task of counting more fucking pennies.

I turned to the man. "What the hell is with the twelve dollars in pennies? Did they lose all their dollars at the strip joint?" He looked at me as if I were an alien. Meh, wouldn't have worked out, anyway. He was shorter than me and obviously had no sense of fucking humor.

"There!" Julie cried triumphantly.

"Yes! Awesome! Good job, Julie! High five! Here's a dollar for next time!" I crowed.

"Don't take the dollar, Julie. Go on. Go over there with Daddy and tell Kimberley to come here."

Kimberley? What. The. Fuck?

As we all stood dumbstruck, all of us, then an older girl came over.

"Kim, order and pay for your shake," Mom said.

The cashier beamed. "Yes, that's-"

"One eighteen, Kim. Time's a wastin'," I said.

We all had faith in Kim. She must have been at least ten. Old enough to have dollar bills, surely. Right?

As Kim opened her purse, we all held our breath. The group leaned forward for a better view of her coin purse and there were cheers and hugs all around when she pulled out a crumpled one dollar bill.

She laid this on the counter and then looked at the coins uncertainly.

"Eighteen cents," I offered helpfully. The mom shot me a nasty glare.

Kim pulled out two dimes. Fuck Yes!

"No, honey, that's twenty. You need eighteen," Mom said.

I almost had a motherfucking aneurysm. "She'll get two pennies back! She can pass them on to the younger ones! They love pennies!" I sputtered.

"I'm trying to teach them correct change!" Mom snapped.

Kim looked concerned. "It's okay, honey," I said. "it's nothing you did."

Kim turned back to the change. She reached for the dime and looked up at her Mom. Seeing the okay, she put that back in her coin purse. She then slowly withdrew a nickel and placed that on the counter.

"Good!" Mom said. "That's fifteen. Now, what do you need?"

Kim chewed on her bottom lip. I slapped my hand to my goddamn forehead. The man began praying to the Virgin Mary and the cashier was loudly whispering, "3! 3 cents, honey!"

Kim pulled out another nickel and we all fucking groaned. She put it back. She reached for the dime on the counter and I inwardly screamed, "Holy shit! It's one eighteen! A dollar and eighteen fucking cents! Your sisters know it! Mom knows it! A brain damaged monkey missing three goddamn toes could figure it out! I just want my MOTHERFUCKING SALAD!"

She slowly counted out eight pennies, making eye contact with her mother each time she placed a penny down and smartly closing her purse when the deed was done. She got her shake and off they went, these mavens of the goddamn accounting world.

I stepped forward. "Shit. I need a Chicken Caesar Salad and a large-"

"Oh, dear," the cashier frowned. "Oh dear, oh my."

"What?"

"She gave me too much money, by four cents. If she's going to learn-"

"Mabel. It is Mabel, right? 90 percent of the goddamn free world can't count and that's why we have these lovely machines that spit your goddamn change back at you. If you so much as think about calling them back here and starting that dog and fucking pony show again, I will toss you in the goddamn fryer."

Do I even need to tell you that they gave me the wrong goddamn salad?

Internet, I Miss You

Stealing my neighbors wireless internet is sketchy and not consistant.

Time Warner cable, I fucking hate you. One of your technitions dug into the ground at the house next door and severed the mother fucking underground cable lines on Monday, asscrack of dawn.

STILL waiting for the goddamn cable company for fix thier goddamn mistake. They say sometime today, so maybe sometime this evening I will be able to type a post.

Until then, send good liquor and emergency xanax supply pronto bitches!

Suggestions and Evil Pussies

Listen up asshats!

I need your suggestions. What hair color goes with a bright goddamn orange jumpsuit and flip-flops?

I need your suggestions PRONTO dicklicks! I soon will be hauled off to jail and forced to wear that hideous goddamn jumpsuit with tacky fucking flip flops. Now, I'm not dissing anyone that wears flip flops, but these? They are just ass ugly!

You are probably wondering why I will be hauled off to jail. Some of you may not be wondering at all because you knew it was just a matter of goddamn time before I landed in the pokey...AGAIN. Well, tough shit, I'm telling you about it.

