Summer Is Harsh, Baby

Where have I been since late Monday evening?  Well, pull up a chair kids, I have a cautionary tale for you.  You might just learn something, or not, but what the hell else do you have to do?  Not a damn thing, since you are here reading me, so, sit the hell down!

Anyway, the great bathing suit/exercise debacle of the PREVIOUS POST was followed by a ride on the Emotionally Menopausal Rollercoaster Of Shame. 

The sweaty trauma train cruised through The Hopeless Tunnel of Youth, across Super Bitch Boulevard, up Hormone Hill, and ultimately stopped at Three Day Bender Station, in the city of Crocked. (Also known as my back yard) 

I put on my best mu-mu, grabbed a cooler full of Corona, a vat of Pirate Rum Punch, and a couple of Willie's smoke-em-if-ya-got-em special cigs.  I carefully plopped onto the new raft in the pool, and proceeded to drift, drink and mourn the loss of my once, greatest asset..., my ample, perky bosom. 

Ok, ok, these babies have always been large and not exactly perky, but in my heyday, I never had a shortage of, onenightstands, suitors, wanting to juggle my giant pleasure orbs. 

Fast forward to the great bathing suit debacle of 2015, and all of a sudden, my 'effin' tits have taken a fucking dive, and my godamn nipples now face due South!  Also, the awesome new udder like shape my breasts have morphed into, could be mistaken for motherfucking bellybutton ears.  Traitorous assholes!

It all gets a bit fuzzy after that because of the ugly crying, the buzz from the cigs, and imbibing until I was ha-aaaamm-ered. 

I passed out, fell asleep, at noon, floating around the pool, in my mu-mu, on a raft.  Five hours later, I wake up and realize that my lovely, generously, free flowing cover up is bunched up between my damn shoulders and neck and there I am, floating around in all of my flubberous glory .

My lucky neighbors got an extended peep show from hell, with bonus snoring, (and maybe farting, whatever, don't judge me!), included. Fan-fucking-tastic!  The Home Owner's Association aught to love this one.

Note to self:  Send booze, fruit baskets and cookies to all neighbors.

Best of all, however, are my southern-pointing bellybutton ears.  They are fire engine red, have changed their name and are trying to get into the witness protection program.

Hello Asshats!

The Dutchess is not pleased, not pleased AT ALL. 

Peons, minions, and even my fucking family, (except The Duke), forgot my goddamn 45th birthday last Friday.

WHAT THE HELL, PEOPLE!?
 WHAT THE MOTHERFUCKING HELL???!!!

 Before I kick some hooker ass, I'm declaring an emergency time out.

I'm heading to the closet with my IPad to watch Netflix, while consuming a pan full of brownies, and a bottle of tequila.

BY MYSELF!

Too late to suck up now.  Carry on, ass munchers,

Tales From A Dorkville Funeral

As you also know, (and if you don't, where the fuck have you been?) my family is bat shit motherfucking crazy.

You also know I had to attend a family funeral last Friday.

Grab a beer, brownie, and a seat, assholes.  I'm going to tell you all about it.

My Uncle Al passed away on New Year's Eve...in his garage, with his dog at his side.  She wasn't a service dog, just a regular dog.  That dog was so important in his life, she made it into the obituary.  This pissed off his  grandchildren, whom were not mentioned in said obit.  Bad move, Uncle Al.  They were the ones that picked out his "final resting" outfit. 

Let's just say that when you get to heaven, (or hell, whatever...), if you see an old white guy with a perpetual smirk, wearing a blue polyester suit, paisley tie and enough gold chains to make the local pimp jealous?  Congratulations!  You have found my Uncle Al.  My Uncle was always a practical joker, so he should be 'aight with pimpin' in the ever after, yo!'

When his wife, (my Aunt Yvonne),  died 5 years ago, he got a little weird.  He started talking to the television and became an Agoraphobic (never left the house) overnight.  This worked for him until he accidentally burned the motherfucking house down because he fell asleep smoking a fatty.  RIP Uncle Al.

My cousin Mary was there.  She is my age and has partied so hard that she looked older than my Mother. To be honest, I went around the corner, bumped into her, and about shit myself.  She is one scary lookin' bitch.

My Aunt Marge was also in attendance.  She is the last living relative of my Grandmother's family.  She kept muttering about some family conspiracy, the city poisoning the water, and how late this funeral was being held.  It was from 4-7pm, but when you eat dinner at 3:30, 7pm is like midnight.

