Cunt Face Social Club

A Nice Slip Up

2008-10-17T10:34:00.001-07:00

CNN dropped the C-bomb the other day on the air. I only thought i was appropriate to share, since this is a cunt face site. Wonder if there are others?

PERFECT!

2008-10-14T12:36:00.000-07:00

I pilfered this from the Stagnant Artist, because it sums up exactly how I see these two, who scare the hell out of me! It seemed important to share...

Help The Cuntface Campaign For Equality.

2008-04-28T19:19:00.000-07:00

Join by Mother’s Day to send a powerful message about fair pay for women in the workplace!

Lilly Ledbetter worked for Goodyear for over 20 years, and only upon retirement was she informed that she had consistently made significantly less than every man in the same position for her entire career. She was significantly less than the lowest paid male in a similar position.

Goodyear Tire Co refused to settle the case for a measly $60,000, the difference between Ledbetter’s pay and the lowest paid male worker in the same position. A jury awarded Ledbetter damages of $223,776 in back pay and over $3 million in punitive damages, but Goodyear Tire Co still didn’t want to pay. They took it to Supreme Court and won (right after Bush’s appointees were placed) because the judge claimed Ledbetter should have filed her claim within 180 days of her first paycheck. The court ignored the fact that Ledbetter had no way of knowing of the disparity until someone sent her an anonymous letter after she retired.

This is unacceptable behavior and an unacceptable ruling. Consumers can’t always affect public policy swiftly, but choosing where and when to spend our dollars is a powerful way to change corporate policy, and by domino effect, public policy and the very landscape of our culture. Women fought hard against public policy and laws to earn certain rights and freedoms. Corporations still do not honor these rights. So we must take action directly against the bottom line of corporations that decide to behave irresponsibly and think they can power there way through the court systems.

Do not let Goodyear Tire Co get away with unfair pay practices. Join the Goodyear Tire Co boycott today. Spread the word on your blogs, through email, and by word of mouth. Create a buzz and let’s together reach and surpass the goal of 10,000 people to boycott Goodyear Tire Co. until they correct their pay practices, and settle with Lilly Ledbetter.

Though 10,000 boycotters may be only a drop in the bottom line of a large corporation like Goodyear Tire Co, it will still send a powerful message. The goal is 10,000 to begin the boycott, but we can do much better than than, and we can specify a clear amount of time. In addition, we can create a powerful social media buzz that will be found in the search engines for years to come.

CLICK HERE to join our campaign at The Point.

This is awesome. That's all

2008-04-17T13:50:00.000-07:00

Being A Parent Is NOT a Handicap

2008-03-18T22:28:00.001-07:00

I posted this a while back on my own blog, back before Cuntface came into being. I was pissed off by this situation again today and since Cuntface has been sadly neglected for so long, I thought it high time for an update; killing two birds and all that, what with my laziness to actually write, and feeling sorry for all you who are just dying to see posts here again ;)

So here it is:

Ok, I've had it. I can't take it anymore. Parenting and pregnancy are NOT fucking handicaps! I know this because I have given birth to 3 boys, so I have been pregnant and I am a parent, so I get to speak from experience here. It is not a handicap. Period.

I'll qualify my frustration.

Back in the day, there were a few reserved parking spots for disabled ~ aka handicapped (or to be more PC about it, handy-capable) ~ people. That is to say, people with physical limitations. These spots save said disabled from having to travel farther to the mall etc., so they would have more energy to move about the mall etc., once inside. Ok fine, but lets be honest here...usually people traveling with disabilities are accompanied by some device that enables them to travel freely; oft times, the device has wheels.

Fair enough, you have a disability, I defer. Happily, 'cause I'm actually a nice person deep down, and karma is serious business.

These days, when I travel to my nearest shopping destination, I find that I am relegated to the very back of the lot. This is because I have the audacity to be young, healthy and without child! Today, when I pull into the lot it starts with the whole front reserved for those with handicap stickers, next are about 12 spots for seniors, then come the 'with child' ~ aka pregnant spots, and last but certainly not least, and still in prime position to make it to the doors faster than most, are parent with children parking spots. WHAT??!!!

I'm not even going to start with the pregnant parking, other than to say that pregnant women are able to take aerobic classes right up 'till they give birth. I have a friend who just gave birth last week; she went to kickboxing class twice a week until a few weeks before baby. Pregnancy is not a disability. However, I will defer to your decision to birth a child and give you preferential treatment, 'cause I'm nice. I'm bitter, but I'm still nice.

However, I have officially drawn the line and I will dammit, park in the parent with children spot. I am a parent, so fuck you. AND even if I wasn't, parenting is not a bloody handicap. Most children are certainly well enough to walk on their own, and babies travel in strollers. WTF???? If you're that unhealthy that you can't walk the extra 20 feet to the store, then perhaps you should be home in bed. Or in palliative care maybe?

I have no problem parking a mile from the store really. I always take the stairs. I'm healthy and active. It's the principal of the thing. Enough already!

Your choice to have children is not my problem. I didn't ask for special parking or get handouts because I chose to have babies, and I sure as hell don't need to be responsible for your choice to have babies.

I'm glad I got that one off my chest!

Not a huge fan of winter at the moment

2008-01-05T11:17:00.000-08:00

So yesterday I got back from visiting the folks. The flights were fine, no major delays. I got to the airport here and the bags took a long time to come out, but no big deal. Here is where the fun begins. I get to the parking lot and I have to wander around for a bit because I can't remember where I put the car, but I find it after a few minutes. And the battery is dead. As it always is when the car has been sitting outside overnight, because my battery is a piece of shit, but I refuse to replace it because it's less than a year old. Also the doors are unlocked, which is maybe battery related? But I guess no one is going to steal a car with a dead battery, and have to pay to get it out of the airport parking lot. So I walk back to the parking shelter to call the parking people to jump my battery, nearly busting my ass slipping on an icy patch of the way and crashing into someone's car. I call and the cranky parking lady tells me it will be "a while" because there are several people in line ahead of me. I go back to the car to wait. It is very cold, though I don't know how cold because I have to turn on the car to see my handy thermometer thingy. I wait and wait and talk on the phone and wait some more. 45 minutes pass. I go back to the shelter and call the cranky lady, who claims that the battery guy has been there and I wasn't there. Where would I have gone? I describe where I am again. She and the battery guy argue back and forth about whether she told him the wrong place or he went to the wrong place. I go back to the car. The battery guy comes and is nice and jumps the battery, so I am now able to look at the thermometer and see that it is 10 degrees F. I had no hat because I was coming from a warmer climate and didn't plan on being outside for an hour when I got back. So I drive home, with my stocking feet pressed up against the heater vent (not a safe way to drive, I know, but I made it). I am so excited to get home. There is snow on the driveway, but it doesn't look that deep, so I start driving up. Halfway up the driveway, the car gets stuck. Have I mentioned that by now it is 8:30 pm and I have not had dinner? I am very cranky. The car is in the driveway, so it wouldn't be a problem except that, as we know, the battery dies if left outside. I have this nifty battery warmer thing (also called a trickle charger, which sounds dirty/disgusting), but it has to be plugged in, so there's a problem. So I go inside and call my boyfriend to see if he has any ideas. His ideas: digging the car out, getting an extension cord to connect the warmer, or washing the snow off the driveway with the hose. I'm pretty sure that the hose thing is a terrible idea, so I disregard that one. Does he know where an extension cord is? No. He knows where one is at his house, and he's not sure whether there's one at my house or not. I look around and can't find one. That leaves digging the car out. I have a snow shovel, but I have never actually used it. So I start shoveling. It is now 9 pm. You can see my house from the main road. I look like an idiot. I finish shoveling and try to drive the car into the garage. Still stuck, and now making an unpleasant burning smell. I call the boyfriend again and whine. He makes some more suggestions. I shovel some more, then back the car up and try again. And it finally works! I go inside and eat a Lean Cuisine and a bunch of caramel popcorn. Then this morning I hit the trash can with the car.

Eyebrow Razors Changed My Life.

2007-12-18T14:30:00.000-08:00

Uhm, so maybe your husband is a stark raving insane heroin addict. Maybe you've been kind of broke and depressed, and you're not able to make it to the eyebrow lady like you used to. Well, have I got a solution for you! These eyebrow razors are a-fucking-mazing. You get salon-perfect precision on a junky's wife budget.

Beautiful isn't it??? Too bad the devil works here!

2007-12-17T18:54:00.000-08:00

Yes, this beautiful resort you see here is where my man and I decided to stay for our romantic overnight getaway. He had meetings with clients in the small town where it's located 3 hours from our home and so we thought what the heck, two birds one stone and all that...romance/business, pretty good combination.

It is even more beautiful in real life, and we had a truly fantastic, romantic evening. The aforementioned meetings started at 3:30 on the opposite side of town, so we arranged with the front desk clerk that we would pay an extra fee to keep the room until later in the afternoon rather than checking out in the morning, at which point I scheduled a manicure and facial. It was perfect! He'd go to his meetings across town and I'd spend the rest of the day spa-ing. When he was done, I'd be done and he could drive back and get me for the 3 hour drive home.

Ah, paradise!! We stayed up late and slept late, what with there being no hurry and all. I woke up all giddy with the luxury of the surroundings and the upcoming pampering. We ordered breakfast and ate it in bed, while staring out at the ocean.

Then the phone rang.

This front desk clerk was not nearly as pleasant as the staff we'd encountered to that moment. In a terse tone, she said ' I see a note here that you're authorized for a 1:00 checkout time'. Hmmm.... 'no actually, we have arranged to keep the room longer for an extra fee (which by the way was $100 ~ for 3 extra hours!! ) because I have spa treatments booked (to the tune of another $300) starting at 4 and nowhere to go in the interim', to which she replies, 'yes, I see that here, but you'll have to check out at 1:00, I re-sold your room this morning'. !!!!!!??????What.the.FUCK???? Are you fucking kidding me you stupid bitch? That's what I was thinking. What I said was, 'oh, ok so I guess we're evicted then. nice'. We then had to rush out of bed to get organized for our new ONE O' CLOCK check out time. A whole day ruined. Just. Like. That. I thought to myself, clearly the resort is SO BUSY that MINE was the only room available this morning. Turns out NO. There were 2 cars besides ours in the lot and the resort was not even close to full. Could it be that my request was inappropriate? I must have done something wrong right? NOPE, I confirmed it with her manager, this fucking slushkunt devil bitch from hell decided to evict us for no good reason. None. Zero. Fuckingassrimming gash RUINED my day for no reason!

I'm no expert on resort management, but this does not seem the appropriate way to treat guests. I say we get her fired!

Have a GOOD ONE??

2007-11-28T23:53:00.001-08:00

I am getting fed up with people telling me to 'have a good one'. What good one am I supposed to have? Do you mean a good day, a good guy, a good lunch, a good orgasm? WHAT?? I have missed something. Clearly I'm in the dark. Please turn on the light.

What the fuck ever happened to 'have a nice day', 'enjoy your lunch', 'thank you for your patronage'...? Why do they all keep telling me to have a GOOD ONE?

I may snap next time I hear it.

The Following Post Will be Recorded...

2007-11-19T21:09:00.000-08:00

FOR QUALITY ASSURANCE PURPOSES. Am I right? Or, am I right?

Oh, I don't know... when I hear that statement, upon phoning an establishment, I think "Good, keep the little fucker that's talking to me from being a bitch, or an asshole, and make sure they actually deliver me decent customer service," don't you? Isn't that why the recording says that your call may be recorded for QUALITY ASSURANCE.

So, why is it that the establishment to which I am employed with, to, or for seems to be the only company that doesn't use it for quality assurance, even though that's what their recording says. Instead, they use it for my benefit. Oh, fuck... that's mighty fuckin sweat of you.

