The Summer Cycle

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's Like A goddamn Parade Around Here

Our once small, but mighty, Royal Population has been growing.

Actually, the mother fucker has exploded into what is quickly becoming a goddamn metropolis.

I swear, every time I look up, some new hooker, bodyguard, goddamn shoe organizer and others, are walking past me.

Do you know how unnerving that shit is for a drunken, pill-popping Dutchess who enjoys partaking in the reefer madness?

More than once, I thought the goddamn castle was being stormed by the fucking Po-Po. People I don't recognize wander around and into the secret kitchen where I hide out, play Farmville and get drunk make the special brownies. This is not good, godammit!

Twice this week, I have thrown perfectly good bags of weed to the goddamn gators, and once stuffed CB's new flamingo with Xanax trying to get rid of any evidence! Talk about one chilled out fucking bird!

But I digress...

It's like a fucking low budget parade with all of the high heels, black eye liner, fishnet stockings and teased hair traipsing around here. We won't even talk about what the girls are wearing!

Also? Don't even get me started on the fucking tanker truck of Super Hold hairspray that rolls up every other day. One mishap, and we are all going up in a goddamn mushroom cloud of Aqua Net, bitches!

I have nothing against a good parade. Hell, with a super boob lift, I might even qualify for the...nah, never mind. If I lifted these giant melons to pre-kid, Parade Princess position, my fucking nipples would end up near my goddamn earlobes where people would mistake them for goiters or some such shit.

All these people and fucking the noise is getting to me. We all know I need my Kenny time



Okay!! We all know I need my Kenny time, Corona, a little of the maryjane and Xanax... blah, blah, blah...

None of which I am getting, by the way, because the Dame has been laying low and I keep having to wrestle the motherfucking gators to get my weed back so I can bake the goddamn assload of brownies these people consume every-fucking-day!

I'm fucking exhausted!

Someone needs to take pity on an old saggy, stoned Dutchess. I need every one's new buttons added to this blog. I need someone in charge of taking notes for the day's events, now that the Queen is back at her day job. I am always missing shit that happens around this damn castle. I also need someone to make me a dior-fucking-rama so I know who the fuck all of these new people are!

If I have to jump into the gator pit one more time? It's gonna get ugly.

You Knew We'd End Up Here

The next obvious stop in the...

is.....



This was all the Queen's doing. You see, the Queen has a thing for cowboys and things that are shiny. As we were passing through Vegas on our way to California, our drunken leader saw this...


The Queen let out a "YEEHAW!!", and before we could grab her, she was out of the bus and shimmying her way up the pole to the lighted Cowboy of her dreams.

At that point, we all knew we'd be here a while. However, this proved to be a lucrative stop because there is no better place for a rolling bus full of hookers, than fabulous Las Vegas.

While the ladies were setting up the Rolling Pleasure Palace, I decided to try my hand at some slots. That's when it happened.

I got the "fever" playing the "Wheel of Fortune" dollar slots. I think they pump inaudible hypnotic suggestions over the casino floor that say "feed me bitch, feed me, feed me over and over again. That way you either go to the goddamn buffet or throw another hundred-dollar bill into a dollar slot machine.

I couldn't seem to leave this one Wheel of Fortune machine. It had some kind of hold on me. I just kept playing, waiting to hear "WHEEL....OF....FORTUNE!", and spin for the big money win.

I found myself talking out loud using gambling terms. I'd hit that "max bet" button and yell, "Baby needs new shoes." "Momma needs to pay the rent." and "Forum Shops! I will make you my bitch!"

No matter how much cigar smoke wafted over me from the octogenarian who was plugged in to the slot machine on my right, I wasn't leaving my goddamn machine. (I was due for a win, I could feel it.)

She started getting a little pissed with me when I kept yelling, "Grandma needs the goddamn patch!"

I think she gave me the finger. It was a little bent and crooked, but it definitely resembled the finger.

It was at this moment that a couple stumbled up to the machine on my left. They looked like poster children for Wal-Mart.

He had a tee shirt with a black motorcycle vest over it, blue jeans, long hair, a moustache and a goatee. She had the hair, moustache and goatee and jeans but no tee shirt, just the black vest.

It's 8:30 in the morning and they're both drunk. Viva Las Vegas, baby!

He was slurring over and over again that he needed to "FUCKING EAT!!!!" and wandered off. She somehow managed to stick a twenty into the slot machine.

Of course her machine let out a "WHEEL....OF....FORTUNE!!!" on her very first fucking pull. She leans back to look up at the wheel spinning around and just as the wheel stops on one hundred dollars, she passes out with her head tilted back and her mouth wide open.

With a cigarette hanging from her mouth.