She had bottles of water in every pocket of her trench coat.  I'm pretty sure the Funeral Home Director thought she was packing heat because every time she got within 10 feet of him, he would nervously eye her bulging pockets and start sweating.

My cousin Ross is 59 years old, still has no job and lives in his Mother's basement. Thing is, he has been tested and is a genius with a sky high IQ. I'm thinking he may have people in his freezer because really, still living in his 80 year old Mother's house? *cue creepy music*

My cousin Sherly is so skinny and pasty looking.  I think she is either a real life fucking vampire, or has an eating disorder. She lives in California, and walks around telling everyone the sun will kill them, and that she has to watch her weight to fit into nice clothes.

Umm..hello...anyone there? This bitch needs some fried foods, sun, and if they don't put weights in her shoes, I'm pretty sure the wind around here will up and carry her bony ass away.

My cousin Al jr smelled like a walking distillery.  His breath even made even MY eyes water when he talked to me. AND?  I thought he would literally fall out of his damn chair during the service.

Speaking of the service, when it started, a small woman with permed frizzy, 70's hair, wearing Birkenstock's, ugly slacks and a shawl got up to speak. 

I thought it was a neighbor, or the funeral home director's Mom.  Then I noticed some kind of pouch around her waist, a holy water sprinkler in her hand, and a gargoyle on the cover of her "bible". 

Turns out, she was the Pastor/tree hugger/shaman/high priestess/whatever they chose to do the service.  I started to wonder if she would sacrifice a chicken, or light a bong and pass it around.  While I'm good with the bong passing, the chicken thing would have freaked me the fuck out.

Then she opened her mouth and the voice of an elementary school librarian popped out.  About that time, my Mother started coughing...and could. not. stop.  This made me giggle because my Grandmother used to be the wedding/church/funeral hacker. My mother hated that.  I can't tell you how much pleasure I got out of turning to my Mother and saying, "WOW Mom, looks like Gram made it after all!"

After shunning my Mother, the gargoyle lady continued with the service.  However, each and EVERY time she mentioned how in love my Uncle Al and Aunt Yvonne were, 50 years, blah blah, Al and Elizabeth are in heaven now, Al and Elizabeth were happy now...soul mates....blah, blah...wait...WTF?

All of a sudden, the Duke is discreetly poking me.  I can't look at him because I will loose my shit if I do, and while me laughing uncontrollably on the floor may be entertaining, it would be highly inappropriate.  That crazy tree hugging elder called my Aunt "Elizabeth" instead of Yvonne, at least a dozen times.

And then it happened.  My drunk cousin, who was listening to this shaman talk about his parents stood up and yelled, "WHO THE FUCK IS ELIZABETH AND WHY THE BLOODY HELL IS SHE WITH MY DAD IN HEAVEN??? !!!"

He then stumbled to the coffin, leaned over and said, "Damn Dad, that's cold-blooded!  I'm going to miss you, you old son-of-a-bitch.  Fuck, I need a cigarette!"  And proceeded to stumble to the left, wiping out 2 flower arrangements and a potted plant.

And with that, the Funeral Director jumped up, thanked everyone for coming, and pretty much asked us to leave.  Only my family would get thrown out of a funeral home.

That's it.  This drunken Dutchess is making an appointment with her Doctor to make sure I am taking enough pills to deal with that kinda crazy running through my effin blood.

It's All Fun & Games Until You Freak Out The Dutchess

In addition to drunk hookers, theme bars, and strange, naked activities, there are other amusing and whimsical things to be found on this ship. 

At first, I thought I was just drunk and seeing thing.  Then I realized that the cruise cleaning staff can do amazing things with towels.

The first day, I found this cute seal waiting near the bathroom sink 

I found this angel on my bed that evening

The next day I found an elephant and a pig

Amusing, no?  However, I think I forgot to tip them, because things started to get a little weird.  I found this little guy the next night

and this one, which I think the Queen had something to do with

then this, WTF? Is it a monkey, or Osama Bin Laden

Then, I got drunk, and may or may not have hit on the cabin boy, because these were all over my room the next evening

Then, something happened.  Something that sent shivers down my spine.  I walked into my room and found this...

SWANS!!!!!!!!!
...aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaakkkkkkkkk!!!!! 

I seriously hate swans, geese and goats.  There was a traumatic zoo incident back in the 70's that I refuse to talk about.  Suffice it to say, those fucking things creep me out. 