Even though their out going message says this call may be recorded... they tell me that what they really want to use it for is training purposes. That I will just sit in a room and listen to it myself. They say that the recorded calls will not be used for disciplinary measures. What? Why the fuck not? And, who the fuck do you think you're kidding?

Don't fucking lie to me- so blatantly. This bullshit you keep serving up is getting dry. And, if you think shit is hard to swallow, imagine dry shit.

Why you gotta be like that? All up in my face with your kindergarten coddling, telling me shit to attempt to distract my attention from what your really doing, monitoring calls.

Well folks, guess what? The GIG IS UP.

Tell ya what though, I'm a deal makin kinda girl. Your secret is safe with me because..., mister/misses boss fucker? You've got some bitches that you need to get off the phone. Don't give me this sugar sweet bullshit.

TELL IT LIKE IT IS. FOR FUCK SAKES ALREADY. Your pathetic.

.... gotta get me a job at goggle. Those sons-a-bitches know how to do it right!

Death Proof is my new favourite movie!

2007-11-17T23:22:00.001-08:00

My fellow CF's if you have not yet seen this movie...you must!

And holy fuck if Kurt Russel isn't a hot senior. OMYGOD!

I have to say Zoe is my favourite new chick. I want her to be an honorary Cuntface.

girl power

warning: unappetizing weekend dinner/brunch chit-chat ahead:

2007-11-10T14:59:00.000-08:00

What is it about the ladies' room at the main branch of the Brooklyn Public Library that makes it consistently quite possibly the worst-smelling ladies' room I've ever visited?

Is it just that right combination of dirty diapers and incontinent toddlers and visits by people who lost their sense of smell (and memory of when they last changed their underwear) decades and decades ago?

I mean, we all know what poo smells like, and we all know what a bathroom not cleaned in recent memory smells like (you know, that sort of bachelor's urinal smell) -- but this is its own thing altogether, and I have to hold my breath the whole time I'm in there to keep from losing my lunch (and thus adding to the aroma).

Porn Balls and Bumginas

2007-11-03T07:20:00.000-07:00

A little word to the gentleman in the audience tonight; the backdoor is not the new front door and porn balls are not an every day menu item .

What? you say. Back door is not the new front door? But...

Now, I know that all those porn stars out there are just screaming, "put it in my ass..." but, lets think about this. Do you really think Lassie was out running around saving little Jimmy when the cameras weren't on?

No! It's pretend. She doesn't really want you all up in her exit only all the time, maybe sometimes- but not everyfuckingday, okay?

The first step to changing a problem is to admit you have one. Now, if you could all just take a moment, think about it... how many times has she urged you to the front? Her mary, not her joseph? A few isn't it? It's okay, you can admit it. But, you just cowboy'd your way to the back, right? Yeah, some boys are funny that way....

It has become a wee bit o' an epidemic, and we just can't continue hiding from the issue. I know your girls been trying to tell you, but you just aren't hearing it.

Now, about those porn balls ( manscaping, thank you JW). We like the porn balls, we like that you have taken hygienic measures and upgraded your hairy bag to some lovely porn balls. However, please note, even though it sounds like corn balls- we don't want to be eat'n that shit all the time. I for one, don't want to be wearing your porn ball bow tie every night. Pretty? yes. Absolute sustenance? No.

We think it's pretty cute that your all proud of your porn balls, showin' them off every chance you get. We also secretly hope that you get a really nasty ingrown hair, so you can appreciate the shit we've had to put up with.

In closing, porn balls and bumgina's are good things. I n m o d e r a t i o n. Okay sweet cheeks?

Now, you go home and give that wonderful 'box your dick comes in,' or as we like to call it, that cunt of yours something wonderful. This time, knock at the front door. She will be so impressed with your new manners (courtesy of cuntface).

(The views expressed in this post are my own and do not necessarily reflect the views all cuntface members)

Same ole' shit

2007-10-29T21:10:00.000-07:00

So what.. what about Magdaline. She/me went underground today. I fell in love with her character and decided to make her mine. All mine. She has become my 50,000 words in a month just for the fuck of it novella. I really have no illusions that it will ever go to print but the catharsis could be.... oh shit who cares. It will keep me amused for awhile anyway.

So for the next month or so I'm going to write the great American novel under cloak and dagger of private blogger. It will be full of typos and bad spelling . Terrible grammatical errors will be the norm. Far to embarrassing for anyone to see. It will be along the lines of the million little sprinkles guy where fact and fiction stir up into an over baked cake.

Might want to pull her from open cuntface. If She does return she probably won't be appropriate for any junky in remission to read. Only voyeurs of the bazaar, or dope fiends looking at how not to do it.

So that's that. I find nothing interesting to write regarding my relationship with my man. So I will use my time to try and make sense of why a nice little girl grew up to be a sleazy dope fiend and eventually found a way to live without drugs while finding a spiritual connection through animals. Pretty fucking sappy I'd say but better sappy then dead I would guess. Well maybe not but that's not my thesis tonight.

Real Talk.

2007-10-24T19:33:00.000-07:00

Yo, you have to watch this. And by "you," I mean YOU. It doesn't matter who you are or where you are or what you're doing...this shit will make your day better, nay, your life better. Watch it! And not just that way that everybody throws some video up on your blog and says "Yo, you gotta watch this." Like for real, this time I mean it, you've got to watch this.

Poor Amy.

2007-10-23T11:41:00.001-07:00

Our Honorary Cuntface Amy Winehouse is trying out what sounds like a homemade harm-reduction plan. I want her to do good. Let's put on our pink catsuits and go rescue her from herself.

Also, reading this article made me want big hair.

our regular bitch-slapping hours are M-F, 9 a.m. to 5 p.m.; please call back then...

2007-10-22T17:18:00.000-07:00

I just got a statement in the mail today from my insurance company, saying that because my OBGYN chose to send my coochie juice to a laboratory that no longer takes my insurance -- way back in June, mind your -- I'm going to owe Quest Diagnostics $400.

$400!!!!

If I have to pay some bitch $400 to sample my coochie juice, I better get, like, at least 3 screaming orgasms out of the whole ordeal.

I'm just pissed that it's too late for any of these fools to pick up the phone -- and that I can't decide who exactly needs the killin'. My insurance company for thinking my OBGYN's decisions (which were never announced to me, BTW) are my fucking problem? My OBGYN's office for sending my goods to them? (Like they didn't know? What, are they giving each other free tongue baths for all of this too?) Or Quest Fucking Diagnostics?

Well, I've had unpleasant experiences with them before, so, you know what? I'm actually not mad that bitch-slapping hours don't start until 9:00 tomorrow, because you know what that gave me time to do? Google "Quest Diagnostics Class Action." And big surprise! There's a ton on the internet about that. I'm not clear on the details, but it does have to do with shady billing. So now I have the toll-free number of the firm that's been handling it. I also have the State Attorney General's number. Fuck the OBGYN, my insurance company, AND Quest Diagnostics. I'm starting with the people who know about suing.

How do you like my tasty cum juice now, bitch? Now how much would you pay?

For Sale: My Emotional Baggage and the Toy Bins in which to Store It

2007-10-22T12:51:00.000-07:00

I'm getting rid of some emotional baggage and decided, what better place to do it than eBay? Maybe I can get rich quick, like that mama blogger (oh, I know like she needs any more links!) with the Pokemon cards.

So, tell your friends. I have an eBay listing at http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=110183920066 or if you just can't lift that mouse finger to click that link, here's what I wrote:

It's my husband's fault that I am selling these perfectly good toy bins. I know, we all have our issues with our spouses. Some of them can't manage to put their dirty dishes in the dishwasher. Some of them can't drive stick. Some of them (the men at least) can't remember to put the toilet seat down. My husband is a sex addict, which means his issue is that he sometimes forgets that when he married me he promised not to date other people. In his defense though, our wedding was years ago, and that is a long time to remember a few words. And to his credit, in addition to being (aside from the sex addiction) actually quite a wonderful man, he can drive stick, he will do the dishes without being asked and he is a real champ about that whole remembering-to-put-the-toilet-seat-back-down thing.

A few months back, he told me he was off to his 12 Step meeting and somehow forgot where he was headed and ended up accidentally taking another woman out to dinner instead. Now this happens sometimes with addicts -- not just sex addicts, all kinds of addicts. An addict will head out the door saying, "Bye, honey. I'm going to pick up some milk" and return several hours later, milkless and high on whatever the drug of choice happens to be.

If you ask, "Where's the milk?" you will likely be treated to a harrowing tale recounting the addict's attempt to procure milk in the face of overwhelming adversity. The tale may involve ninjas, mad cow disease, electrical outages, terrorists, and the radioactive contamination of every carton of milk and closure of every convenience store within a 100 mile radius of your home, but it will somehow be convincing. You will be berated for not having more faith. You will weep and beg forgiveness for ever having asked where the milk was, after hearing the trials and adversity your loved one has just faced. But the end result will be, there was no milk, only heroin or cocaine or alcohol or prostitutes or dog races or a little of all of the above.

I know. The rest of us don't easily confuse milk with heroin or 12 Step meetings in the church basement with romantic clandestine dinners. And then we don't make up crazy lies to cover it all up. But addicts are funny that way. And I can't emphasize enough that my husband is really is good about putting the toilet seat down.

Anyway, some days after the dinner, my husband's date decided to give him a storage unit for the kids' toys. I'm not sure why the women who date my husband are so hypnotized by his sexiness that they feel they must give him things, nor why they feel the things they give him should be gifts for his children, but this is not the first time something like this has happened. Women lavish toys upon him, and now, apparently, they also give him the bins in which to store them. A peculiar gesture, but there it is.

When my husband brought these storage bins home, saying they were from a coworker who no longer needed them, I thought, "How cool is this?!" What mom wouldn't want free storage bins in attractive primary colors? What a great organizational tool, and easy for the kids to use too!

Of course, because my husband is in recovery, the truth will out eventually. He recently came clean about this slip, and while I am sorry to part with such an attractive and functional piece of furniture, now that I know the, er, provenance of the toy bins, I'm less enthusiastic to store the kids' toys there.

That's where you, dear eBay buyer, come in. You now have the opportunity to purchase this piece. It even comes whimsically, if ironically, decorated by my daughter with a heart sticker, and (somewhat less meaningfully) with a truck sticker, as well as (poetically) with some smudgy fingerprints I haven't been able to remove. In purchasing it, you will receive a colorful and useful piece of furniture for you child's bedroom or playroom. I, on the other hand, will get to leave my husband at home, while I take myself out to dinner with cash which, in an indirect way, comes from the generosity of his date. It's my own form of sweet revenge, and wouldn't you like to be in on that -- and get toy bins too?

Excuse me, man bitch?

2007-10-16T16:28:00.000-07:00

Don't hate me because I am beautiful....

You passive aggressive, sleaze oozing, hippie stank throw back, fuckin- son of a bitch woman resenting, misrepresenting, mushroom dicked sick mother fucker.

I see you look at me and you like my thin body and my long hair, you think I'm pretty and you assume I know it and judge me accordingly.

I know you're twisted ass secretly hates women because you think we use our body and womanly wiles to torture you. (Ya, like I give that much of a shit about you).

You give women all the control because you can't keep your creepy eyes off them, then you fucking hate them for having that affect on you.

You make me sick. Dressed in your I am a new aged feeling guy. I support men and women stanky hippie cords. And then.... then you have the nerve to counsel men from that position. You sell an image of being pro woman but then you counsel men (in matters of divorce) to lead with an open hand as if giving... but, if she doesn't listen, if she doesn't 'hear' you, show her your fist and throw her to the wall. Make the bitch pay

What fucking part of that is mediation? You stupid man bitch- that is called MANIPULATION.
The thing you have been doing your whole fucking life. JESUS FUCKING CHRIST WHO LET YOU OUT OF YOUR CAGE?

