Angelina Jolie and Madonna can go suck it hard because this summer I adopted myself a real life foreign child! That’s right, they Fed Exed Mikey from Armenia and my little package could not have been more of a blessing. And by blessing I mean giant dildo type of pain in the ass. Well, to back track a bit, he was not exactly a child per say. In fact he is 24 years old and that could very well explain why he didn’t take to breast feeding as well as we anticipated he would. My baby daddy was my best friend Cheeha and all of the sudden we were stuck raising this socially awkward and foreign boy. Every parents nightmare.

In reality our “child” was the brother of out friend. After settling in one of the most mind-numbingly boring suburbs of Philadelphia, Mikey slowly began accustomed to American life. Meaning that he cried like a girl on the very first day of her period every single day. With no car, an absence of a driver’s license, and no internet; Mikey was stuck at home with nowhere to go and not even hairy Armenian women on internet porn to tickle his fancy. By “fancy” I’m of course referring to that 4 inch penis he was packing underneath his skin tight jeans that the foreigners seem to enjoy, much to the dismay of my gag reflex. However, as much as I disproved of these jeans they beat the alternative: his little shorts that I swear I’ve seen in a Richard Simmons work out video countless times before. But because me and Cheeha were in need of some good karma after an unfortunate incident at a diner where we might have accidentally and unknowingly mocked a mentally disabled person to his face…repeatedly, we decided to take him in as the offspring our two vaginas would never be able to conjure up on their own.

I, of course. never saw myself being a mother at this age, what with my love for booze and cock to cloud my judgment, but I decided to give this little boy a fair shot. The first few weeks we had him were absolute bliss…we went to the pool, jumped on the trampoline while holding hands, and drank vodka until he threw up! Ahhh the memories. We would laugh behind his back at his silly little text messages where he seemed to have the grasp of a dyslexic Mexican on the English language. We were the essence of a perfect, All American family. And even though we would bicker about who was taking him on the weekends and who’s turn it was to drive the skinny bitch around, we loved him nonetheless. In fact my love for him fell just above vibrators and right below Patron on the list of things I love the most in my life. In fact this situation was turning out so well that I was planning our visit to the Oprah show where I would brag about our little import for hours on end until Gale had to kick me out.

However the honeymoon period with our child took a severe downward spiral after about a month when me and Cheeha were first faced with typical parental challenges all mothers and vagina ridden fathers like ourselves face. My first serious issue with him was one that was very concerning and quite frankly heart wrenching as a mother: I needed to get my baby some pussy. That’s right, his tiny little pecker hadn’t been in contact with punani in over a month and this is completely unacceptable for any child of mine. Considering Mikey like everyone else I associate with was extremely good looking, it was hard for me to understand the problem. That is until I witnessed my little bundle of sheer disappointment trying to wrangle coochie at a bar. It was a big night of drinking for me or as its better known to the rest of the world: “Thursday.” I was pleasantly settled at the bar with Cheeha and a few of our friends which I was desperately trying to drown out with my 4th sangria. Not only because I wasn’t in the mood to listen to Cheeha and Albert argue about which one of them has the prettier vagina, but also because I was zeroed in on my son across the bar doing a move I can only describe as the “down syndrome robot” to a song that required no such spastic motions.

Cringing at this interpretive looking dance that he was performing in his too tight to be worn by anyone but Prince outfit, I promptly ordered my 5th sangria in attempt to keep my cool. Maybe he doesnt understand what pussy is, maybe he’s unsure about what it looks like. Will I have to show him? As I fought the urge to jump up on the bar and raise my skirt up to discretely show Mikey

