Drunk pool parties save lives, duh.

So you’re at Wendy’s, shoving chicken nuggets or whatever the fuck in your kids’ mouths and you meet a new friend. She turns out to resemble Wild Style from the Lego Movie, so we’ll just call her that. Suuuure, at first she resembles a sweet little woodland creature who you want to take home and make your pet… she has two small kids the same ages as mine, and she seems to parent with the same como se dice “spirit”, but she turns out to be a real badass bitch. And in the course of maybe two weeks, this bitch your friend.

A year goes by and lo and behold, she gets you to join the motherfuckin’ PTA.   The Parent Teacher Association. This bitch…. the PTA. I can’t even.

But I’m on it. I’m on the motherfuckin’ PTA now. Cuz of this bitch.

So here I am, a few weeks ago, at a PTA meeting. She’s talking about the budget, and I’m sexting my strength trainer. Suuuuuure, the budget for the childrens is very important but there are numbers and there was wine, so I’m sexting. It’s all good. It’s natural. It’s SCIENCE. And this is a STEM Magnet school my kid attends, so science is importante, no?

Now what I haven’t told you thus far is that this girl has a pool. And if you have kids and you know the level of murder that almost happens every night in the summer, you may understand just precisely what a pool means. People are HAPPY in the pool. The children are happy. They grown folks is happy. People are HAPPY.  Then you add some wines. You know mama likes the wines.  So you drink the wines and you play in the pool and everyone is HAPPY.

Moral of this story? Drink the muhfuckin wines in the muhfuckin pool with your muchfuckin kiiiiiiids and Jesus help us let’s bring the crime rate down.

Also, I luh dat bitch.

Cracka rap needs more ass.

The Food & Wine Hedonist recently asked me to write a music piece for his blog.  GO READ THAT SHIT. It’s about the white parent raps that go viral and annoy the shit out of everyone. BOOM!

CLICK HERE for some food and wine hedonism, sprinkled with commentary from yours truly about how people should eat shit.

I get sad when I see princesses that are ugly.

I realized this when I saw a picture of Princess Beatrice this week. I’m sorry Princess Beatrice. I’m sure you have a stellar personality.

I’ve been waiting for FIVE FUCKING YEARS to congratulate Katie Holmes for leaving Tom Cruise’s crazy ass. That stupid bitch made me wait longer than I thought! Turns out there was a contract or something. And *gasp!!!!* apparently scientology was partly responsible for the split. Um who didn’t see THAT coming???  Pfffffft.

Well, Katie, as an old married woman to a younger, less mature married (soon to be divorced) woman, I have some advice for you. After so many years, it can be a little rough getting back into the dating scene. You see a hot guy in a steaming hot parking lot, and all of a sudden your panties are wet and you get arrested for dry humping someone because it “wasn’t consentual”. (Although we all know that if he didn’t want my crotch on his leg, he wouldn’t have worn that old t-shirt and those perfect jeans. That slut.)  There are a whole lot of things you shouldn’t say to a man (or woman) upon this all-too-exciting reentry. Because you’ll get fucking arrested, Katie! I know they didn’t have restraining orders in Dawson’s Creek OR in the church of scientology, but this is the fucking real world, bitch.

Don’t say this shit:

“I wanna use your face like a thigh master.”

“What does a girl need to do to get you and your friend to Eiffel tower this bitch?”

“I wantchu to wear me like a mask.”

“It’s the end of the world and my pussy’s your only salvation.”

“I’d like to wrap my legs around your waist/head.”

“There’s a fire in my uterus and the only thing that can tame these flames is your semen.”

“My throat’s sore. I hear semen is good for that.”

“I can’t get pregnant from anal.”

“I want your penis in my vagina.”- (actually have used this one, then we got married!)

“Have you ever had a tuna taco?”

“Please put your coin purse on my crotch pocket.”

“My vagina would look awesome on your penis.”

“My lady balls would like to meet your man balls.”

“You’re getting my lady dick hard.”

“You’re making my lady balls tingle.”

“Hide your chocolate bunny in my Cadbury. I want the cream all over my face.”

“My nipples are hard, wanna feel?”

“No really, feel how hard my nips are. They could cut glass.”

“These are real, wanna feel? You need to feel with your mouth, that’s how you know for sure.”

“My clitoris would look good in your nostril.”

“Our lady balls should scissor.”

…………You’re welcome.

A special thanks goes out to doodoomamajuju and ‘trickdaddy for their contributions to this post. May the Lord bless you and keep you. May his face shine upon you and bla bla bla you know the rest.