This morning, I was minding my own fucking business surfing blogs, drinking Jim Beam coffee, and having a bitch session about the Rachel Zoe Project theological discussion with the lady that cleans my house.

I know what you fuckers are thinking, "Damn, that Dutchess is not only gorgeous, but she is smart, funny, and multitasks too! Why, I bet she is so good, she can spin 11 goddamn plates, talk on the phone, post a brilliant blog entry and chain smoke all at the same time. Holy fuck! She is amazing!"

*SHUT YOUR MOTHERFUCKING PIE HOLE! YES YOU WERE THINKING THAT!*

Ahem! I decided to stop what I was doing and and launder some of the Royal underwear. Not everyone in this castle thought it was thrilling or funny when I declared this to be "Wear Your Underwear Twice Before Throwing In The Laundry Or Just Fucking Go Commando Week!" *goddamn spoiled sports!*

Thus I, the Wonder Dutchess, stopped what I was doing to go put in a load of laundry. As I made my way downstairs with a laundry basket in hand, humming "The Spiderman Theme", (again, Shut-UP!) I round the corner of the laundry room. My right foot feels this little "squishsplash".

What.The.Fuck.

I throw the clothes basket onto the folding counter, look down, and see that I have just stepped in goddamn cat puke. Motherfucker I hate those evil pussies!

I look around to see which cat will be beat. I swear it's silent, and looks like a goddamn ghost town. Not a useless fucking cat to be found. As my blood pressure shoots through the damn roof, I hear the opening music to Clint Eastwood's "The Good, The Bad and The Ugly" in my head.

The goddamn maid already left, so I yank off my fucking socks, clean up the mess, and get the mop and bucket while a string of obscenities spew forth from my mouth. I turn on the hot water and reach for the bleach. Bleach water kills germs fuckers, and leaves my cheap white laundry room tile looking gorgeous. I pour the bleach in, and start mopping.

Hmmm..I'm not smelling that fresh bleach clean smell.
I keep mopping.
What the hell is that strange odor I smell?
I keep mopping.

My alcohol soaked brain fucking finally kicks in and starts sending out questions.
Why is our goddamn throat burning?
Why are our fucking eyes watering?
Why the hell does it feel as if our nose hair is melting?
Why does it feel as if we can't breath and may pass the fuck out?

OH BLOODY FUCKING HELL!!! RUN BITCH!!! CHEMICAL REACTION FUCK-UP!!!!DANGER!! DANGER!! DUTCHESS DUMBASS, FUCKING RUNNNNNNNN!!!!!

Taking a couple minutes to actually processes and get the message to the muscles and body, I keep fucking mopping and begin to cough. About then, the message hits me, and I take off like a bat out of hell, running with the mop & bucket toward the garage door. ahhh..sweet motherfucking air.

After getting some fresh air, I go back into the castle and start flinging the goddamn windows open while thinking about what just happened. We always use bleach water in that bucket and mop. Everyone knows we use that bucket and mop for only bleach water and NOTHING else ever....wait a damn minute... It then fucking dawns on me.

The Spawn of Satan strikes again. He is responsible for this shit.

You see, SoS has been working off the money we paid for the goddamn garage door he crashed into 2.5 motherfucking seconds after he got his driver's permit. The Duke told him to clean the goddamn garage the other day. He was to sweep and mop the floor in there. He was told to use some kind of special fucking floor cleaner that Duke brought home for the garage and driveway. I reminded him to use the OUTSIDE mop & bucket.

Why oh why, for fuck sake, did I trust him to follow my goddamn instructions? I know better dammit! The SoS lives to disobey me. He strives to make me bat-shit crazy and give me grey fucking hair.

I was probably so engrossed in thinking up new advertising ideas for the goddamn new whorehouse, I didn't bother to check and see if he was doing what he was told.
Fan-fucking-tastic.