what he should be in search for, I realized that this parental display of affection is only socially and legally accepted in the south, and I quickly settled myself back down, Its ok I told myslef, every parent has to go through this horrible time. What would Angelina do? I’m sure Maddox has done plenty of queer shit to embarrass Angelina in public, I mean look at that kid… he looks like Satan and Mao Zedong’s love child. I had to ask myself though, does she keep her cool or completely loose it? Should I spank Mikey when we get home? Does Angelina spank Maddox? Does Angelina spank Brad? Does Brad like it? Does Brad picture its George Cloony instead? Ugh but no time to get sidetracked with life’s great questions, i have a serious crises on my hands.
Just halted my overactive worries, the sight at the other side of the bar almost made me shoot an apple chunk of my sangria out my nose and directly into the ample crotch of the bartender! More on the bartenders crotch later I sternly told myself and averted my attention back to Mikey. Standing before me was Mikey flirting with two of the ugliest motherfuckers I have ever laid my eyes on, and they were MEN. As Cheeha witnessed me go into spasms she wondered if it was my attempt to dance with Mikey, or a reaction to something in the room. As she noticed Mikey doing the unimaginable, she tended to my mini meltdown.

While controlling my flailing arms, she carefully explained to me,” Its okay dont worry, he’s probably just making friends.” Although I very much wanted to believe what she was saying was the truth, and that the men he was talking to were probably just your average run of the mill child predators,I knew that glimmer in Mikey’s eye as he was eying the men’s shlongs was not that of an innocent boy, but of a rather homosexual adult.

Twenty minutes and an indefinite number of Sangrias later, Cheeha and I were furious with our little fairy of a child. He was still talking to these men and ignoring every fuckable piece of ass that happened to walk by him, and not only that, but at this point the fugly twins actually looked uncomfortable and bored with his presence. And we were ALL still very uncomfortable with his “dance” moves. Not being able to contain ourselves any longer, we all but jumped to the other side of the bar to get to the bottom of this situation. In fact I really had to hold back the urge to actually jump Laura Croft style now that I fancied myself to be an Angelina Jolie type mother figure.

Grabbing him by each ear we took him aside to find out at which point did our advice of “Get some vag tonight Mikey” translate to “Feast on cock tonight Mikey” in his pretty little head. I was hoping it was as simple as a translation difficulty, and that by buying him a new dictionary I could easily show to him that vagina is one thing and penis is a horse fo a different color all together.Seeing as we had him cornered right now in search of an explanation, Mikey got intimidated by Cheeha’s 5 foot imposing stature and nervously quipped,

“What are you talking about? These are Armenians! We can spot each other from mile away. We are like this” ( he does a hand motion with both hands that must have represented some sort of unity but all I could see was a penis to anus like movement).

Refusing to address this homosexual remark which even made Albert slightly uncomfortable, I quickly gave him a kick in the ass. I them exclaimed “I didnt pay good money to get you out here tonight just so you could play swords with the fugly twins behind the bar, and if you dont’t shape up and start making some serious progress in the FEMALE department I’ll have Cheeha put you over her knee!” Reluctantly our child lacklusterly approached a few women and probably got shot down after they noticed that he was gay. Then after facing the kind of rejection that I can imagine only ugly people have to deal with, Mikey proceeded to spend the rest of the night at the DJ booth probably jerking him off to the music.

As I drove my family home, I had to come to terms with the fact that I have a gay son. What am I supposed to do now? Is penis and semen even kosher? Do I wear rainbow bracelets in support of Mikey? Can I pull off all those bright colors with my complexion? Will it just confuse people and make them think I’m a big lesbian? Will I have to become a fan of Rosie O’Donnell the emperor of all gays? And as my thoughts of Rosie O’Donnell promptly triggered nausea, I decided to take this coming out of sorts with pride. I will be the supportive parent that my little girl…er I mean boy needs! I will do his hair and his nails… I will make sure he gets manscaped weekly…I will listen to Celine Dion with him and all the other girly music I know he likes even if it makes me bleed from the ears!

I will march in the gay pride parade holding a sign that say ” MY SON IS A FLAMING ARMENIAN AND I’M PROUD!!!!… PS. JUST TO CLARIFY, I AM NOT A DIKE, NOT THAT THAT’S A BAD THING TO BE BUT I’M A PICKY EATER SOMETIMES AND PUSSY MAKES ME GAG, BUT BY ALL MEANS TO THE REST OF YOU, CARRY ON” I quickly made a mental note that this would be a rather large sign and I’d probably need Cheeha to hold up the other end of it on our float. I will be the best fairy godmother this child could ever have! I looked through the rear view mirror and I saw my little boy staring at the round and ample moon in the night sky, probably wanting to tea bag it, and I knew that I could give him the future he is dreaming of. I smile at Cheeha and pull into a 24 hour diner to satisfy my drunk munchies.

