Smelly Monkey-Licking Shit Kabob and Other Nice Things To Say

I originally wrote this post on Monday where it started with the sentence “Recently added to my list of shit that surprises me not at all is the fact that Paula Deen is racist.” That was when what was meant to be a brief introduction launched into a rant of epic proportions.

paula dean, granny goodnessIronically my rant wasn’t at Paula Deen because, like I said, I’m not surprised at all to find out that she’s racist–(actually I’ve always assumed that her real name is Granny Goodness and she’s from the planet Apokolips but that’s just me)–but at the people who are defending her. Apparently there is a group of people who are saying that Paula shouldn’t be chastised for using the n-word because it’s unfair that only black people can use it.

Uh huh.

Actually this just further supports my theory that Paul is actually Granny because the people whining about not being allowed to use this word sound like a bunch of bratty children with a room full of toys who are throwing a tantrum because of the one shitty toy they don’t have. I could tell them all to grow the fuck up and send them to bed without dessert but then, since it’s already been established through my other “how to” posts that I am the spirit of altruism, I decided to provide a handy dandy insult-o-matic filled with alternative insults that are offensive to both everyone and no one.

For you see I have inherited a fucking awesome trait from my amazing mother in that when we are angry the most bizarre shit comes flying out of our mouths. It’s actually quite brilliant because we feel better from having just spewed a string of insults but then we usually end up making the people around us laugh…then we end up laughing ourselves and–not to shove a rainbow up your ass–but laughter really is the antidote for anger.

So here we go.

I’ve found that Mumma and I tend to follow a formula of adjective-compound verb-noun for our insults and have provided three columns of each for you. Whenever you want to insult someone just pick a word from each column and fire away.

insult generator, insult cheat sheet, insults

This really isn’t my best material since I wasn’t spazzing when I made this chart (and holy fuck am I tired) but you get the idea.

So now it’s your turn! What do you, my bestest peeps, like to pop off with when you’re angry?

(Also a quick thank you for all of the wonderful comments left on my last post announcing the first of some awesome writing stuff that’s shaking. You guys are the best. ♥ Kxx )

New Drivers and Old Drivers: The Reason We Can’t Have Cannons On Our Cars

I know that no one thinks that they are a bad driver, in fact, not only will no one cop to being a a bad driver but we are all convinced that we are brilliant drivers and everyone else on the road is a fucking moron. There are however two kinds of drivers on which we can all agree suck: student drivers and old drivers. You see, I take this two lane back road for much of the way to my job-that-gets-me-out-of-the-house-so-that-I-don’t-become-a-recluse and it is a veritable magnet for both of these drivers thanks to the high school where several driving schools meet, and the garden shop which draws older ladies like wrinkled bees that are both located on this road. It would be easy to just rant about both of these types of drivers, but since I am the spirit of altruism I’ve come up with solutions to both of these problem drivers that doesn’t involve lead balls and gunpowder.

New Drivers

dogs driving car

My DOG is a better driver!

Whenever I turn the corner onto that back road and see a “Student Driver” sign sticking out from the roof of a car like an obnoxious cowlick, two thoughts pop into my head. The first thought is that I kinda want to do everything I can to harass the nervous student by revving up to the tail of the their car, tail-gaiting, blowing my horn, hanging out the window and swerving.

(Don’t get all sanctimonious on me, like you’ve never thought about traumatizing a student driver.)

The second thought I have is that these student drivers are some lucky assholes! They can drive like some kind of maniac and it’s cool because “they’re learning”. It then occurred to me that I need one of these student driver signs. If I had a bright yellow sign that said “Kat’s Driving School” I could turn at illegal red lights, drive down the wrong direction on one-way streets and speed like a motherfucker, and no cops would stop me because, hey, I’m just learning officer and I promise to better next time. I’m not greedy either, so I’m even willing to take new students into my driving “school” and hook them up with a sign granted that they pass my own personal driving test. I could go over what that test entails but that’s another post entirely. Suffice to say that if you drive the way that I drive (brilliantly of course) then I’ll help you to break the road laws.

Old Drivers

old lady drivingOh Lord have mercy, where do I begin with these people. Between them leaving their turn signals blinking for ten miles and refusing to pull into traffic unless the car coming down the road is still more than five miles away, I want to bang my head on the steering wheel every time I see a car that appears to be driving itself because I know it’s being operated by a wizened old lady who is sitting on a stack of telephone books to see over the dash. Their worst sin of course is that they drive so fucking slow. I’ll admit that my impatient nature coupled with a hatred of driving in general turned me into a bit of a speed demon in my younger years, however a few speeding tickets cured me of that and I’ve try to stay below ten miles over the speed limit as an adult.*

(*The exception was when I wondered if the 120 MPH mark on my dad’s car’s speedometer was just for show or if the car could really go that fast.**)

(**FYI, the answer is that it can.)