After a slight panic attack, a 5th of Cruzan Rum, and a little somethin' somethin' from my good friend Willie, I calmed down.

The Queen thought it was fucking hilarious.  All of a sudden, everywhere I look, there are motherfucking swans...

That's is it.  I have to get off this goddamn boat.

All Good Things Must Come To..

...a screeching fucking stop. That's right gang, the
is over.

Between broken bones, food poisoning, a fake kidnapping, a fake ransom note, a missing Princess (PWT), enough Mardi Gras beads collected to make every goddamn Drag Queen in America happy, and the realization that the Queen and I were embarking on a blogging milestone, it became apparent that it was time to rally the buses and hookers, and head home. (How's THAT for a giant run on sentence? BOO-YA motherfuckers!)

What is the milestone the Queen and I are approaching? Well, you nosey asshats, we are celebrating our 10th anniversary of finding each other, and blogging together.

Yes, that's right. Queenie and I have been kicking ass, taking names, and generally pointing, laughing, and making fun of people at this shit for 10 years. That's longer than my first and second marriage put together! (yes I'm on number 3..Shut UP fuckers!)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ok, so that up there was a post I started a while ago, and right in the middle of composing it, Blogger Duct taped Momma Duck . All Royals were called to action, and by the time I got back to my post, because I eat too many special brownies and drink way too many Coronas I was so upset, I lost my train of thought.
Fuck off! I'm old, my memory isn't what it use to be. Onward and upward
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Now I want to address something...something I think is damn near as evil as that goddamn Facebook... It's called Swagging. That's right, I said Swagging. The drunken Queen stumbled across this site one evening while hopping around the Internet.

I showed up at the castle for our weekly business meeting and found her almost manic. She was all "Free Money!" and "Gift Cards!" and "EASIEST SHIT EVER TO PAD THE GIN SUPPLY!"

I watched her cackling like a mad woman, filling out surveys, searching with their engine, and collecting points. Her bony little fingers were flying so fast over the goddamn keyboard, I swear I saw smoke. She was starting to scare me, so I told her we would postpone the meeting and to call me in the morning. I went home.

After a couple days without a blog post or a peep from the Queen, I began to get concerned. A couple days later, we all got an e-mail from the Queen. In the e-mail, she never mentioned gin, hookers, gators or Willie. It was a call to Swag. She talked of silver, gold, and Amazon Gift Cards. Most of the Royals, because they are fucking afraid of her jumped on the Swag Wagon.

Not me. No-fucking-siree. I was alarmed. When the Queen doesn't mention gin in an e-mail, something is defiantly not right. I knew I had to head over to her castle.

Along the way, it dawned on me that all kinds of things were amiss. No Royals were posting on the blogs, except PWT , and her posts were more like a fucking Swag survey instead of her usual brilliance.

All of our best hookers were MIA from their corner. I noticed the grass needed mowing at the Retirement Home, and I swear I heard a baby crying from the back room.

I noticed the The Royal Prison was being run by the fucking inmates, The Royal Newspaper hadn't been published in over a week, and The Ogre Child hasn't been heard from in over a month! Holy fuck! This is not good.

When I arrived at Queenie's, I noticed the gators were almost dead, the pool was dirty, and the bartender had a sign on the bar that said "Be Back...Whenever". WTF?

All of a sudden, I rounded the corner, and there she was. She was sitting at the computer, in a ratty ass bathrobe, her hair sticking up in every direction, the ashtray was over flowing, and her glass was EMPTY! I shit you not people.

As I slowly approached her, I noticed her eyes were glazed over, there was drool coming out one side of her mouth, her fingers were gnarled over the keyboard and she was mumbling about gift cards and only a few more pooooiiiinnttts!!!


What. The. Hell. Then it dawned on me. This Swag shit is a mother fucking cult! A David Korech and the Branch Davidian type, mother fucking cult!

People are sucked in, brainwashed, and then just shut out the rest of the damn world. No blogging, no wild partying, no blog smack downs, no nothing! Their entire existence seems to become clicking, swagging, and points.

We've got to figure out how to save the Monarchy from this Jim Jones like madness before the entire fucking kingdom falls apart!

It's time to come up with a plan. Put on your thinking cap, asshats, and for fuck sake, DO NOT DRINK ANY GODDAMN KOOL-AID!

Don't Duct Tape The Momma

"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances." adopted December 15, 1791

That, my friends, is the 1st amendment to the Constitution. It basically prohibits the making of any law "respecting an establishment of religion", impeding the free exercise of religion, infringing on the freedom of speech, infringing on the freedom of the press, interfering with the right to peaceably assemble or prohibiting the petitioning for a governmental redress of grievances.