Contently sitting with my newly out- of -the -closet son I was picking at a few french fries that came with my questionable order of eggs. I wasnt going to fret about the cook though, or worry that he ejaculated into my food as I usually do during late night dining. No, I was here to enjoy my time with my little family. So as a group of drunk of their asses fifty year olds that looked to me about 78 stumbled into the diner hitting on my little boy, I payed no attention. He was obviously gay and they would feel silly for even trying to get into those ungodly tight pants of his. No way any of them would be able to squeeze they’re porky fingers in there.

In the next 10 minutes they managed to become even more obnoxious than they were when they first walked in and decided that it was a good idea to try and squeeze they’re fat asses into the four person booth we were sitting in. As I was shoved into Mikey’s armpit by the scariest of the bunch I then coined as Leatherface, I sat in complete disgust and horror as she continued to chow down on MY fries. With every fry her ass inflated and started to overflow on the other side of the booth. It must have looked like the Niagra falls of ass fat over there because I saw our waiter gag and hurriedly run to the bathroom to throw up an scratch his own eyes out. Leatherface was quickly putting the moves on my son. And disgust turned to worry as he began returning her flirtatious babel.
Her idea of flirting of course was telling him that she would like him to blow the dust off her 4594589 year old vagina that no one has come near since her previous husband. I quickly decided that her ex must have left her after he underwent a miraculous and cutting edge surgery in which he regained his eyesight, hearing, and use of his penis.

“Have you ever been with a fat chick?!” she slurred while finishing up the rest of my fires..

“Yes I have.” he answered eagerly. I made a mental note to reprimand him with a slap on his balls for such irresponsible behavior. What if he got her pregnant? I can not have half fat and ugly grandchildren running around. But before I got too mad Leatherface asks

” Like as fat as me or fatter?”

“Like you” Mikey said while eying her 2nd and third rolls. This comment made me laugh out loud and breathe a sigh of relief because there was no way she could have possibly wanted to fuck him after that remark. But the little celebration in my head swiftly turned to disbelief when she stated

“Ok good I just dont want there to be any surprises when we get down to business.” This comment and most importatnly, the visual that came with it, sent Cheeha and I into spasms of dry heaving, and we prayed that this discussion of fat chicks would soon be over. But the conversation between Leatherface and Mikey was taking a worrisome turn. Before I knew it he was getting her digits! What is going on here?! How can he go from gay to def blind and dumb in the span of 30 minutes? How can he find her attractive? How can he even possibly think his penis would make any upward movement for the saggy tits she had tucked into her pants?

And as she was about to lift that enormous elephant ass away from us, she leans over and they kiss!!! Oh my god ” Keep your food down Elina! Keep it down!” was all I kept thinking. I was just moments away from joining our waiter in the bathroom. But quite frankly I couldn’t even move! I was shocked and confused and betrayed. Cheeha, not being able to contain herself any longer exclaims “What the HELL WAS THAT?!”

He simply laughed it off as the little ingrate that he is and said that it would be a new and exciting experience to fuck someone of Leatherbag’s age. Over the next few weeks they texted back and forth, and even met at some point. At this meeting however Mikey realized that his little penis was not The Little Engine That Could and therefore did not even attempt to enter the antique vagina of hers. But our relationship has never been the same since that day. I could put up with a child that dances like he’s had a terrible seizure, I can put up with a child that dresses like Cher, I can even learn to accept a child that enjoys getting it in the ass from another man. But I simply cannot accept a child that is attracted to fugly. I have no room in my life for that. And although we speak on occasion, and I hear he’s quite the ladies man at the local nursing home, things will never be the same between us. So in true Angelina nature, Cheeha and I are heading abroad next summer to adopt yet another child. And just like Angelina I’m going to keep at adopting foreign children until I get one that can make mama proud, and on top of that.. can roll a hell of a joint. That’s right here i come children of Amsterdam!