I don’t think it’s too much to ask that a driver does the speed limit, but I’ve found that seniors like to drive at approximately half of the limit. The solution to this problem is in the senior’s car. I think that after a person turns sixty that they should only be allowed to drive cars that are shaped like a wedge with the low side face the back. This way when a senior is poking along, pulling a Gandolf and insisting that “you shall not pass!”, you can rev your car right up the back of theirs and Dukes of Hazard over that shit. They get to poke along the road and the rest of us get to make to our fucking job on time.

This concludes this latest edition of my helpful posts, and as always:

youre welcome, you are welcome

You Might Be a Dick If

There are a lot of warning signs that someone might be a dick, but today I’m going to focus on the warning signs regarding cell phones that I’ve encountered while at my day job. Let’s begin.turn off your fucking cell phone sign

  • If I’m asking you how many hours a day you wear your contacts and you can’t even look up from texting on your phone to give me the dickish answer “all day”–this is another rant entirely–then you might be a dick.
  • If I’ve called your name to take you back to the doctor and you hold a finger up in a “one minute gesture” and continue your texting and/or cell phone conversation, then you might be a dick.
  • If I admit that a lot of medical machines are not affected by cell phones but that the one that I’m about to use on you is indeed affected by cell phones and ask that you please turn off your cell phone and in response you give me a “yeah right” look, then you might be a dick.
  • If I’m using the machine which is affected by cell phones and the screen is jumping all over the place and I then find out that it’s because you were getting texts after having not turned off your cell phone despite my asking, then you might be a dick.
  • If I’m teaching you to put in your contacts and you touch your phone not once, but twice, to answer a text and make me make you wash your hands again (cell phones are one of the most disgusting filthy appliances in the world so you do not want to touch them and then touch your eye), then you might be a dick.

I’ll admit that I’m being a little snarky here, so I’ll finish by clarifying that there is no “might” about it. If you do any of these things, then you sir (or madam) are, in fact, a dick.


In other news, my newest piece at The Indie Chicks went up on Monday.  “The Skinny on the 7 Day Detox Diet” is up, so check that out for want a breakdown (and an update) on what it’s really like to do the detox without all of the flowery, magical (aka bullshit) phrases that diet sites use to describe it.

Probably (One of) The Wrongest Stories I Will Ever Tell You

I have so much bizarre shit happen, and so many inane conversations that I rarely have to delve into my checkered past if I’m looking to tell a story to curdle your mind.  Occasionally though, a story of What-the-fuckery Past will push through the repression therapy and I’ll be reminded of a real gem with which I must traumatize regale you.  And you all can thank Dan from Shameless Promotions for pulling this tale from the depths of repression with his last post.  Make sure to go over there and thank him for the forthcoming mental assault.

The tale begins many years ago in the gay capital of northern England while walking home one Winter night from the pub with a friend.  Thanks to several hours of drinking, I was in desperate need of a loo, but Eion was dawdling around and taking his time as we walked.

“Will you please hurry up!  I!  Have!  To!  Pee!” I stomped my boot on the icy ground with each word for emphasis.

“Ha!  I do, too!” he replied with drunk giddiness. “Too bad you can’t do this!” And then he pulled himself out of his pants and peed in the snow.

“I’m green with envy,” I said sarcastically, though I had to pee so bad that I actually was.


peeing in the snow, writing name in the snow‘HeyKatlook’ was always said as one word, and it usually meant that I was going to see something that would scar my brain, but I looked in Eion’s direction anyway and discovered a yellow E-I-O-N had appeared in the snow.

“That’s great Ei, you can spell your own name.  And in urine no less.  Any six year old would be proud.  Though your penmanship is horrible.”

“I’d like to see you do better,” he zipped himself back up.

“If I had a whackado I could.”


“Fine!  Let me use yours the next time you have to pee and I bet I will!” I snarled because I say the stupidest things when I’m challenged and angry.


That’s the first part of the story, but now flash forward a few years later to me telling this story to one of the weirdest (and coming from me that’s saying a fucking lot) friends I ever knew.

“So that’s when I said ‘Fine! Let me use yours the next time you have to pee and I bet I will!‘” I shook my head and looked at my listener. Dawn’s eyes were as large as saucers .

“And that’s why you should always use the restroom before you leave a bar.” I finished taking a swig of my Yuengling for emphasis.

“So what was it like?” she asked.

“What was what like?”

“Holding a man’s penis while he peed?”

I nearly choked on my beer.

batman spit take, spit take“Are you completely mental?” I wheezed between fits of coughing. “I didn’t fucking do that!”

“Why not?”

“Why not?  You seriously asking me that?”

“Just think about how cool that would be.”

Though I tried not to, I did think about it, and I did not think it would be cool at all.  I did, however, erupt into hysterical laughter.

For some reason this really pissed off (pun intended) Dawn and she hissed at me to keep it down because people were looking at me.

“You’re the one who told me to think about holding a guy’s peen while he pees!” I snickered.

“Well you brought it up in the first place!”

