thepissedkitty

Happy Birthday, Mangey…! I hope that you do whatever the hell you damn well please, up to and including slinging (used) tampons at those shriveled twats, Spit and Spat (a wonderful party game of her own invention). Huzzah! How delightfully festive-!

But hey now, this has gone too far.

These badly scanned “free samples” are a violation of public decorum. Please note the content of the illegible copy (below the “flower”) is: LIFT HERE and take a breath! No WAY. Yes, way.

It is ironic that I am saying this on Mangey’s birthday, but I beg of you - DO NOT INHALE.

I picked these scratch ‘n sniff cards up at the SavOn, yes, of my own volition - but they were RIGHT THERE, in PLAIN VIEW. Where everyone could see, basically IMPLORING PEOPLE TO SNIFF THEIR CROTCH PRODUCTS.

Not to mention that it is morally, ethically, and physically wrong to forcibly inject artificial perfumes into your beloved pants-orchid. It probably increases your risk of cervical and asscancer.

It’s sick. It’s degrading. And, in the name of common decency, I will not stand for it.

So…I’m sitting down.

(For the record, Poon Fairy #1 smells like a recently showered can of Glade Fresh Snatch ‘n Twat; Fragrance #2 is more like FDS meets FTD: a vag that has recently frolicked through a grassy field of synthetic flowers and maybe had a bouquet shoved up itself.) Now I have a headache.

Thanks a lot, Procter & Gamble. You owe me $7 for Extra-Strength Tylenol. And stay out of my stank cooze…! It is just fine how it is.

Who smelt it, dealt it.
Who denied, supplied.

Excuses, excuses.
Why am I always trying to blame my own personal reek on others…? It’s true. We have a stinky, stanky guard who sometimes uses my chair. The girl who was here before refused to let him sit in hers; she used to make him get his own chair. I thought that was rather degrading, so I don’t give him a hard time. I just Lysol the hell out of everything when he is not looking.

This morning, I set right away to Lysoling and de-funkifying, but it still smelled like ass. Worse than ass, actual stool. Daaaaamn, that guy needs to forget about wiping and just shower, I thought, but the horrid green-tinged stench was damned persistent. I then commenced to mop the floor with a wad of moist towelettes when I realized…it was me. I had stepped in a dog bomb. More like a dog land mine or a dog IED. The remainder of which was clinging tenaciously to my shoe.

Oh, shit. It’s shit.

My stepmother had a similar episode when she first brought my sister home from the hospital. Being quite the extravagant types, she and my father immediately decided to go out for a nice Mexican dinner. WITH A NEWBORN BABY. Brill.

They were about halfway through the meal when a curious odor emerged. Oh, how interesting! What culinary essence was this? Curry? Mole sauce…? No. Sniffing around, totally oblivious to what smelled like…could it be? Then, my stepmother, being a new mom, decided it was a good idea to stick her hand down my sister’s diaper.

“Oh, shit. It’s shit,” she told my father, still incredulous.

I don’t know what else she thought would be in there (considering her overly high opinion of my sister’s talents, probably diamonds and orchids), but there you go.

For all you other rocket scientists out there, the old saying holds true:

If it smells like…looks like…tastes like…feels like…

It probably is.

Shit.

I made the mistake of wearing boxers to bike to work today and was nonplussed when they decided to go on an expedition up and over Thigh Bulge, so by the time I got to work it looked like I was wearing a weird male panty. And just in time to run into my boss.

(And by the way, DOG LEG WARMERS!)

I guess that’s why they designed bike shorts, although those hazard the double threat of a pantyline, if you wear underwear (damned if you do) and the feared and loathsome camel toe (damned if you don’t). I think I’ll just stick to these, thanks. Ooh, and these are cute. I might need to start wearing ‘em at my desk, anyway, for those “special” times, when no one comes to break me. Grr. Woof.

Maybe my boss will spring for a box of these.

But what I really want for Christmas, even though I’m a Jew, is one of these. It’s supposed to tell dogs where to go.

How useful-! The potential for mischief is great. I think I’ll plant one on the grave of anyone who pisses me off.

You know what to do, boys.

I don’t care how cheerful you are in the morning. Please keep it to yourself.

Can not stand people who insist on noticing things on my person, trying to make conversation, breathing, or generally being chipper with me before 4 PM. Granted, they could probably say, Congratulations! YOU WON TEN MILLION DOLLARS-! Here is free money and sex! and I would still snarl at them at this hour.