Now, I may have permanent goddamn lung, cornea, and throat damage along with a hairless fucking nose and melting floor tiles. I'm also sweating balls because it's humid and hot as hell outside, but I need to have all of my fucking windows open or I'll die from the toxic fucking gas emanating from the basement laundry room.

I'm going to kill that goddamn boy the second he gets home from football practice.

Oh look! There is the goddamn cat....
"Here Kitty...Here Kitty-kitty. Come here you motherfucking hairball-puking Pussy from hell!"

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!

Still Not Here

Well fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck fuck. I lost my scheduled posts, but you fuckers are lucky because I brought my laptop with me to Vegas.

I know, I fucking know. I should be movin', groovin', gambling and shopping instead of banging out a post on this fucking computer. However, I am sad to report that I have become a shut in.

Now, I live in the frozen fucking tundra that is Wisconsin. We have 2 seasons, freeze you mother fucking ass off, and mosquito season. I LOVE summer and I NEVER complain about heat.

But y'all? My cherry has been popped and I'm saying it.

It's too motherfucking hot here.

Today it was 111 degrees...Fahrenheit. It is 2AM and it's still 98 motherfucking degrees outside. Dry heat my royal fat ass. I swear I thought I was going to spontaneously burst into fucking flames when I walked outside of the hotel today.

It's a sad sad day when the Dutchess can't lounge in the pool with a drink in her hand because the pool is hot enough to boil a goddamn lobster.

However, I did sit in a bar that overlooks the pool area today. I spent hours pointing and laughing at the dumb fuckers that thought they could walk barefoot across the concrete. Let me just say that Lord of the Dance, Michael fucking Flatley ain't got shit on those dicklicks.

Some asshat at the bar said he was contemplating killing himself because he was sure it was cooler in hell than it is here.

I am thinking of ordering a rare steak and taking it to the sidewalk out front to video tape it frying on the sidewalk for you fuckers. You will probably hear a goddamn "THUD". That will be me passing the fuck out from the heat. Then you will probably hear sizzling, followed by people running out of their motherfucking houses with bread and mayo because they smell bacon frying.

Seriously, I hope the fucking paramedics carry a giant spatula so they can remove me from the goddamn sidewalk. I also hope they get there before I'm fucking crispy.



PS. The Royal Family got an award from Amy J . (btw, Thank You) The award has rules that go with it, and quite frankly? My brain is too fucking fried from the heat to participate right now. I will get to it as soon as I cool down. which may be in fucking January.

Is it wrong to plaster my naked body to the communal ice machine?

Letters From The Dutchess, Volume One

Dear Illinois Department Of Transportation,

Oh for fuck sake! Why oh why are you still doing road work on the SAME GODDAMN ROAD you were working on 2 years ago?

Rush hour is fucking bad enough, but because of you dillholes, the usual hour and a half commute took 3 and a half motherfucking hours. I had to be up and on the road at the asscrack of dawn this morning. That? Makes the Dutches a very unhappy bitch.

Lucky for your road crew at Mile Marker 103, I had my favorite coffee, with Kahlua of course. If it would have been a regular cup of motherfucking joe, I would have whipped it at the 5 assbags I saw standing around, laughing, and enjoying motherfucking donuts this morning as I passed by. I SO would have nailed their motherfucking asses too. Because at 3.5 miles per fucking hour? I've got kick ass aim.

BTW, if I had a job and my production rate was double what yours was? I'd STILL be fired so fast, my fucking head would spin. But not you, nope. Instead of actually completing the job on-time, you DOUBLED THE FUCKING TOLLS on the toll road to compensate the over budget problems.

Nice, but do you think you could at least do something about the ginormous fucking pot holes that are big enough to make small foreign cars disappear?
Thanks Much, dicklickers.

The Dutchess
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dear Douche Bag With The Expensive Suit and BMW,

Riding my ass and honking your fucking horn repeatedly not will make me, nor the other 4 fucking million cars in front of me, magically hover in mid air so you can speed to your oh-so-important job.

It will, however, cause me to give you a mighty double middle finger salute, damn you to hell and hope that the fleas of 100 mother fucking camels infest your pubic hair.

