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.

Calling All Perves

I hate perves. I hate men who cannot control their inner sleaze. You see them drooling over every woman that walks past – checking out each ass that rolls on by. Those men who flip through channels just hoping to catch a glimpse of some tits. Those men who cannot control the urge to rub on their balls constantly. These men drive me insane and I have begun calling them out.

I could no longer take it as I watched a man at a local auto parts store. He sat there for ten minutes drooling over a car magazine that had a few pictures of some chick with her ass hanging out. He even had the nerve to "adjust" himself a couple of times. I finally approached him, handed him a bottle clearly marked "lubricant" and told him to think of the fun he could have if he bought the magazine and took it home. He left shortly thereafter with nothing in his hand but his own ball juice.

Another incident was at the park nearby. As I was watching my children play, I noticed Mr. Sleaze sitting on the bench – all giddy over the women joggers and obviously pleased with the bouncing boobage (his head even bobbed as they ran past). I had brought two oranges to go with lunch, but thought they could be used for a better purpose. I took the two oranges and approached the dickhead. I handed them to him and told him if he squeezed them while watching the tits, it would heighten the pleasure immensely. Needless to say, he left with his tail between his legs and rather embarrassed he’d been called out.

So the point is this: Women know all men are perves, but we don’t want to see proof. Keep your inner sleaze hidden or you may run into a bitch like me one day.