I need time to settle, and to notice whether or not I have clothes on, and/or if they are inside-out, or if there is an entire cat adhered to my rear which I may have overlooked. I am not Captain Observant in the morning. Most likely, I will not notice if there is an eye booger the size of King Kong teetering precariously from my eyelash until it falls into my coffee because, damn it, I needed that coffee.

Also, as I was riding to work on my Schwinn Steel Alloy2000 Plus for the Larger-Pantsed Lady, I hit a puddle and some of the dirty caca water splashed up and into my mouth.

Guess that’s what I get for having it open.

1.) A pair of discarded pants, but I see this so often I have stopped speculating about what happened to the former owner of the pants. Venture to guess that it is a common gang ritual to drive folks around and de-pants them as a form of hazing for new initiates. Also believe that the local scuzzy carwash is a drug front and is used to dispose of evidence, as there seems to be a steady supply of orphaned personal items scattered thereabouts.

2.) Alas, the Lone Cucumber. Actually, the whole cucumber I saw lying all by its lonesome in the middle of the street by the grocery store turned out to have a brother and a sister close by, left to rot on the sidewalk. Sadly, the girl cucumber did not make it, because someone had eaten her ass half, so the cuke body count is now up to 2.5 gourds. R.I.P. Cucumber Girl. I briefly considered drawing a chalk cucumber outline around her, but I actually don’t want to be thrown in with the loonies in case the new mayor decides to do a roundup or something.

Attention, Mayor Villaraigosa: there is a cucumber looter amongst us. His M.O. is to run into Von’s, fondle, then abscond with two or three cukes, stuffing them down his pants, and then flee down the street, occasionally whipping one out to gnaw on, unless his plan is thwarted by a gang of irate produce managers, in which case he jettisons the injured cukes into the street and disguises himself as a potted plant in the floral department. Beware, the Cuke Looter is armed and extremely nucking futs.

3.) A bright blue reservoir tip condom. It was kind of halfway in between a cobalt and an electric blue. It caught my eye and was rolled up to the tip so I didn’t know what it was at first. I just thought, durrr, ooOOoh…blue PRITTY!! and almost bent down to pick it up. Eyyyyarrrgh-! Wringing wrists in horror, recoiling from imaginary prophylactic that I almost touched. Fortunately, it did not appear to be used. Not that this explains its naked, unsheathed state…

4.) Freak of the Week: down by the carwash, this guy with no shoes on (it’s 7,000 degrees centigrade out) stepping on some dead Slurpee containers and holding his arms out for balance, then walking veeerrrrry slowly, as if thinking, “whooooa. My flesh boiling on the hot street feels sooooo goood.”

I suspect drugs. Specifically, E.
And, gentlemen, I think we have our gang hazing victim, cucumber thief, and blue rubber litterer, all rolled into one crazy, hazy, crunchy burrito of fun. I think I shall gift-wrap him neatly in cellophane and send him to the mayor’s office.

Case closed.

Well, today I want you to stand up and hold your hands in some stupid symbols./ You’re going to get up and scream./You’re going to get up and burn an “X” in your head…
-White Zombie, Real Solution #9

Today, it might well be hormonal - but I feel like going on a rump roast rampage, and biting every male authority figure in the butt. Especially the one who calls me “ma’am”. Goddamnit, I’m THIRTY, you twat! Now f— me or I’ll stab you in the back with this pointy cat turd I just so happen to have here in my pocket.

Yes, I’m stark, raving, violently slap-happy today, ready to pelt your unsuspecting juicybutt with small lumps of dried feces, if necessary. But only if you are 1) male, and 2) pissing me off, such as by having a penis and refusing to share. Selfish rat bastids-!

Thanks to the Joy of Menstruation, today my transformation into The Crazy Cat Lady is complete-! RRROOOOOOWWWRRRRRR-!!!

Evidence:
1) I will fucking kill you for calling me a crazy cat lady.

2) We need to buy a cat flap to keep the air conditioning in the bedroom! Except I think we need a bigger one, ‘cuz this cat looks stuck! How do we know it’s not a cat slicer-dicer…?

3) I couldn’t get this damn song out of my head this morning as I was biking to work, wondering whether the sudden cramping was from gas or…

Or…(.) But enough about my “.”

