Douche Fumes

Suffocating kittens--

Open the windows! Turn on the fans! Get some air moving in this place--the douche fumes are killing us!

Check out this hot piece. When this dick cut me off in a merge lane on the way home one night from a very important meeting with a "client," I saw his douchey license plate and knew I had to get a picture. But this was no ordinary douche...he was a slippery bastard...ELUSIVE DOUCHE!

He went screaming into a shopping center on two wheels, ran a stop sign, blew by a pedestrian, and then screeched to a halt right in front of a LIQUOR STORE before turning on his hazard lights and running in. DOOOOOOOUUUUUUUCCCCCCHHHHHHEEEE!!!!

And how about this dick? You just know this is a two-inch hero who wears his shirt unbuttoned and talks about his high rate of closure, if I ain't bein' too subtle:

Watch out, ladies--after leaving you disappointed, this douche will call you by the wrong name, smack you on the ass, and ask if you'd mind using the fire escape to leave, seeing as how his girlfriend is on her way over and she will cut you with a hot razor if she catches you at his place.

Now here's one. Douchey McMegaDouche here will take your lunch money and bang your girl.

He works an entry-level job and gets coffee for The Man, but his conversations will revolve around how he "bangs bitches" at "his place" before sending them on their way with "nuttin' but a smile." What he won't tell you is that he's got a pocket full o' roofies and he lives with mommy and daddy and that his fancy car is overcompensation for his....look, ladies, he's a douche.

And lest you think I'm going all sexist on y'all's hot asses, behold the She-Douche:

Easy to spot--fake hair, fake nails, fake rack, fake handbag--ol' girl will tell you that she is a princess and she deserves to be treated like one. Ask her of which country her father is king, and she'll look at you with a gaze as empty as her brain.

I know that it's your natural inclination to run the other way when the scent of Eau de Douche hangs heavy in the air, but keep those cameras close, kittens, and follow that scent!

Thanks to Nikolas for YNVME!

Trollop Tuesday: Guest Post

Kittens--

Please give a warm Sweet Tea welcome to a guest blogger, POW! Take it away, POW! (Sorry in advance for all the font issues--blame it on my drunkenness stupidity.

Dearest Bleaders,

I’m writing on behalf of my wondering “Corn Pone,” who you all may know by another term of defamation endearment “Sweet Tea.” First, to all of you who lashed out at Sweet Tea for not posting a blog last Tuesday, I have some responsibility to bear. While having our illiterate toothless bumpkin princess of prose over for dinner during the holiday weekend, we came up with the idea (actually I did, but like Elvis did to Little Richard, all white people take black people’s ideas and become more successful) of dedicating a day of the week to celebrity trollops. Unfortunately, Sweet Tea got rufied fell into a deep sleep, posed for some artistic and tasteful photos (check the Internet y’all!), and woke up under the stars (I dropped her off in the driveway of a local hospital). As for celebrity trollops, you know who we mean…those talentless celebrities who go far beyond acceptable acts of stupidity and self-indulgence to gain additional media attention and stretch that 15 minutes like the elastic waistband in John Candy’s underwear. Oh! Sorry, too soon? And so, we bring to you the first edition of Tuesday’s Trollops.

Nicole Elizabeth Polizzi sounds like a good Catholic, Italian-American girl with a svelte figure, olive skin, and long dark hair, who parents dream of having as a daughter-in-law. Instead, we have this 4’9”, foul-mouthed, orange-skinned Colombian Oompa Loompa posing as an Italian, with hair that most likely has vomit in it and an odor that can send good ole’ mom and dad running for the hills.

So why did we select Snooki as our first trollop? Have you seen this tramp in action? Snooki is an ariskank, creating masterpieces with her skankdom the way some artists do with oils and pastels. During the first season of “Jersey Shore,” (the “Guido-focused” reality TV show that serves as the justification for making Seaside Heights the next US military nuclear testing site) Snooki’s fame soared after being punched in the face by a NYC gym teacher for troubled children (side note: after being fired and unable to find a job, the teacher joined the US Army…the Army is not a recycling bin for B-list reality TV star abusers!)

