What the fuck is wrong with women?

What the fuck is wrong with women?

Seriously. And I’m asking you this as a woman.

For the last three weeks I’ve been getting confirmation of being childfree from this one spayshul little fucktard that lives up the block from me. It’s fairly safe to say that any idiosyncrasies and dysfunctions we have stem from childhood, and this little blood sucker is a good example. Mom believes she knows who her mother is, a divorcee living with her grandparents, and evidently her ex dumped her and their two shitbags because he couldn’t stand her, nor her family (not that hubby is any better). I don’t know what the custodial arrangements are- and could give a shit- but the little cunt dropping is here on weekends and holidays from what I’ve seen of her. For the last three weeks (since the weather has gotten nicer) she’s been outside playing with the daughters of a family who lives next door (I only know them because their oldest daughter is a cripple), but I’ve never had a problem with them. Now she’s one of the middle daughters’ new BFF so they’re outside with their kindercrap screaming their heads off about nothing when this little bitch says to me as I pass:

“You wear too much lipstick!”

And she ducks inside her friend’s door.

In my day that was called disrespect, and we got our asses handed to us with a MAJOR verbal beat down for the rest of the day, and maybe a punishment on the side. Even the worst of the bastards who tortured me in my Catlick school were reprimanded by their parents if a comment was made towards an adult. Who was a stuck-up little snot who couldn’t even wipe their ass on their own to criticize an adult for their fashion choices? Nobody, that’s who! Which is why spankings are a good idea.

But today the little douche has a myriad of acronym brain diseases because of her parents divorce and is simply acting out. Which is why avoidance on the victim’s part is paramount, and mediation and negotiation are the parents’ duties should it be deemed that the situation be brought to their attention. This is the welfare of a child we’re talking about here…


Did I say that too loud for you? I’m sorry, you’re deaf now? Well that’s you’re fault for buying into Life Script with Mr./Ms. Good Enough But The Cracks In The Surface Just Get Deeper Daily. I can proudly say that the little pussy biscuit will grow up to be just like her prize-winning mamma, or like the insane bitches that Mom works with. What a good citizen like myself should do is grab her by the hair, slap her until she’s bleeding from every top half orifice, body slam her ass on mee-maw’s floor like Bin Laden’s corpse and demand an apology from her coven for leading meaningless existences that they can’t be bothered (too old and bizzy) to raise the walking twat clump right. Of course that reality exists between this monitor and the bedroom door. Outside of that door I would be arrested, slapped with a multi-million dollar lawsuit, and be featured on the 10 o’clock news on the Nox Noise Channel. Then a quarter of a billion people will be siding with the poor mawm and behbeh and my whole life will be played out on You Tube saying that I am nothing but an evil, fat, ugly, lazy, unemployed, jealous, and crazy loser who likes to kick newborn puppies and bite the heads off Peeps. But really you’re just so weak that you can’t take a little nine-year-old kid’s jokes… and that maybe you do wear too much makeup, you child-hating slut! 

Now we all know that after three weeks of childish taunting you would be harboring infanticide fantasies as well, but we can’t say what we feel anymore because we’re going to hurt someone’s perceived feelings. Please keep that word in mind. Perceived. Because the basis of our lives revolves upon the perception of what we think others believe about us. If I disciple mah chyuld, they’ll become a serial killer and Ah’ll get blamed! Or maybe they won’t be a millionaire brain surgeon and Ah’ll never live in a McMansion with country club membership! Ah’m a failure! Never mind what we believe about ourselves, that’s whole other delusion. And lately, I’ve been noticing that that goes doubly for women.