I shudder at the thought of you as a counsellor. I feel like I will have to get my degree in counselling just so I can fix up all those poor bastards you're going to fucktard. The advice you give is half the reason I HAVE THIS JOB.

While I have to share space with you, I am going to go OUT OF MY WAY to put my boobies in your face just so I can watch you suffocate from the hate you harbour deep in your contradiction of an existence.

Fuckin bullshit hippie stank- Don't hate me because I am beautiful, hate me because I am a BITCH!

Look You Stoopit Bitch...

2007-10-15T20:44:00.001-07:00

When you say you want the job and then you confirm with me you'll be at said job on Monday morning, here's a thought.....how about you SHOW UP FOR THE FUCKING JOB BITCH!!!??? Phoning my private cell phone on a Sunday night from another fucking city no less, to tell me that 'it's not going to work out', you showing up at the job, is just not smart. Especially since you assume I don't have call display and can't fucking see that you aren't in the city as your message suggests.

Fuck you're stupid!!!! How did I not see this in you prior to the job offer? To assume that I will be able to pull another employee out of my fucking ass to replace you on such short notice is ignorant to a power beyond measure. Oh, but wait, there's more. The motherfucking ass rimming nerve of you to suggest in your voicemail message that you might 'rather take the other job I suggested that starts on Tuesday morning is mindbogglingly unbefuckinglievable!!! Ummmm, how about ..... NNNOO!!!!???

You stupid cunt, your name is mud in this little town of ours, where I have way more fucking pull than you know; and it's a good thing I do, because you working on sullying my good business name like that makes me want to filet a bitch!

and while I'm at it...fuck you Mickey! stop wasting your time sending me emails that I delete without reading. you need medication. STAT

Yummy

2007-10-14T19:04:00.000-07:00

Hello my dear yummy,

Today is Wednesday and it’s 9:30am. I’m reading the BBC online, after a morning of fondling your privates.

You left for work an hour ago.
I wanted to tell you that I'm having a great time despite my out of place sad looks and long stares.

Waking up next to you has been more than I could ever ask for.
Just knowing that you're there and I could turn over and lean on you, put my arms around you, smell you and just lick you, gives me more happiness than I could ever verbally express.

It makes me believe in love and that maybe it is that easy, two people meet, they like each other and that's it.
But in our case, it has been both; easy and not that easy. It makes me sad that I'll have to leave here without you then wait a couple of months to see you again.

We've been over the random circumstances of our meeting and how if I just turned the corner or if you didn’t look up, we never would have met. We never would've had the opportunity to enjoy the intense mental and physical connection that we share.
It's that intensity that makes me a little weird and spacey. I keep fighting the urge to just fall into you and believe in this completely.

Thinking about going home and leaving you brings me back to earth.
It's just way for me to get grounded in some sort of reality for this relationship. Thank you for being so candid about your feelings for me and I want to let you know I feel the same. I wish I could just say it out loud like you do.

OK that's all I had to say.
I'll see you at 3:30

JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP.

2007-10-13T11:55:00.000-07:00

Oh My God.

I'm at a coffee shop working on some writing, and this fat fuck is talking and talking about how Al Gore doesn't know anything about science. He just said, "Al Gore is an idiot."

Now he's saying, "If a guy looks like he's an Arab, he's wearing a turban, I don' t understand why that would be discriminatory to search him."

And that's fine. Be a big fat schmuck fuck dumbass if you must, but could you please do it quietly? Could you please just shut the fuck up? I came here to write, to work on some shit that I need NEED NEED to work on, and instead, I'm having to listen to your fat fucking lips all blah blah blah about George Bush's farm and Al Gore and Nobel Prize and Republican caucus and bullshit bullshit bullshit. Just SHUT THE FUCK UP. SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!

More bits of genius:

"If we were really racially biased, we wouldn't let these guys on the planes."

"What was that guy who blew up Oklahoma City? We have crazy people, as whites, but we don't kill anyone who doesn't convert."

"They picked me out to get searched at the airport, and I told the security guy I was raised Lutheran."

Just SHUT the fuck UP. I don't want to think about politics sometimes. I have a madman living in my house, a bunch of old bullshit to write, and now I have this spewing fucking garbage polluting my head space.

FUCK YOU.

Fix Your Fucking Links

2007-10-13T08:26:00.000-07:00

So, I was reading my e-mail today, thinking about giving JW a shout out, when out of the corner of my eye, I spied an ad that caught my interest. It was advertising a three generation mother, daughter, granddaughter necklace. Now, since my mother's birthday is coming up and since I have no gift yet, I clicked away. Maybe, I thought, this would be just the thing.

I am a particularly good catch for advertisers. I'm a sucker. I buy things I don't need or have money for. So does my husband. Among his 12 Stepping, he counts Debtors Anonymous meetings, where he is currently busy admitting his powerlessness over money. Creditors hate us, but advertisers? They really, really love us.

So, good for you lifesendlesscircle.com. That ad worked! You got me, a perfect target customer, to click through and look at your product. Yay! Ad budget well spent for you. And I even liked the necklace; it was pretty. But what was that I saw at the bottom of the page? A link? You also sell earrings in the same design? Why that would be even better! I clicked it. Oh, no you didn't, people! The link didn't work: 404 not found. That's ok, I clicked "Products" instead. There were the earrings. I clicked on them for more information; after all, maybe it was just the one link that was broken. Nope: 404 not found. Well, whatever. At least I saw some kind of picture. Now how do I buy those suckers, and can you ship them in time for Mom's birthday?

That was when I saw the "Locate a Store" link. Oh, if there is anything that pisses me off more than the dreaded "404 not found" error, it is companies who advertise online but only sell through brick and mortar stores. Come on. That is so 20th century! But, desperate to give this lame ass company my own hard earned blogging ad revenues, I gave it one last valiant effort. Maybe if I clicked through to one of their distributors, the distributor would have a fucking online store where I could get a pair of earrings Fed Exed to me in time for Mom's birthday. So, I took a deep breath and selected my state from the drop down menu to find a retailer near me. And nothing happened. Nothing! No message letting me know there are no retailers in my state. Just nothing. That same stupid web page just sat there, mocking me with it's lack of movement; laughing at my inability to give it money.

So, retailer dudes, let me give you a clue, as someone who has been putting together web sites and shopping online since the dawn of the fucking Internet: before you go throwing money at Google to get them to post your ads enticingly (and effectively!) within my Gmail inbox, check your fucking links and test your site on different browsers! And since you're too stupid to know you should do this, I'm assuming you're too stupid to check your own fucking code, so let me give you another clue: there are software programs that will even do this for you! Damn. Until then, have fun watching your money slip away and your business fail.

Haters Make Me Famous.

2007-10-12T09:33:00.000-07:00

Did you know that every time you look at us, obsessively, clicking and clicking on our site, reading and reading and reading and hating and seething and reading, you actually make us worth more? Your hatred makes me and my girls money! Aren't you silly? Spending all your time worrying about stuff that isn't your business actually makes money for us. I think that would bother me if I were you, you silly ass ho, but then, I'd never be you. And I guess, if I was you, I'd hate me, too. So in the end, it all comes full circle like one of those snakes eating its tail. I feel so at peace now.

You see,
once upon a time not too long ago,
a Cunt Face like myself had to strongarm a ho...not a ho in the sense of having a pussy, but a pussy having no goddamn sense, to try and push me.

Some fools just love to perform.

Cuntface Anti-Fan Club

2007-10-11T17:37:00.001-07:00

I mentioned this this morning in our super secret society, but I believe it deserves a post of its very own, since I have not managed to find time to post here at our new Social Club as yet.

I want to start an Anti-Fan Club (well, actually a PURE HATE club, but it seemed almost harsh even for us cuntfaces to say out loud).

The first member of my club is going to be Ann Coulter. I despise her with a hatred that makes me wretch and yes, even vomit a little into my mouth. I am not sure how a woman who was once picked up on charges of stalking her ex, a woman who is so painfully misguided, anti-semitic, insulting and downright ignor-ANT is allowed to have any say on any matter. like. ever! I bow my head in shame that she is a member of my gender. She's too scummy to even be a Cuntface for fuck sake!!

Right beside her is Rush Limbaugh. Oh dear god how did this parasite manage to get his very own talk show???? What is wrong with the world? This fat fuck actually believes the scum shit that spews forth from his fat, slimy liver lips!! He actually believes that the environment is not in trouble and that it is all a conspiracy. Yes, that's right, there is a conspiracy to make the world a better, healthier place mmm hmmmmm...we conspire to be silly do-gooders!

I could go on and on and on about these two freaks, but that's for the hate club....oops anti-fan club.

Any other nominees my fellow cuntfaces?

Strong Kung Fu.

2007-10-11T09:43:00.000-07:00

In ruminating on what our role as Cuntfaces should be, Comrade Kitty and I were discussing options for Cuntface attire. We decided that we should certainly dress as pink ninjas. I thought these costumes, available at Costume Craze, would make an excellent starting-place until we have a full army of man slaves to design and sew custom ones. I'd prefer a pink leather cat-suit...

So I guess we will be night-ninjas, dressed all in pink leather cat suits, creeping up on our enemies en masse, bewildering them with our beauty and wit, and then smashing their faces with our strong, strong kung fu. We might also be able to harness the power of Pussy G's greenhouse gases to stupefy our enemies, paralyzing them to make the full force of our attack that much stronger.

I also think that including the Ninja lifestyle into our philosophy of world domination will require us to make our pink helicopter silent and stealthy. We might have to get invisible airplanes like Wonder Woman, or invisible bicycles for gliding around town.

What do you think, ladies?

beauty tips from an assface

2007-10-11T08:58:00.000-07:00

Ladies, I knew there was a divine reason my best friend had to move all the way to Hollywood; now I know what that reason is: it is to learn all the beauty secrets of the vain and share them with me in my moment of dire need.

All the anger that has been building up inside of me has finally found an outlet: twice in the past two weeks, I have woken up looking like someone has punched me in the face. Is this lack of sleep? No. I can't explain it. It's like a rash. Or hives. Or leprosy. It's disgusting and kind of itchy.

Could it be allergies? Technically, I'm allergic to my 3 cats, 2 of which have recently taken to sleeping on either side of my pillow every night. But I found out about this allergy 3 years ago and have had cats for 30 years, so why now? Especially considering that I started taking Claritin every morning a few months ago when an ear, nose, and throat specialist informed me that no, I did not have an ear infection but that the raging war inside my ear canal might be my allergies, so take Claritin every day. I thought he was on crack, but voila, no more pain the day after I started it.

So maybe this is why people really do take their doctors up on this monthly allergy shot bullshit. Maybe Claritin just doesn't cut it. That or get rid of their cats. Get rid of their cats! What?!

But my friend who lives in La La land reminded me of the beauty tips of the stars (and their makeup artists): Preparation H.

Yes, you heard it; Preparation H makes the swelling go down. So I'm gonna sit here and figure out how to get a new dermatologist (and possibly allergist), now that I've switched jobs and my old fellas are apparently not on my insurance plan. But in the meantime, just call me assface. This shit (no pun intended) smells terrible -- but it does kind of reduce the swelling of the facial hemorrhoids. Keep some on hand! But please -- never mix, never worry (or if you do, please don't tell me about it; you might end up with pink eye).