Since sticking obnoxious people into Institutions became illegal, stalkers have been plaguing our very existence. Best known as the sore assholes of society, stalkers have no shame and creep up on you faster than a case of explosive diarrhea. Not the kind caused by rancid meat or bad sushi, mind you. However, just like it, all of the sudden there is a sharp pain in the ass, and before you know it, your stuck in the bathroom for the better part of your day (in this case hiding). We all know what it’s like to feel as if you are in a bad horror movie. One in which Paris Hilton has a cameo and the only sucking she is doing is acting-related. However, if you haven’t had a stalker at some point in your life, it is crucial to draw two conclusions from this revelation.

1) No one likes you enough to be even be remotely interested in your existence. and 2) YOU are most likely the token stalker.

Stalking is not only a pathetic, but also a psychotic quality that in the less-severe cases can be solved by a decent vibrator, and in the most-severe cases by a rainbow of meds and a straight jacket. And simply because I have a few people in mind I’d like to nominate for the second one, is why stalkers qualify as DOUCHE BAGS. (That was written in caps lock for both dramatic effect, and so in case your staker is somewhere behind you, they can spot the insult easily.)

Now, much like public bathrooms, I have to separate the stalkers into male/female categories. Just think of it as the his/hers towel sets of stalking…if each towel was doused in the perfume of the person they have their stalking lazy eyes on. The douche and douchess of stalking have many similarities, but there are some important differences to consider as well. After much research and my own stalking incidents, I have drawn up what I hope to be an intellectually (and maybe for some of you) sexuallystimulating review.

The Stalking Douchess:
There is a slight difference between the token clingy bitch and a female stalker. Perhaps the stalker recipe has a pinch more of nutmeg and a dash more of psychosis. See, when the clingers take the next step to stalking they have two variations. 1) they stalk men they are interested in or 2) they stalk women they feel threatened by.

In the first case the situation is quite simple. A suspicious girlfriend can be a stalker in no time. Faster than a minute man can ejaculate, she will be scanning your phone and hacking into every account you have. Douchess will have every text message in her boyfriends phone memorized so well that she can recite them with greater speed than a 3rd grader rattles the pledge of allegiance.

Those special Olympics stalking games aside, my favorite stalking war strategy is the “drive-by stalking.” Much like the drive-by shootings, the douchess will go all east LA on your ass and drive by all the places you have visited in the past decade. Douchess has your license plate number more imprinted in her head than her very own birthday. My guess being that she even has a bush she picked in your front yard that covers her car perfectly. Needless to say if she put this time and effort into her own bush, she may not be having these problems.
Women like these freak me out tremendously. We all know that girl that will randomly drive by her boyfriend’s house to see if his car is there, or check his emails, go through his phone, and exhibit just a tad bit of jealousy during his annual four finger prostate exam. Point being that no part of this behavior is normal. Displaying any of the aforementioned tendencies is enough to put you on the discovery channel where we study the Douchess in her natural habitat… her car, parked outside of some mystery location, with a bag of Doritos.
Moreover, if you have never heard of such a female, or don’t find any of these behaviors alarming, it’s time to take a long hard look at yourself. You can probably best use that little mirror located in the sun visor of your car… because that’s probably where you spend much of you time hunting down your man. That’s right, don’t play clueless. Put down your man’s social security number and sign out of his email account. You are officially one step away from a free ride to an assisted living establishment where the walls are padded and the windows are sealed. Do us all a favor and go out and find a boyfriend you have an easier time keeping tabs on and you know won’t cheat. I suggest that anyone on life support would be a suitable candidate.

Now, the highest level of female stalkers: women that are threatened by other women. Ladies and gentlemen, I didn’t think this was an issue until I faced a female stalker myself. This particular woman has enough of her brain missing that she will not just stalk men she takes interest in, but the women those men surround themselves with as well.

