Tag Archives: crazy bitch

Soft Kitty, Bitter Kitty

oOgSQ-1

I represent the cat in the foreground in this post modern tale of Noah’s Ark Redux.

This story about the Remainder Man, he’s the orange tabby mounting that patchy 43-year-old kitty…Quick recap in case you are new: he’s the one I tell you about sometimes because I see him occasionally when he is on a “break” from his girlfriend who is a crazy bitch but not in the good way. I have recently found out there are levels of “crazy bitch” by the menfolk at my gym, where I have been hanging out a little too much since I was fired from the dusty box store two weeks ago WHICH I AM BITTER ABOUT….STILL….Last week, I went to two other dusty box stores TO GET A WHIFF OF THE SWEET SMELL OF LUMBER and to strut through the cement floor race track, this time in high heels, not steel toes, just to change up the game. It didn’t really have the same effect, though, and the people who worked there looked like dull-witted Bitch Stewie replicates, kind of dead inside which is what the dust bin does in the end, robs you of your soul, as the legend has it. But! It had the opposite effect on me, it blasted away the concrete all that was blocking my mojo chokra and now I have to go out of my way and walk into random lumber yards and soon Christmas tree lots just for maintenance. It’s all about the wood, kittens, I miss it so. I AM BITTER AS FUCK! Although, I will say my heart has been warmed by some of my old co-workers who have read this blasphemous blog that caused my demise and shouted out their support via the interwebs. Some people you might not think would even care can be surprisingly awesome, and yet others are so alarmingly disappointing, they wear their masks well. That is what I took away from dusty box: There are some really good peeps in the world’s barnyard but most are just vapid, corporate cocksucking sheep…baaaahhhh, because mediocrity makes the farm run so much more efficiently.

Anyway, it turned out that exactly the same time I was fired, Remainder Man and his girlfriend broke up which is nothing unusual because it happens every 2 months. That’s when the levee in her left ovary (that’s the cranky one) breaks and she picks a fight so bad, he storms out, gets a bottle of rum that he washes down the Diet Coke (I know, barffff) alone in his basement apartment that nobody has been to because it is fuck knows where and he calls me #inadrunkenstupor that night. It’s clockwork! They don’t talk for exactly the next 5 days and I get to go out with him for wings and beers when he is hungover, always the following day, where he will chase the dragon with 2 beers to my 1, I usually have 2 so he will have 4, and if I have a third then he will break the pattern and have 8, it is a consistent set pattern of drunken math that will later end up with him text messaging a selfie of his chode at half mast. I will call him and sing “Soft Kitty, Warm Kitty, Little Ball of Fur” and he will pass out. Lather, rinse repeat, every two months.

This time, day 5 came and went and then before we knew it, nearly two weeks went by and he and I were enjoying daily beers daily on a daily basis. It was daily-riffic. I almost felt like I had a daily purpose beside the heinous daily activity of job hunting. I HATE JOB HUNTING, I AM SO BITTER, UGH!

Last Thursday, while we were having an afternoon pint(s), marvelling over the fact that his breakup just might stick this time, he gets a call from some -as he describes- “girl” (she is technically middle-aged) he has known since high school, who needs him to clean out some eavestrough or some such shit. I have an eavestrough, too, that could use a quick sweep but neither here not there. Remainder Man has womenfolk all crawling all over him like ticks on a deer, which, no surprise, was the big boner of contention with his girlfriend who is a crazy bitch* in a bad way. It’s hard to tell which came first, the jealous or the crazy, but if you want to hang with the Remainder Man, you better get used to him ogling twenty year old girls in yoga pants. He is who he is and if you can’t handle it, you have to dick wrangle some dude without eyes. Good luck with that, sister. They all look at ass but some hide it better, it’s just that Remainder Man has the impulse of a toddler and the enthusiasm of a puppy. Which I personally find endlessly amusing.

So Remainder Man goes on his little mission “cleaning the eavestrough” and the next morning texts me:

“I’m still at that girl’s house! we woke up naked, where u?”

‘I AM AT T&T ON CHERRY EATING SHRIMP BALLS, WTF HAPPENED?” (I am a Kanye West cap crazy texter)

“lol we got drunk and I tried but went limp twice lol”

“OMG, TRY WITH THE MORNING WOOD NOT WHEN U R DRUNK, HAVE U LEARNT ANYTHING?”

“I tried but am coma toast, we ordered thai, maybe after.”

