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.

The Christmas Crazy

I've been thinking y'all. I don't believe it's my depression that has my Christmas Spirit in a funk. It's our fucked up families.

Between The Duke and I, we have a large extended family. His side of the family is full of drama filled polish grudge holders, and my side of the family is chock full of the crazy, with a heavy sprinkle of redneck.

Duke's Mom, and Dad refuse to be within a 10 mile radius of each other. The divorce was 38 goddamn years ago. (I'm not kidding) GET. OVER. IT.

My family are a bunch of drunken rednecks who frequently holler, "Dude...Watch This!", usually followed by some kind of 911 call.

In order to keep the the damage to a minimum and the PoPo out of the annual Christmas pictures, we have a Christmas with each group individually. It goes like this...

**Christmas with The Duke's dead ex-wife's family two weeks before the 25th (don't fucking ask).

**We throw an annual X-mas party for our employees a week before Christmas.

**Christmas Eve at the house of The Duke's Dad (a Kenny Rogers pre-facelift look alike who shows old home movies of all the dead relatives and the duke's dead ex-wife) along with his
Step-Mom (Evil Whack Job)
Youngest Sister (who is perfect, just ask her)
her very young boyfriend. (She says boy toy is an extreme fighting champion. I think he's a fucking Mime. I've only heard him say seven motherfucking sentences in 3 years), and
her 2 teen boys (a drug addicted musician and an in the closet gay teen) and

**An Open House here at the castle with gifts for my family that includes,
my Mom (the original C.R.A.Z.Y)
my Step-Dad (who looks so much like Dick fucking Cheney, I keep looking for Secret Servicemen and wire taps)
my Sister, (who is a wanted felon)
her boyfriend (who looks like a grubby version of Grizzly Adams).
her three kids (niece 1 who was kicked out of town by the cops -true story-, 1 nephew that lives with his recently Transgendered Dad..er Mom...?! wth..., niece 2, who lives in her own little world -who can blame her-),
my Step-Sister (Dick Cheney's daughter- who is a born again Holy Roller)
her husband (the out of work carpenter)
their 2 young kids, and our close family friends on Christmas afternoon.

**Christmas night we spend with The Duke's Mom (who makes my goddamn eye twitch)
his Step-Dad (who can smoke any kind of meat you throw at him and says "you know" after every three fucking words)
his Brother (the twice divorced lawyer with a porno problem)
his Other Sister (who is a member of every fucking on-line dating community but has yet to find her soul mate) and
her 2 boys (one is a 25, year old, pot smokin' jobless video game addict who still lives with his Mommy and a 16 year old who was just arrested for streaking across the football field while flipping the bird to everyone that looked at him at the crosstown rival football game).

It goes on for fucking days, and by the end, I'm usually screaming ala Clark Griswold...

"We're all in this together. This is a full-blown, four-alarm holiday emergency here. We're gonna press on, and we're gonna have the hap, hap, happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap-danced with Danny fucking Kaye. And when Santa squeezes his fat white ass down that chimney tonight, he's gonna find the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nuthouse."

After a Griswald rant and mild breakdown, I crawl into a fetal position, rocking, twitching and mumbling, until someone pops the goddamn cork on a good bottle of Cristal on New Year's Eve.

This year may be a little different. At every party we always do a little "White Elephant Gag Gift Grab Bag Extravaganza".

Look what I stumbled across and snapped up for the White Elephant Grab Bags...

A Vagina Tissue Box Cover...with a full bush!
I hope my Mother In-law or Holy roller Step-Sister pulls this gift. Their heads just may spin around and implode. I can't fucking wait for Christmas.

BSF Revival and A Friday Fuck You

So, CB stuck her head out of whatever fucking hole she's been hiding in long enough to say a few words at the revamped....



Click on it, read all about it, and get on fucking board. BTW, slutcode: penis platter

Anyway, if you played BSF with CB in the past, then you need to kick your ass into gear and play along with Jen

If you don't? FUCK YOU

Also? A great big FUUUUCK YOOOU to the goddamn Winter Storm Advisory that is in effect now until late Saturday. Have I told you how much I fucking hate snow, and cold weather?