Public Service Announcement

2007-10-11T06:41:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I have gone over some of this in my own blog but it is getting increasingly more annoying. What the fuck is with people and the public transit system? Fucking animals. It's list time:

- Baby Strollers: There is no reason why a parent with a baby stroller should be traveling at rush hour. You are taking up valuable space on the subway. Also, if you are pushing a stroller, DO NOT use it as a jam to keep the doors of the subway open. If you do, you should have your child taken away from you. What the fuck were you thinking putting that kid in danger by having the doors close on them. Hello.... strollers are plastic and aluminum. It can break.

- Fat People: Not the over weight, but the obscenely fat ones. The seats on the subway fit a certain size. Just because i may not be filling my seat to the maximum capacity, this is not an invitation for you to take it over. You don't fit. Squeezing in and making me push over cause your fat ass wants to sit there is not cool. The fact that you can't fit in a seat should now make you ponder the bag of McDonald's you have in your hand that is making my stomach churn and wanting to retch on you. I have been over weight, but I made sure I never took myself to that level where i can't sit in that designated subway seat. Fat people, stand, burn calories, go walk even.

- Suits: Fucking business men. This is why i am an artist. I could never deal with these assholes on a daily basis. they are so fucking boring. Can you have real conversations about real life and not stupid pointless shit. I don't give a shit what your handicap in golf is. You people are scum eating off of other people pushing your way to the top. The totally sexist remarks you make about your coworkers would get you fired at any other job in the world, but for some reason it helps get you promoted in yours.......

- Indian Men: Where i live, there is a large Indian community. Awesome. Good food awaits. But the men, and remember, i take the train with them everyday, so this isn't a stereotype. They are fucking rude beyond rude. Okay, so i am a woman. Welcome to my fucking country asshole. But DO NOT push me out of the way to jockey for position or cut in front of me when leaving the train- you are going the same place i am, off the train. If you get off by squeezing past me urgently, you better be running once off the train like it is an emergency. But no. They push me out of the way to walk wicked fucking slowly. What the fuck? You are such a man! Look at your fucking stanky ass testicles. While we are at it, how about showering? There is nothing like the smell of Curry armpits in your face cause they also have no clue what personal space is about either. Did chivalry die when England left India?

- Personal Hygiene: Hello people.... the subway is no place to be sitting there and primping yourself. Do NOT cut your toenails or fingernails on the train. That is fucking disgusting. Just the thought of a flying fingernail landing on me.... or worse yet... in my coffee. Retch. That is fucking disgusting. That shit needs to be done in the privacy of your own home and your own bathroom. Same goes with makeup. It's a lost cause ladies. You are putting make up on a moving train that stops and shakes. That is what your face will look like. There is no saving you. Just wait until you get to work or go late, but i do not need your compact of loose powder flying around my face or to watch you come so close to poking your eyeball out with your eyeliner.

So those are my rants. This is what i put up with on a daily basis and people think there is no such thing as subway rage. Fuck yeah there is. I am close to it. If you hear of some woman losing it in a subway station, it may very easily be me.

Undeniably Girrrrrl- and proud fuck'n of it!

2007-10-09T15:49:00.000-07:00

It was a busy week up here in the Canadiana. I tell you my locale because you will surely figure that out as I tell you a tale of my Thanksgiving weekend (which might seem to have come a bit early for most of our readers) in which we gave thanks to a yummy turkey, brussel sprouts, a broccoli and cheese dish, and all the other trimmings you can well imagine

First, let me tell you, I am a hard working woman. I have two children, I work full time, and I maintain my home (vacuum, sweep, laundry, dishes, pets, children... oh don't get me going!) So, when I choose to wear my sweats (which by the way, are nice looking sporty cute kinda sweats) and a hot looking white t-shirt for 3 days in a row, I don't think that should be looked upon as unsavory. Can I get a "Hell Ya!"?

So, on my third day on said sweats and well... unwashed hair, I lacked the feeling of love from my man. As I slaved over his turkey and fix'ns, he failed to appreciate that which he should appreciate in any form- my essence; my, oh so, womanly essence.

I did him the favor of taking the words out of his mouth and saying, "aren't I sexy baby?" waving my unwashed long locks to and fro, and that man, my man, had the nerve to say "ya..."
Fucking liar. Who the hell does he think he is?

That's okay though, I'm a forgiving woman. I let that one go. But, after all night of me not really showing up on his 'hey baby' radar, I asked for his undivided attention. It was the end of the night, the last of the kids went to bed. I said "come baby, put you computer away and sit with me." He closed the lid of this laptop and said, "yeah, time for bed."

"No baby," I said. "Lets hang out and watch TV and massage feet," as I sat, visibly eating my pumpkin pie.

"Yeah..." he says, non committaly, and heads upstairs. I see he goes to the bathroom. I'll wait. Then, it takes too long, so I look upstairs. Where is he?

"Where you at baby?" I ask.

"Folding clothes" he replies from he bedroom. Oh, I think, okay.

"You coming down? I thought we were watching TV down here?" I ask happily.

And, I'm pretty sure I got - ya, just putting these clothes away type of response. When he still didn't come down I went up and found him in bed. "What are you doing?"

"What? I thought we were going to bed?"

"Fine, fuck it" I spit out in my venomous way. Son of a bitch. It was one thing when he told me I looked hot when I didn't (fuckin' liar), it's another to fuck'n punk me off and, frankly, embarrass me! Mother. Fucker.fuck you- I. don't. need. you. I huff my way down back to my comfy couch and throw lightening at him with my mind.

At 2am I wake up and stumble into bed only to wake up at 4 to no man lying beside me. Clearly! Clearly, he doesn't love me anymore, he can't stand my sweat pant wearing ass and was horrified to sleep beside me. He's having an affair, he met someone else, he doesn't love me. Son of a bitch! I raise myself up out of bed aiming to fix one stupid mother fucker.

"What are you doing?" I say as he rolls over at the sound of my feet. He looks at me with a lovely softness and lovely genuinely loving voice and says "you were just too gassy... I had to come down stairs"(see bold turkey dinner items).

"Wha?" I give one shake of my head, "What?"

"Oh... I don't know what's wrong, or what you ate, you just had, like, really bad gas. I just couldn't take it anymore" he says nicely with a crinkled nose.

Oh no. You. Di-n't! Did you just tell me that my beautiful behind is spouting a noxious gas that is beyond your capabilities to handle as A MAN?

"Are you all done being gassy do you think?" he says in his sweet I don't want to embarrass you voice. Mother. Fucker. "I'll come to bed" he says.

"Oh, don't do me any favors- I wont be offended" I tell him after I har-ruffed and turned my back to him."

"Won't you?" he asks nicely.

"I probably will!" I say like Linda Blair as I walk into our bedroom and shut the door on him, who is about 2 feet behind me. Take that, mo fo.

To attempt to make a long story short. I told him in no uncertain terms that he was an ass and that he LIED to me and went to bed without clearly inviting me. He said he thought we were both going to bed, that when he said "lets go to bed (making a fucky fucky motion) that he thought I said "yeah."

I asked him how the fuck he got "yeah" out of "No baby, ... Lets hang out and watch TV and massage feet," as I sat, visibly eating my pumpkin pie.

He said, "I dunno." Typical fucking BOY. So, of course, he was punishing me for wearing the same sweat pants and t-shirt for 3 days and not looking hot. I'll show him I say to myself when I wake up the next day. We're both getting ready for our day, and I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I will get his positive attention if I put on those jeans. You know, those jeans that separate the east and west of my vagina like a slick through the port o' call. That little bastard.

So, I walk down stairs with my vagina on display through my jeans, and my breasts bouncing freely through my shirt, unbound. Sure enough, that bastards head shot up on cue. I sauntered my fine self around aloofly until he came up and said proudly "you look very nice today" and smiled.

"Ya, that's what I thought you would say" I hissed at him as I threw the bread back in the freezer. He stupidly looked stunned and said, "Well, I just saw that you made an effort."

You. could.hear.a.pin.drop.

Little fucker walked right into my trap, and then shot himself in the mouth. Stupid boy.

How dare he compliment me when I change out of my 3 day sweats and t-shirt look, wash my hair, apply some make up, and flaunt my sweet (apparently noxious) ass in his face. HOW DARE HE?! How dare he not immerse himself in my stench in the name of chivalry? And, after all this time, how dare he not just say, "I'm sorry honey, I was wrong, I wont do that again." ?

After all this time, he still doesn't get that when he acts like a boy and pulls out some selective hearing bullshit, that I am going to be, undeniably, a girrrrl? A trait that I do recall him being grateful for many a lonely night- by the by!

Errrrr!

The moral of this long winded story. I don't stink. Boys, however, do!

Hrmmphf!

My Kids Should Fire My Ass

2007-10-07T19:35:00.000-07:00

There's this woman I know who is forever bitching about her kids nannies. She bitches about their bathroom breaks, she bitches that they listen to the radio, she bitches that they answer their phones or check their e-mail, she bitches that when she returns home at night her house is not cleaner than she left it, she bitches that even though she told them they could feel free to eat her food for snacks they really should have known that meant only the cheap food and not the nice organic gourmet ice cream she buys for herself at the local farmer's market.

According to her the nannies should spend 100% of their time with the children, and said children should never watch TV, play video games or listen to anything other than classical music. If the nanny checks e-mail or answers her phone, she is not devoting her full attention to the children and this is bad. The nanny must also manage to cook and serve them homemade organic meals, while simultaneously paying 100% attention to them and engaging them in creative education play (see no TV above). She should stimulate them through a variety of sensory tasks and messy play, which should then be cleaned, leaving the house spotless, while still paying 100% attention to the children. I told her this was wildly unrealistic and asked her if this is what she does herself when alone with the children. No, of course not. She checks e-mail and answers her phone and let the kids watch videos, because for goodness sake's she needs to get things done and well, sometimes she just needs a break. But a nanny is a professional, paid to be with the children, and therefore both better at it and presumably more interested in it than Mom. And of course, she spies on her nanny, just to be sure everything is going according to plan.

Since she has the salary to pay a nanny, I'm guessing she works at a job that allows her to decide when she is going to take a bathroom break and how long that break is going to be. I'm guessing she checks private e-mail and makes private phone calls from work. No, wait. I know she does, because she has called and e-mailed me from work. I'm guessing she'd be pissed off if her employer spied on her and chastised her for not putting 100% of her attention into her job every single minute of her day with no breaks.

And I'm guessing she would fire my ass as a nanny. Because there are times when my children are home and awake when I check e-mail or chat or make/take phone calls or sometimes even blog. My kids get to watch TV and play video games and the only thing close to classical music they know is the Star Wars soundtrack. Sometimes I let them eat birthday cake or Halloween candy for breakfast. Sometimes I bribe them with TV and chips and cookies to let me use the bathroom in peace for as long as they can keep themselves entertained that way. Sometimes I let them build forts out of sofa cushions and fill the fort with pipe cleaners and paper cups and just whatever shit they find lying around and want to turn into robots or kittens or whatever they turn it into and then I just leave the living room all fucked up for days. Mom's messy and Mom's not high brow in her food or music or entertainment tastes and Mom's often bored, bored, bored as living hell with kids and Legos and Transformers and Dora the Explorer and Disney fucking Princesses. But I'm hoping they keep me anyway, because I sure love the hell out of them and sometimes I record those conversations they have, hidden in their fort, and listen to it again when they're asleep because they're just that beautiful.

More words on waxing

2007-10-07T11:18:00.000-07:00

The waxing adds have me yearning for the snappy little burn on the vagina that doesn't happen in my life today. My man is appalled by bald pubescent little pussy's. Waxing had become a mild substitute for life on the edge. Cheaper and less destructive then the cocaine I used to run through my veins occasionally. Or the scandalous men that stampeded through my life in days of yore.