Er, as some of you may know, I do not enjoy graphic descriptions of sex, particularly when I know, but am not attracted to, the person(s) involved. It is basically a visual I don’t want, and about as sexy to me as the slime from the slobber from one of the aliens from the Aliens! movies. In sum, I would rather hear a nice shit story. At least everybody shits, and I don’t have to picture gross people doing it. Hwarf.

Such unwelcome images are like the ones in this song. This song is possibly the most disgusting song ever written by The Red Hot Chili Peppers, who I used to like before they got all corporate rock-y (I love it when rich people sing about their problems) and the lead singer refused to sleep with me. Never mind that I’ve never met him - HE SHOULD HAVE KNOWN.

And if I ever did uh, “meat” Anthony K., I would have to gently throttle him for being responsible for the following lyrics (I apologize in advance to any lurking aunts and/or 15 year-old girls):

Deep inside the garden of Eden
Standing there with my hard-on bleedin’

MAKE IT STOP…!

…there’s a devil in my dick and some demons in my semen!

QUiiiiiiT IT…!

Booty looking too good not to be squeezin’!

(Hi, Mom…!)

THIS IS THE WORST SONG EVER…! And here comes the worst part…!

Creamy beaver, hotter than a fever-!

Seriously, you guys? This pops into my head at the least appropriate times. Unfortunately, it rhymes, and it’s damned catchy, but I cannot be grocery shopping with my grandma when creamy beaver, hotter than a fever! pops up. It is just not right.

Grandma: We need what…?!?

I do not want creamy beaver! Hotter than a fever! any time, not really. If I wanted that shit, I would have gone to Catholic school…!

(I am not saying that I have never had creamy beaver, hotter than a fever! I am just saying that creamy beaver, hotter than a fever! is fucking with my mind, and, unlike only rock ‘n roll, I don’t like it.)

Creamy beaver, hotter than a fever!, you are no longer welcome in my cabeza. GET OUT. Do I have to hire an exorcist, or what…?

Moral of story? Never listen to this song, which is from Blood Sugar Sex Magik (not a diabetic treatment - fuck you, Yahoo!) [PARENTAL ADVISORY - EXPLICIT LYRICS] by The Red Hot Chili Peppers. Thank you.

I will now run down the hall in search of juicy, tender, male loins and butts to bite, nonsensically yelling the other most inappropriate thing I can think of:

Boy cock, girl cock, E-I-E-I-O! - some guy on Curb Your Enthusiasm.

Don’t ask.

Gladys brought up an interesting point in her comment. I asked her how her mom, unlike her sisters, manages not to be such a bitch. However does she do it? She replied,

First it was vodka; now it’s twice-weekly AA meetings.

Oh, and she goes to church every day.

Well, stick a flag to my ass and call me The United States of Assmerica. In the case of our mothers, I actually understand why they would hit the bottle/Jesus/yoga/their sisters. They actually need these things in order not to go completely poop-flinging bonkers.

But some people - people with more money than sense, for example - must need to have it pounded into them, every day, with the big book of How Not to Be An Asshole.

Now, I am not - believe it or not - anti-church. I think it is very charming, if you can get up on a Sunday, and put on pantyhose, and threaten your offspring when they won’t get up…and then finally bribe them with the promise of donuts if they would only go to church, and you all pile into the station wagon and drive to a house of worship, of love, because we are all God’s children…until your granny sees a black man out the window, and exhaling her Virginia Slim, says, “WHAT a sad sack.” On the way to church, no less.

Sure, I can kind of see the point. People enjoy feeling self-righteous even in their hypocrisy. And the kids are only in it for the donuts, the damn little sugar fiend perverts.

But.

Whatever it takes to get you not to be an asshole is what you need to do.

Therefore, I am certainly not anti-AA, either. I know many friends of Bill W. They are all great people, they just have extremely addictive personalities. And I commend them for doing whatever they need to do in order to avoid being professional drunken assholes for a living.

However.

I do not think that, just because they didn’t get drunk and go to work, or drink alone, sobbing, at the bottom of their closet full of soiled underpants, or die after colliding at 90 mph into a telephone pole, that they deserve to have an additional birthday. They are just lucky they get to have another natal birthday after pulling that shit. NO.

Several of my fine friends in treatment have jerked me around on this one. They’re all, “it’s my ’sober birthday’ tomorrow” (batting of eyelashes), so like an asshole, I go out and get them something, and feel all philanthropic about myself until, one week later, they’re all, “it’s my real birthday today!”