Religious cults are solid foundations for the bad bitches.

I never thought that when I met one of the baddest bitches I’ve ever known, she’d turn out to share the same religious cult experience that I did during childhood. It’s a smaller Lutheran group, which apparently has shaped our souls into twisted abysses of rainbows and magic. I find her’s to be of a happier nature, while mine goes in the cynical direction, mocking every damned thing around me in a loving way that always ends in a drunken hug.  But I see her humor as the Yin to my Yang, birthed from a religious experience that I think of as the weird auntie that smells like bratwurst and has greasy bad hair, wears too-tight stretch pants in persistent wedgie fashion, always just walking out the door and yelling to her kids to get inside to take the dog out because it just shat in the living room, the poo crusting to the carpet while the baby sits in her crib next to a jar of spaghetti sauce, because apparently that belongs in a baby crib.  All of that inbred love hidden and wrapped up in a tight-lipped, hosiery-wearing church lady that never smiles, the soft scent of moth balls wafting in the air…  These are the foundations of our faith.

That’s okay, right?

Okay good.  Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, I would like to introduce you to K-Fedette, one of the baddest bitches in the United States of Amerrrrica.  While her creative genius brings you the following video, all you get from me is this fucking blog. …That simply posts her shit because I’m too lazy to come up with my own. It’s cool, I’m okay with it. Just makes me a PIMP.  I just don’t think I’ve ever seen such skill with flutes and hot pink jumpsuits.  Have I even lived until this moment?

Shit I found on Pinterest.

I have spent every available minute of the last three days in the abyss of happiness that goes by the name of Pinterest.  How can you blame me, assholes?  There is nothing that exists that is NOT on Pinterest.  And it’s way better than facebook because people don’t talk back to me when I post dumb shit they don’t approve of.  Needless to say, I’ve neglected some of the academic writing that I test out on this blog.  On top of that, I’ve been experimenting with sobriety. It’s okay, I guess. I think my love-handles are shrinking. But I don’t really have much to say when I’m sober. I just kind of sit back and enjoy life, instead of acting like such a goddamn asshole to all you muthafuckers. But knowing that you like when I talk dirty to you, I’ve decided to share some of my Pinterest-ing internet finds.

As much as I’d like to take some sort of credit for any of these hilarious gems, I simply can’t. Pinterest handed it to me on a silver platter of love.  And I like to take my cues from Mother Teresa and share that love with you now.  Click on the pictures and they’ll get bigger, darlings. If something doesn’t immediately stand out as funny… look closer. Except for Marilyn– it included her in the gallery but she’s just sexy. So I give you one ‘sexy’, and like eleven ‘funny’. Or ‘other’.

Several of these were on “People you wish you knew in real life.” Which I found on Pinterest. But it’s worth going there to peruse their findings.

Ri Ri Resurrection.

It has been a year of death, and it has been a year of fighting to live. For many people, all over the globe, and for my family.  I find peace in accepting death, participating in the struggle of life, and celebrating that messed up journey of pain and joy.  And I would never be able to make that journey alone.

Today I share with you:

~ Great use of garter belts

~ Big Mouth Billy Bass on the wall

~  Car spinouts

~ Razing buildings

~ Being honest with yourself when you do stupid stuff just because it feels good at the time. And then having the self-respect to admit that stupidity to yourself, and giving yourself the grace to move on.

Enjoy.

Sugardaddy serves a tool his “Last Supper”.

If you got a gun up in your waist please don’t shoot up the place (why?)

Cause I see some ladies tonight who should be havin my baby… baby…

‘Big Poppa’, Notorious B.I.G. (1995)

Today went down in the books as the “Maundy Thursday Massacre”, round these parts.

No later than 9 a.m. this morning I get a call from the manfolk of the house. He rarely calls me from work because, while I care for two small children who I love deeply and birthed from my own womb, he cares for 3 semi-useful yet mostly-douchey supervisors and 60 craft employees backed by a union that may or may not enable them to act like children, for which they cannot be fired.

He is a better person than I, because he seems to be able to productively manage the generally high level of bullshit he gets dished every single day, while working within the confines of these union contracts and the limited mental capacity of his management staff, who make it a point to fuck up all kinds of shit every single day, leaving Sugardaddy to clean up the mess. I’d just fight a ho. That’s just my style. But all of this makes very clear why he happens to be such a sweet and patient husband. This is just now dawning on me…

Anyways.  So he calls me this morning while the little people are still eating breakfast and I’m doing the dishes in my underwears, so I ask “What’s goin on?”  I thought for a moment I was wearing some kind of sexy lingerie after what I heard next.  “I just wanted to talk to someone who isn’t a complete fuck-up.”  What did I do to deserve such a compliment, you ask?  Someone’s gon get some tonight, beeeitches! Talk that romantic talk, Sugar. Mama like.

