Peeing, Vagina Costumes and My Right To Bear Arms

I know I’m waaayyy out of line in my A-Z Challenge. I tried and I failed miserably at keeping up. Doing things on a “schedule” has never been a very strong personality trait of mine. On the other hand I’ve realized and accepted that I’m a flawed human being and I’m cool with that.

Aaahhh, P, not the letter. The urine variety. I recently noticed when some of you have me doubled over in fits of giggles with your posts and/or comments, I tell you I think I pee’d a little, I AM NOT speaking metaphorically.

I realized just how many times a day I say this and what normally causes it (for the record I change clothes in the event something like this happens. I don’t walk around pissy all day). The main causes seem to be laughing, sneezing, coughing, straining to hard when I yell FUUUCCCCKKK at the top of my lungs, hiccuping and God Forbid, I have Poot Wars: Legion of Doom with my teenagers (yes I’m the coolest mom EVER, although my kiddos would surely debate that) I might as well put on fucking Stage 47 Pampers Waddlers. If I’m straining that hard there’s DEFINITELY going to be pee involved.

This morning as I was mulling this over in my crazy mind, I had a revelation of sorts. That we woman, as a gender have so many more indignities (natural and otherwise) inflicted on our persons during the course of our lifetimes than our male counterparts.

There is menstruation, the blossoming of bosoms, Pap smears, annual gynecological visits, childbirth (hence the peeing).

Men try pushing something the same weight as a small bowling ball out of anywhere south of your belly button. Unmedicated. Then we can compare war stories.

After child bearing and rearing years comes the annual mammograms (bro’s stick your twig and berries between two flat plates and squeeze just a little to have a tiny inkling of what that’s like), because these people are not just putting a ladies breast in between those plates, those cruel fuckers are pulling back fat around front and everything.

Then comes the peeing every time you make a move and then the mother of ALL indignities, Menopause. Just because women of a certain age normally speak of this in hushed tones amongst ourselves does not mean it is to be taken lightly. Actually we huddle together and speak of it quietly because menopause is Lucifer, Māra or Iblis depending on ones beliefs. We do not want to bring this evil thing up from the fiery depths by speaking its name too loudly.

Hot flashes?!?! If you ever want to know what being roasted alive on a funeral pyre or spending at least 10-60 minutes in actual hell feels like, have one of these. Simply put, hot flashes are the devil. So by my age us women are having annual intrusions in our lady bits, boob squashings and hot flashes. If that is not enough indignities, around this time in life most women have to start having colonoscopies as well and if you are a gentleman that’s 40ish or older you are probably at least familiar with this one. So next time one of you guys is feeling icky about some “medical” procedure, just reread this blog post.

I should think that having another man softly cradling your balls and telling you to cough every so often for a physical or an after 40 occasional lubed, gloved finger gently inserted into your butthole qualifies you guys to bitch about ANYTHING ever again.


This excludes any of you fellows with legitimate medical complications or chronic health issues. I’m speaking in generalities about Mr. Everyday Joe (the ones that generally do the MOST bitching about anything medically related).

I’m not some raving, lunatic feminist as I’ve never marched in Washington, DC dressed as a giant vagina. As a matter of fact I thought that was the most idiotic shit I’ve ever seen in my entire life. Just think of the outcry if men wore hats with balls and a penis sticking off the top of them to protest something. Jesus Christ, it would be complete and utter anarchy.

Before any raving, lunatic feminists or anyone else that does not like my opinion try to attack me or mine by surrounding my home and trying to scare me by acting like a bunch of assholes let me warn you, if you are in my yard I will drop every one of you like a sack of of shit with my LTL “beanbag ammo” (don’t let the cute name fool you, anything coming out of a 12 gauge shotgun at 205 mph will make you rethink your position, quick, fast and in a hurry). For any slow learners that actually have the audacity and ignorance to break in and actually make it inside my home, it’s open season on you fuckers. My newest baby is a Smith & Wesson Model 500 X-frame revolver. For those of you that are unfamiliar with firearms this is one badass MoFo for one badass bitch that got knocked asshole over elbows the first few times at the range but has become quite accurate since. This gun is not for the faint of heart. I’m a southern girl from a long, long line of military and Law Enforcement Officers. I’ve been familiar with and shooting firearms since I was 10 years old. I’m an expert marksman and a FIRM believer in my 2nd Amendment rights as a US Citizen. So in closing for any nutjobs out there….PLEASE, PLEASE Come at me, bro!!

