Dead Girls Don’t Dance

First off, bow, dammit.

I am your Queen. You will honor and obey me, or die.

(any resemblance to your marriage vows is purely coincidental)

Here are the new laws for the whole world, effective immediately.

POLITICS:

If you declare war, or vote to declare war, you will be the first out on the front line. If you are too old and decrepit to be out there, you will be wheeled out into a mine field, by your favorite grandchildren. Don’t worry, Gramps, they’ll get the same kind of body armor and medical care that the regular troops in your country get.

The problem with democracy is that only crazy f***heads want to be president. In view of recent difficulties, apparently only STUPID crazy f***heads can be elected in the U.S.A, because their daddy’s friends own the companies who make the voting machines. Therefore, all Amurrican citizens will be IQ tested, and the president of the United States will be randomly selected by me, Queen Of The World, from a big box of shiny ping-pong balls with all the smart people’s names written on them. I will wear a sparkly dress, like Vanna White, and smile a lot during this grave procedure.

FASHION:

Rule 1: There will be no spandex clothing manufactured over size ten. Fat chicks must not be allowed to wear spandex, ever, and that includes me.

Rule 2: Wearing form-fitting exercise clothing anywhere but a gymnasium or the privacy of your home will be strictly illegal, unless you look good in it. This will be determined by the fashion police, who will immediately ship you to Iraq with faulty body armor if you are caught waddling through a shopping mall with back fat hanging down over the top of your bicycle shorts.

Rule 3: Anyone suspected of having an eating disorder will be sent to Dr. Phil’s Happy Fun Time Boot Camp, to be located in a leaky shack with no plumbing, in scenic Darfur.

Rule 4: If you are apprehended by the fashion police and found to be Paris Hilton, or one of those icky twins, or a member of a boy band, you will be shot on sight, on general principle, unless you are already at the Happy Fun Time Boot Camp.

ONE LAST THING:

No more Twinkies. You heard me. NO MORE TWINKIES. The filling is made of sugar and whipped beef fat.

WHIPPED. BEEF. FAT.

Figure it out for yourself, pervert.

Tags: semi-daily by Miss J
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Today is the start of Sanitation and Hygiene Week. Before launching into my usual nasty, insensitive tirade, I’d like to point out that lack of sanitation is a serious issue all over the world. A shocking number of people get sick and die from lack of access to simple soap and water, in places like Sudan, Kenya, Mozambique, and post-Katrina New Orleans. (Thus concludes the formalities.)

On to the insensitive tirade.

However, if people do have access to sanitary facilities and fail to use them, I wish they would die. Possibly by having me shove them into the river from a moving vehicle. There is no excuse for boarding a crowded city bus exuding an eye-watering cloud of unwashed ASS FUNK that would embarrass a cat in heat. I mean, honestly, why get on a bus at all? Where the hell can you possibly GO smelling that bad and be welcomed?

I was sitting on the bus, thumbing through a newspaper. Then this man gets on the bus, reeking of Eau de Hot Dirty Ass Crack. Care to know where the only empty seat was? Yep, right next to me and my sensitive nose. My nose was already being assaulted by an old bum sweating out the cheap beer he had for breakfast all over the seat behind me. So right after Mr. Butt Stench lowered his ponderous ass next to me (and partially into my LAP) I feared I was going to throw up.

I don’t mean like, “Oh, that’s gross” throw up, I mean I was truly fighting to keep my lunch down. For a glistening moment, I considered just giving up and hurling chunks of partially-digested grilled chicken sandwich all over Butt Stench, in an attempt to make him smell slightly less unpleasant. However, I wasn’t the only person leaning away from him with a pained, nauseated expression, and if I had let loose, I think the whole bus would have turned into a huge traveling chain-reaction puke-a-thon.

To make matters worse, every time I inched away to keep from coming in contact with his big unwashed ass (half of which was hanging out into the aisle), he apparently thought I was trying to make room for him to get comfortable. So he scooted over closer and closer, until I had to fend him off with an elbow to prevent him from pressing his vile flesh against me. I wanted to curse him out, but I didn’t because the long, profane lecture on hygiene that I was silently composing would have required me to gag in more of the befouled air in order to actually speak aloud.

This was all completely unnecessary, dammit. The guy didn’t LOOK dirty, and he wasn’t fat enough to make washing difficult. He just didn’t bother, for reasons known only to himself. He was SMILING through the whole bus ride, too. Hell, maybe he LIKES to smell like ass. People who deliberately avoid washing their putrid, sweaty ass should be shipped off to a third-world country where soap and water is hard to come by, and then maybe they’ll appreciate it more.

Bottom (no pun intended) line: Wash yourself, or don’t leave the house. Ever. And particularly not during International Hygiene Week, you nasty ass-reeking bastards.

Tags: semi-daily by Miss J
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Mornings. Don’t like them. I don’t know what I would do if I had actual children, I can’t even get my guy out of bed in the morning. I am fully aware that he is an alleged adult, and shouldn’t require my assistance, but sometimes it’s either I get him up or he’ll lie like a log until he’s already supposed to be at work. Well, if logs could snore and fart, anyway.