My man of today is mostly edgeless. Round, middle class, straight in the sense of other. He likes me, he's committed to not abandoning me in the middle of trauma. He pays the rent. I like him. So whats up with this longing for WAX!

Action. Snotty, sweaty, sex with a bit of ass paddling maybe. Strangers I found in the bar. Have I taken leave of my senses? Do I not know whats good for me? I'm having a moment here. Craving self abuse. Wanting to stir the pot of insatiable desire. Its been a while. And I know it will pass.

But maybe I'll break out the wax pot and treat myself to a bit of living on the edge. Cheap thrills. God damn I'm easy today.

Sunday for Billie

2007-10-07T09:04:00.000-07:00

From this window, I spy a woman in white heels, a team of little leaguers playing ball and a candy store I’ve been curious about. As my co- workers dance to the latest in world beat music, I tell my rude customers there no public restrooms here.

The way I usually start these letters is with a hi, how are you, followed by a list of questions that center around the state of your affairs.

I end the questioning with a hope you’re doing well (which is sincere) and break into a list of current happenings in my life.
I rant about work/school in such a way that one would think I despised them, when really the opposite was true.
I love my work and academia with all it’s flaws I just wonder how much of my identity it really is anymore. I’ve been having trouble connecting and feeling disconnected at the same time. Do you know what I mean?

Anyhow, I explain how difficult/easy everything is and at the end throw in some random information that will seem important to me but you and your efficiency will find it unnecessary.

Therefore, I have chosen to spare you. I’ll spare you the delicate details of my new life in the land of ice and snow, as you once called it. I’ll spare you the blow-by-blow descriptions of my sister high school like work turmoil.
I’ll keep the perils of her work embarrassment (Oh my god, he tried to sleep with you!) and drama (WTF! He’s sleeping with her!) to myself.

I will not bore you with the personal tales of a young woman who wanders the streets looking meaning, warmth and a little bit of perfection in a place where the most important things are frozen all year round.

Perfect is what you are willing to put up with and the real word for it is compromise. This young woman fears that with all her imperfections, she has made herself unsuitable for anyone or anything. A poisonous orchid almost.
Perfect is lying in bed on a rainy day. Perfect is getting to the last page of a novel and realizing the ride isn’t over. Perfect is sitting on the subway at 2am, writing a long love letter to no one in particular. Then mailing it.

Don’t think too deeply about what I’ve written. This is all stuff you already know.

Gotta love these ads!

2007-10-07T09:00:00.000-07:00

Am I allowed to say that?

I don't know; I just suddenly feel like a smooth-skinned, cheating married hussy looking for action!

Especially from rich men looking for somewhere to donate their money!

Giraffes Fight With Their Necks!

2007-10-06T17:26:00.000-07:00

glumbert - Giraffes fight with their heads

You know

2007-10-06T09:20:00.000-07:00

what I don't like? I don't like being hired for a sales position that is wrapped passive aggressively in the title 'customer service.'

I don't like being jacked off by my employer when they have a product upgrade contest to promote On the Job Joy, when what it really is, is an aggressive management tool to make me sit at my desk and SELL! SELL!SELL! I don't fucking like it!

I don't like being told that this is not a sales position and then being frowned upon if my sales are low.

I don't like being tricked by this motherfucking organization that sold me on a mission statement or Team Vision- gack!(a highly overused buzz word- like buzz word) that states that..." _______ company will be recognized as one of the best-managed businesses to work for in..."

Are you fucking kidding me? This company that doesn't pay for your lunch break, pays just over minimum wage, tells you that taking breaks through out the day (as in a coffee) is okay... but, not really suggested. Because the rule book tells them that they don't hafta give breaks, they don't- This is going to be the best-managed company? By the by, using inter office sales contests is not a team building exercise- it's bribery!

They promote the idea that the customer service (pft-ha) reps are empowered (another gack) but also watch their phone stats like big brother on steroids.

All of this with a friendly smile on their faces, as if they are doing me a favor.

The biggest piss off here? That I fell for this shit. That kind of shit that you just get a whiff of every now and then. Like the guy that sharted in his under-roos and walks by you quickly; that's what this company smells like.

Under-roo shart! All super hero on the outside and stink shit on the inside.

I know it could be worse.Unfortunately, that Mary Sunshine spin on things is not air freshener enough for this joint.

They're just lucky I like the other suckers they hired, and that I have made a decision, for now, to be a responsible starving artist.

A final note, I wouldn't be writing this shit if they told me I was going to be working for a company that favors the underhanded aggreseive sales technique in the first place.

Cards on the table people.

Drugs Are Bad.

2007-10-05T23:57:00.001-07:00

Redneck People Love Tattoo: Or, The Cultural Politics Of Poonanah Waxing.

2007-10-05T21:12:00.000-07:00

I'd been meaning to get waxed for a bit now, but I've been broke. I finally got paid last night, and I thought I'd treat myself to a smooth and shiny hiney.

I have mixed feelings about this whole waxing business. I love my smooth and silky kitty after it's done, but I sometimes wonder why am I taking the time to make my puss look like it belongs to a seven year old? And while I love the special attention my man gives me after the waxing, I kind of loathe him for liking it so much.

Now the feelings get even more complex when I factor in the process of getting this baby smooth porn-star crotch. I'm broke, so I go to the waxing place for broke people, the friendly neighborhood Korean nail and wax salon. I then drop my drawers and spread my wizard sleeves for a woman who strips the hair off pussy for a living...a woman who probably is stripping the hair off of my pussy for more than just a living--she's doing it for a better life, for a chance for her kids to go to a fancy school and make her proud--so I get a little crazy. I'm glad she's got this opportunity, and I'm glad I can pay her for this service and contribute my little bit of bald eagle money to the cause...but in the end, I just feel like I'm exploiting her.

And that's just the first layer. Next, there's the fact that I'm lying there, puss all out, with another woman all up in my business. For those of you unfamiliar with the Brazilian waxing process, it involves quite a lot of contact between the fingers of the waxer and the poontang of the waxed. It involves pushing lips aside, separation of ass cheeks, clit tweaking...all types of shit that would make the most unabashed cock-slobbing road whore blush.

So there's all that percolating in my mind.

And this time, I get this kind of spunky waxer. Her English is good, but not perfect, and she wants to bust my proverbial balls.

"Why you got tattoo so evil? Redneck people love tattoo. You not look like redneck people. Why you get tattoo? Redneck people get tattoo on back, on shoulder. You no get tattoo so evil."

All this prattling on and on about my meager little tattoo on my shoulder, all while my beaver cleaver is nudely athrob in a room with a stranger who is dumping hot wax all over the place and then RIPPING IT OFF.

And what does she know about redneck people? Or tattoos?

It was strange because I think I might have liked her had she not been looking at my pussy and had she had a better grasp of my native language. It's difficult to bust balls in a second language, and I respect the effort...especially when you're faced with stranger-vag and you're trying to get a tip, it takes guts to toss out the "redneck" word. But I really, personally, could have taken my waxing without the side order of insult.

But that's just me.

Ann Coulter, Part 2

2007-10-04T17:07:00.000-07:00

So I was thinking about why Ann Coulter bothers me so much. It's not just that she's wrong about women voting (and, you know, everything else). And then it hit me. She's a minstrel! She acts out all these stereotypes of women (skinny, blonde, sexy, irrational, shrewish) for the benefit and entertainment of the establishment. The cocktail dress is her blackface!

Oh Ann Coulter, you just keep making me hate you

2007-10-04T13:10:00.000-07:00

Here's the latest from everyone's favorite skinny blonde nutjob:

"If we took away women’s right to vote, we’d never have to worry about another Democrat president. It’s kind of a pipe dream, it’s a personal fantasy of mine, but I don’t think it’s going to happen. And it is a good way of making the point that women are voting so stupidly, at least single women.

It also makes the point, it is kind of embarrassing, the Democratic Party ought to be hanging its head in shame, that it has so much difficulty getting men to vote for it. I mean, you do see it’s the party of women and 'We’ll pay for health care and tuition and day care — and here, what else can we give you, soccer moms?'"

It's a personal fantasy of yours to take away your own right to vote? I always figured Anne was more the S of whatever crazy S&M sex play she and Karl Rove had going on, but I guess she's more more of the submissive type than we thought.

Also, what is up with the cocktail dresses? You're on Good Morning America. It's seven o'clock in the morning. You look like a call girl.

Trucks And Trains Ruining My Life.

2007-10-02T21:44:00.000-07:00

Ahhh.

This morning, I'm on my way to work. I'm trying to get there a little early because I have to leave early to take Mr. Junky to a job interview. The ride to work was a little more annoying than usual because it's earlier than usual, and so there is still residual traffic from the chumps who get up and go to work early in the day.

But that's ok. I'm practicing all my newfound Nar-Anon Buddhist serenity and detachment from madness. I know that if I get frustrated with the Granny driving 35 on the highway in front of me, all that will happen is I'll be mad. Granny will still be going 35. My mad can't move her. Revolutionary!

So I'm not mad. I keep driving, and I get off at my exit. There is an 18 wheeler in front of me, and it goes through the last stoplight to turn off on the main street and ends up heading in the same unfortunate direction as me. I know that the turn by my work is kind of tight, and he's going to have to maneuver his big-ass truck around this tight turn, which will take a few extra minutes and will make me a little later for work. It's ok, though, because I'm not going to get all bent out of shape about being three of four minutes later than I want to be. No big deal...I can wait. I turn my music up a little louder and enjoy a few minutes to myself.

The truck swings way out to make its turn, and another truck comes up in the opposite lane. They sit there for a bit, in a standoff of giant trucks, neither willing nor able to move. Finally the new approaching truck backs up a bit, and the truck that was in front of me moves on. I'm starting to feel acid gurgling in my stomach, but I realize that these nice truck drivers are just trying to get to their destinations, and me getting all bent out of shape won't make them move along any faster. We've conquered this obstacle, and it's ok, and work's right around the corner and over the railroad tracks.

So I'm ok. No need to get all worked up.

The truck in front of me swings out wide to go around the next corner, indicating that he wants to turn into the warehouse that's right before the train tracks on the road to my work. The acid makes its way from my stomach to my throat. I swallow it, and I tell myself one more time that REALLY, THERE'S NO NEED TO GET FUCKING WORKED UP. IT'S JUST A STUPID FUCKING TRUCK MAKING SOME STUPID FUCKING TURNS. SO WHAT IF I'M GOING TO BE 15 MINUTES LATER JUST BECAUSE OF SOME DUMB TRUCK BULLSHIT? I MEAN, I'VE GOT TONS OF MONEY. IT'S NOT LIKE I NEED TO WORK EVEN. WHY GET THERE ON TIME AND PUNCH IN AT ALL?

But I'm ok, and I swallow and swallow the bile that is now in my mouth, and wipe the sweat from my forehead, and try to breathe and breathe and relax and think about a warm, soothing white light residing deep inside of me, right below my heart and between my lungs, a serene inner spirit that protects me, a higher power guiding me down a path that was planned for me from time immemorial, a design full of obstacles and beauty and lessons and glory...

And as the truck finishes its turn, that's when I notice the caution lights blinking on the train tracks and the guard rails coming down.

Metal Murphy

2007-10-02T19:12:00.001-07:00

So i go to Walmart, the store we love to hate, to get chicken patties, sugar free vanilla syrup, cream, wheat buns and a tomato. I ended up picking up a few other items, a pumpkin etc which totaled 14. I suppose I asked for it. I went to the store at 4:45. Little did I know that 4:45 was the time that "He" was on duty.

In the beginning I chose his line because it was on the General Merchandise side. I figured that on that side I would miss the folks with groceries for the folks with dog food and hair styling products. The only other line open was the Express Lane for which I did not qualify with the 10 item restriction. I was a little relieved that there was one woman with a child current checking out and another older woman and her mother. I actually felt a little giddy at the prospect of waiting only 20 minutes in line!

