I’m such a little ray of fucking sunshine… NOT

Methinks I met someone who has read Dr. Charlie’s book with too much enthusiasm.

I have been conspicuously absent from blogging and the coven of late.

I have a gazillion emails and blogs to catch up on.

Give me time, I will get there.

I’ve not been in the greatest mood lately.

Laughing has not been high on the agenda.

I’m about up to pussy’s frigging bow with a toddler who insists on wanting to know the ins and outs of a cat’s arse about everything.

If her mother doesn’t recover from killer morning sickness soon I think I shall sell the tiny terrorist child into slavery.

I so suck at this pseudo motherhood gig.

Whilst engaged in this parenthood jazz, I have found the decibel levels of a child are more tolerable in the great outdoors.

Two German Killing Machines, enough crap to keep small child amused and off to the park we go.

I attempt to read while Mini K climbs breathtakingly high up a tree.

She then screams, and I do mean SCREAMS

“GET ME OUT OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TREE”

Mummy types cover their offspring’s ears and shake their heads in horror.

Up said tree I go, tiny terrorist encircles hands around my neck, depriving me of oxygen.

I faint, she falls, hounds lick.

Why the fuck do dogs run over the top of you when you hit the deck?

Mummy types stay firmly entrenched on their plaid picnic rugs. Yeah, thanks for your concern, bitches.

Mini K runs off with the dogs.

I lay on the ground contemplating how many broken bones I may or may not have.

All was good, I sat my ass down again.

This time I decided to keep a closer eye on the tiny terrorist.

And I become observant.

Very damn observant.

The hounds are sniffing something putrid, deciding on whether it was rank enough to roll in

And in he strolls.

Pervert meter goes haywire.

Some random fucktard decides he will give Mini K a horsey ride.

Like hell you do, fucker.

Mummy types, shoving shit into their useless faces are oblivious to this.

I’m not, and I break the world land speed record getting to Mini K.

“I’m a dad” creepy fucktard declares.

“I don’t care who the fuck you are” I say through gritted teeth, “Touch the kid, I tear out your heart”

Mini K asks a gazillion questions, I bluntly tell her

“Strange men in parks want to play with your private parts”

“But he said he was a dad” she whimpers.

“He’s not your dad, he’s a stranger”

No more was said. Enough park for one day.

I pause, I reflect, I flip it the bird.

I pause, I reflect, I flip it the bird.

Is the world being overtaken by asshats.

The Mistress is dealing with asshats of gigantic proportions.

You know the type… Little fucking Hitlers, full of their own self impotence importance. Read about them over at her place.

Farkin’ asshats.

I can fully empathise with the Mistress over asshats who think they’re fecal matter smells like blossoms.

Where I work, they’re called surgeons.

Pumped up, cognac swigging, oh hail the Mighty Ones, look at me asshats.

Sure, they’ve trained a long, long time to get where they are.

But does that mean that they become God to all and freakin’ sundry?

And if one of the egomaniacs calls me ‘girly’ one more time, he will require rectal surgery to remove something sharp and stabby.

Farkin’ asshats.

Am I the only person on earth…

that doesn’t give a flying fuck that Michael Jackson is dead?

He meant shit to me.

I did not like his music.

I did not like his crotch grabbing silliness.

I thought he was a cute kid who turned into a freak of nature.

I do not care that he was acquitted of ‘that’ crime. He ‘liked’ kids way too much.

OJ was acquitted of murder. Was he innocent?

Am I being incredibly cold that I find this outpouring of grief over someone who hasn’t contributed squat to the musical scene for years, over the top?

Have I no musical taste?

He was the ‘king of pop’?

He could dance, he could make high pitched sounds, and he had enough money to have uber expensive film clips produced.

Hmm, I shall make a comparison here.

If a restaurant is BYO, it has to rely on its food to be good.

If a restuarant has an extensive wine list and the punter is half pissed by the time he gets his meal, he could be eating cat food.

Michael Jackson’s clips were all razzle dazzle.

Would the music have been ‘all that’ without the visuals?

Anyway, I digress.

Michael Jackson’s death means nothing to me.

I will not have the “I remember where I was when I heard of his passing”

My dad remembers where he was when John Lennon died. He said time stood still and he had to consciously remember to breathe.

He remembers being a tiny little boy when JFK was liberated of his brain.