Snooki, since that punch, has let loose on the world with a vaginal rage not seen since Britney Spears launched her storied “Airing of Crevices” during the Commando Fall of 2006. I guess showing your odiferous, creature- and disease-infested coupon hooker lady parts to the world is the next step in promoting your reality TV street cred, and our little trollop did not fail us. From drunken cartwheels in the street, to falling off bar stools, to disturbing the peace by fighting more sophisticated “guidettes,” Snooki has conducted herself with the style and grace of a sorority sister in “Girls Gone Wild.”

Don’t get me wrong, Snooki isn’t just a girl you wake up too after an evening of horrible decisions hot body, she’s got brains too. Often in the dooms of our finest universities, the Snooki’s quotes are debated and discussed like those of Aristotle, Hobbes, and Freud, and Conway Twitty. Her words are a fount of life experience, perhaps, the basis for a guidebook for the modern woman. Judge for yourself:

[Pick from these]

“I think my crotch is sticking out.”

“You look at me you think I’m like a stuck-up b*tch, but yet, like, veterinarian, like that’s my soul, like I f*ckin’ like, save animals, like that’s my soul.”

“Even though we’re tiny b*tches, I don’t give a sh*t. I will f*cking attack you like a squirrel monkey.”

“I call my vibrator the Elmo because, tickle me Elmo, ya know what I mean...”

“Remember I [masturbated] all day once, and the next day I couldn’t even move?”

“I hate the ocean. It’s all whale sperm. Everybody Google it. Because that’s why the water is salty. From f*cking whale sperm."

“The staircase is really, really small and the bed is really, really wide. And it’s kinda’ like an analogy of Vinny’s penis not fitting in my pin hole.” 

So as this inaugural blog on trollops comes to a close, there are a few nuggets that we should all take away when thinking of “the Snook.” She is someone’s daughter…probably the result of a drunken gropefest and a broken prophylactic…but someone’s daughter nonetheless. Parents, make sure your daughters don’t end up like this!

You are responsible for creating and deterring this kind of creature, so take action. A few preventative measures can save your daughter from becoming a Snooki. First, give her five to the face. While it’s old fashioned, it’s a tried and true solution, but it works. A taste of the backhand has never set anyone on the wrong course. Look what it did for Tina Turner after Ike served it up for dessert on a daily basis! “Private Dancer,” anyone? Second, make her wear metal underwear until she’s 25. Again, this seems a little antiquated, but the lack of air flow will create an environment so hairy and smelly that no man will want to go near her unless he’s got a Bigfoot fetish. Finally, a dose of acid in the face will cure any remaining hints of rebelliousness and will help her become aware of Middle Eastern culture. I’ve seen many a Middle Eastern father and husband use this remedy with great success; plus, it reduces the need for spending money on cosmetics during these tough economic times. So take heart, dear bleaders, although the Snooki Monster has tortured us for the past three years, we can prevent the emergence of future Snookis with little love and affection. 

How to Win at Parenting

Poodles--

This past weekend, I was discussing the notion of children with a customer friend of mine. Fun fact: did you know that a spike in birth rates in any given area is almost always followed by a spike in tubal ligations and vasectomies? *

Anyway, my friend emphasized that, while some children seem to be nothing more than walking, talking, screaming, crying, temper-tantrum-throwing advertisements for birth control...

...nothing makes up for the influence of parents.

Here's a little smattering of mad parenting skillz I've recently encountered.

Check out this low-maintenance girl:

Awww, look--BLINGRL hearts her chihuahua and her Escalade. And, apparently, her 5-inch stiletto heels. At the Lowe's. On a weekend. With her kid.

And have a look at these mini-me chirruns, complete with matching 'do rags and leather jackets:

And here we have some parents who will pass on the gift of humility to their children. Their children will know how to be gracious, humanity-minded, and humble. Or, you know, whatever means exactly the opposite of those things:

GR8 MOMY

GR8T MOM

HOT MAMA

The thing is, I thought that compliments on your super-awesome parenting were supposed to be received from other people, not announced to the world on the ass end of your car. But whatever works. Sheesh.