It is no coincidence that free speech is the very first amendment of the Constitution. People were concerned about the power of the government.

A 1646 Massachusetts law, punished persons who denied the immortality of the soul.
In 1612, a Virginia governor declared the death penalty for a person that denied the Trinity under Virginia's Laws Divine, Moral and Martial, which also outlawed blasphemy, speaking badly of ministers and royalty, and "disgraceful words."

After the American Revolutionary War, The drafting and eventual adoption of the Bill of Rights, including the First Amendment, was, in large part, a result of these concerns, as the Bill of Rights limited the power of the federal government--(copied from Wikipedia)

More and more, our 1st amendment right is being taken away from us. Books, music, television, movies, and art have all become subject to what someone in a position of POWER deems morally or ethically right.

Over the weekend, those in a position of power at Blogspot decided they do not have to abide by our 1st amendment right. They censored a fellow Blogger...a Royal, at that. Hrummp!

Momma Fargo's blog tells the story of her life as a female cop. She wrote a story about what happened on a particular call. There was nothing demeaning, derogatory, or pornographic about that post. However, Blogger didn't like it, and not only took down her post, but they shut down her blog and offered up her URL to anyone that wanted it. After she complied with their demands, they gave her URL back to her.

What the fucking hell is going on? If you have or read blogs, you know that they are a venue where we can talk about our lives, our thoughts, our opinions, concerns. They are a place to gather news, information, and even a place where idiots can spew hatred, or make up vile lies. They give us a chance to step into the authors life and mind. They give us a place to have a small voice in this big universe.

I agree that sometimes those minds, lives and voices are downright disturbing. However, this is still America and that gives us the right to free speech.

I know many consider censorship in the United States as a necessary impingement on our right to free speech. They claim it is for the safety to the public. (Oh woe! Think of the children! That rap music is destroying our teenagers!) Some consider censorship to play a major role in maintaining social standards.

I know many of us consider that to be a bunch of bullshit. I believe censorship is an imposing, unreasonable restriction on the freedom of expression. PERIOD.

We have every right to say our piece on whatever subject we want to. Unless we factually lie and cause outside groups to be financially harmed (libel and slander), we can and should be able to state our opinions, no matter how far fetched, foul-mouthed or ridiculous it sounds.

What I don’t understand is why these people are taking the responsibility of protecting ourselves, more importantly our children, out of our homes and into the hands of others?

I want to bitch slap these people around and yell loudly and clearly, “Why don’t you do some fucking parenting, take some goddamn responsibility and stop blaming others!”

If you don't want the responsibilities of being a parent, grown-up, or asshole in the United States, there are plenty of places in this world where the powers that be will happily tell you what you can and cannot, say, eat, watch, read and live.

No one is forcing you to read this blog, or listen to rap music, or to watch an x-rated skin flick. Quit your motherfucking whining, pull your grown-up panties on, and make decisions that are right for you and your family.

I'm all for you having and expressing your opinions, values and crackpot ideas.

Just don't come to my house, or blog, and try to force your views, morals and values on me.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

EDITED: BY ME A COUPLE TIMES BECAUSE OF TWISTY PANTIES AND GOOD GIN

It seems the kingdom has lost their collective fucking minds. I'm not linking up every goddamn post that explains the recent chaos. I suggest you look at the previous post, click on the Royal's individual blogs, and get caught up.

I have pretty much had ENOUGH. The bitching, the pressure, the name changes, people coming and fucking going, haters, trolls and stalkers have all pissed me the motherfucking hell off.

The Queen has got to be off her rocker if she thinks I'm taking over this crazy motherfucking kingdom! Contrary to popular belief, I will not be taking over for The Queen. Once she decided to leave, so did the rest of the fucking kingdom. No one consulted me AND? She sent the fucking crown to PWT!

Can you spell VIVA LA REVOLUTION?!!!!

This has been an interesting year. I have met a group of ladies I have become friends with. They are funny, sexy, strong, and always have each other's back. I have laughed harder, this year, than I have in a very long time. However, I am too goddamn old and tired to run this fucking joint.

However, when I choose to make you family, it is a conscious decision that I don't take lightly. I love hard, and forever.

Right now, my granny panties are all twisty and I just need to get higher than Willie Nelson on his tour bus after a show in Pot Stalk, Arkansas detach, rethink, regroup, and start a motherfucking revolution.