He remembers being in his first car with his friends, driving to Germany when he heard of the passing of Elvis. They had to pull the car over. They sat there in silence for the longest time.

I asked him what he thought about the passing of Jackson.

He said, “Sick little fuck was on the drugs that killed River Phoenix”

I giggled.

The passing of Michael Jackson means nothing to me.

But I know some really funny jokes that have come out since his demise.

*giggles*

My life is an enigma wrapped in a tortilla.

Is this how swine flu started?

It has nothing to do with this particular piece of rambling; although it does amuse me.

I realise small children need to learn and one learns by asking questions.

Why the hell do they follow you around and want to know every damn thing about everything.

I was prepared for Mini K’s question about how was the baby going to get out of mummy’s tummy. What I was not prepared for was, “How did the baby get in mummy’s tummy?”

It’s not like I can use the ’special hug’ bollocks; nor can I say “when a mummy and a daddy love each other” jazz…

Nor can I confuse the child by telling her that I, a female, knocked up her mummy.

What does one do in such a situation? One lies?

I said, “Mummy prayed to the goddess and she is now having a baby”

Her little eyes narrow and she says,

“Mummy is apeist (atheist)”

Mini K did inherit more than her mother’s eye colour, damn it.

I sit her down, take a deep breath and say,

“Ask your mother”

You bet I’m a chicken. I couldn’t be more chicken if an egg flew out of me.

While I have your attention, I shall do a promo for some brilliant writing. Check out the delicious Naomi’s chilly tale DEAD (ish)

Naomi provided a link, but for some reason it does not work on my blog.

So whip over to Naomi’s blog to find DEAD (ish)

Take this job and shove it.

This job being motherhood.

Albeit, only temporary motherhood.

It sucks.

I have had the joyous task of being the caregiver of ‘Mini K’ as her mother cannot venture too far from the porcelain throne.

She is rivalling Linda Blair for the best puke scene ever.

So dipshit (that would be me) inherits the kid and all the fun it entails.

What the fuck is it with pre-school teachers and the ‘voice’?

That nasal, monotonous tone their voices take on.

Is there a subject at uni, or wherever these critters train, that teaches them ‘Nasal Drone 101′?

I was firmly chastised by Nasal Drone Pre-School Teacher for the punishable by death crime of forgetting Mini K’s sunhat.

A five minute lecture on ‘no hat, no play’ was delivered by the woman that made my eyes glaze over.

The little voice inside me said, “silence her” and I ignored the temptation to snap her neck.

So I listened to the on and fucking on lecture about ‘no hat, no play’

I then broke the other golden rule of this fine institution of macaroni necklaces and incontinent toddlers.

I pointed out to Nasal Drone Pre-School teacher it was ‘pissing down’ outside and unless the children were building an ark, they wouldn’t be going outside.

She looked at me like I had taken a dump on story time mat.

The mothers looked at me in shock.

Children giggled.

I suck at motherhood.

Someone likes my pretties.

Now who’d have thunk it, kids?

Someone likes this collection of drivel so much that they’re clicking on every picture I’ve included in it.

Isn’t that peculiar?

I wonder what fascinates them so much?

I wonder if the pictures are going to end up somewhere else?

I wonder if they’ve saved them to their computer or they will hotlink?

But someone has spent an awfully long time checking out the pictures.

I do wonder about some people.

But I’m a caring and sharing gal.

I will give them another one to add to the collection.

And it’s so much quicker than gas.

Toodles.

All my customer eat pussy.

But it leaves a furry aftertaste in the mouth.

It makes me cough when I swallow it, but it’s never made my skull shit. I’ve had some screaming shit float around in my skull; although, to the best of my knowledge my skull has never shit. What a fucking interesting concept.

If it’s crunchy, see a doctor.

Do not put it where? I think Rover needs more liquid in his diet if he’s shitting pellets.

And last but not least…

Heh, in Asian countries many a cu.. we know the word is a good way to earn some cash.

Now you may ask, “what is the point of the pics?”

Fuck all, actually.

I just felt like amusing myself.

Especially with ‘racist’  humour.

After all, our Queen Bee of the coven is a nazi.

So she has been so reliably informed.

And as our Queen Bee and myself are conjoined twins – intent on destroying the life of a cyberpest, I suppose I should do some Asian humour.

