Mischievously Cheeto-ed

Why does something that tastes so good have to make such a damn mess? Who on god’s green earth would invent something that you eat with your hands and coat it in some neon orange powder that sticks to everything? And why do my kids insist on using the coach, carpet, and curtains to wipe the shit off?

I’ve had it with the orange stains everywhere. I’m tired of sitting down only to have something catch my eye and discover the orange powder has been transferred yet again. This time, it was the curtains that I had just washed the day before. I was pissed! I figured I had to do something or my whole damn house would become cheeto orange.

First, I made a mixture of cheetos and water until I achieved the right consistency (sticky as hell). I then rummaged around my kid’s rooms until I found their beloved gameboys. Finally, I proceeded to coat the gameboys in the sticky cheeto mixture and placed them where they were sure to be spotted – in the middle of their bedroom floors.

It didn’t take long before my kids stumbled upon my mischief. When asked who did that, I simply replied that it must have been the cheeto monster who rubbed cheetos all over the curtains. Needless to say, we won’t be purchasing cheetos anytime soon and I will be teaching my kids to do the laundry (I’ll be damned if I’m washing those curtains again).

Intro

Welcome to Bringing Bitchy Back.

Disclaimer: This blog is full of foul language and pure bitchiness. If you aren’t a fan of either, I suggest you leave now. If you arrived here via google, I’ll be writing about you soon (so bookmark this page and check back often). If you have an opinion, keep it to yourself (I have enough for all of us). If you disagree with me, I pity you because you are wrong. If you become a fan, let me know – I need a record of my stalkers.

About the author: I am a married mother of two. I am opinionated and cocky. I have the ability to tell people to go to hell and have them happy to be on their way. I don’t care if you like me, I’ll simply tell myself that you do. I could probably benefit from therapy, but therapy is for pussies. I am not to be taken seriously. I just like to bitch and write so I hope you enjoy reading what I rant as much as I enjoy ranting it.

Let The Dead Horse Die

I don’t mind being criticized. I don’t mind being picked on or made fun of. What I do mind is repetitive bullshit. I can’t stand someone repeating the same shit over and over again as if I didn’t hear it the first time. Beating a dead horse drives me insane and that’s just what Dick has been doing.

Despite the fact that I have filled out numerous job applications, turned in my resume to a number of places, and have just recently posted an ad offering childcare, I have yet to get myself a damn job. This opened the door for Dick to constantly remind me of how this isn’t helping our situation.

Oh, really? Like I had no fucking idea (even though he has repeated it a hundred times).

Needless to say I had to think of something to shut this man up before I had to put my foot so far up his ass that he wouldn’t be able to sit for a week. I searched around the house and thought of the perfect idea. I grabbed a zucchini, some yarn, and a googled image of a dead horse. I then turned the zucchini into something reminiscent of a demented My Little Pony. I set the dead horse on the counter and waited.

It wasn’t long before Dick started in again. I took a big ladle and whacked the horse on the counter. He asked what the hell I was doing to which I replied: You seem to be having so much fun beating a dead horse that I thought I’d give it a whack (and I hit the thing again).

He seems to have gotten the point and isn’t hounding me as bad. Hopefully someone will call me back soon.