BSF, Pussies and Purple Monkey Balls

Purple Monkey Balls is the SLUTCODE of the day for


I've been trying to keep this from you, but, now, I must confess. I'm a cat owner. OK, make that catssss. I have 2 of them, alright? It was never my idea to have cats.

One beautiful summer day, about 13 years ago, I was in the shower. The Duke took that opportunity to drop a lost, sick, runty little kitten into my pet starved 8 year old daughter's arms. Fucker.

That little whore of a pussy got knocked up, and we ended up keeping one of her kittens. I was outnumbered in the fucking "lets keep a kitten" vote.

See, cats make little horns pop out of my fucking head. They make me do naughty things like put tape on their paws and flick drops of water their direction just to see them freak the fuck out when they get hit with what they think is evil acid mystery water.

Oh fuck you PETA! These sneaky bastards try and drink from my morning cup of Kahlua and coffee with a paw fresh from the shitbox.

I know those bitches would kill me if they could figure out how. I've seen them staring at me with that look in their eyes. You know the one. The one that says, "You're so lucky I don't have opposable thumbs, you loathsome idiotic fool, or you'd be a red stain in my litter box by now.

They also do the rudest, most horrible, disgusting, annoying, continuous shitty thing I have to deal with that I did not sign up for.

The puking. All the puking! All the GOD. DAMN. PUKING!!

What is it with puking pussies? Seriously? Have we ruined kitty's digestive tract with processed kibble in the shape of little fish that smells like fermented shit and fryer oil?

Is this revenge for depriving them of the rotting roadkill, lizard tales and long strands of dental floss they long to eat?

In the middle of the fucking night, after I've finally fallen asleep, I'm jolted awake by that unmistakable sound. The noise that only comes from the belly of the beast and the seventh realm of hell.

HORK HORK HORK HORK HORK HORK.

How in the hell can something that weighs 9 pounds make that kind of a sound?

I jump out of bed only to find the cat's head spinning completely around with puke flying across the carpet at the speed of light.

My eyes are wide as saucers, my hand clasped tightly over my threatening-to-gag mouth, and she daintily licks her lips, looks at me like, "what!?", and then sashays past me as if the fucking hurl holocaust didn't just happen in the goddamn hallway.

Did I mention? IT WAS THE MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING NIGHT!

There are certain things I don't mind doing on my hands and knees at 3 a.m. Cleaning cat puke it not one of them.

I took the puker to the vet, only to find out they don't know why she throws up.

Why thank you Mr. High Priced Vet. Thank you for letting me enjoy my day chasing, tackling, and trying to stuff a freaked out pussy into a carrier. After taking time to stop my wounds from bleeding, I also had to listen to her pathetically wail during the 45 minute drive to your office. All so you could tell me, "Umm, I don't know why she is puking all the time."

That? was just fucking super!

Now, go give CB some love for being the Hostess of this little game.

My Toe, The Duke and a Nutless Dog

I broke my fucking toe. The small one. You know, the one on the outer end of my foot that stays snuggled in it's own compartment in socks and shoes because it's shorter. It was made this way to SPECIFICALLY KEEP THIS SHIT FROM HAPPENING.

My baby toe is so small, I can't even paint the damn toenail on that one. I just kind of swipe some polish over the skin to give the impression of a toe nail. It's that fucking small.

But, I digress.

Now, I know you are thinking this has something to do with Jillian Michaels the Wii, and the ever graceful, exercising Dutchess, huh? Well, asshats, you would be wrong.

Last night I took an Ambien, tried to lay on my bed and will myself to sleep. Every fucking bone, muscle and hair on my body hurt from my brilliant fucking idea of doing a work out with that minion of Satan, Jillian, and the Wii.

The Duke was sitting on the bench at the end of the bed. He rolled the upstairs computer toward him and away from the wall so that he could surf for porn while I was wallowed in my misery.

I mumbled at him to make sure he pushed the damn desk back so that it was flush with the wall when he was done. Of course, he assured me he would. After the incident, he totally declared his innocence in the matter.

Seeing as how this tragedy wasn't the Duke's fault, I've come up with my own theory:

The asshole dog purposely moved the desk because he's still pissed that I had his goddamn nuts cut off. The end.

That makes sense, doesn't it?

As I stumbled to the fucking bathroom in the middle of the night, my toe hit the fucking wheel on the bottom of the desk. I heard an eerie crunch and then a high pitched whistling sound. As it turns out, the whistling sound was my brain informing my toe that it was seriously fuuuuuuucked up.

As I fell to the floor in a fetal position, I whimpered, "But, I don't need more fucking blog material."

The dog sashayed in and licked my damn nose.

"Go away, stupid fucking dog," I choked though angry tears. "Get out of my fucking room. Do something useful and go fetch me a goddamn Corona. My foot is broken."