I noticed the woman with the child (which I noticed was not wearing any clothes) had separated her food items. I thought foolishly that she might be OC and like boxed items with boxed items and cans with cans. As it turns out she was paying with the TX progam that provides certain foods to low income people. The program requires several separate small purchases done separately. This normally take time but the experienced cashier breezes through it. This is when I notice him, Murphy. Murphy is in his twenties. He is very slender with a long neck and bony face. When Murhpy smiles he flashes the most metal I have ever seen! His orthodontist loves/hates him.

He took such care with each of the mother's items. He carefully checked each product before placing it gingerly in the sack. This clothe less child begins to scream, not cry, not angry, just scream. He flashes that metallic smile and continues on his arduous task. The mother smiles. He smiles. The old ladies waiting smile. I swallow. I am swallow agitation at this point. But the kids are behaving and are deciding which Push Pop they want.

My feet begin to ache just a little, damn heels. The mother then purchases the rest of her items, beer, cokes, chips with a check. It doesn't run through the first three times, but then Murphy, never giving up, saves the day! The old ladies are piling their purchases on the belt now, refusing to scoot up at all. I counted 12 2-liter Diet Dr. Pepper (caffeine free!), a sack of dog food, sausage, meat, sliced meat, cheese, sliced cheese, bread and other small items. Now you know that the sausages didn't ring up correctly. Murphy smiles. The lady, I credit her honesty, insists on paying for an additional 20 oz. Diet Dr. Pepper because during the last tip she grabbed the woman's that was next in line and didn't mean to and she didn't pay for it! Murphy smiles. I clench my fists.

I am not angry because she is paying for a stolen soda. I am angry because as Murphy is slowly charging this lady for her items the older woman is now claiming her spot on the belt and putting her items on the belt for a separate purchase. My chicken breasts are thawing out and this old bitch still hasn't moved up. The grocery store line is like traffic, the more you inch up the better you feel!

Finally, after sorting through the mispriced sausage, commenting on the types of cheese slices are best on a ham sandwich and bagging everyone last one of those sodas separately it is my turn. By this point my children are everywhere. One is throwing a fit on the floor for beef-n-cheez and the other two are dying to see the Halloween customes 30 feet away. But mom!!!

The first thing out of Murphy's metal mouth is (can't you feel the excitement?), "Have you ever seen Heroes? It comes on ABC. I have to work until 11 but if you have a computer you can watch today's episode tomorrow!"

What? What the fuck did you just say? It took me 15 mother fucking minute's to drive here, park, get the kids inside, get the 14 items I needed and find your register. It took Metal Murphy 31 mother fucking minutes to finish checking the mother with the naked kid, the DR. Pepper grandma's to ask me if I like Heroes???? Murphy smiled.

How did he know?

Just kidding. I have never watched an episode. I hate fucking walmart.

Shalom from Crazyland

2007-10-01T18:27:00.000-07:00

So my cousin and her husband are crazy-ass super-Republicans. A while back, they announce to the family that they are taking a vacation to Israel. And what will they be doing on this vacation? They will be assisting the Israeli army. Because what the Israeli army needs is a crazy-ass Baptist schoolteacher to come over there and straighten some shit out for them. Though they do not admit this, I think they are hoping for the end times or something.

She would say things like "It's very exciting to be fighting for the good guys." You are not fighting. You are a war tourist. You do not know enough about this to know who the good guys and bad guys are. I don’t know enough either, but I’m not taking my ignorant American self over to the desert and inserting myself into other people’s wars.

She would also talk about how she couldn’t tell us where they were, then talk about how they were taking lots of pictures to show us when they got home. Way to maintain security there!

Then there was the food. She constantly complained about the food, like how there was no milk and how there were olives served as a side dish at every meal. She would follow these complaints with comments like “I’m going to be so mad if I don't lose weight on this trip." Good to see you have your priorities in order there.

She would describe the people she met on this trip as things like "nice, but very Jewish". No shit? I mean, who did you think you were going to meet on this trip to Israel? I'm not sure that how ridiculous this whole thing was is really coming across here, but I think you get where I'm going.

Dear Valued Customer,

2007-10-01T08:53:00.001-07:00

SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP!

Yes, it is true that I work in customer service to put my self through this thing called life, and school, and children, and responsible starving artistdum. Yes, I get paid to take your calls, your orders, and to assist you in general. But, perhaps the confusion comes in how much I get I paid. Maybe, you think I get paid like FUCKING OPRAH to take your shit. Maybe, you think I get PAID ENOUGH to take your fucking princess bitchass BULLSHIT. But, I don't- didyagetthat?

I don't get paid enough to be the one person you get to look and talk down to 'cause your on the phone. You and I both know that you would NEVER talk to me like that face to face. We also both know that you are such a little fuck of a person, such a loser on the ladder of life, that the only person you can feel better than is the poor fucking sap that has to take your call and make like their kissing your ass. Ya, you like that- don'tcha? You want me to stick my finger up there too, while I'm there rimming you? Bitch.

You know what, except for this little cuntface to 'out' your little measly existence- I forget about you as soon as I have hung up the phone and thought of ways I can fuck up your account- put messages on your file that label you as difficult. I make sure you don't get offered coupons. Cause your a BITCH, AN ASSHOLE, A CUSTOMER SERVICE WHORE. Only you don't get paid to do this shit. You have to pay ME to talk that way, because, you will remember- "[You] pay my wages!"

Yeah... that's right stupid whore. You pay my wages. My favorites are the ones living off the government that call in and say they pay MY wage..... LICK. MY. CUNT, THEN- MY ASS. get a fucking job like me- and then we'll talk. Alright, sweetie?

That's great.... is there anything else I can do for you? No? Alright then, you have a great day. Thanks for calling CUNTFACE.

Why Don't I Just Take Over the Class?

2007-10-01T08:31:00.000-07:00

If there's really not enough venom and cursing here to qualify for a true Cunt Face post, it's because it is cross-posted from my own blog, so I'm cheating. It is full of sarcasm and bitterness though!

Few things in life irritate me more than dealing with my son's school. My son is autistic and spends most of each day in a special ed classroom, where he (theoretically) receives instruction that is tailored to his individual needs. Those of you who have been reading my blog for a while will recall that I was seriously pissed off at the end of the last school year. I was fed up and livid and cursing in all caps (oh, and there will be just a little more of that today), because I spent all of last year fighting with the school district to get them to bring in additional (legally mandated) resources to address a problem that was interfering with my son's learning. They did nothing but stall, accuse me of being difficult and tell me that, in spite of my son's declining performance, the best people to address the problem were the classroom teachers under whom his performance was declining. Oh, no wait. How silly of me! I forgot. They actually did propose adding one additional resource to the classroom: me, as a free aide.

After a summer filled with down time, and work with one of the world's great amateur behaviorists and OTs (yes, me), my son and I worked out a solution to his problem. He started the school year and has made rapid progress in his former problem area, to the point where he no longer requires assistance. Thanks for nothing, school district.

Of course, a new problem has cropped up in a different subject. I received a note last week from his teacher stating that she was sending his classroom work home for me to finish with him, as he had not been doing his work but had been "fooling around" and "wasting time." I (very calmly) wrote back and said I'd be happy to help him at home, but shouldn't we, oh, I don't know, find out why he wasn't doing his work in class and figure out how to address it? She wrote back and very tersely said that any suggestions would be appreciated.

What?! Um, unless I'm mistaken, she's the teacher. She's the one with the degree. She's the one with the actual training in working with kids with special needs. She's the one whose job it is to figure out how to engage kids in learning and how to ensure that they behave themselves in class. Oh, and lest you say she's overworked and underpaid (which she is). She's also the one who was such a big expert, so perfectly capable of handling my son's needs herself, that she adamantly and repeatedly stated that she didn't need or want to bring in an outside specialist to help her with my son last year. But my unpaid, inexpert labor, under her direction, is, of course, always welcome.

So, I sat down with my son for 10 minutes, quickly determined what particular obsessions were preventing him from doing the work, thought up several ways in which we could break the task down into more manageable components for him and got him to finish the work. I wrote the teacher a note with my suggestions on getting him to complete the work in the classroom, put the completed work in his backpack and haven't heard back from her since. And to top it all off, that important classroom work we did hasn't been removed from his backpack all week; each day, it comes back home to me a little more crumpled and worse for wear, because nobody has bothered to take it out and look at it.

This year, I am going to try something new. I am done with threatening to sue. I am done with going into debt to pay for representation to force the school district to bring in someone with even more "expertise" to help in the classroom. From now on, I'm going to be a bitch in a new way. I'm going to tell the teachers how to do their jobs. I'm going to teach them all the amateur OT and behavioral techniques I've painstakingly learned through the last six years. I'm going to share the knowledge and share the wealth and maybe, just maybe, one day they'll be able to DO THEIR FUCKING JOBS! If not, I'll at least have saved some money, stayed out of blood pressure raising IEP meetings and ended up no worse off in terms of the education my son is receiving.

let me just add...

2007-10-01T08:21:00.000-07:00

that fucknut who swallowed half my face without a modicum of my consent apparently also fucks his undergrad students. unbelievable. and apparently after he broke up with one he got a restraining order because that poor silly eighteen-year old couldn't understand why he ditched her after he used her. UNFUCKINGREAL.

A real Cunt Face can bitch about anything...

2007-09-30T21:40:00.000-07:00

I am starting to not feel alone in this world. I am sure you must know by now but I am truly the biggest bitch in the world. I wear that crown with pride! Not everyone can be the biggest bitch in the world though there can be variations (prettiest, ugliest, funniest, meanest, happiest, saddest, etc).
It makes me happy to be able to find any topic and somehow manager to squeak out a bitch or two. So here we go:
Work-- Wilbur is about to get shanked, skinned and BBQ'd. I hate that fat motherfucker. He assumes that I am a slut, a drug addict and a bitch. Well I am one of those things and could be another (which ones???) but he doesn't know me well enough to comment on the shit I say. I am not even talking to Mr. BO but he manages to put his 2 cents in where it isn't wanted. I do say to him, "Shut the fuck up, ass. I have smoked weed once. Just b/c I know about Ice doesn't mean I do it. You know about sex. That doesn't mean you do it." He SO shouldn't be in a room full of girls. It isn't working out.
Home-- If that cocksuking ass of mine doesn't start yelling at our kids more than I am going to castrate him with my teeth and spit his balls in his face. I cannot handle being the only disciplinarian. I mean I can and did for several months, hell years if you are counting, but seriously. I am taking 15 hours and working full time. My mind is maxed out for the moment. If he wants to keep up the magical sex we have been having he better start whipping some ass!
School-- Speaking of shanking, that short piece of shit teaching my Humanities class better watch his back. That b+ I got on the last paper was the final straw. He is in my sights and I am about to put a cap in his bald-headed ass.
Food-- I love food. If I could hygienically mix food in with sex I would be too big to move. I am bitching that fat isn't in. Doesn't it mean good times? I am really trying to justify why I can eat like I have been since my dick has been back home. We are gaining weight and will soon look like Wilbur. That man hasn't seen his balls in years and years. Doesn't he miss them?
I am out of steam. I mean, if this was a live chat I am sure that I could bitch forever but I am out of fuel and am pretty happy right now. I was fucked well about half an hour ago. I really think I held on to C all of these years b/c that man can eat p**** like no one else. If he were paralyzed I would keep him (if for no other reason than) because his tongue is *magic*! I am not bitching there. In fact he probably does because I am a lazy bitch in bed just laying there letting him please me. It rocks. Smile.

Feeling a little dickstracted?