“K CARRY ON SOLDIER”

lololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololololol

Texting sucks. He spent the entire weekend with her, texting me what they were eating, what progress he was making. It turns out she is not “that kind of girl” who bangs on the first date, although dry humping on the side of the leg is just fine. Amazing. Someone got the rules just right. Kudos, sister, well played. And now he is all like in that holding pattern of blue ball hell that simulates love. TWO WEEKS AND HE HAS A NEW GIRLFRIEND AND I STILL HAVE NO JOB AND I JUST WANT MY PHONE TO RING FOR ONCE AND IT NOT BE FROM SOME RECORDED MESSAGE SAYING I WON A DISNEY CRUISE! I am bitter AND frustrated. I am a crazy bitch which by the way:

*CRAZY BITCH DEFINITION:

I’ve been spending some more time back at my gym where the best thing about it is the bar and you can easily go there and have random conversations with people like they did in the olden days before cell phones. I’ve gotten an earful from the old squash dudes who think of me as a fellow dude but with lady fuck parts. Actually I don’t even think they know I have a concave dick, they just tell me everything like I know what’s going on. This week I learned:

Cialis is better than Viagra. it works faster! Lasts longer!

Describing the shape of their poop makes them laugh really hard.

When their phone goes off and it’s their wife, their eyes roll.

When their phone goes off and it’s their girlfriend, their eyes roll.

Crazy bitches are the best. NOW I AM LISTENING, what exactly is crazy? A crazy bitch someone in a black wig and no bra who will kidnap you from a diner during your Friday lunch hour and drives you to a motel off the highway and strips you down and handcuffs you to the bed. While she rifles through your wallet, she finds your business card and calls your office to say you won’t be in that afternoon. And then you bang your brains out for the rest of the day. Afterwards, she takes her wig off and she is blond and you end up going with her to her high school reunion the next day where you get beat up within an inch of your life by her jealous ex-husband who is just out of prison and they end up driving away together leaving you bleeding to near death. It’s all so scary but when you go back to work on Monday, all you can think about is her, the crazy bitch who took you out of the doldrums of your boring day. (P.S. she comes back wearing a lot of jewelry and still no bra, it’s the plot of “Something Wild.”) It’s fiction, Charlie, fiction.

A Crazy Bitch in a Bad Way is the one who will call you on the phone and ask you to pick up some fried chicken on the way home and then remind you that you have to go to her sister’s for dinner on Sunday so there will be no football watching and that you need get winter tires for her car and why haven’t you noticed her new haircut and short hair is easier to keep up so fuck you and why are you not home yet and stop snoring and don’t chew so loudly and why do you trim your pubes when you haven’t sex with her in six months anyway?  In other words, bitches just can’t win.

BITTER BITTER BITTER

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Tales Inside the Locker Room: Cat Fight!

cat fight

I don’t hate the winter the way most of y’all do as I figured out how to shut up, strip the ego of any kind of fashion sense, and just ride it like a stallion.  I like the hermit lifestyle but sometimes I need to get out so I go to the gym and get on top of those whirlpool jets just to remind myself I am still alive.

The other day in my gym locker bay, these two women were talking and one was saying how she hated that her husband made them go south (Fabulous Turks and Caicos!) in January because when you get back here (Frozen Turds and Caca!) it’s so depressing and you have to go through major adjustment to acclimate back to the shite weather.  I got what she was saying, I have been on a tropical winter holiday or two and know the misery of which she speaks. You might as well just stick it out all winter and go away in April to get a head start on sun damage.  That is what you call smart hockey.

This other woman, however, was not having any of it and she started shrieking how she hated being cold and what an ingrate this other woman was, “I’m always so cold! Even in the summer I’m cold!  You should be happy to be able to go away!  First world problems, must be nice!”  And all the while she’s sashaying around the locker room stark naked, you can tell some kind tension is building up inside her because all two ounces of random flesh on her bony body is shivering in fear as she slaps on some body moisturizer that smells like the bottom an old purse where some hand lotion had leaked and then some spearmint gum got marinated.  And mens, don’t get excited about the visual of a screaming naked woman because the fluorescent lighting in the locker room made this woman look like Gollum with a blond bob.

But the rest of look like Sirens, so keep up the fantasy.

Meow.  That’s me, getting my hackles up.  Mostly I try and practise my Buddhist-ish dogma of modern living which is to let things go, don’t get attached, blah blah, but I am only a human with surging natural lady hormones that make me bitch with the best of them.

First world problems? I’m getting really tired of people not being able to voice their complaints about how they hate the interior colour of their Lexus without having their heads blown off by the mighty gale of farting whitey righteousness.  When was the last time you bought a goat over the internet for a village in Africa?  Shut up and do it here and let the rest of us use all the discontinued pennies to tile our powder rooms in copper splendour.

Mostly I don’t have time for that certain type of skinny bitch that is constantly complaining in a little girl voice: “I’m so cold!”  Because she wants you to say,”You’re so skinnaaaaay, girlfriend! Eat something!” To which she will respond: “Oh, I eat so much!  I just have a really high metabolism!”  Oh right. If her metabolism was so high, she would be hot, not cold. Hypothermic Hanna is that type of woman we all know, when it is the middle of July and it is one of those nights where you can’t sit inside and everyone in the neighbourhood is out on their porch steps drinking beer out of cans, she is huddled on an uphostered lawn chair drinking a glass of Chardonnay wearing some fat woman’s fat husband’s hoodie that she borrowed and she is just “swimming in it!” It is just “so huge!”  Tee hee!