I'm also curious, Mr. Black BMW, as to why you accelerate to 120 MPH when you can plainly see that 750 feet in front of you, the fucking traffic has come to a goddamn standstill?

You have to know, assclown, that you will need to slam on your brakes to stop. Do you know that when you do that, other motorists panic, spill their coffee and shit their pants because they believe they are about to be involved in a demo motherfucking derby type sandwich crash?

But hey, you were able to pass 2 cars in the 750 feet, so all is good, huh?
Fuck-you-very-much, jackass

You got off easy because Lord Crash was in the car with me. Take note though, If I see you again, I will ram your motherfucking ass with my SUV until you are dangling over the motherfucking expressway, spilling your favorite coffee and shitting your designer fucking pants....I have 4WD, do NOT fuck with me.
Piss Off dickweed.

The Quicky Mart and Parenting Jackassery

Mikey! Mikey come here! Mikey, I said, come here! Don't do that Mikey! Mikey, Mikey, MIKEY!!!

That is what I heard for five solid motherfucking minutes minutes while I was in the Quicky Mart.

Mikey was the 3 year old who was running amok all over the goddamn QM knocking shit down while his parents, AKA, Senor Dickhead and his Whiskey Tango White Trash Ho, were getting their post methadone clinic fucking Big Gulps and Twizzlers.

Every fucking 30 seconds I heard, “Mikey, come here” like a goddamn hillbilly foghorn.

I wanted to yell “You dumb motherfucker, Take hold of that little fucking terrorist that you call Mikey and put a goddamn leash on him. Just because you turn your fat jowls and watch your crotch parasite terrorize the place while yelling Mikey every fucking thirty seconds does not make up for your lack of parenting skills douche bag“.

I chose not to because they may revoke my goddamn parole if there is one more incident because I just wanted out of there. Big Brother was coming on soon.

I paid, and stalked out of the fucking door.

I figured the parents of the motherfucking year must have finally made their purchase too because as I was unlocking my truck, Mikey the Terrorist, came tearing out of the store like a motherfucking cat that just figured out he wandered into a goddamn Chinese restaurant!

Mikey the Terrorist was headed straight towards the open parking lot and into the fucking traffic. He is 2 goddamn feet tall. He would have run right by me and not been seen by the oncoming car.

I glanced over at Whiskey Tango White Trash Ho and her compadre Senior Dickhead. I was hoping to see a look of horror as they realized the impending motherfucking impact of their prodigal son.

But, to no ones great surprise, the assholes were busy arguing over a coupon for a sleeve of motherfucking Skoal Bandits.

Because I'm not always a cold hearted bitch, I grabbed the kid with my free hand and jerked him back from running in front of the car of death that was speeding through the parking lot.

I then walked Mikey the Terrorist over to Senor Dickhead for what I thought would be a hero’s goddamn welcome.

Not so much.

Senor Dickhead just glared and said that I should get my hands off of his son.

The Fuck?

I smiled and asked if he was sure he was his son because everyone knows your ho is a carpenter's dream, if ya know what I mean? flat and easy to nail. wink wink.

Note to Self: Some jokes seem to make white trash confused and upset and want to fight.

He raised his grubby fucking fists, started to say something and.....

I kicked him square in the motherfucking nuts.

Sometimes I'm a fighter, Sometimes I’m a lover. However, what I am is a cheap bastard and I didn’t want to spill the "bigger than my fucking head" soda I just bought and was carrying in my right hand.

In retrospect, I may have overreacted. Yes, I kicked him in the balls, but in my defense, I felt threatened and just reacted.

I hope Brandon is ok and Senor Dickhead is feeling better.

BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Fuck you, assclowns
The dr. pepper was fucking delicious!

You might not know this about me, since I come across really sweet in this blog

...HOLY MOTHER OF ALL THINGS BEEALICIOUS THAT FUCKING LIGHTENING BOLT WAS CLOSE!....

Ok, ok dammit! So...you know I’m actually quite famous for getting into random arguments with strangers.

If I say we went to Disneyland last week my friends never say oh yeah? How was it?
They always say "How many fights did you get in this time, Dutchess?"