*That little fun fact? It's technically bullshit IF you consider the fact that I just made it up off the top of my head. It's my blog, so sue me. Still, I feel confident that if I'd had the time or inclination to wiki that shit, then SOMEWHERE I could've found a correlation between high birth rates and permanent birth control.

In any case, if you're coming to this blog for things such as well-checked facts and responsible reporting, please make an appointment to get yourself snipped or tied ASAP, because you're really pissing in the gene pool, man.

Honeybee

Happy birthday to the most wonderful girl in the world, the dearest friend I've ever had, and a better sister than anyone deserves.

I can't remember life before you, and I can't imagine life without you. Nothing for me has ever been real until you've been a part of it. You add a richness, a depth, and a warmth to a life that would otherwise be so bland, so meaningless, and so cold that I'd rather not have it.

There is no one in this world more fun than you. You are positively incandescent. Every single room, party, shindig, hoedown, bonfire, and hootenanny becomes better when you walk in. Your smile, your laughter, and your sheer enjoyment of life are wonderfully contagious. You can have more fun with sideways glances, ridiculous circumstances, funny pronunciations, and inside jokes (busted horses and Dirty Snow White?) than anyone I know.

You deserve all the laughter the world has to offer. Twenty years ago, we thought we'd never laugh again. How much time dragged by in dull, disbelieving silence? And then one night it was late and we were supposed to be sleeping, but there we were, laughing so hard we were both shaking. You laughed because I laughed, and I laughed because you laughed, and there was no stopping it. And what was so funny? Who knows. But no one else would've understood. I'll remember it forever.

Even when our roads diverged and life took us to separate places, you were (and still are) the only thing that has ever been constant for me. When I left home, when I moved out east, when I said I do, when I said I don't, when I sent dog picture after identical dog picture, you loved me, laughed with me, cried with me, and told me that I was not alone. If I have a home in this world, it's wherever you are.

I know when you're not telling everything, and you don't let me get away with omitting details. We have talked until dawn, laughed all night, fought for hours, and cried until the sun came up. I know every curve of your face, every giggle in your voice, and every nuance of your speech. I love it all.

It may well be that the meaning of my life is you: to let you know that you are safe and loved and that the world is bearable. And if that's my meaning, then it's meaning enough.

I'm so grateful for you and this day--your birthday--to celebrate you. Happy birthday--the world is a better place because you're in it.

Floozy Friday: Anna Nicole Smith

My delicate little daffodils,

Thought we'd try something new here. Maybe it'll take and maybe it won't, but like your chances with that skank across the bar who's out of your league, you'll never know until you try, right?

Like so many of you dear bleaders, I love a good floozy. And, quite frankly, I think most floozies get a bad rap when we should instead be celebrating them.

Let's start with a good one. Anna Nicole Smith. Ms. Smith taught us girls that it's okay if your brain's the size of Rhode Island as long as your tits are the size of Texas. Awwwww, yeaaaahhhh:

People love to get all high and mighty when they talk about this hot piece. "She's dumb." "She never worked a day in her life." Okay, but...

What were you doing when you were 26? Working your ass off at a job where no one appreciated you in the hopes of a promotion that wouldn't really amount to shit? Writing and re-writing your Master's thesis? Wondering why you went on date after sexless date and never found The One?

Yeah, that's what I thought. Because while you and I were concerning ourselves with workin' for The Man, Anna was working a 9th-grade education and a persistence in hookin' till it killed, y'all, and she ended up marrying a practically deaf-mute billionaire with one foot in the grave.

Yeah, Anna Nicole died young, and that's a shame. But she fit more into a life of 40 years--marrying Billy Wayne Smith from Jim's Krispy Fried Chicken, dropping out of high school, workin' those hypnotic mammaries, marrying a gazillionaire, and leaving her 67-year-old stepson and paternity-contested infant daughter to fight over billions of dollars in the US Supreme Court --than most of us would ever squeeze into 10 lifetimes.