It could have been the goddamn Ambien I took before bed but, I swear, he laughed. It sounded just like that evil cartoon dog Muttley. Then he said, "Lock your door, you dumb bitch. There's more where that shit came from."

My dog is trying to fucking kill me and frame my husband.

Just another fucking day in the life of your Dutchess.

OH OH OH OH AND GUESS WHAT? Dame Penis Platter and her Sir rock my fucking world. They made me something that will solve my exercise problem and make my ass smaller. You can read about it HERE . Don't forget to leave a comment and tell them how fucking brilliant they are.

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

Insomnia, Ninja Cats and A Blow Job

I'm an insomniac and live on very little sleep. For the most part, I'm good with that. I've been this way as long as I can remember, and it's just who I am. There are days, however, that it all just catches up, and I'm fucking tired, yo!

Yesterday was exhausting and tried my fucking patience. After a day of traffic jams, mind numbing errands, bickering kids, barking dogs, laundry, cooking supper and a dozen an after dinner drink, I was ready to go the hell to sleep.

What's that sound, you ask? It's the sound of the universe laughing. Just ignore the bastard.

I dropped into bed at 10:30, thinking to myself, "whoa! I haven't voluntarily went to bed this early since goddamn grade school!", and close my eyes.

Enter the Duke. He thinks me going to bed before 2:00AM is code for "let's have hot monkey sex". 5 minutes later, (Shut the fuck up, don't judge, we've been married for what seems like forever. Or maybe I am just that fucking good). I close my eyes again, and start to blissfully drift off to sleep.

There is suddenly, what sounds to be my cat in a WWE/WWF (make up your fucking mind McMahon) Battle Royal cat fight, outside my window.

Motherfucker, I hate cats. I curse the day the Duke brought that goddamn fleabag cat into our lives. I jump out of bed, go over to the window and yell at the cats to shut the fuck up and go fight elsewhere.

Ah...Silence...I guess I told those harry bastards. I sink into bed and.....the fucking cat fight starts up again with a vengeance.

I can feel my fucking bliss starting to slowly recede. I'm going to kill that damn cat. Ok, probably not, but she sure as fuck is going to get her ass in the house for the night. I head downstairs, whip open the front goddamn door, stomp down the front porch into the drive, and the cats freeze.

Well shit, my cat is not even out here. Matter of fact, I now hear her meowing, from inside the mother fucking front door, goddamn pussy!!

No matter, these assholes are going to relocate their fight one way or another. So, I start walking toward them, shooing them away. This ballsy orange bastard cat with a death wish, starts to growl at me.

I'm thinking, Oh no you fucking didn't! I then make a hissing sound, hoping to scare them away. (again, no judging, I'm fucking sleep deprived, assbags!)

That crazy orange bastard comes charging right at me. I scream, because what if it's rabid! The fucker has ninja like speed and just before smashing into my leg, he dodges to the left, swats at me, catches my leg with his claw and takes off into the night.

jesus christ on a fucking cupcake y'all, I'm a motherfucking victim of a goddamn drive by, from a fucking CAT!

I go back into the house and try to talk to the Duke about rabies, drive-bys, and a ninja bastard cat that just attacked me.

Mr. "I Could Sleep Through a Train Coming Through the House", mumbles and turns over. It's amazing how you can love someone one minute and want to punch him in the fucking throat the next.

I stalk to the bathroom, wash out the scratch that is now slightly bleeding, and trudge back to bed to attempt sleeping again.

"Whooo who who whooot". My eyes pop open. What the fuck? "Whoo who who whoot".

Holyfuckamoly, you gotta be kidding me! We haven't had an owl around here since last fall. I step out onto the balcony and light a smoke, and start talking, trying to scared it away. I can't see it, but I know the fucker is there somewhere. I finish my smoke, and hadn't heard the owl, so I go back to bed. "Whoooo who who whooot".

I'm wonder where that fuck that orange ninja attack bastard cat is, and cursing the motherfucking universe.

At this point, I'm the only one awake and the sounds of the family sleeping is really beginning to piss me off.

"Whooo who who whooot". Awww fuck it, the universe is totally fucking with me so I decide to get up. I pace, I read, I smoke, and then think coffee sounds like a brilliant idea. More of that sleep deprived thinking, obviously.

I finally end up going to bed at 4:39 am, but that's ok. Duke said he would take Lord Crash to football practice and Prissy has to work, but drives herself, so I'm thinking I'm going to get to sleep in. Yeah Me!

At 6:01 this morning Lord crash has lost his goddamn mind and is singing, "Oh, What A Beautiful Morning" at the top of his fucking lungs. I hurl a string of obscenities his way, and tell him to SHUT-THE-HELL-UP!