Well everyone knows that the most unstable women are the ones closest to menopause. They are the desperate housewives who substitute work with watching daytime television. After viewing the latest season of the Real Housewives of New Jersey, they too are dillusional enough to think they have some sort of mafia ties. This paired with the other nonsense they consume off television, and perhaps The First Wives Club, makes them think they are some sort of spy or ninja. I guess more spy than ninja seeing as they are not able to move as swiftly…I hear prying the FUPA off the couch is a ten minute process within itself, and sometimes requires the help of a small crane. Not to mention a ninja with a galaxy of cheese balls stuck to the ass is hardly a threat to anyone.

Well, this psychopath has enough money and time on her hands that she can spend all day, face down in a carton of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream, planning her assault on her victim’s vagina. This will of course begin with a 10 hour minimum Facebook stalk they use as a warm up. Where she looks at every single picture ever posted or tagged of you. My stalker was particularly fortunate seeing as I still had a plethora of questionable shots ranging from my Halloween costumes to my surprise cock party for my birthday. The birthday party allowed her to browse images of me in various stages of disarray and intoxication propped up against a 6 foot tall inflatable dick. At the sight of this she must have indeed been jealous that I’m spending my time with such enormous male genitalia. The jealousy stems from the fact that word on the street is: after a woman is 4-5 kids deep, she earns a nickname of ” The Grand Canyon.” But vag echoes and helicopter rides to locate the g-spot are neither here nor there, I digress…

After stalking the Facebook world, it is time for her to take it a step further by trying to hack your email. Then after that feat is accomplished she will find out your phone number, and finally your address. Before you know it, you’re getting ten phone calls in a row on a bi-weekly basis. The calls will either come from a blocked phone number or the phone of one of the stalker’s land beast-like friends. I use the term “friends” loosely (pun intended) seeing as stalkers have no real friends. They just have people that decided it’s best to be nice to the douchess before the psycho turns on them and beats them with a bag of half eaten Twizzlers.

It is a giant pain in the ass to deal with the token stalker douchess. I motion to get them all deported to the middle east immediately where they will have to wear a burkha at all times. This way it’s really a win win situation. Their bodies are completely draped (covering the train wreck the work of 30 thigh masters couldn’t even make a dent in) and most importantly their mouthes would be covered as well. The muffling will hopefully prevent from anymore bleeding of the ears that these stalkers have been causing for years. Sending all stalkers to the middle east isn’t a completely useless act. Who else do you think would be better at finding Osama and the rest of the terrorists? That bitch will have tabs on his camel from morning until night. For one because that’s his mode of transportation out in the dessert, and two its probably also who he’s cheating on her with.

In conclusion ladies and gentleman, the female stalker is nothing to be taken lightly. I have come out of my experience as a survivor thus far but who’s to say how far a stalking douchess could go? Who’s to know if mine will re-surface after this investigative article? Who’s to know if something I said will ignite stalkers all over the world to ourtrage? But I hope this is not the case. I hope all stalkers can find my advice a source of inspiration, and take the advice to assist them in becoming a little less pathetic and a lot more sexually active. Maybe they’ll sew up the gaping man holes they call a vagina and get back into the dating game? Maybe they will finally close out of other people’s Facebook profiles and browse a part of the internet that is more stimulating, like midget porn? Maybe they’ll dust off that old vibrator and give it a go to their favorite Nicholas Spark’s movie?… You know, or The Shining, whichever.
I’m not sure what any of these female stalkers will do or are capable of because I am not fluent in the crazy cuntbag language…French was the closest thing they had to that in my high school. But I suppose if I really wanted to know what my stalker will do, I can always just open up my bedroom window and shout at the figure dangling from the tree branches. Hopefully I will not startle her too badly, although I’m comforted that she has a Biggest Loser candidate-size ass to cushion her and a family of 6 if she falls.