I'll be peeking in on you.

Kill Me Now

On top of two weeks of cooking, baking, playing hostess for not one but FOUR damn Christmas parties, (3 of which were at my castle...not counting the one planned for Saturday with part of the Dukes family) dealing with my other In-Laws and a 250mile one way road trip to see my baby sister, I have the motherfucking flu. I haven't had the flu in a few years and this is just un-fucking-acceptable. I demanded that little flu fucker stay away from me when my grandson, 2 daughters and the housekeeper fell ill.

Unfortunately, the flu gave me a great big fuck you...in the ass. Fever, chills, coughing, stuffy nose, aches down to my decrepit bones, and other....disgusting symptoms that I can hardly think of, let alone type.

I have been in pajamas for two fucking days. Aside from the Tylenol and NyQuil, the Dutchess has been drink and smoke free for damn near three days. I know, RIGHT!!!

I am seriously contemplating flinging myself into the goddamn gator pit.

The Power Of The IRS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I don't know," she answered.

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

"I don't know."

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

"I don't."

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

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

"I know. Everyone does," she said.

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

"That is correct."

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

"Ok, hold please."

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

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

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

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

"Thank you. One moment."

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

"Mmm. Searching..." supervisor said.

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

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

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

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

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

"Your money."

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

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

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

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

"But you told me the medusa oblongata thing!"

"Stella octangula," supervisor corrected.

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

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

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

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

The HELL?

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

"I'm sorry, Ma'am."

"And what happens if I won't?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Glimpse Of The Real Life Dutchess

Some of you know I live in Wisconsin, and now I guess all of you do. Please curb your need to stalk me. Remember, I have mad Ninja skillz.

Anyway, there has been some crazy ass weather around here for the past couple of days. A "land hurricane" hit the county hard Tuesday morning. The weather asshats say this could be the strongest wind storm seen in the area in more than a decade.

This land hurricane, was comparable in pressure to a category 2 hurricane. Isn't that fucking special? If I'm going to have to deal with a hurricane, it would have been nice to have been somewhere tropical. Fucking Mother Nature!

Severe thunderstorms, moved northeast at 70 mph, and raced through southeastern Wisconsin between 5 and 8 a.m. Tuesday. BTW, really Mother Nature? You couldn't have picked a better time than the ass crack of dawn?

It also produced an F1 tornado not far from here. It did damage, but thankfully no one was killed. I know an F1 tornado is nothing to you Royals down in Kansas. However, up here, it is a big thing in October.

Now that the actual storms have passed, the focus is still on the wind. It has been blowing steady at 30-40 miles per hour with gusts up to 70. I kid you not, it actually blew over my chihuahua while she was taking a shit in the backyard. The second time I let her outside, I was smart enough to put her on a leash. Very Bad Idea. Let's just say that chihuahuas actually can fly like a kite. She is now hiding under the couch. I think she may be traumatized.

This fucking wind machine is to continue Wednesday and Thursday. The power around here is sketchy at best, so I thought I'd show you some pictures that were taken yesterday abd today as my daughter and I drove around our county and the one just North of us.


the guy in the red truck draped with downed power lines was scared, but not hurt.

Trucks were pushed over

Power lines, trees, and debris everywhere. You can also see how the weather changed throughout the day as we took random pictures.


OK gang, that is it for show & tell today.

Aging Superhero and Mid-life Crisis

I will be 44 in January. It's time to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.”
Well, I've thought about it. I don’t want to grow up.

First you’re born.
Then you grow up.

Then you work like a fucking dog
Then they squish your titties and stick a camera up your ass in the name of "preventative medicine and early detection.

Then you die.

Yep, I'm sure I don’t want to grow up.

So then I said to myself, “Maybe this is your midlife crisis, Dutch. You need to take a Xanax and nap.”

When I woke up I realized that I had been “dreaming” about shit that only old people think about. Like...

Fiber
Anyone named Obama.
Partially Hydrogenated Vegetable Oil
Nancy Pelosi
Colonoscopies and mammograms
Immigration Reform
Global Warming
Global Cooling
The Communists
Lawrence Welk
Gas prices
The early bird special
My current un-diet
My annual physical
The future
Death

And that was just one dream.

I was dreaming like an goddamn old person.

Where were all the hot Chippendale guys? A shirtless Kenny Chesney?? Where was the sweet little island home? Where the hell was the shoe store with every shoe I wanted in my perfect size? Where were the jeans molded to my perfect ass? That is what I use to dream about.