FUCK YOU Ghirardelli chocolate brownie mix. I made you thinking that because you were just a "mix" my exquisite palate would certainly rebuke your vile chocolate crumbs. In a surprise move, you're almost as good as my special from scratch brownies. I now have to face my new trainer (yes, another one...bite me) with brownie breath.

Dear In-Laws, FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU, FUCK YOU, and FUCK YOU. I am fed up with the way you treat my husband. I am very close to ripping your goddamn faces off. Not a great look for the impending Christmas gathering pictures, just sayin'.


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Remodel, Reshape, and Twinkies

After the grandson left last night, the Duke and I started to empty out the upstairs bathroom. Tomorrow starts another remodeling project in the house. Did I mention that this remodeling shit has been going on for 5 fucking years?

We have put in new carpet, new hardwood floors, redone the master bedroom & bath, remodeled the kitchen, the race and trophy room, the basement, the guest bath, and the outside back deck. The Duke is always redoing something around here. Well, not the Duke, exactly, because we all know he is a terrible builder/handyman.

Can I tell you that I HATE this shit? There are too many goddamn people in my house, it's too fucking noisy, too dusty, and there are strangers roaming around silently judging me as to the amount of fucking alcohol I drink before noon. (hi and fuck you Mr. Floor Tech!)

Anyway, I'm hoping that we will run out to rooms to remodel by 2016. By then, the Duke will be doing slave fucking labor for the local builders union and I'll be sucking wiener in the parking lot to pay off the $875,000 in marble and granite I had to have in the bathrooms and kitchen. But that house will be beautiful, yo!

Anyway, while I was taking a break, drinking a super Big Gulp and eating fried motherfucking Twinkies, I noticed how out of shape I am getting again. I broke up with trainer Barbie Bitch because honestly? If I had to see her size zero ass in pink leopard leggings or hear her perpetually perky voice one more fucking time, I would have killed her.

However, since breaking up with Barbie, I've been having nightmares that include Jane Fonda crying by my bed, Marie Osmond hocking up Nutri-system in my marble bathroom, cranes, missing roofs and THAT IS ENOUGH OF THAT SHIT, PEOPLE! So last night at 1:00 AM, I came up with a kick ass idea.

I waited for Duke and the SoS to leave for school and work this morning. I got dressed and hunted down my favorite workout disc. Dudes, I decided to get back into Tae Bo.

At 8 a.m.

That's 8 in the goddamn morning. Four full fucking hours before normal people time, AKA noon. There was sweat, tears, swearing, crying and more crying, but I fucking did it. It went something like this:

8:00 - Get the necessary supplies: water, towels, mats, MedAlert, atropine shots, an Ace bandage and some Heavy Duty Rubber Cement to keep the ginormous boobs at bay, and, of course, chilled vodka.

8:05 - Stretch. Actually, this was more like sort of reaching and groaning sprinkled with lots of exclamations like, "Holy fuck. I never knew my toes were so far from my goddamn head" and "WTF. When the hell did that grow there?"

8:10 - Begin. I'm karate kicking and screaming, "Pow, motherfucker!" all over the place. And then I remember why I quit this Tae Bo shit years ago. Satan is black, he wears spandex and goes by the nickname "Billy Blanks".

8:12 - I collapsed on the floor. I'm wheezing, "Pow....mother....fucker..." and if I can trust what I see in the reflection on the glass table top, I'm fucking turning blue.

8:13 - After a shot of atropine and some vodka, I attempt to continue this fucking 3 ring circus.

8:17 - Call my mother and ask her if it's normal to need Depends when you exercise. Hang up when the bitch starts giggling.

8:18 - Billy's exuberant queries of, "Are you feeling it?" are answered with such grumblings as, "Yeah, I feel it, you shiny motherfucking asshole" and "How...much....coke...you...snort...agggggg...."

8:20 - Enthusiastically cheer the TV. Fluff my pillow and grab a chocolate fucking donut.

8:30 - Turn the TV off, high-five myself and vow to do it again tomorrow.

8:31 - Uncross fingers, laugh maniacally and set that fucking disc on fire.