So he goes on to tell me of the bullshit disaster he walked into this morning because his 3 tool supervisors can’t tell their asses from the donuts they’re shoving into their faces.  When I excitedly asked if he was going to fire someone (I love that shit, I really do. I mean, I get hot from people getting fired), he said no, but he was going to tell one of them to pack up his shit and get the fuck out, because he wasn’t coming back to work at that station.

I wished him a happy Maundy Thursday.  He replied, “You bet your ass it is, because that guy just got his last supper from this place.”

Which brings me to my point: May the love of your lord and savior Jesus Christ bring you the peace that surpasses all understanding this weekend, as we remember his death and resurrection. Also, mayhap things would be a little better if we laid down our guns, and found some sexy ho to make love to, no?  Let the wisdom of Biggie Smalls rest in your hearts and minds this Easter weekend.

Prayer to Texas Fetus: May your parents’ substance abuse be efficient. Amen.

I’ve been trying to cut back on my alcohol abuse lately now that we’re poor. I’ve even downgraded from the “good” boxed wine to the fucking Franzia. At first I was pretty devastated, and started problem-solving this like some nerd mathematician, trying to apply Einstein’s theory of relativity so that I can manipulate me and the wine through space and time every 10 minutes and abuse the same substances repeatedly at the rate that I really feel like I should be able to every now and then, every night…

But you know, children are very spiritual beings. They are very in-tune to what is going on around them. Last night, out of nowhere, my little girls began to pick up on their desparate mother’s needs.  I think you could say they “became filled with the Spirit.”  After consuming just one glass of cheap red wine, the children saw, in all its glory, the ugly look of sobriety on my face.  They began speaking in strange tongues, which was followed by an uncanny chain of events that was startlingly similar to being… not sober, the events themselves only perpetuating the sensation.

First, this crackjob who clearly cuts her own bangs starts telling me about her preparations for “when the shit hits the fan” (in the apocalyptic sense of the term) and how she’s going to shoot her gang of cats in their brainstems because she won’t be able to take them with her… (where?? you ask?) to Mexico, because that makes a lot of fucking sense.  I think the girls were trying to show me with this that I’m NOT the craziest person in their lives… which relieves the guilt a little, honestly.

???? …

On top of that, I think they were also trying to reassure me in their childlike innocence that they’ve got enough sense to jump on an arctic polar bear and get the fuck to Canada or France or somewhere else where people are too wussy to kill each other.  My girls are gonna go all “Hanna” on that bitch muthafuggaaaaaaaaas. Which really does warm this little mother’s heart, in this day and age. Sweet children.

Then, they each took turns waking up about every hour and a half throughout the entire night. By 6 a.m. when I was just about to get a big sexy I-don’t-know, something awesome from Nicki Minaj in my dream, my 3-year-old comes into my bedroom and is all “Mommy I have to pee” in her high-pitched voice, and then can’t find her penguin game, and then wants to eat a cookie, and then needs her blankey tucked under the covers because it needs to sleep, and then is sweet enough to tell me that her baby sister is awake because seemingly I can’t hear the baby crying………. myself.

I stand up out of bed, and I am not lying to you when I say that this exact song and this exact set of imagery is all that is going through my head.

I know! I’m glad you’re not me too.  It was like an awful carnival without the delightful little midgets. I was dizzy. So…. do you think my children think their mom is a stupid ho?  Because that is the demon shit they planted in my head.  I almost just left them in my bed and took a cold shower to snap myself back into some illusion of normalcy. Or at least to wash the slutty off of me.    Then I bent down to pick up the baby, and she gave me this big toothless grin that says, “I love you, but I fucking OWN you.”

I finally got two cups of coffee down, which is what it takes for me to achieve enough denial to at least feel like I can handle life.

All of this is to say, little baby Texas Fetus, that you need to pull your weight around the house and, when times are tough and you know your mama needs more happy juice than is societally acceptable, call down your little spirit angels to help her get through it, and also make sure she doesn’t murder your daddy, because she’s going to want to do that.

In fetus’ name, Amen.

This is dedicated to my best buddy and his wife in Texas, who are expecting their first baby, and who will never sleep soundly at night again (at least until the kid moves out of the house), but who will know a deeper love than they ever imagined.