I don’t care what you fucking think, no one is cutting in front of me when I’ve been standing in line for 3 goddamn hours, so suck it.

And for the record, that dickbag Chinese man? Well, fucker just needs to watch his damn elbows. As in, take care not to jam his elbow into my kid’s eye because he’s all fired up about the motherfucking parade on Main Street.

My friends like to exaggerate this talent of mine, it actually doesn’t happen all that often...

OUCH!!! LOOK HERE, MOTHER NATUE OR GOD...WHATEVER.. THAT FUCKING BOLT OF LIGHTENING FRIZZED UP MY GODDAMN HAIR!!!! YOU ASSHOLES ARE PUSHING ME.

Ok, so when it happens, things get out of hand sometimes.

There was the time in 7/11 when an irate customer was berating the clerk for way longer than I deemed necessary. This was preventing me from paying for my fucking 6 pack and package of Hostess Cupcakes. No one stands between the Dutchess, her beer & cupcakes

He was all like...
"I said pump 6 not pump 9 you stupid twat!

Blah blah blah...On and on until I said “Ok, asshats, I'm going to pay for my stuff and go. I can’t really listen to this bullshit much longer.”

That Irate customer? went motherfucking crazy.

That stupid Skank called me an in-bred fat ass trailer ho.

The fuck? No one calls me that and gets away with it....except for my Momma.

So I called her an ass-sucking, idiotic, shady piece of shit, then she said…
Well. you get the idea.

I was in perfect form the other day when I left the dentist’s office, headed to the pharmacy.

My whole fucking top lip was dead and I looked like I had just had a pretty major stroke. Everything I said sounded something like this “Mwah mmm. arg ackah” and I wasn’t really looking to fight with any douchebag.

I pull into a parking spot and there’s this skank ass hooker unloading bags into her car. She lets her cart go and it starts rolling towards my SUV. I reversed out of the parking space to avoid getting hit by the goddamn run away cart, but it ricocheted off the car it did hit and still managed to clip the front of my motherfucking truck.

I wasn’t going to say anything to this woman. My mouth was swollen and throbbing, and I needed a stiff drink.

Even though she stood there watching her cart roll away making this stupidass face where her mouth was a perfect little O, as if it was completely incomprehensible that she might run after the cart and stop it from rolling through the parking lot…

Whatever, dumb twat is not worth making me one more second late for my rendezvous with my Vicodin and Margarita.

I DID consider (only briefly) ramming her motherfucking cart into the front of her car, tit for tat and all, but instead I merely got out of the car, grabbed the cart and rolled it over to the Kart-Korral that was 3 feet away from me.

Meanwhile, dumb ass cunt nugget is saying things like “Oh was that mine? Is that my cart?”

Well motherfucking DUH!. Are you the person who just now let it go and watched it roll away from you?

I still hadn’t said a word or even acknowledged that I heard her speaking until she said “I’m sorry, it just got away from me!” and gave this lame little giggle almost like she was flirting or being charming.

I just really fucking HATE women like that, those hair tossing, giggling, "Who? Little ole me?" types.

I just shot her my, "I could kill you with the motherfucking heel of my stilettos twat face" death look and stalked back to my truck.

I was actually thinking I had done an excellent job keeping my fat mouth shut when she had the balls to say “See? That’s why people don’t apologize! Cause you’re a bitch!”

Whoa! Wait, what?
The FUCK?!
Sorry, I really really tried, but that bitch just wrote her own ticket.

I prepared to slice, dice, and cut her into pieces with my acidic tirade waiting to burst from these lips! Deep breath in and...

“ACK UU u sphucking athhipe thalri rass unth uggt!”

HA! I fucking told her skanky ho ass!

I'm Okay, You're Just Stupid

Oh the people. The stupid people that is…oh how they make my fucking head hurt. I often wonder how some of these jackasses make it out of bed in the morning without someone holding their tittie-baby hand and reminding them where they keep their clean fucking underwear.

Anyway... Today I received an alert from the
Royal Family.