I pull the covers over my totally bliss less fucking head and vigilantly vow to go back to sleep....Just as I hear a motherfucking chainsaw firing up, and the shredder machine starting at the house across the street. They are clearing their back lot to put up a garage.

Duke comes out of the bathroom and sees his Dutchess standing in her ratty bathrobe with crazy eyes, crazy hair, clutching Lord Crashes Bow & Arrow in one hand and a bottle of Patron in the other mumbling something about murder one, a bow shoved up the neighbors ass and killing the next mother fucker that makes one goddamn sound.

I glare at him, daring him to say one. motherfucking. word.

Duke looks scared, licks his lips, stammers and finally says, "ummmm, this Saturday, Vegas, room service, expensive shoe shopping, and a suite at the Golden Nugget?"

He is sooooo getting more than 5 minutes of hot monkey sex AND a blow job. I may even swallow.

An Open Letter

Dear Motherfucking Skunk That Sprayed My Dogs,

You know what? I know you pulled this stunt because the Dutchess had a tooth pulled today and I'm just not on my A game. I was gonna kill your stanky ass. Then, I remember I can’t kill you. You were just defending yourself when you sprayed, right?

Fair point, and because I'm in pain, drunk as a skunk and can't see straight enough to chase your smelly fucking ass a fair person full of the awesome, I will let you live, FOR NOW.

However, consider yourself warned you skunky motherfucker, these are my plans if you spray my dogs again.

I will fucking kill you. I will kill you 12 times past dead. I will tear your goddamn head off and post it on a spike in my front fucking yard yard so that ALL your trashy skunk friends know to fear me.

No, wait. I have a better plan.

I will find your little skunk wife and allow the motherfucking gophers to have their way with her. Yes, my friend, gophers are well known for being rapists. Tough shit, accept it!

I will then call your skunky cable company, pretending to be you, and have all channels in your comfy little den deactivated... except for the jesus ones. Take THAT motherfucking skunk.

I will go online as you and post racist anti-skunk rants so that the next time you stop at your skunk community bar and trash can, you will get the fucking shit beat out of you by your own kind.

I will register you as a piss ass Democrat. In Dorkville, that is it's own death wish, mother fucker!

I will get you hooked on Lost, back when it was awesome, and then make you watch every goddamn episode until you finish the whole long and pointless fucking ending.

I will get you a boxed set of every goddamn dumbass Lorne Michael's produced comedy based on an SNL skit, and force you to watch every single one. Of course I will have removed the Blues Brothers movie because that movie kicks ass.

I will order "I Love Gerbils Up My Ass" skunk monthly magazine in your name but send it to your neighbors addresses. That way everyone will wink in a knowing _you're a goddamn freak show- kinda way at you, but you will never understand why.

I will have a motherfucking cocktail party and invite you over 30 minutes after everyone else. You will come to the door. I will, quite loudly, say “get out of here you stupid motherfucking gerbil assed skunky freak show!” and totally not let you in.

Maybe I will slip you a motherfucking mickey, take you out to the country, put a Marilyn Manson shirt on your ass and drop you off. I'm sure the fucking hillbilly hicktown skunks will kick the shit out of you, and maybe even cut your balls off.

And, you skunky cocksucker, I might just give you little side burns and call you Elvis, because I fucking can, you little dicklicker.

I may even pump you full of narcotics and take pictures of you drooling and crapping yourself. You will then become the poster child for the skunk community's "Just Say No campaign".

Get the idea you skunky motherfucker? Don’t fuck with my dogs... again.

I Must Confess

Brace yourself asshats, my evil knows no bounds.

Sleeping has become something of a struggle. Our new puppy, Delilah, has found her voice, and it's not the dainty voice of a poodle or the feminine voice of a sweet, little Pomeranian. It's the booming, I-sound-like-I-weigh-300-pounds-and-eat-lumberjacks-for-breakfast, indignant-at-only-being-offered-dry-dog-food, hear-the-roar-of-my-thousands-of-bloodhound-ancestors, cacophony that can be heard for miles around. I've never heard anything like it. She sounds like a hippo getting ass-raped.

The Duke just grins his big, goofy grin every time she gets going. He's the proud papa. I fling myself on the floor and try to wedge my fat ass under the sofa so I'm not caught in the stampede that simply has to follow a noise like that.

Fortunately, Sampson is older and wiser and set in his ways and he actually sleeps when dogs are supposed to sleep. Delilah is a lazy shit so sleeping is cool with her. But, when the Duke leaves at 6:30 a.m. to go to work, it's fun time. And fun time commences directly outside our goddamn bedroom window. At 6:30. In the morning. Our backyard is roughly a 3/4 acre, but the little assholes decide that the 4 cubic feet of space that is 2 feet from my bedroom fucking window the most enjoyable place to wrestle, growl, bark, bite, yelp and carry on.