What in the bloody hell happened to my dreams?

So I’m totally bummed, and decide to shake it off, get tipsy and then, it happened. This came in the mail.

What. The. Motherfucking. Hell.

I can’t believe this.

Me.

In the A.A.R.P?

Do these people know I’m not turning 50 for 6 goddamn years? In the year 2017?

Communist bastards.

This has to be a goddamn satanic cult.

A.A.R.P.? I have an A.A.R.P. card?

They call it the A.A.R.P. because that’s the sound you make when you first open the envelope it comes in.

“AARP!!!!”

Why do I need to join the goddamn A.A.R.P.?

I’m already in the Beer of the Month Club.

This really really irks me. It really really does.

It’s bad enough that I sound like the goddamn “Tin Man” every time I get up from my couch now they want me to have an old person ID card?

Fuck. Me. Sideways.

So I go to their website to write them a scathing fuck you letter

Um…Wait a minute...

Maybe this isn’t so bad.

OOph look! I can get discounts to Disneyland and Sea World and Hertz and Hampton Inns. (I think there’s a law that says old people have to stay at a Hampton Inn or Motel 6)

I can get 50% off a “scientific” BBQ Thermometer that let’s me monitor my food from a 100 feet away.

They obviously these dickheads don’t know me that well. I’m never a 100 feet away from my goddamn food.

I can get 35% off a GPS device if I’m in the AARP.

How come all old people aren’t buying these kick ass things? Maybe then we wouldn’t be reading about these old people wandering the fuck off all the time. They should automatically send a GPS with the goddamn card. ..I'm just sayin'.

I spent an hour on the website. I can get discounts on everything!!! Then it hit me.

AARP is like a motherfucking COSTCO for old people! And it’s all online!!!

I’m starting to think this isn’t such a bad idea.

I start to picture myself coming up to a line of elderly people standing in line waiting for government cheese when I whip out and flash my A.A.R.P. card. “Stand aside assclowns! The Dutchess is here! I’m in the A.A.fuckingR.P.”

I can use this sweet gem of a card for everything! I’ll get it laminated and put it in it’s own little separate wallet spot and keep it in my purse next to that stupid plastic squeezy thing old people keep their change in.

Then I’ll whip it out like I’m a Ninja FBI agent.

“Dutchess of Dorkville, A.A.R.P.”

I’ll be almost like a secret agent for the old and decrepit.

Fuck, I could be an old person’s super hero!

A.A.R.P. Woman!!! Swooping down with long term health insurance and soft food.

I need a cape. SHYEAAAH!

And a walker that shoots Viagra, Celebrex, Bengay, Rolaids and Boniva.

Oh hell yes! I can still be somebody!!!!

“Dutch!!!”

“DUTCHESS!!! WAKE UP!!!”

“What rhe hell do you want Duke!!!?”

“You’re thrashing around in your sleep and yelling yippie-ki-yay motherfucker!!!”

“I wasn’t asleep.”

“Then you need to be commited. Now where are you going?”

“To the bat cave mister!”

“What?”

“Jeeze! To the goddamn bathroom okay?”

“What were you dreaming about?”

“I can’t tell you. I can never reveal my secret identity. Then I'd have to kill you, and then who would keep me in Jimmy Choo shoes and Coach bags?”

“Jesus, why can’t you just go out and change your hair color, hire a pool boy or take up real estate like most women having a midlife crisis?"

Well, my dear Duke Numb Nuts, I just might!

Fuck you very much.

No Bathtub, No Wine, and No Dutchess

THANK YOU FOR MY NEW BATHTUB BUTTON CB! YOU ARE SKANKTACULAR!!!!

Unfortunately, there will be no Drunken Reflections today. I know, I know. That makes you sad, disappointed, heartbroken, and on the verge of tears.

However, after spending most of the goddamn day in the Emergency Room, it has been determined that I, your Drunken Dutchess, am sicker than a fucking cheerleader on homecoming.

One trip to the pharmacy, a couple heavy duty pain killers, and a fever that refuses to go lower than 103.4, I bypassed the wine and bathtub and headed straight for the warm pajamas, a hot toddy and bed.

I will be back with Drunken Reflections next week, and as soon as I feel less like shit someone scraped off their shoe, and more like me, I will be back to your regularly scheduled daily posts.