I'm going back to Twinkies and fucking Big Gulps tomorrow, but right now I need a nap.

Labor Day, In-Laws and A Farm

Day One:

This weekend, we went brother in-law's new farm in Southern Indiana for a family get together. My brother-in-law has a shit load of kids, so the farm is really a goddamn redneck "petting zoo". Let me tell you what they had to offer my family in lieu of smelly ass cows:

Four-wheelers
Climbing wall
Camping
Bonfires, complete with exploding rocks (I'll explain later, asshats)
2 labs and one very neurotic fucking chihuahua.
An unknown number of cats
One enormous, disgusting pot-bellied fucking pig named Marie (Donny died a few years ago)
Chickens that look like Don King. I don't know what kind of goddamn chickens they are but they have afros.
Archery (my son was very into this. At first, we all fucking scattered..the dogs, me, Duke, everyone. Turns out, he's actually pretty good)
Horses
Donkeys
Enormous piles of shit everywhere that city boy Duke managed to step in... every five goddamn minutes.

On the ride down, Spawn of Satan had a few questions for me. He and Duke think I am all knowing about farm shit because I grew up on a horse farm in Texas from junior high age until I was 23.

"Mom, do they have cows?" While I'm sitting there trying to remember what brother in-law told me, because I apparently think this is a perfectly normal fucking question.

Duke giggles and says, "Babe, he's been watching that Jackass show he wants to go cow tipping."

SoS gets the stink eye from me and quiets down.

10 minutes later:

"Mom, do they have goats?"

"You can't tip a goddamn goat, SoS. jesus christ on a fucking cracker, boy."

"No, but I saw that they're fun to wrestle. Have you ever seen anyone wrestle a goat?"

"Goat wrestling? Fucking Goat wrestling?? Holy shit, you're serious. My son wants to be a goddamn goat wrestler." He will never watch that Jackass movie again.


When we pulled up into the driveway, my sister in-law met us outside. After we hugged, she told me she had to one of the nieces, to the emergency room.

"What happened?"

"Oh, she jammed a stick through her foot while four-wheeling barefoot, which is one of our many no-no rules. We're gonna go get stitched up and when I get back, I'll cook out."

"Holy fuck. Okay, well while you're doing that, I'll go have my stomach stapled and then I'll come back and knit a fucking boat tarp."

She carried my niece to the car and turned to say something to me. I was too busy stepping in a hole and twisting my fucking ankle off of my goddamn foot to hear her.

"Well, get in the car, dutchess, maybe we can get a group deal" my SIL says. She's a real fucking hoot.

I was only able to carry my gallon of vodka and box of wine from the car, which I immediately started drinking to ease the goddamn pain. I don't remember much after that.

Day Two:

Duke slept on the floor next to my bed to make sure I didn't try to navigate the farmhouse stairs in the middle of the night to go wrestle a goddamn goat.

When I woke up, I asked him to cuddle with me. He obliged, but it didn't feel enough like a burrito for my liking.

"Hold me closer, tiny dancer," I mumbled. I was still fucking drunk.

"What?"

"You know. The Elton John song. 'Hold me closer, tiny dancer'."

He thinks about this for a moment and then says something that will make me laugh every time I think about it for the rest of my fucking life.

"Honey, this is really embarrassing, but all these years the closest thing I could make out of that line was, 'Hold me closer, Tony Danza'."

Now, I know now that this is a common enough mistake, common enough that it was made into a goddamn t-shirt, but my poor Duke honestly didn't know that. The look of embarrassment on his face was proof enough and I laughed like a mad woman.

While I'm laughing at his mistake, he says, "It's not that goddamn far-fetched. He's gay, isn't he?", which causes me to seize, fall off the bed and break my body.

When I finally calmed down, he said, "Don't tell anyone about that."

"Ok, sweety, I won't."

Later that night, My BIL is building a bonfire and I'm getting drunk with my SIL and her best friend. The three of us climb the hill, drinks sloshing everywhere because:

A: We're drunk
B: We can't see shit. We're in a valley and it's muhfuckin' dark out there.

When we get to the top, I learned a very important fact about bonfires: rocks explode if they get hot enough. The take off like goddamn bullets at a certain temperature.