Attention, Alcoholics of America: I am NOT getting you TWO presents, TWO cakes, TWO cards, and TWO strippers JUST BECAUSE YOU ARE A MOTHERFUCKING ADDICT.

I am no Dr. Laura. I do think it is a disease, not a character flaw, but for God’s your Higher Power’s sake, get another alcoholic, like your dad, to buy you a happy little balloon, because I am not responsible for your substance abuse problem. In fact, buy your own goddamn cake. (Maybe it will sop up some of the liquor.)

As Cranky says, “it is not my fault they don’t know how to drink.”

Therefore, because I did not kill an alcoholic today, or commit adultery, or get married, for that matter, or have a partial-birth abortion, or shoot smack, or fuck a poodle, or smoke a cigarette, or wipe out the entire human race…I want a damn cake. Also a damn medal. And a blow job. And some money.

Gimmie.

I’m sorry, but I am going to have to complain about my family now. You can go if you want.

The provocation for this poo explosion was my mother’s birthday, which was yesterday. Can her family not be shitty to her, just for one day…? No.

This will sound harsh, but you’ll see why.

My mother has four sisters and no brothers. I have no idea why, they’re not Catholic or anything. (In fact, I don’t know what the hell they are, because we’re such heathens.) Apparently, nobody taught them how to share. They fight like pit bull puppies and there’s never enough of anything to go around.

Sucked for my grandma. The last two were basically twins, born less than a year apart. I think they were both a mistake. This is probably why my grandmother tried to shoot herself in the head that time.

Mom is the oldest, and the only one who isn’t married anymore and doesn’t have any family of her own (me) in the area. She is also the one who takes care of my grandparents most of the time. Sucks for her.

These are her ugly, I mean, other sisters:

1) Stuffy: A lawyer. My grandma’s obvious favorite. Does she have to rub it in…? Moved out of town so she can still pretend to be the good daughter while staying the f— away.

2) Fluffy: The whiniest person on Earth. Seems really unpleasant, but this is just her normal personality. How she has such a nice husband is beyond me. Tries to tell my mom what to do from Colorado. She keeps a safe distance to avoid having to clean up any poo.

3) Muffy: Control freak and the owner of an master’s in family therapy (oh, the irony). She is really f—ed up, but doesn’t know it. Has a giant head. Thinks she is the boss of everything. Also has screwed me over on multiple occasions. Once came all the way out to L.A. and was happy to take my Disneyland tickets, but didn’t even stop to say “hi” for 5 mins. And she was just 2 blocks away.

4) Shit-for-Brains: My grandma even says she ran out of brains when she got to Girl #5. Married a truck driver, screwed that up by cheating with Blowhard the Wonder Windbag, had 4 kids, stays at home and complains and cries poor while blowing their wad on an above-ground pool at Wal-Mart. Has 30 dogs and a ferret, plus some turtles she stole from a state park, and decorates their house with crap and Confederate flags. F—ing kill me. And by the way, her husband told my cousin his black girlfriend wasn’t allowed in the house. And my mom’s boss is employing another of the boys this summer and now Blowhard is mad ‘cuz he really wanted his stepson to go get himself killed in Iraq as soon as possible. I guess he figures that way he can buy more Copenhagen and beer. That alimony ain’t gonna pay itself.

Oh, and between them, there are about 20 thankless grandkids who come over, eat all their food, break things, and then leave without offering to take out the trash or put down the toilet seat or anything which would help save my crippled grandparents 30 mins. of extreme pain and exertion.

Nice family, huh…?

Anyway, I’m going to fly Mom out as soon as I can for a vacation away from this crap. Her uncle is terminally ill but well enough to travel I guess so he was coming to see my grandma, etc. in San Antonio, but Ugly Sister #1 (Stuffy) hijacked him out from under them and now he’s flying to Ft. Worth, instead. How do you hijack an octogenarian in a wheelchair?! Well, they did.

Stuffy: You can come, too…

Yeah, right. Who would take care of my poop-flinging grandpa?! My mom, again?

Stuffy: Oh, no. Fluffy’s flying in to stay with Daddy.

Great, Stuffy. Nice of you to tell that to my mom. Obviously you planned this whole bullshit shenanigan behind her back. By the way, I hate you. And I hope Grandpa has the squirts when Fluffy comes to visit, and all the local drugstores are sold out of adult diapers. It’d serve her right.