Now, to prevent you from having to endure one more run-on sentence, I bid you farewell. Fuck you, I'm under the influence of pain killers and massive antibiotics, asshats. Farewell sounded like a good way to end this shitty drivel.

Somebody Will Be Shanked

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There will be shanking.

See you all on Sunday.

A Boil On The Ass Of Technologly

Over at the NEW ROYAL FAMILY BLOG there was a question about the root of all evil.

F.a.c.e.b.o.o.k.

That word alone sends me rocking back and forth in a fetal position on the goddamn floor. I also am missing some hair from pulling it out in wasted moments of f.a.c.e.b.o.o.k. frustration.

I remember when new technology was fun. I remember when I thought I had excellent problem solving skills. A blog? Yes! sign me up. Flicker, add on codes, myspace, and games? Woohooo!!! Bring 'em on! I get off on finding new sights and figuring shit out. Until f.a.c.e.b.o.o.k. came along, and turned me into my damn mother.

Apparently, everyone has a FB account and raves about the demon seed. The Queen forced finally talked me into getting my ass on the social networking train, and this is what happened.

I logged on and set up an account. I started adding friends, looking for long lost Johns, adding farmville, liking pages and posts, and thinking, well fuck, this isn't so bad.

Then the shit hit the goddamn fan. I started getting messages, bulletins, invitations and people trying to poke me. Things started dinging, pinging and ringing. I was given flair, surveys were popping up, questions were being asked, fake virtual drinks were being passed and IM's started popping up here, there and everywhere.

All. At. The. Same. Motherfucking. Time.

Pretty soon my head was buzzing, my blood pressure was through the goddamn roof and I was sending sunsets, flair and drinks without knowing exactly how the hell it was happening.

I started getting paranoid that some random axe murder would find me and poke my ass. And? What the fuck was flair anyway and why the fuck do I need or want it?

I sat there in a daze with my fucking eyes glazing over. As I neared an epileptic fit, I wondered what had happened to the mad multi-tasking skillz I was so proud of.

The pings, dings, and other bullshit just kept coming. Pretty soon I was crying, swilling gallons of tequila and pulling my goddamn hair out just trying to keep up.

After the 2nd bottle of Patron, I knew it was time log out. If not, I would drink myself into oblivion and quite possibly end up in desperate need of a fucking wig.

That fucking evil social network bastard gave me nightmares and caused me to suffer from post traumatic stress syndrome.

To this day, I need to take handful of Xanax and do a shit load of shooters before even talking about that boil on the ass of technology that is f.a.c.e.b.o.o.k.

That said, if you fuckers need me, leave a comment here, leave me a question over at out new collaborative Royal Family Blog, Dorks, Divas and Darlings, e-mail me, send a fucking carrier pigeon, or motherfucking smoke signals. Just don't look for me to be back on that goddamn fa.c.e.b.o.o.k.

I'm getting too old for this new technology shit.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go meet the Duke for the 4:00 early bird dinner special, buy some granny panties and then yell at some kids to get off my goddamn grass.

BSF---- All About The Ef-you-see-kay

It time for.......


Today is brought to you by the word, FUCK.

There are many people that refuse to say the word fuck. Maybe they don't realise that there are very few words that have the versatility of "fuck". Besides its obvious sexual connotations, this incredible word can be used to describe many situations.

Because I fucking rock, I am going to show you how you can use this word in almost any situation.

As a greeting --- "How the fuck are you?"

Fraud ---"I was fucked by the Burger King Drive Through...AGAIN"

Dismay --- "Oh, fuck it."

Trouble ---"Well, I guess I'm fucked again."

Aggression ---"Fuck you!!!"

Disgust ---"Fuck me!!!"

Confusion, Curiosity or Disbelief ---"What the fuck....?"

Difficulty ---"I don't understand this fucking thing."

Despair --- "Fucked again."

Good Job -- "Congratufuckinglations."

Desperation ---"Fuckityfuckfuckfuck."

Incompetence ---"He fucks up everything."

Disappointment --- "This fucking fucker is fucked."

Intelligence ---"He's a fucking genius."

Dismissal ---"Why don't you go outside and play hide-and-go-fuck-yourself?"

Displeasure ---"What the fuck is going on?"

Lost ---"Where the fuck are we?"

Disbelief ---"Unbefuckinglievable!!!"

Retaliation ---"Up your fucking ass!!!"

Laziness ---"He's just a fuck-off."

Pain ---"Fuck ! that hurt."

Pleasure ---"Oooooooh Fuuuuuuck Yesssssssss"

Love ---"Do ya Fuck on first dates?"