Bow down! Floozy in the house!

Tricycle Motors

Ah, babies--who doesn't love 'em? They have that sweet little baby scent, they make that cute little baby gurgle, and they look up at you with a big ol' toof-less baby grin and laugh with sheer abandon--the clearest of all indicators, according to DOD, that "they're just a-fillin' their drawers."

(Have you ever changed a diaper? I changed my niece's once. Worst hour of my life. She cried, I cried, and the damn thing ended up being on backwards.)

Anyway, the thing is, as much as I enjoy the idea of a gurgly little sweet-smelling baby, I also enjoy the idea of sex and sleep, and word around the campfire is there's quite a trade-off there. Like, years and years of trade-off.

And I've heard--from men only, I might add--that babies are contagious. It goes like this: woman's friend has baby, woman holds baby, woman humps the nearest man in order to have baby of her own.

That's all fine and well, but it never worked that way for me. The first part has happened plenty of times: I'll hold a baby and breathe in that little baby scent, and think, "Mmmmmm...babaaaaaaaayyyyyyy." Then I'll head out to find someone to hump, and somewhere along the way, usually at my regular stop at the liquor store on my way home, I'll hear somebody's mama shriek, "Goddammit, Leroy! Get your bony ass back over here and quit cryin' before I give you something to cry about!" And just like that, the baby spell is broken.

So. While I'm not sure about babies, I am sure about one set of parents: my friend Evan and his lovely wife Sarah. They're about to be parents to a little boy, and their baby shower was this past weekend.

I made my standard baby blankets:

And these little bunnies:

Out of Evan's old shirts:

Much love to Evan, Sarah, and your little baby bundle!

Oh. And. For all you boys:

Focus on your goals. Just don't get caught focusing.

Shameless, I know.

Wait, Wait! I Can Explain!

Bitter kittens,

I got it. You're angry. I was supposed to return to posting yesterday, and I left you HIGH AND DRY. Damn! A couple of you have demanded a very specific apology, so here you go:

For the rest of you: let me explain. I have an excuse, and it's a GOOD ONE, y'all.

I met the man of my weekend dreams. Because you can't fit I'VE GOT PIERCINGS, A SOUL PATCH, AND NO JOB TO DISTRACT ME FROM YOU, ME, AND OUR SEXY TIMES TOGETHER on a license plate, he has this: "ART C FOX":

I pulled up next to him and started licking the window. (Joke's on him if he thinks he's the first guy I've picked up with that sexy little maneuver.) We pulled into the Piggly Wiggly and picked up some necessities (red wine and condoms) for a romantic dinner at home.

Things got a little, uh, pasty hairy when we bumped into my ex-boyfriend. ARTSY FOX was a wee bit jealous of my ex's insanely ripped physique (as my ex stood there ripping the manager a new one because chicken livers were advertised as $1.79/lb and he'd be damned if he was going to pay $2.09!):

But in the end, I brought ARTSY FOX home and threw him down and showed him what was what. ALL WEEKEND. And what a weekend it was.

Anyhow, ARTSY FOX wore me out and I totally forgot to reset my "publish" button on Sweet Tea, so I hope you're satisfied now with my explanation. I mean, what are you, my dad? Sheesh.

And, hey: if any of y'all see ARTSY FOX, you don't have to tell him to call me, but can you see if my panties are under the front seat? That was my favorite pair.

Thanks, kids!

Expert Opinion

Knowledgeable kittens--

Before I go off on a rant, let me offer a couple of disclaimers. 1. I am not a Catholic. I am a fried-chicken-eating Baptist: I can be counted on to bring enough food to feed an army to a funeral and I will pretend I don't know you in the liquor store. STREET CRED! 2. I have absolutely zero training in public relations.

That said, something tells me that the Catholic church needs to change its stance on the mockery it endures at the totally unoriginal hands of popular music "artists."

The latest offender: some skank who calls herself Nicki Minaj:

Her Grammy performance last week included a Versace nun's habit (AHAHAHAHAAA!!!), a "Pope" escort, levitations, confessions, and sex. Lots and lots of sex.