Dog knows that ageism, sexism, and lookism dominates everything from employment to sex, but it’s getting worse. In Mom’s office these ghetto diva bitches are so hung up on themselves that they walk around in Alzheimer’s-esque delusions. The thinner bitches Darlene, Cecelia, Lucille, and Hazel love to say just how sexy and desirable they are complimenting themselves every five minutes and flirting with everything that has a pair of hanging gonads. The truth is, no one could stand any of them, and people who know these bitches in purchasing ask how Mom- their longest standing temp of 4 years- how she could put up with them. The truth is, she can’t, but she needs a job, and at 56 the jobs don’t come easily regardless of the economy. Once Mom was walking with Cecelia and she met a friend, Ping, and for 20 minutes these two squwaking peacocks, after discovering that they shared the same birthdate, started in like 12-year-olds with the high fructose corn syrupy simpering “You’re pretty!” “No you’re pretty!” that had more back-and-forth than a ping-pong match in Harbin. Then you have one of the supervisors, Carmen, who honestly looks like the stereotypical butch lesbian (Mom said she dresses like a gym teacher). This dumbfuck always backpedals when she says she’ll never go out of her way (again) for someone who utterly disrespects her. Lucille is the hospital’s butt of jokes because she’s such a loudmouth, she tells everybody every detail of her fucked life. She’s nothing but a welfare queen with three anchor babies. This former Filipino bar girl had four loaves with three men- her eldest son during her days prostituting on a cruise ship (claimed the father was a Greek, but a picture she produced showed a Filipino guy, but no one can be sure with her because she’s a pathological liar), the next two with her ex-husband, and this latest one with her new Michigan backwoods white trash hubster she met online who is allergic to employment and comes from a litter of pill-headed alkeys (his moomy was so fucked up on pills that she slurred over the phone to Lucille that her 12-year-old daughter Ashley could come back to Michigan to suck her toe. For a year Lucille dumped her kids on hubster’s crazy clan so that they could go faux jet-setting and making a real white baby together, meanwhile the kids ate nothing, lived in a filthy house, and a semi-tarded 16-year-old nephew took “a liking” to Ashley). I don’t give a shit at how “nice” Lucille is, she’s a trashy user and abuser. Carmen went out of her way to get this ho her naturalization status, the job at purchasing, threw her baby showers, and when the bitch was done blowing her paycheck Carmen swooped in and made her friends in the cafeteria serve this whore and her kids full continental breakfasts, and then Carmen would cook for her. So what does this bitch do when Carmen called out Lucille and hubster web surfing at her workstation (where no one without an employee ID isn’t allowed)? She called her a dirty Puerto Rican.

Considering this bitch’s spotty record, I’m still amazed at how she didn’t get fired after that incident. No, I’m wrong. I’m amazed at how she wasn’t fired after she physically assaulted church lady Marcy some years ago. Church lady Marcy is Indian-Guyanese and has been so indoctrinated by her bassackwards culture and revivalist sect that she’s the family’s doormat (Mom could relate well). Her parents are practically invalids so despite having a career and doing all the housekeeping, much of their care has been dumped on Marcy. Her brothers are coddled drunks who do nothing, and all of her sisters have shuffled off to London, Minnesota, and Miami with their lives and families. But whenever they’re in town they’re forever calling Marcy at work to ask where the spices, pencils, or dustrags are. The upshot, they’re on the upper rungs of the totem pole in Guyana. They have so much money (from family businesses) that they need armed guards on the family’s plantation. According to the church lady, these bitches treated her like dirt and that the stress Mom has from these projects divas is nothing. And while that is true, church lady does NOTHING to defend herself. She always brought donuts and bagels from her cousin’s Dunkin’ Donuts shop, but all these asshats would complain that it was too much junk and they were get(ting) fat(ter). THEN when church lady would stop they complained why she wasn’t bringing any more food! The following drama took place when church lady was out sick; at her desk Mom overheard the other bitches making fun of church lady, pulling various parts of their flab anatomies demonstrating where the bagels ended up on her body. After the office Xmas party (potluck) there was some complaint over the food she brought- it wasn’t enough… GREEDY! GREEDY! GREEDY! Mom and another employee took church lady aside and told her not to bother with the bitches any more and quit making food for them (like they expect everyone in the office to do- but Mom hasn’t!) then told her about the bagel jokes. You’d think that would get her riled up at least. Nope, she stayed home the next day and sobbed like a 15-year-old under the blankets over missing Justin Bieber fuck Robert Pattinson on Ustream.

Now I’ll get to the real cruelty.

Their recently retired boss, Bill Goof, saved church lady’s ass from getting downsized. Apparently the insurance company that now wants to dump the hospital decided she was too expensive and wanted to hire a desperate college grad for less.

“Well if she’s got to go, she’s got to go!” Darlene bitched right in front of silent church lady. This is the one who’s money-laden baby daddy won’t marry her because of the tighter younger pussy he gets on the side.  The one applicant, a recent IT grad (young white dude), came in for an interview and Bill listed all of the menial tasks that would be required of him.

“I’m not doing that!” Bye-bye to the wannabe soap star.

“Why did you discourage him?!” Carmen screeched.

Bill knew that all of these old ghetto bitches (including Star the head supervisor) would be flirting with the poor guy and drive him to quit with their craziness. But moreover the office would be in chaos. These ghetto queens scream and fight over the pettiest shit, but when a man gets involved they become a wolf pack! Jealousy over imagined attention would wreak havoc and spill over into the work, and they would get nothing done if they’re too busy batting their eyes and shaking their saggy asses in front of someone who could be their kid.