You could tell who was from the city because we all ended up face down in the goddamn dirt, cowering like it was perfectly possible for MacDaddy Hayseed and his gang to pull a drive-by on the goddamn farm.

A good time was had by all. SoS had to be forcibly removed from the goddamn four-wheeler and shoved into the car. The Duke got to babysit me and make sure I didn't maim myself while stumbling drunkenly through the weekend, which, lets face it, is always fun.

Finally, a musical tribute to the weekend
Ode To A Labor Day Weekend
(sung to the tune of The 12 days of Christmas)
At the Labor Day Party I look up and I see...
12 sheriff deputies,
11 drunken neighbors,
10 burned up steaks,
9 children screaming,
8 hornets buzzing,
7 grills on fire,
6 naked swimmers,
5 Foot bonfire flames!!!!!!
4 in-laws bitching,
3 barking dogs,
2 stopped up toilets,
and my husband smirking at me.

BSF and The Telephone

It's time for...

I hate the fucking telephone.

Spawn of Satan's friends find it perfectly acceptable to call at 6 a.m., 10 p.m., whatever. I finally told them that SoS had been sent to boarding school in Pakistan and if they EVER called the goddamn house again, I was going to make sure he joined the Pakistani army.

Then came the telemarketers.

“Duke, why are we getting a hundred goddamn phone calls a day from people wanting to give you information that you requested? I KNEW you shouldn't have opened a facebook account! What information is that damn important? Lottery numbers? Where Hoffa is buried? Lindsey’s coke stash? What?”

He started to stutter.

“Um...well...I was trying to get a laptop. You know, for free.”

“Are you fucking serious? You thought that signing up for all that shit would actually get you a thousand dollar laptop? I’ve always wondered who fell for that shit. Now, I know.

Hey, we could use a plasma TV, too, and....”

“Shut the hell up.”

I finally got rid of the goddamn telemarketers by telling them that my husband had been sent to jail for heading up a meth operation and started sobbing on the phone about how hard it was going to be to feed all of our babies.

HA! Fuck you telemarketers! Problem solved.

This morning at about 7 AM, I was having this awesome dream about Kenny Chesney and his place in the islands when my idiot dog, Sir George, started.

Bark, bark, bark, bark, bark, bark.

Bark, bark.

Barkbarkbark.

Bark.

I finally got up and went outside. The Duke has had this dog on a run for his morning shit time because he was Houdini’ing his way out of the yard.

Now, this is a dog that manages to stand up, unlock the gate, go to a pay phone and call for hookers and a goddamn pizza, but he wrapped himself around a tree once and instead of reversing his steps, he kept running around in a circle like a fucking idiot until his slack wouldn’t even allow him to lick his own ass.

As I was untangling him and screaming at the other idiot dog, Lady grace, to do her business, George saw his opportunity and ran. And ran. And ran around in circles, giggling and dodging me until I gave up, flipped him off and went inside to go back to bed.

I quietly crept into the bedroom, found the most warm and comfortable spot. My head aligned perfectly with the pillow and Kenny was making getting a cold Corona ready for our walk on the beach when Grace started that ear splitting howl she reserves for the special occasions when:

a. I’m having a dream like the one I was having

b. George has grown opposable thumbs and unlatched the fucking gate. Again.

I got up, got dressed and went back outside. Grace was shrieking by this time, devastated that Sir George just left her behind and surely, surely he’s halfway to fucking Canada by now with some slutty poodle named Jennie.

I stood in the front yard, in the quiet, still morning air and listened to the mosquitoes buzzing around my goddamn head. I whistled as quietly as possible while mentally preparing the ad I’m going to place in the paper to get rid of these mother fucking dogs.

George finally comes trotting back into the yard and stopped at my feet. He looked up at me and I looked down at him. Neither of us blinked. Finally, he broke and whimpered.

“That’s right, dog. I’m the one who made the appointment to hack your nuts off and I can do so much worse. Never cross me, asswipe.”

I brought them into the house, and stumbled back to my room. I gingerly removed my clothes, crawled back into bed, head aligned with the pillow, Kenny. Thank you, sleep god. Thank you.

