Golden Shower Award or Sunshine Blogger - Same Difference (or color at least)

Oh, For Fuck's Sake 

The Golden Showers Award or Sunshine Blogger Award (whatever)

Apparently, when you write enough crap, people are tired of seeing your name pop up in their feed, and they bestow you with fake awards to shut you up. 

I’ve seen the Liebster Award (fake) which is given to bloggers who are known for their kindness and pleasant nature. I trip children at the park, I’m not ever getting this award.

My asshole friend, Kieran (we’re only internet buddies, I have no real friends) decided to nominate me for the Sunshine Blogger Award. I assume he did this because he either ran out of solid bloggers to add to this list, or he was day drinking again and thought it’d be funny. The rules say I must thank him though, so, whatever. Thanks.

You can find him on Twitter https://twitter.com/KieranBullshit or you can go directly to the source for some truly hilarious shit. The man has a gift and unnaturally light skin. I could tan just standing next to him. Do yourself a favor and check out his page.

The Rules:

• Thank the blogger who nominated you.
• Answer the 11 questions the blogger asked you. (Thank God he’s lazy and only presented 3)
• Nominate new blogs to receive the award and write them somewhere between 3 and 11 new questions. Or do what you want, I’m the boss.
•  List the rules and display the Sunshine Blogger Award in your post/or on your blog.
• Notify the nominees about it by commenting on one of their blog posts.

Here are the questions Kieran asked me:

1.     What gives your life meaning and purpose?

I kinda like my kid. Well, I did, until I got the little shithead’s report card and found out he failed 3 classes and got D’s in two others. Lying little asswipe.

I enjoy watching sports mishaps. I’m fairly dedicated to that and feel serenity and gratitude after about 20 minutes of gruesome bone breaks and near-death impalement.

I like helping people when and where I can. Having been through addiction myself, if anything that I’ve done or have been through helps another – keeps them from making similar mistakes, then it wasn’t for nothing. It was a win.

2.     Why do you waste your time on a blog (other than the narcissism and babyish need for attention)?

He nailed it with “narcissism and babyish need for attention.” You mean there are other reasons to blog? Fuck! I know dick about makeup application and 70% of what I cook comes from a package. I am not Susie Homemaker. You will not see me writing an inspirational blog and my mommy days are long over. This babybox was decommissioned during the Clinton administration. I have zero useful tips for new parents. At least, none that any new parent wants to hear.

Let the kid crawl on the floor! Let the kid put dirty shit in its mouth. YOU, parent, are the fucking problem. You’re the reason Timmy and Tanya are going to grow up to be sniveling pussies who are always sick and have gluten and dairy intolerances.

I blog because I'll unleash my crazy shit on the unsuspecting public if I don’t occasionally unscrew the cap a little every so often. Therapy is expensive. This is the alternative. Besides, it must make some of you feel better reading my crap and realizing, hey, at least I’m not as fucked up as that bitch!

3.     What makes you laugh/feel good.

Sex.

The lobster and I laugh together - a lot. We make one another laugh and we both feel good. He’ll read this later and I’ll reassure him that it makes us both feel good. I’ll raise my eyebrow to reinforce the seriousness.

There’s usually not laughter after sex, more along the lines of giggling and, “thank you, honey.” So yes, I stand with my first answer: sex. I’ll only add that the aforementioned sex is with my husband and not some random dick. 

Barring that, I’m insufferable and find no joy in anything. The exceptions to this are: athletes who fuck up, kids who eat shit at the playground, and animals doing silly animal stuff.

My nominees

Kieran was a selfish fucker and stole all the writers (ok, like two of them) that I would have nominated. He must be an only child. However, I think I may have found an appropriate response. In keeping with his own dealings (breaking “no backsies” rule), my first nominee is, of course, the bemusing bullshit artist. 

•            Kieran’sBullshit Humor: Regularly funny, cookie advocate, once ate a tamale with the husk on. Read here: https://kieranbullshit.com/
•           SheWrites Good: Witty, down to earth, mom & wife with everyday drama, also a nominee of that fake Liebster award. All-around charmer. Find her here: https://shewritesgood.com/
•         StumpedMom: Tackles issues some aren’t comfortable discussing so openly. She confronts sex, sexism, gender roles and more. She’s also a good friend. Check out her work: https://stumpedmom.com/

* Land Manatee, I would nominate you, but it just feels like I’d be doing ya dirty. How many times do you really want to do this shit, man? Just know, if Kieran wasn’t so fucking selfish, you would’ve made my list. *

Questions for the Troops

If you’re still following this, God bless you. Let’s tie this bitch up.

Answer the following in your own blog:

1. How do you measure success? (not necessarily professionally, could be personally)
2. What do you worry about most and why?
3. Waffles of Pancakes?
4.  If you could be any superhero or villain, who would you be? Why? 

That, I think concludes this session of Golden Showers. I mean, Golden Globes. Uh, Sunshine something or other. Same difference.