When it comes down to it, they’re all insecure pathetic losers who’ll settle for the worst. Lucille is finally leaving the job to relocate to Texas to hopefully get hubster- who left her– out of Michigan to make a fresh start with their baybee that he doesn’t give a shit about. Cecelia is fucking some womanizer, Orlando, that’s engaged because she’s lonely and angry at herself for never being satisfied with herself or anybody else. I mean church lady and Carmen suffer from the 1st grade-itis (if I do everything for the pretty girls they’ll be my friends and I’ll be pretty too), but is this what I have to look forward to? Is this what middle-aged women do when they can’t bear aging?

Meanwhile on the whiter side of things…

The Ass Food that’s across the street has been the feed bag for our local hook and ladder since time immemorial, and as a kid my teachers always told us to wave to the firefighters in appreciation for their sacrifice. And as corny as that sounds, I waved, and they waved back. But in the store Mom was firm, You don’t bother the other shoppers. (THE RAYS!) And her word was law. But that didn’t stop the clucking hens from circling them at the registers. Now obviously I was raised not to criticize the grown ups, so I watched at how these bitches made idiots of themselves bombarding them with the dumbest questions! That hasn’t changed, but since 9/11 the age demographic has widened. I try to run as fast as I can with my old lady cart from the giggling and brown nosing, I wonder if all the teen and twenty-something fangirls are hot on firefighters because of the Chippendale-wannabe calendars they’ve released?

I don’t know. I’ve been working on this rant for nearly four hours, and I am nowhere near deciphering as to what’s fucking up women. Maybe I’m the exception to this odd rule. Okay, I went to a crap high school in a basement where I interacted with characters from the rejects zoo, and that was hardly the John Waters ideal that I had in mind when I was eight. I’m not really romantic, and outside of Microsoft Word I’m not very creative. And maybe I am a pessimist, but I prefer to define (not label) myself as a realist (read or listen to George Carlin’s Brain Droppings for a detailed explanation). I knew that I was CF pretty early on (I referred to my Cabbage Patch doll as my sister, not my daughter), and marriage doesn’t seem like a bowl of peaches and cream either (dysfunctional parents that had influence, I know). But let’s face it, when I lose my remaining 59 pounds (UPDATE: LOST 33 LBS. AS OF 7/6/11! 143 STILL IS THE GOAL!) that won’t guarantee me a ring, and should I get one I’m the type of bitch that if you were one of the morons I went to high school with met me on the street and saw it, your initial reaction would be, “YOU’RE MARRIED?! He must be as bad as you!”

I remember as a kid I begged my dad for ballet lessons. A lot of my non-friends at Catlick school went to the dance school just two blocks from here. It was $75 for the year. Mom always got this panicked look when I pleaded with her, and would try to deter me with “go ask your dad.” And I did. And I stood there whining for dog knows how long as he just sat at the table paying bills and balancing the checkbook, not once acknowledging me. I mean what’s the damn deal motherfucker? You tell me that fat girls aren’t loved (and that’s true) don’t you think a little activity would help with that? Was $75 bucks so hard to part with, you miserly assface? I took the long way to get some Chinese food avoiding that little bitch and I noticed that the weekend class was letting out at the dance school. Not much had changed, well the sign and the fact that the picture windows are shuttered since breeders believe that pedophiles are on every corner. The school advertizes with blown up recital photos, girls of varying ages and ability. A pink chain of five-year-olds in tulle and ribbons stiffly take their bow, a troupe of 10 to 12-year-olds pose in disco sequins with glitter in their hair and on their faces. Sugary smiles and Olga Korbut splits looking like so much North Korean propaganda. I wasn’t so lucky, but are they lucky? Out from the rear exit emerge two fat teen girls, both are in leggings. Their faces are sheened in sweat and are giddy. No cares in the world and they seem to be all buddy-buddy. Maybe weight loss partners, maybe not. But they all seem lucky, one by one skipping down the cracked concrete in the spun gold sunlight of late spring afternoon chasing after diamond fireflies. And it hits me just now. There’s really nothing fucked up with women. And yet everything. It gets really hot under stage lights, and you have to hit your cues on time, and if you screw up the whole cast looks bad, but… that fairy glamour makes it all worthwhile. Fifteen seconds, that’s all you ask for to look special, pretty even. And that’s what they’re doing. Chasing the fairy glamour.

Lights dim.

Curtain closes.

Matinee at 2pm.

I get up from my seat and walk up the aisle. I’m the real lucky one. I get to leave the theater every time.


Plus-sized models make me laugh

Now I’ve got no beef with fat chicks modeling- hey, there’s money to be made in ugly clothes! But this site just makes me laugh http://plussizemodelsunite.com/.