It was just hanging there. Kind of stuck on her goddamn lip.

I was tempted to use her mouth as an ashtray but I'm sure the elderly bitchy cigar queen on my right would rat me out.

It was at this moment that I noticed the tattoo on the passed out woman's left tit. I wasn't intentionally looking at her left boob, but it was sticking out of that black vest taking a look around for fuck sake.

On her left tit was a tattoo of Captain America.

Which is odd....

Flipping the bird.

Also odd....

Pointed at me.

Um.... Not so odd.

I've now been flipped off by the tit of passed out trailer trash on my left and "old mother cigar breath" on my right.

Yes, bring the kids; Las Vegas is fun for the whole fucking family.

And then "it" happened.

I hit the.....

"WHEEL OF FORTUNE!!!"

THAT WHEEL STARTED SPINNING!!!

ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS BABY!!!!!!

WOOOOOHOOOOO!!!!

I TOLD YOU I WAS DUE!!!!

I cash out the machine and grab my ticket.

"Smoke this grandma!!! Hey bitch, tuck that in, you'll poke someone's eye out with that thing."

I'm a motherfucking winner.

Las Vegas survived a visit from the Royals, but it may never be the same. Maybe the others will yell you their Vegas story, but sometimes, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas....

A Bathtub, Some Wine and a Goodbye

It's time for...


What a kick ass button, huh? It was made by The Royal Formerly Known As Princess of Class, Trash, and Sass. Yes, I said formerly known as.

The crazy hooker went all rouge on us. She turned in her keys to the Kingdom, quit her other bloggy jobs, and decided to have a real life.

What a selfish bitch. She got us hooked on her fuck yous, hookerfaces, whores, blog stalks, and stilettos, and then? She quit us like a bad fucking habit.

Oh stop all of your wailing and teeth gnashing, assclowns. Just calm the fuck down. The rest of the Royals are still here, and we are now taking applications for a new Princess.

CB, no one will ever fill your stilettos, and we will miss you. The blogosphere we be a little less bitchy, a little less crazy, and a little less funny. Even though you are a five foot nothing, there will always be a huge gaping hole where you once stood. I heart your face, Niece Skankypants.

Remember, you can always come home again. Just click your heels, down few shots of gin and a handful of Xanax, and there we will be.

Great, now my fucking bath is full of tears...wait a minute...saltwater makes things float....check out my boobies! Those girls look downright perky.

The new button is for you all. We all know how much I fucking hate rules, so there are no rules for this. Just play if you want, post the button and link the fuck up. Simple, no?

History, HNT and Osbasso

I've decided this post will be a bit serious and then a bit sexy, but probably not the funny you have come to expect here. Don't worry hookers, the funny will be back tomorrow.

Now, it's time for a brief lesson on Dutchess History. Some of you know this is a fairly new blog, and it is.

Most of you don't know that I'm an old timer in the blogging world. I had a blog from early 2005 until 2008. I then took a year plus hiatus due to illness, family, stress and burnout.

It's hard to be 100% you when your family, co-workers and 3D life friends find and read your personal blog. Not that I have anything to hide, it's just that when I would post HNT, or bitch about work, or tell a hilarious anecdote about home, family and etc..., someone was bound to take things out of context, get hurt, upset or offended.

When that happened, I found myself becoming inhibited, censored, and trapped in a place that use to make make happy, but had become a place where I no longer wrote with abandon, but instead, worried about everyone else. It was fucking exhausting!

I keep my old blog up, and sporadically post every few months. I have kept in touch with a few really great blog friends, and try to keep up with the old bloggers that are still blogging around.

One bloggy friend, however, never stopped asking me to come back to blogland. I went back and forth debating if I wanted to blog again.

Then I was kidnapped, drugged, threatened and forced by a Queen to take my place in the Royal Family and get back to work decided to come back.

However, I missed the freedom of the anonymity of early blogging. I missed writing without pause and having a place to be just me.

So, I went for a new name, and new digs, and voila, here I am. (you lucky bastards).

I use to LOVE playing Half-Nekkid Thursday, and after visiting Gucci Mama and seeing that Os is still doing the amazing HNT, I decided that I'm jumping back on that wagon.

Behold! The Dutchess' first (kind of)

Meet the ladies...All mine, all original!


Now, click that little blue button up there and go give Os some sugar.

A Vicious Circle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Buff Bods, how can I help you?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oh, suck it up. Exercise."

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

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

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

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.

No Xanax, Whores On Strike and Drunken Bathtubs

Attention all Kingdom Whores. I'm out of Xanax, and make no mistake, it's not pretty, funny, or cute. So, before I accidentally kill someone, listen the fuck up!