2007-09-30T13:19:00.000-07:00

I have recently come to a conclusion: I need to stop exercising, stop wearing makeup, stop wearing clothing that could be in any way construed to accentuate my curvy ass. I need to start shaving the hair on my head and stop shaving the coarse, dark hair on my legs. For that matter, I need to hide my legs altogether. It confuses men, and I’m tired of having to pick up the pieces of the aftermath of their confusion.

A man recently engaged me in conversation at a quiet little bar while my girlfriend was in the ladies’ room. Somehow it came up in our conversation that my husband and I were talking about splitting up and had been in marriage counseling for the past 6 months. It turns out that he could relate to what I was saying, being divorced himself. I didn’t feel attracted to him, and he seemed like a really nice person, so when he said he enjoyed talking to me too and asked me for my phone number, I didn’t hesitate. After all, I’m a married woman; he knows I’m a married woman. Men and women can be friends, right?

No, they can’t. I agreed to meet him for a quick lunch that week, figuring that lunch on a weekday clearly said, “I like talking to you, but I will never touch your penis.” We had a good time, and I learned things about him that further led me to believe he was a really good guy. Several days later, he invited me to see a movie with him on a Friday night. “Friday night” made me nervous. The idea of the dark theater made me uneasy. So I said okay but made sure to mention that my husband was in the next room putting the groceries away, just in case he needed a little reminder.

So after the movie we decided to get a bite to eat. Our conversation led to the most natural thing for me to talk about (what is most heavily on my mind as of late): the fact that my husband has not budged in all of these months of therapy and still wants to leave me.

That’s when Mr. Really Good Guy gets this look. It’s like the expression just slides off of his face, falls to the floor, and shatters. I can almost hear it. He clears his throat and says, “So, you guys are in marriage counseling right now?”

I say, very matter-of-fact, “Yes.”

Then he asks whether that means I'm not ready to date anyone again.

I think he expected me to be apologetic or something – like, “yeah, I’m sorry; I thought I was ready, but as it turns out…” Well, I wasn’t apologetic. I didn’t do anything wrong.

So I’m sitting there thinking, “We covered this, remember? The very first conversation we had? The bar wasn’t even crowded or noisy? I think I was speaking English? But maybe you couldn’t hear me because you were too busy trying to picture me naked?”

At the end of the non-date, he actually shook my hand. Shook my hand!

Meanwhile, back on the homefront, it seems that what has taken my husband so long to figure out that marriage counseling is a waste of our time (he’s not changing his mind) is that – well -- he still gets all tight in the pants when I enter a room. The few times a month we see each other have often ended in the kind of sex that makes the doors and windows rattle. “It’s never been about that,” he keeps reminding me. Well, no shit, I think to myself.

So now that I’m older and wiser, why not try to look as old and wise as possible? Pray for the gray hair to come in faster. Let gravity take over. Maybe I’ll even stop showering. I’m tired of men not being able to figure out whether it’s me they’re interested in or whether it’s just my ass. So maybe I need to make it a little easier for them; maybe I need to take away all of these dickstractions.

Martial Art Ho's

2007-09-27T11:46:00.000-07:00

As per request, here is my rant on martial art ho's. There are two type of girls in my martial arts class that drives me nuts. The first type is the wussy girls. The ones that take the class but don't even bother trying. Why the fuck are you taking a martial arts class if you are worried about be thrown or breaking a nail, or God forbid! breaking a sweat! Uhhh, hello..... the nail salon is next door. Just stay your fat boring self and stop wasting my time. If i have to spar you, i am not holding back. i am kicking your ass. And self defense, i am throwing you down and putting you in a submissive hold until you tap out. You are not making me change my training cause you are a total waste of time.

The other type of martial art girl i hate is the literal ho. She married our master. Yep, he was married before and they were trying to keep their relationship a secret before they were married. Now during the middle of training, she will just walk off and go to the lobby to answer questions, sit down or feel like she doesn't have to participate in class if she doesn't feel like it. The best is when our master yells at her and makes her do the exercise.

Now let me clarify, she is both the first and second type of girl. There are girls in the class that are just wusses. Either way the fucking suck. I hate it. I had two awesome ninjas i trained with and they left me alone.... one being JW and one that finally got her ass back to class. I was left alone to train with these useless annoying people. I hate wimpy girls. I want kick ass girls. I want my ninja crew to come back. i got my one....... come home JW. i want to be hit in the head with your beautiful axe kicks. and we can do our forms together and make it look like it should.. not all fucked up like these boys make it look.

OHHHHH! one other part of my rant. This is for the insane Indian guys who come an take class. They have these crazy legs that are all over the place, no fucking control, long ass toenails, and smell of curry. Please take care of that shit! I don't care what your ethnicity is. Just stop being fucking crazy batshit insane, listen and keep yourself clean!

Now bitch, pay up! hehe

Hey! Dr. McFucknut!

2007-09-27T09:15:00.000-07:00

It's time we had some fucking words, except, your fucking done talking. So, shut up and fucking listen. Just because some of your patients happen to know a couple of things about their bodies, that doesn't make them hypochondriacs when they walk into your office complaining of a bladder infection. So don't fucking look at them like they're a cute hypochondriac and pat them on the head and send them off on their way with nothing.

I fucking told you I HAD A BLADDER INFECTION, I told you it didn't show up on your pee test because I DRANK A FUCKING LAKE OF WATER. Thanks to you, we all had to wait through painful pissing until it travelled up to my kidneys and I ended up in the emerg. Fuckin wake up you pompous ass.

Next time your pregnant patient phones you, after you told her that the ultrasound confirmed that she had miscarried, but she just cant see how that happened, because she was there, and nothing really happened- when she phones you to say, "could we do another blood test? I think I'm still pregnant..." DON'T YOU FUCKING PATRONIZE HER.

FUCKING LISTEN TO YOUR PATIENTS, YOU FUCKING FUCKNUT.

I came to you for help- and you never once apologized for every time you were wrong, and I was right. Not even when you had to remove the pregnancy from my tubes BECAUSE I WAS STILL PREGNANT you fucking idiot. Just like I fucking said.

After all that, when I was trying to get pregnant again and it wasn't happening, I told you something was wrong. Fuck me over once, shame on you. Fuck me over twice, shame on me.

I can't believe I fucking listened to you when you told me it was just stress. I had to fucking push you to get tests done, after I waited a year on your fucking shit ass advice. In the end... I WAS RIGHT. You mother fucking holier than though stupid fucking smart ass good for nothing CUM WAD.

How did it feel, that last time I was right. Could you still deny what you were wrong? You made me feel like I was a fucking idiot. Do they teach that in med school these days? fucking pompous idiot 101?

And, Ms. Dr. McFucknuts- this ones for you.

Just because you don't shave down your beaver pelt, and are still sporting a 1970's shag to keep your pussy warm and dry, and live in a small town full of other middle aged Save the Beaver Pelt (SBPR) Renegades- don't gasp when you see my beautiful wizard sleeves in all their glory. Obviously, you have never had your naked pussy sucked and licked- well, that's not my fucking problem. Keep your breathy, fucking ass stink, opinion to yourself, bitch.

Ahh, that's better. Have a great day everyone (except fucknuts- you fucking know who you are).

Driver's Ed for him

2007-09-26T21:02:00.000-07:00

Yield signs are made for a reason. They aren't made for road decoration. There is probably a really good reason for the yield sign at the on ramp, in the intersection or where ever you might run across one. The yield sign is probably often misinterpreted to the driver that is presented with it. Perhaps he, and yes I will use he for a reason, perhaps he thinks that he is that wonderful, that manly that all other cars must yield to him. What do I know? I am a woman driver. How could I possibly think that since I am exiting the highway going 80 (yes, in parts of TX that is the legal speed limit) and I shouldn't stop dead on for you in your glorious 4x4 Crew Cab gas guzzler? How dare I, the lowly woman driver that not only defensively avoided your ignorant ass but also skirted around the pompous, overweight prick in the semi trying to get a good look at another woman driver that narrowly avoided another man in a Benz who was on his phone and changed lanes without looking, not yield to you and your Yosemite Sam mud flaps. Jerk off at home not on the highway. Your small cock will seriously cause a wreck when some poor, unsuspecting woman sees it and laughs so hard she misses her turn.

Rotten Tomatoes

2007-09-26T18:16:00.000-07:00

I hate tomatoes. I fucking hate tomatoes. They, literally, make me vomit. I hate the smell of them; I hate the feel of them in my mouth; I hate the taste of them. I hate tomatoes.

I also hate gardening. I have a "brown thumb." I kill plants, mercilessly. I got this friend of mine, who is a great gardener, to plant a tree in front of my house a few months ago, because I like trees. My yard is all crappy looking and treeless. Now, my front yard is still crappy and treeless, but it is also home to a dead withered stick and standing bravely in the dirt sprouting weeds. People say "water it, but not too much" and "fertilize it, but just the right amount" and "give it some sun, but not too much sun, but not too much shade." Screw it. I can't figure it out. It's difficult, yet boring, the worst kind of task. I'd rather do anything than garden; it's just not interesting to me. It involves dirt and bugs and prickly plants and sweat and being outside without a book, a lounge chair and a cool drink. I'd rather clean the bathroom or do the dishes or learn to juggle (which I also hate, but not as much as gardening) or just sit on my ass in the grass outside.

So, I have this other friend who is insanely codependent. I know, I'm one fucked up codependent bitch; she's worse. She likes gardening. She likes tomatoes. She has convinced herself that it is her mission in life to get me both to like tomatoes (because in nearly 40 years I have clearly never eaten a "good" tomato; all the ones that made me vomit were "bad" tomatoes) and to garden. She must change me until I like these things. Then I will be happy and my life will be complete. Gardening and tomatoes are what I am lacking. To this end, she bought me a tomato plant and planted it in my yard. I haven't watered it since she brought it to me a week ago. Sometimes I think about it, but it's not a good time (i.e. the kids are awake and in the house). Mostly I just don't think about it because I'm not interested in gardening and I fucking hate tomatoes. So it's been sitting in my yard wilting, slowly dying the death that all plants in my care must. She is going to come visit today and criticize me for not taking care of the plant I don't want and be hurt because I don't love her enough to take care of the plant I don't want.

I think children are more fulfilling than plants, so I am going to return the favor by sneaking into her house and hiding her fucking birth control. Then she will be happy and her life will be complete and she'll be too busy to try to get me to grow and eat fucking tomatoes.

Hey, I Hate My Hometown, Too.

2007-09-26T17:38:00.000-07:00

Now I'm not telling you bitches where I live, but I will tell you that it's cold. It's cold, cold, cold. One day, when I grow up and make some money, I'm going to move to Florida.

For a while, I lived in Atlanta, and it was amazing. Everyone bitched about the heat, but I loved it. I loved owning tank tops. I loved showing off my body. I loved having summer. I loved my man in the summer, with that thin coat of sweat all over his body tasting just a little bit like salt. We don't get that much, here.

Here, we get this tepid little bullshit of a summer, and then more cold. It makes my pussy dry. The only thing that makes my pussy drier is the bullshit influx of college students that revisits this hell on earth every fall. Now that I'm older than them, they do nothing for me. They make the streets crowded and the traffic bad. They drive drunk and crash into things. When there's football, they drive drunker and crash into more things.

For the record, I am not a therapist

2007-09-26T14:56:00.001-07:00

That will become abundantly clear in a minute.

But I do know some things about psychology, and I am aggravated when the media gets it terribly wrong. Sometimes it is clearly just laziness. For example, once on an episode of CSI, Gil refers to "Piaget's attachment theory". Attachment theory is Bowlby. Piaget's theory is about cognitive development. A cursory Google search would have taken care of this. (I realize this is nothing compared to the complaints lawyers and actual crime scene experts have about CSI, but still.) But sometimes there are larger problems, what I will refer to here as "fake psychology".