The doorbell rings and my neighbor is yelling, "Hey Dutchess??? I saw you out in the yard and wanted to bring you some coffeecake. You said we'd have coffee sometime, and I'm up, you're up, and I brought the cake!”

I hate those fucking dogs

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!"

DNA.....Nature's Revenge

Ever look at you family and go...WTF??? How can I possibly be related to these crazy motherfuckers? Yeah, we all have those moments.

Then we have those, "Oh jesus christ on a cupcake! I think I'm turning into my Mother, (father, crazy aunt, whatever) AACCKKK!" moments too.

THAT is the shit that can be down right scary. When and how the fuck does that shit happen? Does it magically invade your body in the night while you sleep? Is it in a sneak attack while your engrossed in a book, getting high, or before your morning coffee?

All I know is that one minute, I'm all Dutchess, and the next I hear myself yelling at my kids to "eat because there are goddamn children starving in China...blah blah blah", and somewhere in the back of my brain I'm thinking...I've heard this before...where have I...

OH FUCK! My Mother said that when I was a kid and dammit, I WILL NOT BE MY GODDAMN MOTHER!

The older I get, the more I see my Grandmother in my own Mother. My Gram was a little dingy, and she used to talk to anyone and everyone. Didn't matter if they didn't answer, she talked anyway.

She was the lady in the store that talked to you about her father-in law's farm while you were looking at the watermelons. She was the lady in the check-out line that commented on the National Enquirer stories. She was the one sitting on the park bench talking to the fucking homeless guy about what a nice day it was.

It embarrassed and drove my Mother absolutely batshit crazy. She was always yelling at her to "Stop talking to strangers Mother, what if they are an axe murderer!"

Know what? Last week my Mother and I were out shopping. As I was looking through the sale rack, I hear my Mom talking. I look up, and she is talking to some goddamn stranger about how clean the store is. WTF?

I giggled, but said nothing. When we got into the car, I said, "Mom, you are getting more & more like Gram with your wandering around the store talking to strangers! They could have been axe murderers!" She said, "Bite your damn tongue! That shit is not even a little bit funny Dutchess!"

We stopped for lunch at a buffet. We grab plates, and hit the food trough. I turn around to ask my Mother if she wanted something, and yep...there she was talking to some stranger about how good the food is there.

I looked at her, and began to laugh...she knew exactly what I was laughing at. As we sat down she said, "Fuck! I AM turning into my Mother!" I then giggled and said "Karma kicks you in the ass when ya least expect it, huh Mom?"

Pssst...Can I tell you something? Sometimes, even with all of our "I'm not gonna's", that goddamn DNA over rules even the best of intentions.

My daughter and I went shopping today. There we are, looking, shopping and walking, and all of a sudden, I am talking to some goddamn stranger about the cut of a particular skirt we both happened to be looking at. That led to talking about daughters, and blah blah blah, and just about then, I look over at my daughter.

I see laughter dancing in her eyes with a grin the size of motherfucking Texas. I quickly walked away thinking..."Oh FUCK!" and told my daughter to shut her damn mouth, or she would be walking home. She just giggled.

My Mom has a pretty new Chrysler Seabring convertible. Her husband has a fairly new PT Cruiser. She called to see if my husband could look at her car. I asked what happened because lately, she is notorious for bumping curbs, or shopping carts, and other inanimate objects causing minor damage to the front of her car.

She said she hopped into her car, opened the garage, put the car in reverse, and then must have gotten distracted because next thing she knew, she backed into her husbands car. The same car that is ALWAYS parked there.

This made me laugh my ass off. I was like, "Mom, what the hell happened? Didn't you glance in the rear view? Isn't this something that you are aware of, and have been for the past 10 years?"

She mumbled, "Well, I'm not sure... I was... thinking... um..it distracted...um...counting... um..forgot..."

I just about peed myself laughing so fucking hard and told her she reminded me of Gram.

She said, "Just you wait...you're 43 and the descent is a rapid one, my pretty."

Tonight, I decided to grill some burgers. As I'm, grilling, I notice the plants on my porch need to be dead-headed. So, I do that.