Now what is the purpose of going to the gym? To lose weight. My best friend just joined a new gym ($40 fee and $20 monthly dues) the same day she dragged me to some designer underwear boutique to buy some special bag and detergent ($20) to wash her special French import bra ($129) for her gigantaur boobs, 36 FF. She was so thrilled to find out that the shop carries her brand and size (price between $88-$165) and has made it her #1 bra stop since she’s had to toss her 40-odd Victoria’s Secret bras out since her boobs got too big on account of her birth control, weight gain, and drinking.

It hurts me just to spend 2 for $35 on Lilyette minimizers in Macy’s, and let me tell you fuckwits something, my 38 DDD (technically I’m a 36 DD in every other brand) is THE AVERAGE which is why I can’t find my size regardless of the color or design! When we left the shop I just asked her point blank, “Why don’t you just get a reduction?” According to her logic, since she’s not in any pain and the bras she’s throwing away fuckloads of cash on will help with support (they’re push-ups the stick-your-micro-dick-between-my-chest-behemoths bra). At the same time she wants to have at least 2 kids in 5 years.

This is just to keep her fiancée happy and she’s an attention whore- like her insane-o mother.

There are things fat women should never wear (like the majority of my best friend’s wardrobe):

1) Kimono-muumuus make you look like a whale.

2) A-line dresses make you look fatter- your lower half especially!

3) Bustier bunched mini dresses in tropical colors are a NO NO!

4) Halter drape camisoles over jeans (whether they cover your hips or not) you can’t get away with them (they highlight how big your ass is).

5) Pencil skirts weren’t made for fatties. If you don’t look like one of the Pink Ladies from Grease 2, you don’t wear them!

I can’t stand idiots who preach the same damn product pushing pseudo-philosophy that’s found on the backs of Snackwell’s boxes: “It’s all in your attitude!” Well my “positive ‘tude” with my fat ass isn’t getting the hot guy, the great job, or the cool friends that everybody on this planet really wants. So we trudge onward to the next crash diet and the treadmill- don’t like what I have to say, then you deny reality. The only reason why the fat chicks are in catalogs is because their faces are rather beautiful, and if they slimmed down to a size 10 they’d be perfect.

I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m hopeful for a better life when I get down to my ideal weight. In fact, I know I’ll get one. And I honestly don’t know what my friend means by me dumping all over my womanhood by losing weight and getting smaller boobs. I’m still a woman even if my tatas aren’t udders!

P.S. I feel I should tell you why I’m so fucking evil on weight issues (I’m not telling you because I want to be PC or apologetic, but this was my MAJOR wake up call). When I was 17 I was at the library to do some research for some fucked up project for a pretentious bastard for an English teacher (he was a junior high art teacher before he came to our pseudo-school) that I knew I wouldn’t get the proper grade for because I didn’t lick his balls and call them ice cream. A-ny-way! After I was done digging through Ebsco (remember this was before we got online) I took a swing through the fiction section to see if there was anything interesting. I settled on one of my favorites until this day, Junk by Linda Yablonsky, the sordid tale of a New York heroin addict/dealer during the horse heyday of the late ’70s and ’80s. I also did a quick sweep of sci-fi (yes I’m a fucking geek OK!) and then I checked out and proceeded to leave. Well as I was searching for my student Metrocard I heard a voice:

“Excuse me. I just saw you walking around, and I thought you were really cute. I’d like to take you out.”

Well visions of Sergei Grinkov lookalikes flooded my unprepared brain I looked up with an ill-thought out flirtatious comeback on the tip my tongue- luckily I bit it when I saw what was directly in front of me. A four-eyed, balding, 5’5″ mamma’s boy virgin. I wear a lot of rings, my friends call them my knuckle dusters, and with good reason. I glanced at the bored security guard at the revolving door and wondered at my chances of making a quick getaway after I brained this ugly midget and decided to take the legal route.

“Excuse me, are you like 30?”

“Well,” the blush on his bloated face made him look like he had rosacea, “yeah, sort of.”

“I’m 17.”

“You’re legal.”

I spun around and stomped off. I didn’t bother waiting for the goddamn bus, I was ready to explode and might take it out on the first person that brushed up against my coat. I cried all night and the next day I skipped class, Mom didn’t ask and I didn’t tell her until I was around 25 after we threw Dad out. I told some of my older friends (at the time) and they said I should’ve knocked him out- in retrospect I should have taken the opportunity. It wasn’t until then that I realized how ugly I was, and just what kind of man would want me and I had to make a change. It hurts when you get made fun of, regardless of what anybody says. They’re liars when they say you’ll get over it, and that you need to embrace your thunder thighs, huge ass, and big hips. Yeah, tell that to the murderous pain in my knees asshats!