A Valentine’s blessing to the lucky Muslim man who wants to suckle his wife’s teat.

Every once in a while the good folks over at IslamicAdvice.com call me for input on particular matters. It’s a little-known fact that my opinions influence the lives of the more than 2.2 billion people in this world that fall under the broad category of “Muslim”. Sometimes different groups therein ignore my advice and just do whatever the fuck they want, but whatev. Hugs!

Today I’d like to respond to a lucky man who apparently likes his wife’s mama juice. It is unclear whether he is looking for simple nutritional supplementation to his already halal diet, or if he wants to incorporate the milk into their presumably kinky sex-play (I don’t know about you, but I have a hard time getting my sexy on when my baby’s in the room). But this good man wants to do the right thing–meaning– assist his wife in the process of nature’s liposuction so she can rock the shit out of that wajib bikini next summer.

He writes:

I just want to know if it is allowed in Islam for one’s husband to suck his wife’s milk while she is feeding milk to baby.

I have heard some one saying that a husband can suck his wife’s milk and that it is allowed.

Please respond in details.

Thanks,

Mubashar Khan

Dear Mubashar,

I’m not sure what you mean by “details”, but I’ll do my best to help a brother out.  I consulted with my associate, S-Dawg (Shaykh Muhammad ibn Saalih al-‘Uthaymeen), and he indicated that “breastfeeding a grown-up has no effect, because the breastfeeding which has an effect (of creating the relationship of mahram) is that which consists of five feedings or more within the first two years, before weaning. On this basis, if it happened that someone breastfed from his wife or drank her milk, he does not become her son.”  Praise be to Allah, am I fuckin’ right??!!

Then I texted my colleague, Big Taab (Umar ibn al-Khattaab), and he wanted me to reassure you that it’s ALSO still cool to have sex with your slave girl after your wife breastfeeds her.  He says to “punish her (your wife), and (continue to) go to your slave-girl, for (the ruling on) breastfeeding only applies to breastfeeding of infants.”  Happy fucking Valentine’s Day to YOU, my good man!  Looks like you’ll be gettin’ yers tonight!!!  Just please be gentle– those engorged breasts can be a bit tender.

And as always, please remember to practice safe sex, and stop by the drugstore for a few halal condoms. Do yourself a favor and try not to ruin this newfound good fortune by spreading the herp.

Salam,

Forty Ounce

The magic waddle, and other holiday miracles.

Gather ’round children. Listen closely as I tell you of something… magical… that happened just last night, as you sat unawares.

The superbowl has become much like Christmas to me, in the sense that its meaning is largely lost to other peripheral traditions (like nachos and dip, Geico commercials, and Madonna’s weird afro-sporting tightroping sidekick during the halftime show). And everyone celebrates it, whether you believe in football or not.  There’s a lot of buildup to the big day, resulting in an anti-climactic ending with one of the two teams winning, and one losing, which we all knew was going to happen anyway… like watching Aunt Marge get drunk and start to take her clothes off, then crying after cousin Wescott storms out after breaking the news that he got his redneck girlfriend pregnant with genetically disappointing twins.  The only way to really enjoy it, like most holidays, is to drink a lot of happy juice (which I did).

The actual viewing of the game is much like watching the Macy’s Christmas Day Parade, with all the floats, performances and irritating commentators ignorantly using phrases like “gaping hole”. I watch it every year because it’s tradition, and somehow I wouldn’t feel like a whole person if I didn’t. This is what society does to us, goddamnit.  We get used to believing lies, like the idea that Tom Brady and his gigantor forehead and discomforting hair-helmet is the least bit attractive. Sure, there are little highlights that make it all worthwhile, like Nicki Minaj and M.I.A. showing me their legs, Madonna and Cee-Lo singing “Like a Prayer“, taking me back to my early childhood like a sweet Christmas carol telling me of baby Jesus‘ birth, or the “asian guy” sitting in a bathtub filled with gold coins, all happy. I wish I were that happy…

But regardless of all those things, something magical always happens.  And this year, it was Bob Costas‘ waddle.

The Magic Waddle.

waddle  (wah-del)

1. (noun) – The part of skin that is sometimes flabby underneath one’s chin.

2. (verb) – To tap someone’s waddle with your hand, flat and outstretched, in an upward motion. Like tapping someone on their shoulder but in the opposite direction.

And, much like the fickle behavior of your crazy nephew determining whether or not he will receive presents that year, it is Bob Costas’ waddle, flapping gaily in the wind, that determines the fate of that much anticipated football game. May it ever blow in your favor.