I don't give a goddamn rat's ass what you skanks wear,

I don't give a shit about any goddamn blogcation.

I don't give a fuck about some hair loss (just kidding, I'm not that much of a bitch, but without Xanax, my priorities are a bit skewed)

I don't give a dick about any missing song lyrics , law suits, a strike or any other whiny ass titty baby excuses you may have for skipping out on your job.

THE BOOZE AND PILL SUPPLY HAS DRIED UP. GET THE FUCK BACK TO WORK HO(s)!!

Now, it's time for

My tits are fucking ridiculous and should quite possibly be registered as a deadly weapon. I broke a fucking bra!

I was standing in the bathroom wearing my strapless bra and panties while getting ready to go to a wedding when all of a sudden, I heard a loud "POP!"

I watched in horror as the snap on the front of my ginormous bra ricocheted like a bullet shot out of a high powered fucking riffle off the mirror and then embedded itself into the wall behind me.

If not for my mad Ninja Ducking Skillz, I would have lost my goddamn eye. I heard a huge sigh of relief and then my boobs broke free and ate the fucking dogs.

If I were a cheap stripper I would so change my name to Melanie Mammaries.

Speaking of strippers. Duke and I got married in Vegas. After attending the wedding last night, I have one question. When did weddings stop being about the bride and groom, about celebrating love and an open goddamn bar?

It has become a cluster fuck of details.

Pick your flowers, pick your colors, the date, the food, first dance song, party favors, mementos, and on and on. Just the thought of all that bullshit would have me contemplating death by fucking Drain-o.

Let me plan a wedding. I think the perfect first dance song would be "Another One Bites the Dust".

Party favors, and wedding mementos? Fuck a goddamn box of cutesy Hershey kisses with names and date on the bottom.

I think Xanax in a pretty box for a party favor would be the shit. How about a sweaty guy named Lou set up in the back ready to tattoo our names and wedding date on the body part of your choice? Now THAT is a fucking memento asshats.

After last night I have come to the conclusion that some people are like a fucking slinky....not good for a damn thing, but you still can't help but smile when you shove them down the stairs.

It's almost time for the NASCAR race in Atlanta, so I will leave you with the advice I gave the Bride when we left...

Husbands have two emotions: Hungry and Horny. If you see him without an erection, make him a fucking sandwich.

Dumb Bride, bitch thought I was kidding.

Tits and Ass

The Duke & I went to the mall tonight. I fucking hate the mall, but he said he needed to get his Mom a birthday present. He promised me dinner and a great bottle of wine at the Olive Garden for dinner, so, of course, I said I'd go.

I only went for the wine because we all know how I feel about my Bitch In-Law. The birthday ritual with her goes like this: We buy a present, she oohs and aahs over the fucking thing, and then sticks it on a shelf in the back of her closet where it will remain until the end of time.

Halfway through the mall, my daytime drunkenness is starting to wearing off. I realize The Bitch In-Law's birthday was in May. Motherfucker! Damn that 5th cocktail I had to have while watching Jerry Springer!

The Duke says, "Babe, you need new bra's. Let's get you fitted."

Visions and flashbacks of my puberty bra fitting (read: a traumatic experience that scarred me for fucking life) seep into my brain and I stammer, "Ummm, No. I don't want to."

"Dutchess, that's the only reason I coerced you to come. You need new bras. Choose. Victoria's Secret or Marshall Fields."

"No. I don't wanna, asshat."

"Dutchess, stop being an idiot. These women see boobs all day long. You don't need to feel self- conscious."

"They haven't seem MY boobs. You know, my saggy, stretched out, forty something, swinging at the knees, boobs. No! I'm not fucking going and that's it." I stuck out my bottom lip, crossed my arms, firmly planted my stilettos and glared at him.

After the dicklick finally put me down in the middle of Victoria's Secret, he went in search of a Boob Technician. He returned with a beautiful, petite and soft-spoken girl. I apologized to her for the trauma she was about to endure, and we went into the fitting area.

"Do I need to take my blazer off?" I started to shrug it off. It only made sense that one would need to remove the goddamn jacket to get an accurate boob measurement. When I glanced up, the poor bitch looked visibly shaken.

"No! I mean, You can just leave it on!"

"Umm, ok. I think I'll just take it off."

This girl was literally scared of the boobs.

She walked over and I lifted my arms out to the sides. She very hesitantly placed the tape measure around the upper part of my torso and mumbled a number. She then placed it under the boobs and mumbled another number.

I could see by the look on her face when she was down there that she thought they were going to come to life, scream, "Feed me, Seymour!", and eat her goddamn face off.

I almost felt bad for her.