And unfortunately I had.  But in my defense I blurt out a lot of random things, so you would think Dawn would know better than to listen.

Now jump forward a few months later. Dawn found a boyfriend and as a result she didn’t have much time to hang out with girlfriends, and when she did hang out with us, she brought her weirdo boyfriend with her.  As was the case on one of the last time we ever got together before her strange habits – she liked to talk about different ways she could pretend to drown in her pool and would practice them frequently – got to me.

Dawn arrived with boyfriend in tow at the local watering hole. “Guess what I did!” she greeted me.

I could tell by the look on her face that I did not want to guess what she did.

“I held Steve’s dick while he peed!”

(Did you ever have one of those moments where you smelled something burning and realized it was your brain?  Yeah…)

mind shattered, brain melt

It kinda feels like this.

“It was so much fun!” she gushed on.

“I liked it because I didn’t have to wash my hands.” Steve smiled his freaky smile.

I knew then that I was suffering from irreparable mental damage because I’m usually pretty sharp with the comebacks, and with all of the potential hand jokes there were, I could not think of a damn thing to say.

“I told Steve that it was your idea,” Dawn informed me.

That broke my silence.

“The hell it was!” I roared. “I never told you to hold your boyfriend’s penis while he peed!”

“Shhh!” Dawn glared at me. “I was trying to thank you!”

“Well don’t!  Take that credit for yourself!”

The topper of the evening though?  Steve had to use the men’s room a couple of times while we were out and Dawn went with him to “help”. Every.

youre welcome, you are welcome

Writes Like a Slut

I was really excited about what I had planned for Friday’s “Soft Core Friday” post–(Yes. I’m going to make awful innuendos throughout this entire post)–because it had been a long time coming–(See? I told you.)–but then my job became the ultimate cockblocker this past week I had to go tantric-mithuna with this post–(I’ll save you a trip to good ol’ wiki-land and tell you that, yes, that’s another innuendo).

A long time ago, in a blog far away (Actually it was this blog, back when I called it “Tapetum Lucidum”) I was squirming and shivering with joy because I had surrendered my OFFICIAL smut writing virginity to my dear friend, Jewels.  Unofficially I’d been featured on another smuterotica site sans my name, but I wanted the first time (that my name was attached to the piece) to be special, and what better way to do it than with a friend.

(If you think that these innuendos are bad, you should have read the filth I was tweeting yesterday about fixing the kitchen faucet.)

honey badger, don't give a shitI had barely had time to enjoy the afterglow of getting off that story to Jewels when I received a text from a relative whom I will call “CC”, telling me that my writing was disgusting, and that I “write like a slut”. I’ll admit that my feelings were hurt a bit, but then I realized that I really didn’t give a shit.

Then the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it was hilarious!  While I’d expect that my smutty writing inspires certain reactions, CC actually got so worked up that she huffed and puffed and she called me a slut.  I mean, all she would have needed to add was that I deserved to be punished for my filthy prose and this post would have fucking wrote itself.  Being told that I “write like a slut” ended up giving me so much jolly that I decided that I needed to make a t-shirt proclaiming it.

Seriously though, I mean, how does one write like a slut after all?  Is it by simply writing smut in the first place?  I don’t think so, because as I (in)famously demonstrated in this post, poorly written smut is the most hilarious thing outside of calling Nicholas Cage a serious actor.  I guess if I am guilty of “writing like a slut” it’s because, instead of settling down with one writing genre like Urban Fantasy and making legitimate little book babies, I fool around with several genres and make a bunch of little bastards blog posts.  One night I will be getting jiggy with Mr. Humour and create a South Park style cartoon about food poisoning, while another night will be spent with Mr. Horror producing a morbid tale of revenge, and a third will be with Sir Poetry who is a pretentious snot that thinks he’s a knight, conceiving poetic drivel.

So whether it be because I wrote smut, or because I write in several different genres, or because I write while wearing over-the-knee high boots, I decided that I’m ready to wear that shirt proclaiming it to the world.  Despite a lack of time, and possessing no artistic talent, I created this design last week.

writes like a slut

On the back it has:

writes like a slut, you are welcomeI’m as anxious as Tim Tebow on his wedding night (let’s face it, that boy’s a virgin and we all know it) for my shirt to get here, and you will all know when it comes by all of the screaming and shrieking which shall erupt from my house.

And since I realize that many writers start out “writing like sluts” too, I set it up so that you can order your very own “Writes like a Slut” shirt, too here with the “You are welcome” and my shameless self-promotion, or here without it.  (FYI–you might have to turn off the “G-rated” default search filter to see the shirts.)  Also, I might make other colours, too, so if you have a request, let me know.  Finally, if you do decide to encourage my depravity, and buy one of these obscene shirts, and if you are so inclined, send me a picture of you wearing your shirt, and I’ll post it in the forthcoming section of this blog because I love you in a completely inappropriate manner like that.

PS-Jewels reposted another piece of my smut this past Friday.  She says you are welcome, and so do I.