Now Mom is terribly disappointed that she doesn’t get to see Unc so I’m bringing her to San Diego. Oh, and last week, her other douchebag of a sister (Muffy) talked my grandma out of letting Mom’s boss rent the shop, which has only been gathering dust since my grandpa became legally blind and senile, so my mom could work over at my grandparents’.

They would have made $$$ off of it (they’re not well-off) and then instead of having to run all over tarnation, my mom would be there (again) the next time my grandpa decides to poo on the floor and then slip and fall and wallow in it, so my mom twists her knee trying to pick him up, but she can’t do it, so they call 911, and they get him up, then she gets him bathed but still has Grandpa poo all over her, so she gags and throws up on herself, but NO.

Even that is not enough for them.

Ugly sister #3 MUST BE IN CONTROL. I guess my mom didn’t ask for her permission, first. Who died and made her Grandma…? Bitch.

I hate them, they are horrible to her. They all have husbands and families of their own to boss around, which is their own stupid fault for being lame enough to live with them. My mom can’t help being related to these crappy people; she has no one. Why they can’t show her an ounce of consideration when she is the one taking care of their parents 90% of the time, I have no idea.

She makes me glad to be an only child. Of hers. That we know of.

Okay, these things are hard evidence that I’m turning into my Grandma Esther, but I don’t care. They are freaking infuriating.

1) Restaurants Which Don’t Let You Have Anything That is on the Menu. This makes me go fucking bonky because you know the one thing I was interested in is only going to be served after 3 PM (brunch) and before 4 PM (because apparently, there is one guy who thinks dinner should be served at 4:30).

For chrissakes, people. Use separate menus if you don’t want your patrons to stab you with a dirty butter knife. Or just walk out, which is what I would do if I had my druthers.

Also, places which keep things on their menu WHICH THEY NEVER HAVE should be shot and hung out to dry over their disused waffle irons. TAKE THAT SHIT OFF THE MENU if you aren’t going to serve it, you withholding assholes. I know you only keep it on there to torment us. Get some freaking Liquid Paper and cross it out, I don’t care.

On one of my first trips to California, I almost started crying because the waiter at Millie’s “Service with a ‘Fuck You’” positively snarled at me. I guess I was supposed to know they didn’t serve pancakes on Saturday (wha…?) That and the fact that I once found a dreadlock in my omelette makes me hope that the health department shut them down forever right after spitting in their grungy faces.

2.) Places of Business Which Lock Their Restrooms. I know this is L.A., and if office buildings, bookstores, etc. left their bathrooms wide open, ten homeless people would immediately move in and squat in the joint, grocery carts full of miscellaneous, malodorous shit and all. But honestly, people. When you’ve gotta go, you’ve gotta go. Particularly the elderly, like me, do not want to be running for the border, thinking they are going to make it to the can in time, only to be faced with a locked door - and then having to run around with their legs crossed, hopping up and down, to three different desks before they finally locate The Unholy Desk of The Ungodly Dispenser of Restroom Tokens, only to learn that this hateful person has just gone on break.

Do NOT do this to me, establishments. I’m not naming names (Borders), but unless you WANT me to soil your brand-new ugly-assed carpet right next to the Health and Well-Being section…and I just ate Korean again, so this is no idle threat.

By the time Grandma Esther and I are through with you, you will learn to design your stores with the restrooms on the ground floor, right next to the entrance. Or ELSE you will SUFFER…substantial carpet-cleaning bills.

Thank you.

1) Naughty bits: Sergei is accepting nekkid pictures for the occasion. I don’t know about from dudes but I encourage you to show him your dong, because I am evil like that.

2) Kibbles ‘n Bits: please enjoy this dancing dog. Even though he looks kind of taxidermied. Get down-! No, really. Get down, doggie.

3) Nostril bits: did you know there are extra-large Breathe Right Nasal strips for people with a little extra in the snout department…? I did not.

4) Goat bits: I like iced tea. At Central Market in Austin, I had a tea called “Metabolic Frolic.” I could use some more of that, but I have to make do with bottled tea. From the cap of my current favorite, Honest Tea: Tea names we considered and rejected: Serenitea, Equalitea, Fertilitea (YIKES!), and Goattea.

Goattea…? Sounds a little too organic.

I could not, would not, on a boat. I will not, will not, from a goat. I do not like this Goat Pee Tea. I do not like it - that’s just me.

The Lemon is pretty good, though.

‘n bits.