I’ll Put Strychnine in the Guacamole. Or just Shank a Bitch. Or both. Good Idea. (AKA I’m gonna rant my ass off.)

You know what I hate?

I hate bitches who don’t know their place. Bitch gon’ try to throw me under the bus. What she has yet to figure out is I’m now driving that fucking bus. And she’s Target Numero Only. I was asked to advise my supervisor on a situation that has arisen. You see, apparently the company is hemorrhaging money (which is nothing new – but the source is new). And Queen Bitch is the primary suspect, only she’s doing what she always does: pointing fingers. She pointed fingers in both my direction and that of my former department. I was called into the meeting, and I stated clearly that this is the first I’ve heard of any issue (dudes, this issue is massive and jeopardizes our largest account…which would shut this subsidiary down, period). I explained exactly what the problem is and what needs to happen to fix it. Queen Bitched huffed and puffed, and guess what. Nobody’s fucking house blew down. But the air around us got suspiciously smelly. Next I’m called into my supervisor’s office privately, where he asks for my full analysis of the situation and what we should do to move forward. I didn’t even have time to be flattered, because I launched right into it. I don’t care anymore. I’m not here to placate Queen Bitch, and I’m certainly not interested in scratching anyone’s back or licking anyone’s ass. I carefully explained exactly why it is not in fact my former department’s fault, as it is QB’s responsibility to provide them with the information they need for the projects in question. When it looked like I was losing it, I brought out my secret weapon: an overstuffed folder full of the exact information QB used to provide to my former department. I had that shit because those jobs used to be my responsibility in that department. And because I strongly believe in good ole CYA (Cover Your Ass) in Corporate America, I still had all of it. So he’s shocked. “Queen….Queen Bitch did this? When you were in x department?” Yup. How else was I to know what the project consisted of? “B-b-b-but she says she’s never done anything of the sort.” *points to QB’s initials* She shoots. She scores.


Tomorrow should be entertaining. I really fucking hope that bitch steps up on me. I’m burning that bitch down.


You know what else I hate?

I’ll tell you why not. Because they’re ass sucking penis wrinkles. That’s why.

Motherfucking FedEx. Motherfucking FedEx put a heavyass box down against the porch today. Against it. Not on it. No no. It wasn’t on the porch. You know what it was on? My motherfucking twenty dollar azalea bush. You know, one of the ones I just fucking planted. Speaking of bitches that need burning down. Those motherfuckers are about to feel my wrath. Not that they’ll give a fuck. Still. I’m done being a doormat. I’m gonna practice telling motherfuckers off when they act like motherfuckers. Well guess what, I bet my mother has the herp. How do ya like me now, MOTHERfuckers?

You know what else I hate?

Motherfucking Comcast. I ditched AT&T for the same fucking reason I’m about to ditch your useless, lying ass. When your twatnose rep promises me something and you do the exact fucking opposite? Don’t act shocked when I ask for the number to your Retention Department. Heh. Didn’t think I knew about Retention Departments, did you? Think again, shit snorter. Where’s Ted Kaczynski when you need him? (Too soon for that kinda joke? Fuck you, I’m American. Apparently all I’m good for is getting thrown under buses and shooting people or blowing them up. Speaking of things I hate. Fucking douchecanoes.)

You know what else I hate?

That I forgot the rest of my list. There’s a lot to be said about making handwritten notes. Ahem, Ezekiel. Make fun of my handwritten lists. You little shit. So now I have something else to hate: my lack of post notes. Fucksticks.

Anyway. Yeah. Believe it or not, I’m in a pretty damn good mood. Now.

However. I Really Fucking Hope that rotted cuntwhore has the audacity to get in my face tomorrow. She will regret forgetting the last time we spoke, when I said, and I quote, “If you ever speak to me again, it should only be to apologize for what you’ve done. Otherwise, you keep my name out of your filthy mouth.” Oh yeah. That was a huge feat for Ms. Pushover. I finally allowed myself to stand up for myself, and that’s what came out.


Bonus thing I don’t give a fuck about: editing. Fuck editing. I’m letting this bitch fly. I’m all hardcore and shit.


Tuesday’s Gone (and It Took All My Fucks with It)

Tuesday was another of those “today sucks ass” kinda days. And I didn’t wanna talk about it on Tuesday, because I was too worked up about it. But I’m revved up and ready to uncork it now. Oh yeah. Let’s do this thang, chickenwang.

First Up: Neighborzuul

You remember her, don’t you? The crazy woman with the Shrine to Gozer? Yeah, that one. I don’t think I told you that she has her very own pair of Terror Dogs. Only these are yippy little fuckers. You know what I mean by yippy dogs? Those ankle-biting bastards.

Neighborzuul’s dogs look EXACTLY like this. Except they’re shorter. And they have long hair. And they’re white. But other than that, this is an exact likeness.