I apologize for straying so far from my original blog topic, but as I was voicing my opinion about the vagina costumes, I started thinking about all of the elected officials being run out of public establishments or having their homes surrounded (Tucker Carlson, with his wife and children inside) by ignorant assholes that think that there can be only one opinion. Theirs.

Hence the anger and tirade. I can assure you that no one is running my ass out of anywhere for having a fucking opinion. Corner me and my fight or flight instinct kicks in and since I weigh entirely too much to take flight, that’s ass if anyone actually makes an unauthorized entry INTO my dwelling intent on harming my family or myself.

*rant over*

Happy Thursday Y’all♥️


The Glory Hole Cafe

My amazing brother-in-law and I are quite the cooks in the family. He’s a commercial supervisor for a Heating and Cooling Company, I am a disabled housewife…..but long ago we decided that our collective retirement dream would be to open a restaurant called The Glory Hole Cafe.

Now as we all know, success in business comes with hard work, being good at what you do AND a catchy name for marketing strategies. Who wouldn’t want to eat at the Glory Hole?!?! I’d check it out just because the name makes me laugh. Glory Hole is not necessarily porno……a fisherman’s sweet spot is also called a Glory/Honey Hole, so I decided it would be a seafood restaurant to take off the porno innuendo, but sick fucks like myself would still consider the porno aspect of it. So tell me, my dear blogging family…..would you or would you not stop by and check out the Glory Hole Cafe & Gift Shop?!?

I’ll Cut A Bitch

I went to the doctors office this morning at an ungodly hour, 7am is about the time I’ve only been asleep for approximately 2.5 hours most nights because of the tossing, turning and writhing in pain from Fibromyalgia. After an entire pot of coffee AND a shower with one leg stuck out of the shower door (due to my knee surgery four weeks ago), I was only half awake and pissed off because of how I had to shower led to me having an inch of water on my entire bathroom floor, which I immediately slipped on and busted me new voluptuous ass (I’ve gained 20 pounds in two months due to my koo koo meds). I’ve never been so happy to have the increased volume of junk in my trunk. I finally made it to the doctor ten minutes late for my appointment because I took the elevator and missed my floor. Twice. By this time I was fucking fuming and sweating like a hooker at a tent revival because of my fury and an inopportune time for a hot flash. The receptionist was about to tell me I’d need to reschedule because I was by then more than ten minutes late to my appointment. She took one look at my disheveled hair, fire engine red, sweaty face and the wild look in my eyes and decided against it (she has no idea how close she came to bearing the full brunt of my rage).

I finally settled in an uncomfortable waiting room chair to wait forty five minutes for my surgeon NOT to see me….he had his PA take out my stitches and tell me to go one floor up for physical therapy. Now in addition to my physical ailments, I’m a raving nut job….you just don’t spring this kind of shit on me at the last minute, but since I was already there, I agreed. It wasn’t until after I was laying on the physical therapy table that I had my WTF was I thinking moment….I’m lying on a table waiting for someone to come torture me sans pain meds, because due to the opioid epidemic my surgeon only sends his patients home with fifteen Lortab 5’s after MAJOR knee surgery. What kind of fuckery is this?!? I have fibro, fool, and 5 days after surgery you are telling me to take a fucking Tylenol?!? How about if I sever your penis and shove it straight up your ass and YOU take a god damn Tylenol?!?

By the time the PT made it too my room another 25 minutes later, I had enough. She opened her mouth to question me or chastise me or what the fuck ever, to which my response was,”Not today, Satan. Not today,” as I stalked (as well as someone with a bum knee can stalk) out. My BP was 146/95 when I first arrived an hour and a half prior, no telling what it was when I left, I had to have been a prime candidate for a fucking stroke.

I have now been home for three hours and my mood was finally simmering down until I opened the medicine cabinet to glare at the Tylenol. If I took enough Tylenol to even put a dent in my chronic pain, I’d die from liver failure in short order. So not giving a second thought to my bleeding stomach ulcer, I took 4 Maximum Strength Goody’s headache powders and prayed to the powers that be that 1) that many Goody’s at least takes the edge off of my pain and 2) I don’t die from internal bleeding because I’m taking such desperate measures.

It’s a good thing I have no idea where the state DEA’s office is because today….