Look asshats, when the Royal Family sends out an alert, there is shit that must be done to prepare. First is, sobering myself up, which -by the way- pisses me off.

There is also the hassle of contacting local enforcement agencies. You see, when the Royal Family is on the move, we are obligated, by law and parole conditions, to tell the motherfucking authorities. Don't ask. If we told you, we'd have to fucking kill you.

We must warn local bartenders, because well..., obviously. And lastly, there is the task of stocking up on weed, Xanax, skittles, anti-bacterial soap, shanks, nip clips, cupcakes and other shit necessities.

I was given the task of stock piling the goods and contraband. Ok, I'm good with that, until I get to the fucking ATM.

This is NOT rocket science dicklicks. You drive up with your card already in hand. You put it in the goddamn slot. You enter your PIN that you should have MEMORIZED. You make your little transaction, grab that cash and be on your merry fucking way. Period. End of sentence, end of issue.

I will now present a list of things that it is NOT okay to do while at an ATM if there is a person behind you. (If you are the only one at the motherfucking ATM and there is nobody waiting, I don’t give a rat’s ass what you do, smoke a joint, pick your nose, slap the monkey, or recite a fucking sonnet, I don't give a shit. But as soon as someone pulls up behind you, shut the hell up and move on.)

1. It is not okay to have to rummage through your purse or wallet to find your ATM card. Have that bitch ready. I don’t want to wait for you to dig through your shit. My time is valuable. There is only a small window of oppertunity for me to accomplish my task before my body starts going into serious motherfucking withdawls from being sober the family arrives.

2. If there are people waiting, it is NOT okay to make more than two fucking transactions. One is preferred, but if you need to check and see if you have any money in the first place, no big deal, I’m feeling generous and if you aren’t capable of having some idea of how much money you have, I won’t hold it against you. But, an ATM line at 7:asscrack in the morning is NOT the time to wire money to motherfucking Pakistan, or purchase stock or whatever in the hell you were doing.

3. It is NOT okay to groom yourself while you are at the ATM. I swear if I see a brush or lipstick come out I’m going to hit you with my car bitch. No joke. Get your shit done and MOVE THE HELL ALONG. If you want to put on make-up, wait until you get back on the goddamn road like the rest of us.

4. It is NOT okay to back through the ATM so the person in the passenger seat can use it. Buck up you pussy, tell the driver your PIN. Your bank account is NOT a matter of national goddamn security no matter what your Mommy said. Don’t be such a pansy assed bitch.

5. It is NOT okay to have to consult a piece of paper for your PIN number. The whole point is that it needs to be something you REMEMBER. The only exception to this rule is if it is a new card and you have just received the PIN number. You get this pass only once. Know your shit yo!

6. Once you have completed your transaction it is NOT okay to organize your fucking purse or wallet. If you are one of those people who cannot cope with your money floating on your seat for a fucking minute until you get going again, pull into a motherfucking parking spot and get your shit together.

7. It is NOT okay to turn off your car while making a transaction. This is mostly a personal thing but it gets on my booze free nerves. Look assclown, don’t turn off your peice of shit pinto, just put on the parking brake if you can’t handle keeping your foot on the brake. I drive a goddamn stick-shift so don’t give me that bullshit about killing the engine. Put that bitch in neutral and use the fucking parking brake. It's not going anyfuckingwhere.


8. If your window is broken and you have to use the ATM by driving up and getting OUT of your vehicle, it is NOT okay to use the fucking ATM. You have two choices douchebag. Get your shit fixed OR (anyone… anyone… Bueller… anyone…) GO THE FUCK INSIDE!

Seriously cunt chewer. Does that sign say “Walk-thru ATM” No. It fucking does not. It says “Drive-thru” ATM.

Do you walk through McDonald’s to get your fucking Big Mac and super size fries? I’ll hazard a guess that you don’t.

But if you do…you are wrong, you are buttmunch stupid, and you should be put out of your own goddamn misery.

Oh look!!! It's Beer:30! Now, asshats, who is buying the first round of shots?