The Catholic League is pissed:

"Perhaps the most vulgar part was the sexual statement that showed a scantily clad female dancer stretching backwards while an altar boy knelt between her legs in prayer," Catholic League President Bill Donohue wrote.

I say it's about time the Catholic Church throws a hard side-eye at these no-talent skanks and does the meanest thing they can do: ignore them. An attention whore thrives on attention--stop feeding the beast. 

Or, failing that, send them flowers and a thank you note.

Dear Ms. Minaj--

We here at the Catholic church wish to extend our gratitude for your recent Grammy performance. We hadn't had a public refreshing for a while!

It seems like just yesterday that Lady Gaga wore a slutty nun's habit that you totally copied at the Grammy's, you unoriginal trollop.

And Lady Gaga's nun's habit had nothing on Madonna's crucifixion on a...wait for it...disco ball cross.

Bottom line: THANKS! If you hadn't come out looking and acting like the cheap trick you did, who knows how boring we'd become? Kids would stop rebelling against us, adults would stop being angry at us, and liberal media would have no one to be pissed at. Pfft. We may as well be Protestant.

Thanks for reminding us that, after all these years, mocking the Catholic church is still the go-to stunt for attention whores.

See you at Mass, heathen. We'll save you a seat next to Madonna, skank.

Hearts and kisses!

Benny Sixteen

Monday's a holiday, so I'm out. See you young lovelies back here on Tuesday!

Guttersluts (And Other Reports from the Field)

Feisty little kittens--

My dear friend Lacey--a good Christian girl--checked in with a report from the road after work the other day. My good Christian friend allowed some heathen piece of trash to drive two miles in an exit-only lane, knowing full well that said skank would want to cut in line after bypassing all the other good Christians. Destined for sainthood, Lacey allowed ol' girl to cut in, knowing it was the right thing to do. Only when bitch totally slapped Lacey with a fuck-you license plate did Lacey pass her final judgment: GUTTERSLUT.

And the lovely Tina took pity on this poor bastard. The ass end of ol' boy's car looks like it's been beaten like the New England offensive line, and his license plate seems to be a cry for help (EAZY NOW). Too bad Gisele's not there to nut up and defend this car's honor:

And then there's this one from my good buddy Randall. ME & PIGLET. Ain't that just precious? The rest of the story is that while Randall obviously caught "ME & PIGLET" out grocery shopping or something...

...Sweet Tea Sis and Dear Old Dad (DOD) came upon Mama Piglet (MS PORK) halfway across the country:

"DOD! Take the wheel while I get my camera out!" shrieked Sweet Tea Sis, barreling down the road at 70 mph.

"What?!" yelled DOD, not understanding what was going on but taking the wheel nonetheless.

"I need this pic for Sweet Tea!"

"Who?" Sweet Tea Sis couldn't tell if DOD's questions were due to a lack of understanding or plain ol' incredulity, but this was no time to explain.

"IT'S YOUR DAUGHTER'S BLOG, DOD!"

"Who? Her what? That don't sound like nothin' I ever heard of."

Thanks so much to all you field reporters! Keep those pics a-comin', and y'all be careful out there!

Workin' It

Tender kittens--

Did you have to work yesterday on Valentine's Day? Yeah, me too.

So there I was, working my regular street corner--wearing RED, duh--when the hottest piece I've seen in a while rolled up in a two-tone Chevy Chevette. As we rattled down the road, he asked me if I liked to dance...

Sidebar: I like my men like I like my tea--sweet, extra-large, and mute. As a general rule, I usually just set the bar pretty low and see what crawls over.

But a dancin' man??? DO NOT TEASE.

I thought we were heading to some hotspot club, but this hot piece knew of a place much cheaper and well-lit better--The Best Buy. We downed a couple of Miller Lites in the parking lot and then headed inside. YOU GUYS. I AM IN LOVE:

Bitch is bustin' a move like he's prancin' for his life!

Do y'all even realize the things we could accomplish if we had the confidence of this hot piece? We'd all answer every invitation with a "Not if I get there first!" and every criticism with a "Kiss my ass, cowboy" if we had so much as half the confidence of my Best Buy lovaaaahhhhh.

