Tag Archives: bitch slap

Lions and Tigers and Stupid Little Evil Witches, Oh My!

28 Apr
 It was pouring the other night.  I found the perfect parking spot. Someone stole it.  I tweeted about it:

Notice the “make”?  Do you sense my rage?

I had found the perfect spot, and even though there was no one else in sight, I followed proper parking lot protocol and patiently waited for the spot with my blinker on making sure to give the person pulling out plenty of room. I then congratulated myself on my good fortune. 

 The second that car pulled out, before I even had a chance to take my foot off the brake, some pretty young thing flew into the spot so fast that she had to slam on her breaks in order to avoid a head-on collision with the car parked in front of her.
 
I immediately reacted with a quick, but forceful, beep.  Clearly, the young girl hadn’t seen me waiting for the spot with my blinker on.  I was certain that once she saw my blinker and my “It’s ok, it happens.” smile, she would realize her mistake and humbly back out. These things happen, after all.

So, I beeped and then waited…and waited….and waited.   Nothing.

You know what?  Her car was still running, and she probably just needed a second to accept the fact that she had to find another spot.  That’s fine.  I mean, it would suck to have to walk across the parking lot in this shitty weather.  I felt for her.  But, still.  She needed to move it.  I was already running late.   I better give her another courtesy beep. 

 *Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.*

Oh good!  That got her attention.  Wait.  Did her tail lights just go out?  At the same time?  That’s weird.  Did she just turn her car off?  She did hear me, didn’t she? 

 *BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!*

Then, it hit me.  This little shit wasn’t going to move.  She was going to sit in her car like a scared kitten until I pulled away.  Really?   I can play this game you little hussy.  I have all night, a coffee, and a full tank of gas.  I’m going to wait this shit out.  You better get comfortable.  Maybe order some Jimmy John’s.  I. Am. Not. Moving.

But, I didn’t have all night.  My coffee was getting cold, and gas is really expensive.  So, I turned my blinker off, let off the brake and coasted past the Slutmobile; but not before I gave her two of these:

No, really. F&%K YOU!

If you would have been a fly in my car at that very moment you would have heard the most creative and hateful slam poetry you have ever heard:

P&$$Y BALLS.

MOTHER SHIT.

F&*K !

C&*T DAMN DIE-

ISHP XIST JADSFAL!

*Finger snap.  Finger snap.*

I had time to reflect on my anger as I stood in front of the hand dryer in the women’s bathroom in a feeble attempt to dry the front of my shirt, my shoes, and my hair.  

I’m usually a pretty laid back person.   The rage and hostility I felt in that parking lot was not something I was proud of.  I was especially ashamed of the not one, but two, F&*K OFF’s I had given.

But, you know what?  When that little ho’ bag tw*t nugget stole my parking spot it was as though she climbed in the back seat of her car, positioned herself just so, unbuttoned her slut jeans, pulled down her skanky underwear, spread her ass cheeks, plastered them against the rear window, and made her butthole laugh at me. 

So, yeah.  F&!K her.  Twice.

Advertisements

What? Wednesday- Put Down Your Guns, Slap Your Children

27 Apr

This is how all conflicts, no matter how big or small, should be handled from now on. 

Boss up in your face?  Slap duel.

Need a way to end the war in Afghanistan?  Slap war.

Evil witch steal your parking spot?  Slap it out. (More on this tomorrow)

I need to find this little boy and train from him.  He will be my Mr. Miyagi, my Kung Fu slap master.  He will break my spirit by forcing me to practice my slap skills on a pin cushion until my hands are raw and bleeding.  He will laugh at my pain as he bitch slaps me over and over again with the back of his hand.   

After months of grueling training, and only after I have gained his respect, will he allow me to study him, learn from him, and ultimately master his ancient slap fight secrets. 

Yes, Sensei!  That’s exactly what I’ll do.

What the F Are You So Happy About?

1 Feb

I want to love working out.   I really do.  I mean, if I’m going to bust my ass training for this race, I should try to enjoy it.  Right?  The truth is, I can’t stand it.  Every morning before I get up, I have a 7 minute mini meltdown consiting of whining, checking the clock, bitching, checking the clock again, and then violently kicking off my comforter as I swear under my breath.  I know that once I get to the gym and start moving I’ll feel good about it, but I still have to talk myself into it.  Everyday.  

The crab doesn’t usually crawl out of my butt until I hit the shower so I spend the majority of my workout completely annoyed by life, and I basically have a problem with every person that walks into the Cardio Room.  There’s the guy that no matter how many open machines there are, has to pick the one right next to me and proceed to drop ass the entire time.  There’s the old lady who comes in with a tote bag full of magazines, and spends more time figuring out what she’s going to read (hummm, another issue of Martha Stewart’s Living?  Or perhaps another gardening magazine?) than she does on her machine.   Finally, let’s not forget the girl with the eating disorder that runs for two hours straight, lifts weights, and then runs some more.  Jesus, just throw up.  Less work.     

No one, however, makes me want to jump off the treadmill,  march over, open my water bottle, throw the water at her face, and then bitch slap her across the face with the back of my hand, more than this chick:

Yeah. 

W.T.F. is she so happy about?   

“Why so hostile?” you may ask.  Perhaps it’s because I’m jealous of her love of physical fitness.  Maybe it’s the cute workout gear she’s sporting.  Maybe I’m jealous that just programming her machine isn’t making her sweat like a pig.   

No.  It’s because in every step I take I can feel every single drag of every cigarette I’ve ever smoked, every sip of beer I didn’t need, every roll under my shirt, and all of those late night college munchy binges.  Basically, it’s because when I’m working out, I look like this:

This is going to be a looooooong six months.