Then I think, well, it's time for plant food too, so I go in to mix up a batch. I then proceed feeding the hanging baskets, the flower garden, and as I round the corner to feed the blackberry bush, my son comes screaming towards me. "MOM!!!!THE GRILL IS ON FIRE!!!COME QUICK!!!"

Oh motherfucking hell! I run back to the grill and can see the flames shooting out from underneath. I whip open the grill top, and the damn flames singed not only my arm hair, but that eyebrow wax appointment I have for tomorrow?...totally not needed this month.

What's left of my beautiful burgers can only be described as blackened, charred to a crisp, dried out grill-kill. I tried to feed some to the dogs, but they won't touch them and they? Eat fucking cat shit on a regular basis.

My son looks at me and said, "Geeze Mom, what happened?"

I say, "Umm..well..I was distracted...um...the plants and...umm...the food and...um... dead-heading and...um...looks like sandwiches and chips for supper tonight." For fuck sake, my bitch Mother must have put a goddamn pox on me.

My son grins and says, "Mom, you're kinda reminding me of Gramma. That's something she would do & say."

Little asshole. That kid will be lucky if he survives the goddamn summer.

Fucking DNA...scary shit I tell you. Even the goddamn homeless guy agrees with me.

FML...I need a beer.

The Perfect Holiday

There is just something about the 4th of July. It's what I consider the perfect holiday. No gifts, no thank you cards, plenty of alcohol and it's warm outside.

There are neighborhood gang fights get togethers, family brawls cookouts, and sweet juicy watermelon that drips down your chin.

There is sweet corn eaten by the bundles, a small town fair, a parade and, to round it all out, a gorgeous display of fireworks. Here in Dorkville, we have a big family get together every year and I just fucking love it.

Where else would I be able to...

*Get a hotdog, a cream puff, an American flag, smoke bombs and a funny cigarette a Cat in the Hat, hat in red white and blue from the town crack ho same street vendor.

*Lose my goddamn hearing for a day because the sirens from the firetrucks, police cars, and ambulances in the parade are blasting full fucking volume 2 feet from where I am sitting.

*Deal with the dogs barking and howling from all the noise deep into the goddamn night.

*Watch the dry summer field next door go up in flames because the my relatives are shooting off bottle rockets under red fire flag conditions.

*Rush the same dicklick relative to the emergency room because one of the rockets blew off a finger. Interestingly enough, his last words to the Duke were, "DUDE! Watch this!".

*Go on a 3 day bender because my bitchy in-laws have invaded my space and the only way to get through the next 3 days is shit faced drunk it's the American way to celebrate Independence Day.

*Scare the hell out of the children telling them that watermelon seed they just swallowed will grow a watermelon inside their tummy.

*Blare the music outside extra loud to drown out the sound of my Mother in-laws voice before I snap and poison her fucking drink.

*Wear that ridiculous fucking red white and blue t-shirt my Mother in-law got me for Christmas. But, hey, it matches the Cat in the Hat, hat I bought.

*Make fun of my in-laws dogs who have been forced to wear ridiculous holiday outfits that the rest of the goddamn dog world will never let them live down.

*Take bets on who will be the first drunk to trip into the bonfire, get up and yell, "Whoa, did ya see that? BEER ME!".

*Just for fun, I then connect the dots of mosquito bites I got while watching the fucking fireworks down at the lake front.

*Drain and bleach the pool and my goddamn eyes after catching my Father in-law taking a midnight swim.....naked.

*And because the fun never ends here, I'll be picking up sparkler sticks in the yard until the goddamn snow flies

Yeah, good times abound here in Dorkville.

Tough Shit, I work on my own schedule

Drunk, but alive. Y'all are just going to have to wait for the real post. My drunken double vision is fucking with me.

Oh, quit your goddamn complaining ass clowns! You'll get a real post sometime today!

I will tell you that Tim McGraw? So fucking hot. I did take a ton of great pics, but you bitches will have to wait. Tough shit, I make the rules around here.

I'm not saying if I had all of the under garments I left home with still on at the end of the night. But I do have a few stories to tell, Of course.

For now the Dutchess needs a nap, a hot bath and a funny cigarette.