Starting a relationship ---"Let's fuck now!"

Surprise ---"What the fucking hell was that?"

Admiration ---"Nice fucking tits!"

Stupid person ---"Dumbfuck!"

Hate ---"You Fucking asshole!"

Condemnation ---"Fuck that shit!"

Disappointment ---"That's not fucking fair."

A poker hand ---"A Royal Fuck."

Ignorant person ---"Fuckstick."

Denial ---"I didn't fucking do it."

Perplexity "I don't know fuck about it."

Apathy ---"Who gives a fuck" or "I don't give a fuck".

Confusion ---"What the fuck just happened?"

Resignation ---"Oh fuck it."

Suspicion ---"Who the fuck are you?"

Panic ---"Let's get the fuck out of here!"

Directions ---"Fuck off."

Sex ---"Let's fuck."

Maternal ---"Motherfucker."

Incestuous --"Motherfucker."

Ambiguity ---"I'm not so fucking sure."

Agreement ---"Absofuckinglutely."

Questioning Authority ---"Who the fuck do you think you are?"

Hypocrisy ---"Don't you dare fucking swear at me you fucking fucker."

Praising the Lord ---"Jesus Fucking Christ."

I have a headache ---"Go fuck yourself."

Refusal ---"Oh you can fuck right off."

Pissed off ---"Fuck the fucking fuckers!"

Be quiet ---"Shut the fuck up."

Ostentation ---"He's just bought a big, fuck-off Mercedes."

Sensuousness ---"She was wearing a pair of red leather, fuck-me shoes."

Confidence ---"Fuckin' A I'm right"

Rage ---"Motherfucking fuckers!"

Impressed ---"That was fucking amazing."

Oral sex after 20 years of marriage ---"Fuck you!" (while passing each other in the hall)

Bewilderment or Ignorance ---"Fuck if I know."

Threatening ---"I'm gonna fuck you up!"

Annoyance ---"Fuck off, kid, you bother me."

Annoyance ---"Oh for fuck's sake, what now?"

Pissed off ---"Fuck you, you fucking fuckwad."

Tardiness ---"It's ten-fucking-thirty already?"

Broken down car --"Sir, the fucking thing is a broken down piece of fucking shit."

Professional appraisal of mechanical failure ---"Yep, it's fucked."

Calling someone ---"Yo, fuck face!"

Minors ---"Fucklings."

Morons ---"Fucktards."

Completely naked ---"fucking Buck-ass naked"

Low intelligence---" Fuckwit"

A name for the penis-- Fuckstick (like "I'm going to jam my fuckstick right up your ass")

Thanks ---"Fuck you very much."

Some of the above are mine, and others I jacked from other places. Yes, I know this is a lazy post. Too fucking bad. My foot is swollen, I'm on painkillers, and my fingers are stiff because I'm fucking cold.

I'm living in my denial that summer is really over and refuse to turn the fucking heat on in September. (FUCK YOU Mother Nature)

I'll see you all back here on Sunday for more Drunken Bathtub Reflections.




PS...I found a new favorite blog. I you like the Royal Family's blogs, I think you'll like Green_Eyed Brat too. I think she is a long lost relative. No one can be that snarky and say fuck that many times without being related to us some how.
Go read her

Munchies and A Burnt Nipple

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


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

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

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

Inside my head my brain was saying to me…

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

Inside my body, my traitor asshole stomach was saying…

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

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

I get the pizza out of the freezer.

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

I squeak goddamn it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck me, I should have known better.

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


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

I’ve seen lava on Tv.

I know lava bitches.

That shit was lava.

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

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

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

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

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

Have you ever touched lava motherfuckers?

I have.

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

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

The assbag wouldn’t let go.

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

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

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

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

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

I mean a really burnt fucking nipple.

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

You put ice on it, right?

Immediately.

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

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

You know how timing is every-fucking-thing?

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

You guessed it.

“What the hell are you doing?”

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

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

“Uh… I burnt my nipple.”

“WHAT?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I DON'T KNOW!"


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

Internet, I Miss You

Stealing my neighbors wireless internet is sketchy and not consistant.

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

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

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

FUFF Blog Stalk Friday and A Pissy Post

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Um, I need another pee cup."

"What happened Dutchess?"

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

"You sat on it?"

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

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

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

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

"Why?"

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

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

"Well, if you could just-"

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

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

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

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


It's Friday, BEER ME!!!