The Stalking Douche:
This section of the douche bag review is significantly shorter. Unlike being the herpes of society with random outbreaks like his stalker douchess counterpart, the stalking douche is more like syphilis. Annoying and potentially life-threatening, but ultimately curable…(thank you 11th grade health class for giving me the STD knowledge to support my metaphors). See, this is because male stalkers never try to hide their intentions. They will call and tell you that they’re outside of your house, or saw something on your Facebook wall or in your inbox that may suggest that you took a piss without informing them. Why do the douche bags find this behavior acceptable? Well it seems to be a bit of a double standard. They think this is a romantic gesture. Well, I’m here to inform you that stalking is about as romantic of a gesture as sending a dozen roses dipped in blood. Men, there’s something to be said for playing it cool. It makes us women actually want to engage in a game of bedroom hole in one golf with you, and not a game of foot-to-ball. Trying to control a woman will get you no further in your search for her affection than your best friend’s boxers… where she can be spotted hiding behind a pole which is most likely bigger than yours.

Luckily (for me) most men that engage in this type of behavior tend to be child molesters, and anyone that doesn’t sport a set of (non-handlebar intended) pig tails shouldn’t have a problem with this douche. Although, they are annoying to run into at Chuck-E Cheese: the hot spot where I previously held my annual birthday party…until management had an issue with the nude conga line and jello body shots on my 21st.

Have you ever walked by a couple and thought ” Holly mother of God!” Well I seem to be doing that more often these days. For once, I can’t blame this on my general dislike for most people. No, I’m referring to the token mismatched couple! In case this is still unclear, I will go further and say a couple in which one party is attractive, while the second looks like it got raped by the ugly stick. (Note, in this scenario, I mean an actual stick. Usually when I say ‘ugly stick’ I’m talking about a father’s penis and the contents of undesirable genetics which it holds within)

Woman with Beast:
In the most common case of the mismatched couple we have the attractive woman with a man that holds about as much sex appeal as Flavor Flav’s left nut. In this case, we usually have a scale. The more attractive the woman is, the greater earning potential her ass-ugly mate has. She is a trophy wife and the only bulge in his pants she’s concerned about is the one created by his wallet. (This is why I could never be a trophy wife, my gaze always wanders more toward the center of his pants in search of a whole other sort of bulge). In the case of tolerating a porking session with this man: the lack of a gag reflex helped these sorts of women get ahead in life in more ways than one. Ugly men, it’s not that they don’t love you at all; it’s just that their riding your best friend on the side.

At this point it’s important to mention the married couple phenomenon. Here, upon marriage both the male and female were equally as attractive. Cut to 20 years later, one party is aging well while the other is starting to resemble a senile Marlon Brando or a modern day Kirstie Alley. The more attractive of the two feels incredibly duped, and rightfully so. While they’ve been busting their asses going to the gym and skipping 2 out of 3 daily meals, their spouses appear to have been spending their days snorkeling in a tub of Mayo. Well the end result is completely inevitable here. The more attractive of the two is off to hump someone half their age. An occurrence we have all heard about many times. Here ” I’m picking up the kids from soccer practice” translates for women to “I’m picking up the coach from the kid’s soccer practice” or for men, “I’m picking up a woman who’s more than happy to fondle my soccer balls… drive the kids? didn’t we get the 10 year old a bike last year?”

Man with Beast:
Next, and more uncommon, we have the very attractive man with a woman who has a nice body but a face that would give Freddy Cruger nightmares. We all know the guy who became a sucker for the bangin body of his girlfriend, but none of us can see how he can stand to suck-her-face. Furthermore, every time he speaks about porking this Mr. Ed girlfriend of his, I always have to stop myself from putting a call through to PETA. I don’t think he’d appreciate my telling them about his affinity for lubricated ‘horse-back riding.’ It’s not always a naturally ugly face that comes into play here. Sometimes it’s the botox face phenomenon. This plastic woman also falls into the popular butterface category. With aging maintenance is acceptable, but injecting your face until your range of expressions is less than a Mickey Mouse doll, is not. However, what can I say? God bless the men that do the genital handshake with these creatures, and God bless the ‘Green’ movement for supplying us with more paper bags than we’ve ever had before.