She then placed the tape measure around my actual boobs. She gasped, adjusted, muttered, adjusted again, frowned, tightened, relaxed, and muttered some more.

"Is everything okay?" I was beginning to feel enormously self-conscious and light headed from lack of alcohol. Women coming and going were starting to openly stare.

"Umm...Yeah, Umm...I'm just trying to figure out what comes after a double D."

I sighed. "I don't know. Triple D? Maybe a trip to the goddamn Tent & Awning store?"

She looks at me and calls for the other small breasted Boob Technician, "LaQuisha, what comes after a double D?"

LaQuisha paused, looked at my boobs for a moment and said, "E. Umm..., you're going to have to order from the catalogue and I don't even know that we carry them that large."

Just fucking perfect. "Yeah, I guess you'd need a whole lot more space. One of those bra drawers would pry only hold one cup, huh?" LaQuisha and Clueless stood staring at me until I turned purple and ran for the door. Humiliation is not a good look on the Dutchess.

Once outside, the Duke declared that I needed a second opinion.

"Look assbag, they're boobs, not a fucking brain tumor. I don't need a second opinion."

"That girl didn't even know what came after a double D. We're going to Marshall Fields."

"Why must you do this to me assclown? Haven't I been violated enough for one goddamn day? This is going to cost you 2 goddamn bottles of wine and a new pair of shoes."

When we got to Marshall Fields bra department, they had a fabulous TV screen display that showed the various types of bra's. Edging toward the door, I was readying for my escape while The Duke was mesmerized by a Miracle bra demonstration. I was suddenly cornered by Edith. She appeared out of nowhere and scared the hell out of me.

"Need help there, missy?" Edith is 89-years-old, three feet tall, and has been a Boob Technician since she was seventeen. I swear on all things pink and leopardy, she fucking moved as silently as a ninja and it was apparent I was not getting away without an accurate boob measurement.

Once shackled within the dressing room, she instructed me to remove my shirt, but leave my bra on.

"What? Shirt off? Do you have back-up out there somewhere? I don't think-"

"Off. Now. Quit bein' shy. You don't have anything I haven't seen a million times before."

Although I seriously doubted that, I removed my shirt. I blushed from embarrassment and crossed my hands over my cheap cotton bra, Shut the hell up. I have kick ass shoes and infuckingcredible panties but the trauma caused by past bra fittings have forced me to become a catalog bra shopper that guesses her size and looks for comfort, bitches!

Edith grabbed my arms and forced them out to my sides.

Bing, bang, ding. Done.

"Cup size G. That's what I thought, Stay right here and I'll be right back."

"Excuse me. Did you say G? As in ginormous? Gargantuan? What the fuck! Where the hell did F go?"

"How about G as in 'gifted', honey. I'll be right back."

"Where-"

Just like that, she was gone. About now, I need a drink and a funny cigarette. I needed to calm myself and focus.

When she returned, I was doing my best Karate Kid crane pose in the mirror. Just fucking great.

"Try these on." She deposited what looked like 6 enormous bowl hats on the bench.

"Wow. I could wear those on my goddamn hea-" All of sudden, Edith, the Boob Ninja was behind me and had unsnapped my bra before I could fathom what was happening.

"Whoah! I got this!" I clutched my bra to my chest and tried to side-step her.

I was not fast enough.

I was standing there half-nude while she flitted around me. She lifted, tucked, snapped and molded with lightening goddamn speed. Suddenly, it looked like I had two mortar shells stuffed into a motherfucking slingshot that would have taken King Kong's head clean off.

"This is the minimizer. Feel that support? Now, it doesn't do much for the shape of the breast, but it's good for your back and look at the perk! Betcha haven't seen perk like that in a few years!"

"I-"

And just like that, I was alone.

I tried on the other bra's for fear that Edith the goddamn Boob Ninja would come back and manhandle my boobs again. I came out with my selections. Edith smiled, charged me what I assume would be the cost of a fucking kidney on the black market, thanked me and sent us on our way.

"That's was motherfucking creepy, Duke Asshat. She can just appear an disappear at will."

At the entrance, I stopped by a selection of pretty bras I hadn't previously seen.

"Wow. These look comfortable. That's really soft. Feel this..."

"Those are the Oprah bra's!" Edith chirped from directly behind me. I squeaked, peed a little and then thanked her. She disappeared back into the bra's.

On the drive to the Olive Garden, Duke Dumbass said, "Now, see, Dutchess? That wasn't so bad."

I wanted to punch the bastard in the mouth. Instead, I'm calling his Doctor and reminding him the Duke has not yet had his colonoscopy. I'm scheduling it for Friday morning. It will serve the fucker right.