In the meantime, head over to my Sister's blog and to my nieces blog . Those bitches are fucking going head to head in a Prom Queen competition. Grab a drink, pull up a chair and hold on to your ass because THIS should be good.

Later assbags!

Off With Their Heads!!!!

The royal moving company kinda sucks. Hopefully they will get my shit moved in soon. In the meantime, I thought I would give you a little background on the people that live here in Dorkville.

(Whoa! I bitched to the Queen about the royal movers, and look what happened. The movers got their asses in gear and prettied up the place. They also hooked up the beer keg, cable and free porn!)

But, I digress. On with the introductions...

There is me, The Dutchess. I'm so full of bruises from my many falling incidents and accidents The Awesome, that this entire blog could be just about me, me, ME! and you fuckers would LOVE IT.

You! Back in the corner...Shut UP! Yes you so fucking would!

However, there are more people in Dorkville that want their 15 minutes of fame. Since I am so generous, I've decided to allowed them to ride my coattails as we head for the Blogging Hall of Fame.

The Duke of Dorkville....My husband, the moneymaker, the payer of the bills, a warm body on a cold night, the giver of gold and, head Dork. (NO, I didn't say he gives head to the Duke. Pay attention SISTER DEAR or put the goddamn drink down.)

Next is my oldest daughter, The Lady In Waiting, Blondee. She is 22 and should be called the Lady -not so much- in waiting. Poor thing took after me. She is gorgeous, of course, ...but has the same propensity for accidents) and moved out of the castle at 18, got preggers at 20, and still isn't married. She did produce the cutest royal baby though. He is 16 months old and we call him The Lord of Destruction because, well, obviously. I think Blondie has a drinking problem, but here in Dorkville, that, will get you a medal.

The Lady In Waiting, Priss, is up next. I'm pretty sure the hospital fucked up and gave us the wrong child. She is 19, just finished her first year in college, has a steady job, and is involved in missions trips to help children in Africa. Try as I might, she doesn't drink, do drugs, cuss, and has never had a boyfriend. She says she is saving herself for marriage. Which, HA! If she only knew that when you get married the object is less sex, more beer, and a checking account that is bigger than when you were single, but with less work for you. Sweet girl, but sticks out like a sore thumb in this family.

Finally there is Lord Crash, my 15 year old son, also known as the Spawn of Satan. I think his name says it all.

I do have some Royal Family in the blogosphere. Believe me, they are just as fucked up as us here in Dorkville full of The Awesome too.

There is my drunk ass Big Sister who is Queen of What The Fuck. I'd describe her, but seriously? The bitch is fucking scary crazy I heart her, so my opinion is bias. Go read her, form your own opinion.

There is my niece, the original Queen's daughter, Princess K. She lives in Kansas, but has tossed the ruby slippers, bought a new castle, and upped her tiara value. She also procreated the cutest little Orge princess, and is a very talented artist. Don't let that artsy - fartsy shit fool you, she is as fucked up as the rest of us. Maybe even more so because she actually grew up living with with Queenie in the same house! She is very cute though, and in love with her Prince Charming.

Lastly, there is the Queen's newly adopted daughter ,The Crazy Brunette. We couldn't let someone this fucked up run amok through the blogosphere by herself, stealing our glory. So, instead of feeding her to the crocodiles that live in the moat, we adopted her. She drinks, cusses, wreaks havoc and chaos where ever she goes. Basically, she fits right in.

Well, there you have it...The fam. my peeps, my posse. You fuck with one of us, you fuck with all of us......Unless someone has been disowned, and that? Could happen at any minute.

What!? It's true! Drugs, drinks, and crazy are not conducive for a nicey nice family get together. But I promise, we are a hell of alot of fun!

Now, I have a cold Corona screaming "DRINK ME!"
And I for one, always listen to the voices.

See you assholes next time.

AND THERE BETTER BE A FUCKING NEXT TIME BECAUSE IF I'M WRITING, YOU ASSHATS BETTER SHOW UP, READ AND COMMENT. REMEMBER, THERE ARE MANY OF US. WE WILL HUNT YOU DOWN AND KICK YOU ASS! Be afraid, very afraid!