Last, we have the most exciting scenario. This one leaves me both confused and giddy. Ladies, and gentleman: we have the fucking CHUB CHASERS! Yep, I’m talking about the moderately attractive man, with a woman who’s nickname is Shamu. She spends her days chasing ice cream trucks, and still doesn’t get any thinner, because after the first 100 yards of her run she gets thrown off by a hot dog stand. And yet, there are perfectly normal looking men out there who are more than happy to tackle the beast, roll her in dough to find the wet spot, then proceed to do some acrobatic maneuvers in order to avoid the FUPA and penetrate properly. I imagine that this takes quite an effort. How anyone can navigate an enormous FUPA and still have a boner is mind-blowing to me. This is astonishing enough for men that have a regular build, but even more so for the extremely short and thin men. It seems that these tiny Sea World enthusiasts embrace Shamu the most. Perhaps it is just one of those bizarre fetishes. Perhaps it is a love for adventure, and the thrill one get’s after facing death on a nightly basis (upon Shamu turning from her back to her side in her sleep, or getting too lazy to walk to the kitchen for a midnight snack). The awful truth is that no one really knows why a man built like a bulimic midget would want to cuddle up with a woman who can shelter a family of five between her fourth and fifth chin. No, all we can do is watch the little guy go sky diving, using his girlfriend’s lace panties as a parachute, and speculate.

WARNING:
On a relevant note, I must take this opportunity to warn innocent women of the threat of the UNDER COVER CHUB CHASERS. Just the other day I almost fell victim to one at the gym of all places! These are of course men that spot a girl who’s face they’d love to stick their penis in… however they also figure that this face is insufficient due to only having one chin. This is precisely when they suggestively try to fatten her up. Slowly but surely they will feed this unsuspecting victim until purchasing just one seat on an airplane becomes impossible for her to do!

This past Monday afternoon at the gym, I was innocently doing bicep curls. All of the sudden, out of the corner of my left eye I spotted the UNDER COVER CHUB CHASER. I was standing alone, and knew that it was only a matter of seconds before he would accost me.

He throws me off at first with a friendly smile and a simple “Hello”

I smile and nod back bracing myself for the inevitable. Then without skipping a beat, or slowing down he sighs heavily, rolls his eyes and exclaims “UGH EAT SOMETHING ALREADY!” Then he quickly shuffles away before I have a chance to respond.

He does this to me every couple of months now. And I fear that one day it will escalate, and I will come in and get chased by him with a Whopper in his hand. I don’t know why he’s trying to fatten me up, but he must be one cocky chub chaser. To be so confident in your skills of fattening women up, that you begin to hunt down victims at the gym is quite impressive. After all, I don’t spend everyday doing cardio in order to get FATTER! Well, this experience was an alarming one, but now I am on to him and rest assured that his tricks will not work on me. Not on my watch UNDER COVER CHUB CHASER! Go beat off to the sight of some other bitch devouring a burger. Know that I will not hesitate to shank you with carrot sticks next time I see you approaching me.

If anything,that little run in just made me want to work out harder. I remembered the words of a friend of mine at the gym ( spoken while he was engaging in his favorite pastime of taunting fatties) and as his words resonated in my ears, I sprinted directly to the tred mill and proceeded to “run like my pants are on fire.”

My genuine dislike of most people is as much a secret as Lance Bass’ sexual preferences. I don’t hide my low tolerance for folks who consistently suck at life. This doesn’t mean that I would like to banish them from, oh let’s say the face of the Earth, but rather just gather them all up and place them elsewhere. This way they can continue to suck the long, hard dick of life somewhere desolate, far, and insignificant. Examples may be Alaska, Greenland, and Jersey. No matter what I do lately, these gangs of cock suckers have been following me around like lost puppies (who clearly have yet to get their shots, and are therefore particularly unappealing and sometimes foaming at the mouth). No matter how hard I try to pay no attention to them, they continue to put my panties in a bunch. And my panties being in any position other than the way the kind folks at Victoria’s Secret meant for them to be is unacceptable! In fact it reminds me of an unfortunate morning-after-drinking experience in NYC with my friend Rita a.k.a Funbags:

me: (looking shamefully at the NJ Transit floor while walking toward our platform)