The Messiah of Melodrama, You Oughta Know

I had the misfortune of coming across a song on the radio last night that brought me back some years. I had never paid attention to how horrible it was until last night. Alanis Morissette’s “You Oughta Know” isn’t about empowerment after a breakup. It’s about a woman who refuses to let go. It’s sad really. The problem, as I see it, is that the song is catchy; you want to sing along. Young women beat their chests proclaiming: “I’m taking back my identity! I’m being true to myself! I’m finally being heard!”

No, you’re being crazy. Let go of shit that no longer serves you. Be a woman of integrity. Find your happiness in something or someone that returns the effort, affection, and attention that you give. When it’s done, it’s done. Let it go and try on some personal growth.

There’s a range of emotion that's to be expected, but for the love of all that's good in the world, keep that shit in small circles. You look pathetic when you attempt to sully others publicly. And if you’re going to write a song, let’s call it what it is. It’s not empowerment, it’s an adolescent attempt to drag someone through the dirt and gain the sympathy of others.

I’ve broken down the lyrics to the song below and added my thoughts in purple text. I want you all to know, that I wish nothing but the best for her. * not passive aggressive at all. nope. not one bit. *

YOU OUGHTA KNOW (with remarks by Rants & Swears)

I want you to know, that I am happy for you

I wish nothing but the best for you both

Oozing passive-aggressiveness. Wanna try again?

An older version of me

Is she perverted like me?

Would she go down on you in a theater?

Public indecency is highly frowned upon, please be careful. Pee-wee Herman got in a lot of trouble for this.

Does she speak eloquently

And would she have your baby?

I'm sure she'd make a really excellent mother

'Cause the love that you gave that we made

Wasn't able to make it enough for you

To be open wide, no

Clearly, you opened wide. You still haven’t shut.

And every time you speak her name

Does she know how you told me

You'd hold me until you died

'Til you died, but you're still alive

Get over yourself sweetheart. We all say sentimental shit no one is expected to be held to unless you marry up. Weren’t we all going to marry our first love and grow old together? Remember that bullshit? Yeah, we were all around 15 when that happened, right? So, by that rationale, we’re all miserable liars.

And I'm here, to remind you

Of the mess you left when you went away

It's not fair, to deny me

Of the cross I bear that you gave to me

Wait, you’re bearing a cross now? You’ve made yourself a martyr? Wow didn’t see that coming. Nope, not at all.

You, you, you oughta know

You seem very well, things look peaceful

I'm not quite as well, I thought you should know

No shit you’re not well. You’re bordering on obsessive, leaning towards delusional.

Did you forget about me, Mr. Duplicity?

I hate to bug you in the middle of dinner

Doubtful. I rather think she enjoys it.

It was a slap in the face

How quickly I was replaced

And are you thinking of me when you fuck her?

Psst…this song was written following her breakup with Dave Coulier. That’s right, the fluffy dad from Full House whose token line was, “Cut it out!” Not hunky Stamos or even the comic Saget; just Coulier. What am I missing? Ultimately, she doesn’t want the answer to her question, “are you thinking of me when you fuck her?”

Sweetie, if he was thinking of you…he’d still be with you.

'Cause the love that you gave that we made

Wasn't able to make it enough for you

To be open wide, no

And every time you speak her name

Does she know how you told me

You'd hold me until you died

'Til you died, but you're still alive

Dammit! We’re here again? Bitch, herpes is forever, not your relationship. Time to move on.

And I'm here, to remind you

(and all of creation)

Of the mess you left when you went away

It's not fair, to deny me

Of the cross I bear that you gave to me

Seriously, put down the cross, fix your hair and go find some new dick.

You, you, you oughta know

'Cause the joke that you laid in the bed

That was me and I'm not gonna fade

As soon as you close your eyes, and you know it

And every time I scratch my nails

Down someone else's back I hope you feel it

How do you plan to scratch your nails down someone else’s back if you continue wailing about this dude? Men don’t like it when you’re hung up on your ex. Revenge sex only hurts everyone. Heal. Move the fuck on. He’s just not that into you.

Well, can you feel it?

And I'm here, to remind you

Of the mess you left when you went away

It's not fair, to deny me

Of the cross I bear that you gave to me

You, you, you oughta know

He knows it, your next-door neighbors know it, your grocer probably knows it too. Your co-workers have began scheming; devising ways to have you terminated. They’re tired of your shit too. Your pets no longer like you either. If they could dump you, they would. Face reality: it’s over. You lost. Stop writing passive-aggressive, bitter misery anthems and move the fuck on! Spare us all your pathetic call to arms. It’s only Dave Coulier. For fuck’s sake lady, “Cut it out!”

Fun fact: if you google "angry breakup" images, Alanis Morissette's album cover comes up as #15. 

365 days plus time served

June 6, 2019: our anniversary. I’ve been married (to the same guy) for a full year. We’ve been together for more than 6 years. I’ve never devoted myself to anything with such unwavering loyalty. Well, not since elementary school; I refused to let the stretch pant and scrunchy sock fad die. I just wouldn’t give up on them, holding out hope that LA Gear shoes with glitter shoelaces would make a comeback. I was fighting the good fight. I wasn’t one of the tacky bitches who wore tasseled denim jackets or, god forbid, the tasseled boot. I had class. Stretch, scrunch, & glitter 4 lyfe!