When I was 16 this girl who was the daughter of a nice woman (can you believe that?) Mom knew called me “butt-ugly” from the inside of her gate. I never spoke to the bitch in my life and didn’t even know who the fuck she was until after I told Mom. A year later when I made myself over she stood there slacked-jawed at my nice dyed red hair, better clothes, and face free from glasses I shouted at her to say something to me. And I was ready to swing my fists. She wisely kept her trap shut. The last time I saw her she was outside her mother’s gate with her two brats from her ghetto baby-daddy. She was the epitome of white trash with her now fat ass squeezed into pink running pants, a black tank top that was riding up on her pot belly with a visible thong over her lower back tat (the fuck-me-because-I-need-attention tattoo). I laughed in her face and told her to take a shower (all that gel in her hair made it look filthy). Even though that sideshow of a  family pulled up stakes and left a couple years back I still wince whenever I pass their gate.

Oh yeah, I have since never gone near the sci-fi section again (’cause that’s where the virgin mamma’s boys hang out).

The great funbag debate: breast reduction

So you go to your GP because your back’s been fucking you over for a while now. He/she examines you and they give you the news:

“You need a breast reduction.”

Now there are two ways you can approach this scenario: 1) Ignore the doctor, continue to suffer in silence or ruin everybody’s fucking day with your pissing and moaning, eventually resulting in permanent damage to your spinal cord rendering you a hunchbacked near-invalid with a painkiller addiction… But no worries! The memories of all those men rubbing their faces in your Gargantuan cleavage like the disgusting pug in Turner & Hooch saying Br-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-itski! warm you at night as your at home nurse tucks you in and puts on your sleep apnea oxygen mask.

…Or swallow your pride, go home, tell your boyfriend/husband/baby daddy what the good doc said and that you will be seeking out a plastic surgeon. If he’s a good guy he’ll take your hand, say he’ll always love you and think you’re beautiful, then bite his lip, go to a dive, tie 10 on and sob to his boys that his favorite chew toys will be retiring. Then he’ll stumble back to his place, pass out and wake up with a fucker of a hangover, but when he next sees you pain-free and face aglow, he’ll know it’ll all be good.

But if he’s a bad guy he’ll take your hand, and say: “Let’s get a second opinion.” Or maybe he’ll pull out the last sex video you uploaded and say how much he’ll miss that. Better yet, he’ll suggest a new diet to take some of the fat off your breasts (as well as your ass for good measure), maybe some exercises or go bra shopping that will have better back support.


Unless they’re 600 lbs. and that’s whole other rant…

What is I’m trying to say is dickwads and dumb hos, large breasts aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. When I said to Kaye that as soon as I fall into some insurance or make some money my 38 DDDs will be a single C and lifted. She threw a fit and said how wrong I was. And this is a woman who was born with lower back scoliosis under her 42 DDDs and her petite mother is in the F-range whose GP has told her she desperately needs a reduction. But getting dick is more important than having a healthy body. That says a lot about their self-esteem.

Kaye’s boyfriend also refuses to use rubbers, and she can’t use hormonal birth control anymore. Know why? The estrogen is enlarging her lymph nodes, so her breasts are getting too big for her bras… and she worships Victoria’s Secret push-ups.

My chest udders grew out of control because of genetics (Dad’s mom was huge) and my relationship with food. I’ve been a vegetarian for two years on a strict low-cal diet, and have lost weight. But I have a bread addiction, and am an emotional eater- when I’m depressed or pissed I eat. So I yo-yo. I’ve been like this all my life, so I suspect that there’s not only a psychological reason for this. I think I have PCOS #mce_temp_url# and I suspect other female members of my mother’s family do too.

Usually women find out that they have this bullfuck when they’re trying to get knocked up. Infertility/difficulty conceiving is a major indicator, but since I’m childfree and NOT trying to get knocked up, I fit into the other categories. Getting tested requires having to find a specialist, and you have a battery of tests to submit to- all of which will suck moolah out of your ass and your insurance may be bitchy and refuse to cover you.

The point is I will be getting my reduction with pride. I’m doing all the research and am happy that I’m not the only chick under 30 who has been fucked in the ass with unbearable, saggy tatas, and want to be free of half of them. I’ll support all you chicks who may or may not be getting much loving from your loved ones about it, because they’re our bodies and we know what’s best for them!

So fuck all you chauvinistic asswipes! Just to let you know I’m a size queen who likes ’em big n’ circumcised! Can’t handle it? Oh well…