And here's an amazing discovery: pressing your sleep crusted face against a bedroom window and screaming, "I will kill you both, kill you fucking DEAD, if you don't stop! Stop it! I'm the Dutchess! I'm a delicate fucking flower and you're ruining my sleep, you lumps of furry shit!", has absolutely no effect whatsoever. Just so you know.

So, to make a long story short, I'm tired and I'm grumpy. This is all a disclaimer for what I'm about to tell you.

Friday night, the Duke and I went to his friends engagement party. We got home rather late.

As we got out of the car, I heard the neighbors dog, Pussy. That's not her real name, but that's what I call her because that's what she is. She is an enormous Siberian husky/wolf hybrid.

She got into our yard one day and I went back in there to do something. The Duke found me an hour later, rooted to the spot in horror, pee running down my leg because I was afraid that if I moved, she would eat my goddamn face off. He walked over to her and she whimpered and dropped at his feet, licking his hand and mewling. She had been rooted to the spot, too, not because she was trying to assess whether or not she could fit my whole head in her mouth, but because she was as frightened of me as I was of her dumb ass.

This dog is the complete opposite of what she stereotypically should be. When the neighbors leave to go to Florida, which they frequently do, they leave their dogs unattended for three and four days at a time. This pisses me off for obvious reasons.

When they leave, Pussy sits in the backyard on her five foot run and makes this noise that can only be described as "an icepick in your frontal goddamn lobe". She is miserable. Friday night was the fourth or fifth time I've had to listen to it this week, and I did my very best to tolerate it in hope that she would wear herself out and shut the hell up.

At 4:13 a.m, I called the police department and they kindly informed me that the only way animal control would come out is if the dog was vicious. Would they come out the next day? No. I would have to wait until Monday, regardless of whether or not the dog was starving and abandoned.

Like fucking hell.

I woke the Duke up and demanded that he help me set Pussy free. He wearily followed me into the hallway because he knows better than to cross and angry Dutchess with a plan.

"Ok. Here's the plan. Go see if she can reach our fence. If she can, unhook her from her run. I'm sure she can jump a six foot fence."

He is in his boxer shorts and nothing else. I am in a nightgown, no bra, wearing a pair of Crocs and a feverish glint of lunacy in my eyes. Throw in a pack of Marlboro's and a motherfucking NASCAR flag flying proudly and we're every house in rural fucking Mississippi.

He dutifully went to the back and tried, in vain, to unhook her. He came back and reported that it was not possible. He hugged me, and before I could start sobbing and wiping snot all over his shoulder as I cried over the possibility of having to sleep in the tub, he went all McGyver on my ass.

He went inside, got his drill and removed a six foot portion of the fence that separates our neighbors yard from ours. Now, it was just a matter of getting close enough to set Pussy free.

The Duke was not volunteering.

"I'm not going in there. Memphis bites."

Memphis is the neighbors other dog. It is a furry, nasty, dirty mop of fur of indeterminate sex - it may have been a poodle in some former life - with beady little eyes and a lot of teeth. I did not give a shit. I went inside and put on the Duke's boots and then retrieved dog snacks from the kitchen.

So, here I am, at 4:30 in the morning, quietly making my way across my neighbors yard in a purple nightgown with work boots on, carrying a bag of goddamn dog treats. Oh dignity, where are thou?

As I got closer to Pussy, Memphis began to growl at me. When I was barely out of reach of his snapping, snarling jaws, I threw a Snausage at his goddamn head and ran like hell while he was snuffling around trying to find it in the grass.

I unhooked Pussy in record time and ran for the hole in the fence. Pussy followed me out and then immediately rolled over to expose her belly while spraying pee everywhere. I gave her the whole bag of Snausages and sang, "Born Free". The bitch howled.

We went back to bed, exhausted, at 5:30 a.m., just in time for Sampson & Delilah to begin their morning aerobics routine.

The following day, I was out in the yard with the Duke when I heard voices in the neighbors backyard.

They had been home. And we had not been quiet.

As I'm feeling spectacularly shitty, but not, about what we had done the night before, a man pulls up to their house with Pussy in the back of his truck, who was yipping and howling and pissing all over the place. How he located my neighbors is beyond me as neither dog has tags.

Oh, for fuck sake, even god's sense of humor can't be that cruel, I thought.

I stood and watched, oblivious to whether or not I was being nosy and incriminating myself in the process.

As the man offered to take the dog if they were willing to part with it, my neighbor answered, "Yeah, sure, you can have her. It's kind of a coincidence that she ran away. We were going to take her to the pound today, anyway."

Crime does not pay, children. But it makes for some interesting stories.