People will sometimes ask how The Lobster (husband) and I met. I like to say, “It’s kind of a funny story. When we first met, he was a married mute who tucked his rock band t-shirts into his denim shorts. He reminded me of a teenager with developmental issues, who, because he was still married, was off-limits. It was so fucking hot.”

My husband isn’t a mute, he just wasn’t much for words when we first met. I get it, I’m kind of breathtaking. He was, in fact, married when we first became acquainted. That’s a long story. CliffsNotes: She lost. I won. He no longer tucks in his t-shirts. I win, again. I’m not a homewrecker either; they were already separating. I was just in the right place at the right time. I’m lucky like that.

When I began dating my husband, I was much prettier. Okay, I was nicer. You still not buying? Fine. I was younger. Along with youth comes a sense of I’m going to be okay, no matter what. I don’t need a relationship. I’m older. Not so anymore. It’s all downhill from here; a fact I remind my husband of frequently. It’s called CYA. Can’t have him claiming he wasn’t aware that I’d let myself go then try filing for divorce. It’d be a shame for the brake lines on his car to go.  

I have trouble getting off the floor when I’ve gone looking for something under the sofa. Bracing all my weight on my good knee with both hands to assist me, I hoist my meaty organ husk off the floor, letting out a soft whimper. I am not prepared to do this shit alone. Furthermore, I want a partner whom I can tease well into old age.

What if I fall in the shower one day? Sure, Life Alert can get a paramedic to my residence, but by now I’m ugly, old, and likely naked. What’s the point? Might as well just leave me in the shower to drown in my own piss and tears. My cats will eat my remains eventually. I’ve seen them throw up on the floor then eat it, you can’t tell me they won’t eat my dead body. Years of eating the same dry cat food daily, I imagine there’s quite a bit of hostility worked up. The marriage trade-off is: I pack lunches until retirement, in exchange he changes my oil, reaches the shit on the top shelf and makes sure I don’t die naked. It's fair.

Over the last 365 days, I have said, “I’m sorry” 1,321 times. How can you possibly know that you may ask? I’m anal retentive and have zero regard for how awkward it makes other people feel always saying, “I’m sorry.” I was also raised Catholic, so it’s deeply fucking ingrained. I say, “I’m sorry” when you stub your toe. It’s not my fault you’re an idiot who didn’t pay attention to where you were going. Still, somehow, I’m sorry.

If we do the math, 1,321 averages out to 3.6 times a day that I say I’m sorry to my husband. Let’s call it 4. Can you imagine how fucking nerve-racking that would be? It’s a miracle I’m not buried in the desert by now. I would have killed me at least 4 months ago. Times like these I’m glad we live in a condo. Community pool means someone is likely to witness the drowning and there’s no backyard of our own to speak of; he’s going to have to borrow one.

The Lobster endures. I am not what one would call high maintenance, but I certainly make it difficult. There's pouting, passive-aggressive backlash, impatience, and an endless barrage of shelter dog photos that I send him. We can't have a dog due to landlord regulations at our condo. That, however, doesn't stop me from sending him photos of every sweet miserable pup face I see. My depravity is boundless.

6.5 fucking years! I’ve been sleeping with the same man for 6.5 years. How the hell did this happen? Not a stray in there anywhere. So weird. Family members have joked about my 2-year cap. My attention span gives out after that and literally, EVERYTHING they do irritates me. I have dumped men because I didn’t like the way they breathed anymore. Chewing was an issue with one. Hair became an issue with another – I couldn’t wake up next to dreads anymore. It was nothing serious at that point anyhow. Best to nip that shit in the bud. Here I am 6.5 years later, still staring at the same set of balls though. Man, life is funny.

For my readers, my husband is an incredibly good sport. He’ll take this in stride and with remarkable grace. He knows I love him beyond time and space. For the sake of his family, I’ve made this post “unavailable” on certain platforms– or at least to some of them. No one wants to read about their son’s balls. My own family, however, well, I have no shame and since most of this is about how shitty I am, this should come as no surprise. My foul-mouth and lack of tact or couth is why everyone knows not to answer the phone on speaker and ALWAYS remind me to behave myself BEFORE the family function begins. If you forget to tell me not to swear, that shit’s on you.

I’ll wrap it up by saying my husband is a sweet piece of ass and I adore him. It’s been great so far. I’ve enjoyed finding new and creative ways to confuse and torment him. For our next year of marriage, I’m going to practice saying, “I’m sorry” in multiple languages or perhaps with a Canadian accent. For language variations, I’ll start small. I can begin with sign language; clear facial emote must be employed. I’ll work up to something harder like Japanese or Hungarian.

That’s all for now. Sorry it took so long. Thanks for following along on my mindless rant.