Anyway, if you happen to see my hot piece, whether picking up some trick on the corner or spankin' the planks on a surveillance camera, can you please tell him to call me? I miss him and I left my panties in the glove compartment of his Chevy Chevette.

Oh, and for those of you who feel so smug because you racked up a ton of Valentines yesterday, this one's for you:

Now you can go tell all the Peggys of the world what's what, courtesy of my dear friend Christopher. You're welcome.



Piece On Earth

Fluffy pink-and-red kittens--

Happy VD! Follow these quick and easy tips so you have someone to hump!

GUYS. "Do not wait so late to buy a card that the only ones left are in Spanish," advises my dear friend Linda, cutting her husband Jorge a hard side-eye. Jorge is quick to retort, however--"To be fair, you were a Spanish major..."

Also--keep in mind that a see-through negligee is NOT a gift for her. Be honest here, boys.

LADIES. Please, for the love of God, do NOT give one of these stupid, fake "gift certificates." Either do it or don't, but this is just cruel:

DO give a gift from the heart, like this here love letter. Overlook the fact that this is a sad commentary on the state of our education system long enough to realize that we should all be so lucky as to have someone so infatuated with us that they almost write our names on a spelling test :

Have a great VD, y'all! Here's hoping there's a sweet face on the pillow next to you:

Shamon.

How To Feel Young

Tender, young, spring chickens--

Every second Saturday of the month, I follow the same routine.

I roll my old bones out of bed, put on my duster (that's "robe" to all you whippersnappers), and shuffle to the kitchen to put on some hot water for my decaf Sanka.

To ease into the morning, I will either do a crossword puzzle or--if my arthritis (prounounced arth-uh-RYE-tis) isn't acting up--I'll do some knitting.

Once I've taken the rollers out of my hair and sprayed it into an impenetrable helmet...

I fire up my Chevy Caprice, crank that AM radio, and burn rubber at 40 MPH.

And, even though I prefer to do all my grocery shopping on Saturdays at 6 in the morning, the second Saturday of the month is special. This is the day I make my way to my favorite fabric store for their free monthly sewing class.

Check out some of the hot meemaws in attendance:

(Sorry for the crappy, surreptitious photography, kids...)

This meemaw shared two pieces of info about her ensemble. One, she did not make her Valentine's sweater herself, but they are on sale at the Cracker Barrel, so you can get one for yourself or someone you love ("Ahhhhh," sighed the awe-struck crowd). And two, she knitted this scarf while she was in the waiting room at the doctor's office:

In case you're wondering what I did with the rest of my day, all the sewing meemaws and I had a late dinner at the Denny's--4 pm Early Bird Special--and I capped off the night with a little warm milk and "Wheel of Fortune."

Bonus: there are free refreshments, a  25% off coupon for everyone (good for that day only), and a raffle drawing for a $25 G Street Fabrics voucher (I've never won, dammit) and bingo after class. YES. I really go to these Free Sewing Saturdays. The information is good whether you're old or not, and this fabric store is expensive but fabulous, so the coupon is also welcome.

And, despite all my joking, I'll be the first to go on record and admit that I bow down to every single one of these hot meemaws. Seriously. The clothes they wear are pretty stereotypical, but during the show-and-tell portion of class, they show things they make for their grandkids and children, including adorable baby clothes, gorgeous prom and wedding dresses, and toys--one meemaw brought in a picture of at friggen TEEPEE she made for her grandson. Awesome.


Said the little boy, “Sometimes I drop my spoon.”

Said the little old man, “I do that too.”

The little boy whispered, “I wet my pants.”

“I do that too,” laughed the little old man.

Said the little boy, “I often cry.”

The old man nodded, “So do I.”

“But worst of all,” said the boy, “it seems

Grown-ups don’t pay attention to me.”

And he felt the warmth of the wrinkled old hand.

“I know what you mean,” said the little old man.

“The Little Boy and the Old Man” by Shel Silverstein