First of all, there’s a leash law here. But does Neighborzuul give a fuck? No, dears, she does not. And Neighborzuul’s Terror Dogs like to leave little shitbombs on every lawn but their own. I guess that old saying, “don’t shit where you eat” applies to them. Personally, I think Neighborzuul sends them on these shitmissions to do recon on all of us. So she can steal our souls and our geraniums.

And those little sumbitches bark incessantly. But I don’t really know what’s worse: them or her. See, because they aren’t fenced or leashed, Neighborzuul is in constant competition with her furry assholes to see who can shriek the loudest. It goes a little somethin’ like this:


Neighborzuul: Fuzzhole 1, COME HERE! Fuzzhole 2, COME HERE!


Neighborzuul: Fuzzhole 1, COME HERE! Fuzzhole 2, COME HERE! RIGHT NOW RIGHT NOW I MEAN IT!

Fuzzhole 1: YIP! YIPYIP! YIPYIPYIPYIPYIPYIPYIP! *shits some more*
Fuzzhole 2: YIPYIPYIPYIP GRRRRRRRRR YIPYIP! *shits some more*


The dogs are gonna be run over someday, fo’ real. And not because someone is gunning for them. But because they run in traffic, chase cars, trot down railroad tracks. I’ve seen them as far as a quarter mile from the house. And she just screams and screams at them. And if not that, then she’ll end up sued or some shit because they chase walkers, joggers, runners, parents pushing strollers, mailmen, unicorns, you name it.

So. That brings us to Tuesday morning. I’m listening to music, right? Just on my phone, because who has a stereo anymore? (If you do, I’m moving in.) Gathering my things and preparing to shower. It’s like…6:30ish A.M. I’m tired. I seriously had to drag my ass out of bed.


What the fuck is that.


Y’all I don’t go outside. Especially not in my nightwear. (No, pervs, I don’t wear lingerie to bed. But I’m modest – like really fucking modest – so I don’t go outside even in shorts and a tank top.) But I was so pissed. I could hear those little fuckers screaming over the music.

Are those bastards in my yard? Are they barking at the car?

Are they on my porch? ARE THEY HUMPING MY PORCH?

I flung that door open and barged outside. Those two little sumbitches. The weaker of the two (he’ll be eaten first) ran into the road as soon as I stepped onto the porch. The other one backed up maybe three feet. Then that little fucker dug in and alternately screamed and bared his teeth, growling. So what do I do? Y’all. I was pissed. Wild-eyed and ready to tangle.

I moved toward them. But I stopped when I got to the car.

Me: Go! GO ON NOW!

Fuzzhole 1: Grrr Grrr Yip Yip *pees a little*


Y’all. I am not exactly proud of this. I mean, I won’t be adding it to my resume, okay? But this has been going on for YEARS. I snapped. I was just trying to listen to my music. Is that too much to ask?

Neighborzuul finally emerges from her shrine and begins screaming for them to come back. I glared at her with all I had before wheeling around and going back inside to shower.

You wanna know the best part? My next door neighbor pulled out of his driveway as soon as I walked back onto my porch.

He had been in his car.


The whole time.

But somehow. Somehow. Tuesday only got worse from there. How? With glee. Why? Because on Tuesday? I couldn’t drive a fucking nail, much less a car.

If Life is a Highway, I Wrecked. On the Shoulder. Going 0.5 MPH.

I try to keep something quick for breakfast in the house. I take medicine in the mornings that is not supposed to be taken on an empty stomach. So I’ve been keeping these little muffins or granola bars – something, anything. I was out. So, I left early enough to stop at the store on the way to work.

I stopped. I shopped. I departed.

And as I was pulling out of the parking lot, wham. I hit a fucking car.

Did she fly out of nowhere? Nope.

Did she turn out of the opposite parking lot at the same time? Nope.

I’m quite certain she had been on that particular trajectory the whole fucking time. And like a fucking magnet, I was compelled into her driver’s side.

It looked exactly like this.

It wasn’t bad – there’s a scrape along my bumper on the right. But I was shaken up, big time. She smiled at me and waved AND KEPT FUCKING GOING.

Shaking (violently) and crying, I backed up and pulled back into the parking lot, parked the car, killed the ignition and waited. And waited. And waited. But she never came back.

I’m guessing she didn’t have insurance or was in a stolen vehicle or was running from the law for flicking a booger at a police officer. Point is, she didn’t come back.

Last but Certainly not Least: Long Live the Queen (much to my chagrin)

Then I arrive at work to this lovely news: that job the Queen Bitch recently applied for?

She didn’t get it. And commenced to willfully spoiling everyone else’s day.


So I’m stuck with her for the foreseeable future.


CliffsNotes Version: The clouds parted on Tuesday, and just as I looked up, the universe took a big dump on my face.

Thank Fuck Tuesday’s Gone.

The End.