And the menfolk lap this sort of behaviour up, quivering Chihuahua women make them feel mighty and masculine.  And it’s our own fault because we are constantly pointing out so-called fat asses on normal women. We made the skinny ideal happen, not them. We started buying fat reducing cream from a snake oil salesman who disguised himself as a doctor and coined the term “cellulite.”  There’s no such thing, cellulite is just textured fat that you can see on the skin! It’s got a fancy name because the guy was a Frenchman and they have to put an ostentatious spin on everything. They eat snails and other garden garbage.

If we didn’t become so obsessed about we’d save ourselves a lot of money and grief. If cellulite wasn’t a thing we had to point out to men to sabotage other women, they would never have noticed! If we had kept quiet, they’d be all like getting their dicks into the Rubenesque folds of fat flesh like they did back in the olden times and we all could have had our cake AND wieners. Science has proven men like a fatty!

The good news is that men can be brainwashed into believing anything is hot, it’s all about implementing an elaborate reward system involving basic culinary skills and all kinds ego stroking.  And blow jobs.  The bad news is that it’s probably going to more work than it’s worth to train an entire society of men so it might be just easier just to let Victoria’s Secret rule the world.  Sometimes we women are own worst enemies and my awareness of this does not stop me from having an irrational hate-on for the locker bitch who is just a victim of the vicious cycle that has evolved into modern Photoshop society.

Anyway, I don’t even know this woman’s name but I have seen her around for years.  She *bugs* me.  I have seen her a) wear one of those Canada Goose parkas in May b) run on the treadmill for a solid hour every day for past two years c) order a salad and a Perrier on half price wing night at one of those Firkin places downtown last fall.  It was one those random sightings of someone you know from the gym but they might not recognize you because you are usually naked with a towel turban on your head.  Of course she didn’t acknowledge me because her complete attention was on her salad, she was busy picking out walnuts and hiding the goat cheese under the napkin.  Meanwhile her husband, who was eating wings AND sweet potato fries while washing it all down with a pint like a normal person, was ignoring her because he was too busy texting on his Blackberry. Probably with some other woman who has visible cellulite, the forbidden fruit! Yes, that’s the spin we need to put on it!  Sexy, fleshy lumps, and bumps, rock it!

Back to the situation in the locker room, the Turks and Caicos woman was taken aback and started apologizing, “Oh didn’t mean to sound like a Real Housewife, just saying how tough it is to get back to this weather.”  I don’t know this woman personally either, but I know that she has three young kids, one of them she adopted from Mexico! She is saint! And she also drives a hybrid.

Hypothermic Hanna hissed something inaudible, Turks hissed back, and before you knew it:  CAT FIGHT!  Well that seemed to escalate quickly, there must have been a more interesting background story with these two but I didn’t know what it was, I was just grateful (and beyond thrilled! me likey the drama, it’s like real-life HBO) to be a witness and not a participant.  And no, they didn’t actually physically brawl but there were some harsh words and some locker door slamming.  One of those plastic puffy balls for exfoliating was thrown and hit Turks in the face and that’s about when it came to an end.  In the end, Turks held her own with much dignity, but surprisingly, I had a newfound respect for Hypothermic Hanna and her spectacular unbridled meltdown.  You know, you never know what path a person has been on, maybe she is crazy for a good reason.

So after I got dressed (really quickly, I was still wet in fact), Turks had taken off, I turned to Hypothermic Hanna who was slumped on a stool, still naked and rubbing herself with cream (Gollum! Stick with the proper visual, I am still a bitch after all), “I love the smell of your moisturizer, what is it?”

And she looked up actually seemed to be surprised that I was even there.

“Oh, it’s Aveda, it’s essential oils, it’s supposed to be calming.  I’m so sorry for that outburst.  She’s my sister, she makes me crazy. Her fucking perfect life, with her fucking perfect husband, and her fucking perfect kids in their fucking perfect house.”

Oh!  Well that all makes sense now!  Heavy emphasis on the f-bombs, bitter and beaten down, she is obviously the Fredo of the family!  The light was cast, and that was when I took her under my soft downy wing and after she got dressed, we went upstairs and had a couple of glasses of Pinot Grigio (yes, the gym has a bar, why have you not joined?) and she told me all about her childhood and how her sister stole all the thunder and got all the good Barbies and she just had a one Midge whose hair she cut off in a rage.  Surprise.

It turns out her name is Kathleen, but when they were little, her sister couldn’t pronounce it so they called her Kat and it stuck. LOL.

lolcat scratching post gif