So first off, fake psychology often ignores how psychological disorders are diagnosed. Typically, there is a big list of characteristics, and you must meet a certain number of them to qualify as having the disorder. Fake psychology will assume that having a mild version of just a few qualities from the list is sufficient for a diagnosis. So for example, here are some items the list to be diagnosed with antisocial personality disorder: failure to conform to social norms with respect to lawful behaviors as indicated by repeatedly performing acts that are grounds for arrest; deceitfulness, as indicated by repeated lying, use of aliases, or conning others for personal profit or pleasure; impulsivity or failure to plan ahead.

Now really, what man (or person, really) do you know who hasn't at times been characterized by unlawful behavior, deceitfulness, and impulsivity?

So, your idiot man is probably just an idiot. But, if you must have a label, here is my quick and easy guide to diagnosing your fucktard's personality disorder:

1) For the good of others, should he/she be in jail?
Yes --> antisocial personality disorder
No --> go to step 2
2) Does he/she remind you of Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction?
Yes --> borderline personality disorder
No --> go to step 3
3) Is he/she manipulative mostly to get attention, rather than resources?
Yes --> histrionic personality disorder
No --> go to step 4
4) Is he/she completely self-centered and never wrong?
Yes --> narcissistic personality disorder

Now, codependency is also a part of fake psychology, but I am inclined to cut it a bit more slack, because I think it's a useful way of thinking. It's not a real disorder, but it is a label for a certain pattern of behavior, and it is good to recognize and understand our behavior patterns. Most people, even people with problems, don't have a major psychological disorder, but that doesn't mean they don't have problems or that their lives couldn't be better.

I think part of the reason that codependency is not really recognized as a disorder has to do with a good impulse, which is to avoid blaming the victim. We should not be blaming people for being in abusive relationships, for example, even though some people get into abusive relationships over and over. Also there is the idea that being in a certain type of relationship is a situational thing, rather than an enduring personal characteristic. Though we all know that you can have a tendency to pick the same kind of partner over and over again, and that that does make it more of a personal quality. Also I think the name is stupid, but that's just me.

Ok, I'm getting off my ivory tower/high horse now.

Dickhead From Hell.

2007-09-26T12:44:00.001-07:00

You know, if there was ink on that bedspread, I mean, since you love to criticize me and point out all the ways I fuck up, I mean, I just thought you'd have shown me before or something, so, I guess I don't believe that there is paint on it or whatever cause, you know, you would definitely have pointed it out...

FUCK YOU.

All I asked was that if he and his silly-ass friends were going to be doing art upstairs that they could move the carpet back (the new rug I bought to hide the stains) and remove the blanket. I put the nice blanket on the bed to hide the ink stains that I sometimes love and sometimes find mortifying. I asked that these things be removed so that the things that are already ruined with nasty ass paint can be further ruined, as they already have to be replaced, instead of ruining new things and pissing me off further.

And this jackass has the audacity to start giving me this little speech about how I'm unfair and I criticize and bullshit like that at 7:30 in the morning when I've just driven him 20 miles in the opposite direction from work so he can putterfuck around with his mom to try to earn some money. So yes, it's cute that he might earn some little bitchmade money, but I'm losing money on the deal driving his dumbass back and forth, back and forth, from his mom's house.

And I'm willing to do it because I love his stupid ass and want him to feel good about himself and like he made some little fucking sillyshit money that ain't good for nothing and won't pay a single goddamned bill. And then, after he blows up at me like a dumbass because I asked him to move my shit instead of just ruining it like he always does, he says, "Well can I use your phone today?" and my dumbass puts my phone in his hand so I can't even text Vowels to bitch about it.

God, I'm an ass. He's a bigger ass. He's an asshat fucktard dickhead good for nothin' piece of shit dumbass.

It's like he was offended that I was asking him to take care of my stuff. And really, I'm offended that I HAVE to ask him to take care of my stuff. I'm offended that he doesn't just fucking take care of my stuff. I'm offended that, although it's slowly, painfully getting better, I still don't trust him worth a fuck even not to rob me...I certainly don't trust him to think for himself about how he can not FUCK UP OUR HOME.

God I LOVEHATE him.

(So sexy...)

What the hell, America?

2007-09-26T12:30:00.000-07:00

So I opened up my paper on Sunday morning and was faced with this cartoon.

Really, America? Are we still at the point where it is considered ok or amusing to use potentially deadly force against your wife for nagging you? Because I thought we were done with that.

Bitch.

2007-09-26T11:26:00.000-07:00

Bitch, look at the image I've posted here. It's a trash dump. That's what your ass smells like. And your breath.

Why do you want to keep pushing and pushing and pushing somebody? Do you know that we might bump into one another, one day? And do you know that you've pushed me past the point of no return...if I see you, I'm going to beat your dumb cunt ass. And I don't just mean some old chest-bumping bullshit ass beating. I'm going to fuck you up like a wild animal. I'm going to push my thumbs through your eyes and shit. I'm going to leave your face pulpy and bloody and nasty. Your teeth will be stuck all in your jaw.

It will be glorious and horrifying. I'm going to unleash the rage that only can come from deep in the heart of a woman whose daddy touched her funny. It's going to be like nothing anyone has ever seen. I'm going to take all that anger, all that hurt, and all the years of lies and fucked up men telling me all kinds of bullshit, and I'm going to wind it up in one tight ball of fury that will explode all in your face, you stupid fucking cunt from hell. You mean woman of shit. You dumb turd-licking slut sucking the balls of your dumb bitch best friend.

Just Say No

2007-09-25T12:06:00.000-07:00

So in my martial art team training last night, me and fellow CF were training together and kept kicking each other in the groin. Not intentional of course, because it was a retreating back kick, but we kept doing it, and then saying, it's okay, i am not using it anyways. Both of our insane husbands have had these "let's settle down" moments. Neither of us are pleased with it. As JW was saying to me, mine is trying to "tame" my wild side by having babies and moving to Portland, ME. What the fuck? So go ahead my fellow CF, kick me in the uterus multiple times. Not like I am getting great sex and i won't be needing that uterus. I am not to be tamed. EVER. Love it or leave it.

Pay me

2007-09-25T10:07:00.000-07:00

I’m tired of my boyfriend acting like when he cleans the apartment, he becomes a god and should be praised. Whatever.

I don’t like to clean. It just happens to be something I don’t like to do so I don’t do. What I do like to do is go to work and make money, so I take care of the finance stuff.

For a while I was considering getting a person to come in and clean once a month to give the apartment an industrial cleaning.

My Boyfriend didn’t like the idea of a cleaning lady but instead suggested that he would clean, and get this, that I should pay him the money I was going to pay the cleaning lady.
The dirt that he cleans up is his and mine, why would I pay him to clean his dirt?

Am I crazy? Does this make some sort of sense in some bizzaro world filled with square faced people who speak in the third person and can't conjugate verbs?
I thought this was supposed to be about SHARING the duties, not “pay me and I’ll do it.”
I’d rather pay the cleaning lady.
She won’t bitch at me later or ask me where her belt is or try to get me to suck her dick.

So this bird walks into a store...

2007-09-25T09:27:00.000-07:00

Look at that silly bird! Click on him to watch him go!

"Maybe You Should Diet."

2007-09-25T08:45:00.001-07:00

Yep. He let those words come out of his face last night. We were arguing, and it went something like this:

"I don't feel like a man. I'm not working, I can't do anything right...it's hard to feel sexy when I'm so fucked up in everything else in my life."

"I understand that, but not fucking makes me feel fat and ugly."

"Well, if you feel fat, maybe you should diet. That's you, not me. You know I think you're sexy and your body is beautiful."

And while the context eases the gravity of his offense against me, nay, his offense against womankind, it doesn't take away that phrase, ringing in my ears, over and over again:

MAYBE YOU SHOULD DIET.

It's echoing. It's ominous. I will never eat again.

This is a man with sisters. A man who has been in many relationships. A man who knows me and knows women, well. This is a man who has lost his goddamned mind. There are just certain THINGS that you just DON'T SAY to a woman, ever, in any context. Ever.

Right? Right, my sisters?

I fucking hate my home town

2007-09-24T21:09:00.000-07:00

I was born there, I was raised there. Keep me the fuck out of there. Esthetically, it is a beautiful town. Fuck off. Who cares.

I fucking hate that place. I would and do take this little shit ass town I live in now over that pompous old city any day.

Yeah, it has beautiful oak trees that could probably tell you stories that are out of this world, it has graveyards that are so old that a wind storm tore up all those big oak trees and uprooted the dead (well, that was cool- I'll give ya that). But, its fucking history, its fucking artist elitist community MAKE ME SICK.

I fucking hate that place. I don't care how pretty they make it- it's all a lie, a sham.

It's the dirtiest town I every did see. I hate its dirty beauty. I hate my history there.

They- it, can kiss my ass.

Fuck you *********, ** and the contents therein (except those of you I still like, of course- you know who you are).

Holy Hell, it froze over in 93 degree weather

2007-09-24T20:01:00.000-07:00

So tomorrow I am off to hell to support C in the DWI transfer case. I hate buying sunglasses b/c I hate the way I look in them. Since I am traveling incognito then I have to have really large, almost stalker sunglasses. I bought them at Target, or Targhetto (depending on the one you visit) for only $9.99. Best $10 I will have spent. I hate the fuckers at the place I am visiting. Not all of them mind you but most. If you were wondering hell is technically BFE (or bummed fucking Egypt). It is 65 miles to the nearest Walmart or Taco Bell. Who can live like that???
Also, at work today,Wibur (yes, like the pig) only burped 7 times with earth shaking force. I suppose he is dieting or the heat is getting to him. Oh, I did have to smell him again today but not as bad. Again, the suspicions of a diet are firmly in place. He is back to wearing that orange shirt that really doesn't do much for his eyes.
Other than that we be cool. I will fill you in on the details of hell in 2 days. I hope that I don't lose my mind while out there. We have 9 hours of driving there and 9 back in 2 days. Fun times with three kids and a chain smoking addict! Yes.
I am formally Married to My Ex but my friends call me Married to My Ex (or stepbackjack as my gmail account will tell you).

It's Not Easy Being This Fly...

2007-09-23T21:09:00.000-07:00

Virginia Woolf said it best:

Across the broad continent of a woman's life falls the shadow of a sword. On one side, all is correct, definite, orderly; the paths are straight, the trees regular, the sun shaded; escorted by gentlemen, protected by policemen, wedded and buried by clergymen, she has only to walk demurely from cradle to grave and no one will touch a hair of her head. But on the other side, all is confusion. Nothing follows a regular course. The paths wind between bogs and precipices; the trees roar and rock and fall in ruin.

The women you'll meet here are roar and rock and fall girls. We're the lovely, loving women you love to love, you love to hate, you love to fuck and bleed and leave. We're the women with the stuff you want to take. We're the women who want to give. We're her kind of women, the women who rise. We're the fall girls, the falling and fallen. We're smart and funny and loud and fun. We curse and we curse you. You're cursed by us.

You may leave.

You won't forget.

Too Good Not To Share.

2007-09-23T18:29:00.001-07:00

I realized that I was selfish to keep such beauty from the rest of the world. Our private Cuntface McBitchfuck is brilliant. It is occupying so much of my time that I'm barely able to work or save the world with my "real" blog.

After recognizing how special our women-only bitch parade has become, I thought it might be interesting to see what would happen if we made a modified public space and allowed outsiders to view our magical, wondrous world.

You won't get to see all of us, but you can see some. And, if we don't like you, we'll go talk about you in our secret space.