Me, I can’t really sleep in. It’s difficult to hit the snooze alarm and catch a few more z’s when you have a fat, elderly, brain-damaged cat sitting on your chest like a nightmare, meowing sadly and poking at your face with his chubby paws. So Thursday morning, I sighed and removed the drooling moron from my bosom, got out of bed, started staggering toward the bathroom, and promptly stepped on the other cat, Chloë (aka Princess Evil Bitch Monkey). An argument ensued.

Chloë: “How dare you?! Take that, inferior being!” (swats at my bare ankles)
Me: “Don’t sit in the doorway in the dark if you don’t want to get squished, dumbass.”
Chloë: “Do not speak to me in that disrespectful manner.” (swats again)
Me: “Screw you.”
The Light of My Existence: (groggily, from the bed) “Who the hell are you talking to?”
Me: “This rotten little cat.”
The Light of My Existence: “You’re a fucking weirdo.” (resumed snoring)
Chloë: “Feed me, slave. NOW.”
Renfield the drooling moron: “Me hungry too.”

I ignored both cats as they escorted me to the bathroom, where I fell into the toilet butt-first. You’d think after living with a male of some sort or another most of my life, I would automatically check the seat. I think I usually do, but sometimes I don’t, and end up awkwardly trying to lever my cold, wet ass out of the john in the morning before I put in my contact lenses. It certainly startled me wide awake in a hurry, but I can’t say I found it very refreshing. And there were kitty paws waving and grasping around comically under the bathroom door. So both chuckling and grumbling at the same time, I dried myself off, put my eyes in, and then a little parade headed for the kitchen to start the coffee. Chloë was imperiously leading me as if I didn’t know where the hell I was going, and Renfield was padding behind me, because he probably DIDN’T know where HE was going.

Chloë: “Where’s my breakfast, slave? I demand food immediately! That means NOW, dammit!”
Renfield: “Me hungry too. Me hungry. Hungry too. Food? Please?”
Me: “Shut up and get out of my kitchen, both of you!”

Renfield scurried away, but stood peeking around the doorway with a mournful expression. Chloë hissed and continued to swat at my ankles as I began making PEOPLE food, just to piss her off. Chloë apparently thinks she’s ten feet tall and bulletproof, but in reality, she’s tiny. AND her claws are clipped blunt, so her ferocious attacks inflict zero damage. But it makes me (and anybody else who happens to be around) laugh when she tries to show me who’s boss around here, which infuriates her even more. I make her wait to get fed, just for the entertainment value.

Anyway. Using coffee, toast and scrambled eggs as bait, I lured The Light up so he would have some chance of making it to work on time. Taking time to eat could very well have made him late, but at least he was in an upright position and slowly regaining consciousness. Then I fed the cats. Everybody was happy but me; by now, MY breakfast was lukewarm. And I spilled my coffee (then took a picture of it; it somehow seemed to symbolize the whole morning so far, and this blogging thing is having some odd effects on my behavior).

Cats: purr purr crunch scronch snorf purr chomp crunch munch
The Light of My Existence: slurp slurp crunch scronch snorf slurp chomp crunch munch
Me: *sigh*

I reheated and ate my breakfast while The Light dashed wildly around the house trying to get dressed. I will leave out the tedious details of the no doubt familiar (to women) scene where he stood helplessly staring into the closet asking me where his pants were (right in front of his nose). After he left, I started getting ready for work, and was fresh out of the shower and about to dress when Renfield tottered in looking more mournful than usual.

Renfield: “Ohhhhhhh.”
Me: “What’s wrong, Fuzzybutt?”
Renfield: “Not feel good. Help me. Woe!”

I was alarmed. I love this stupid cat dearly, and he has a urinary tract condition that nearly killed him a few years ago. Flare-ups are expensive to treat. I felt his tummy to see if his bladder was distended. It wasn’t. Oh, what a relief! So what the hell was he crying about?

Renfield: “Woe! Woe! Wooooe!” (upchucked what looked like either a giant hairball or an entire squirrel on the bath mat next to my foot, along with most of his breakfast)
Me: “Ewwwww! Oh God!” *insert much profanity here*
Renfield: “Me hungry.”
Chloë arrives on the scene: “What is that enticing fragrance? Fresh vomit? How delightful!”
Me: (removing the repulsive, steaming bath mat) “Get out of my way.”
Chloë: “Where do you think you’re going, slave? I was going to eat that!”
Renfield: “Hungry.”
Chloë: (running after me) “Come back here!”
Renfield: “HUNGRY.”

Just before I headed out the back door with the befouled bath mat, I realized I was naked. I would have to put the mat down before I could put on my robe, so I dropped it into the kitchen trash. Fuck it, I was going to miss my bus if I didn’t get dressed and get out of the hellhole my home was rapidly becoming in my mind.

It had been a long time since I was THAT glad to go to work. I have no idea how people with actual human children manage to make it through mornings without getting drunk and forcing their kids to go to school wearing no pants and an upended bowl of cereal on their head for a hat.

Tags: semi-daily by Miss J
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