The Queen Bee is apparently calling “Death to all Jews”

For fuck’s sake…

Does the drama never end in this bint’s stupid mind?

Nazi? Get a fucking grip, “friend”

Public Service Warning: Don’t do drugs!!!

Drugs, such a bad, bad thing.

Unless they’re the really good shit.

I’m talking about the legal crap.

God farkin’ damn… do the bastards in the pharmaceutical companies sit around in their white coats and plan this crap?

I’ve recently been prescribed a drug that I’m sure was concocted in some backyard lab by a freakazoid who is part Timothy Leary and part Dr. Frankenstein.

Gebus wheezus, if I wanted to watch the walls melt, I would be visiting one of the local lads who do business outside nightclubs.

I DO NOT WANT TO WATCH SOMEONE’S FACE MELT WHEN I AM AT WORK.

Unless I have specifically taken to it with a flamethrower.

I do not need to have the feeling the floor is moving when I walk.

And for the love of all things sacred… I do not need to have an erotic dream about Barack Obama, a cheesecake and Mr. Ed.

Don’t fucking ask… I’m still in shock.

Anyway, that’s me unloading my drama about drugs.

I’m back from my small decline into my own misery.

I shall be back to reading your blogs and business as usual in a few days.

Ciao.

Ranty Ranty Rant!!!!

Don’t you just love people who state the bleeding obvious?

Well yes, people do die if they are killed. You will die slowly if I gut you like a fish, hang you by your fat ankles and let you bleed out.

Shit, that would be quite scenic, dontcha think?

Ooo, ignoring that cold shiver of delight, I shall proceed with my rant.

I’m bone weary tired.

I’m so tired I could sleep through anything.

I was enjoying a wee nap while Mini K watched Dora the Fucking Explorer (yes, that’s the new official title… use it if you like) for the gazillionth freakin’ time.

Then I hear the hounds bark and the tiny terrorist is in my face, informing me

“There’s someone at the door. WAKE UP“

Cheerfully I leap from my blissful slumber.

Bahahahahaha… nobody would buy that crap.

I drag my tired ass to the door and there they are… blood sucking leeches… salespersons.

They launch into their spiel about the out of control crime rate in my suburb.

The whole shock and awe crap was going full force.

I yawned, scratched, yawned again.

They wanted to enter my abode to talk to me about the whizz bang super fucking dooper security system they were trying to flog off.

I flipped the bird.

Male salesperson says,

“When you’re dead you will regret not taking security seriously”

Female salesperson chimes in with,

“When people are killed they are dead”

I smile, I couldn’t help it.

Female takes a step backwards.

I reply to their scare tactics with,

“For real? I did not know that. Fuck me, I thought if I was killed I could hit the reset button and whooshka, I’m back.  Oh NOES!!!! you mean it’s game over?”

Male salesperson says,

“You’re not taking this seriously at all”

I say one word to end this conversation,

“MORMONS”

The German Killing Machines leap at the screen door; fur bristled and teeth showing.

Of course I take security seriously.

And I dislike door to door fucktards.

Game over.

Screw Up Tuesday

Yes, that day again.

The day the Mistress wants us to admit how woefully we can screw up.

Heh, not my week, this week.

This week is dedicated to my Bunny.

The weekend just passed his birthday happened.

I had planned all forms of frivolity, amateur gymnastics, and shitloads of bonding.

I had begged, pleaded, wept and offered to bare my breasts for a weekend off – which I achieved.

So where was my Bunny?

Spending the weekend having happy birthday sung to him by his parents.

Hmm, I could post some interesting pictures of him on my blog.

Tempting, tempting, tempting…

But no, I shall be good.

I shall share with you all my feelings about men at present.

Failures? You fuckin’ betcha.

THE DADDY FAIL:

Father and daughter bonding in this family must be interesting. *giggles*

THE HANDYMAN FAIL:

C’mon ladies… how do we not piss ourselves laughing at inept men?

ATHLETIC FAIL:

Nothing like a good face smack to amuse the pissed off woman.

UNCO FAIL:

‘Cause the only way you can hit the mark is on a Wii.

WARFARE FAIL:

‘Cause it’s so damn funny. Take that, asshat.

Ah, I feel so much better now.

There you go, Mistress. I’ve offloaded my angst.

Anyone else got a screw up of their own to admit.

Hehehehe… suck rocks, Bunny.

You had to know I would do it.