“Um Rita, I don’t remember how this happened….but it appears that my underwear is on backwards”

Funbags: (suddenly stops and looks directly ahead)

“What?! Hahahahaha! How the fuck did that happen! C’mon you really don’t remember??”

me: (Continuing to walk toward our platform)

“No”

Funbags: “Um we can go back, and you can change them forward if you’d like”

me: “Nope”

Funbags: “Hahaha! Well, do you find this funny yet???”

me: “Nope”

Funbags: “Haha…you sure you don’t want to change?”

me: “Nope”

Funbags: “Ha, hmm…are you actually comfortable that way?”

me: “NOPE!”

But I digress. Back to the people that spin my panties into a wedgie inducing directions. They are always around us, and I know I’m not the only one that could stand to dispose of a few bitches. Remember, men can be bitches too (what else would you call those that wear bedazzled Ed Hardy merchandise?). So I have skillfully put together a new venture that will allow us to live and booze in peace. Because I am a successful entrepreneur, in my own head, with business ventures like the Cum N’ Go…and LayDate.com… I will continue in the spirit of giving with a new website. It is called “Chuck-a-Bitch.com” I will explain: Chuck-a-Bitch is a charity-like foundation. It is designed much like the salvation army. Just like them, we accept donations of the used or no longer wanted. We differ in the fact that Chuck-a-Bitch accepts obnoxious people only. Once they are gathered at my headquarters (most likely a local bar) and approved by yours truly…we send them off to the Chuck-a-Bitch traveling circus, where they are free to roam with the rest of their kind.

It is important to remember that I am in charge of approving your leftovers, I mean annoying friends. If I find them in the very least bit tolerable, or lacking in douchey-ness, they will be sent back home. In turn, you will be donated to the cause instead. I do this in hopes of people being truly selective when it comes to the douche war lords they nominate to be shipped off. This way I know that if you nominate to ship off a more or less tolerable human being, it is you who needs to be shoveling elephant shit at the traveling circus.

Now I’m sure my last point has you deep in thought, or maybe just deeper in throat. Either way, I have some real life examples of the people in my life which would make the cut for Chuck-a-Bitch. (Just making sure no one mis-read that sentence as “Cut-a-Bitch” … remember cut up circus freaks are of no use to me)

1) The Battleship:

Everyone has a chick in their lives who’s lack of sexual appeal to just about everyone (and their blind friends) is staggering. You want to be sympathetic to someone who’s appearance can only really be described as the poster child for the long-term effects of fetal-alcohol syndrome. You want to be nice to her because having a face that can sink a battleship, scare dogs, and make small children cry, is truly tragic. You think that people like this would at least have a personality that could rival Mother Theresa’s in kindness. Or that they would at least exude an overall grateful sentiment for having you be nice to them out in a public well-lit area. That’s really all one asks from someone like this. Sadly, this is hardly the case. Unfortunately 9 times out of 10, Battleship’s personality is about as pleasant as an anal gang bang.

The Battleship is usually a clinger as well. If you chose to fuck her, befriend her, or make eye contact with her for more that 10 seconds, you are stuck with her for life. She is like the worst case of herpes one could ever imagine, and every meeting with her is like an outbreak. Throwing Valtrex at her as a form of self-defense, although fun, is highly ineffective. She’ll just collect the pills and start juggling them on her massive head with freakish skill. Battleship will keep her lazy eye focused on the task at hand, while the normal one gives you the stink eye (although one can never be to sure about which is which). This talent earns her a quite significant role as the resident Valtrex juggler in the traveling circus freak show. Chuck-a-Bitch:1, Ringling Bros: 0!

2) Below-the-Belt Bearded Lady

I typically would not have an issue with this person. She’s middle-aged, good looking, and pleasant enough. Her nickname is earned from my suspicion of her winter bush, that she most likely has been refusing to take a pair of hedge clippers to since the 70’s. This inevitably resulting from her being an over grown hippie of sorts. And you know how you can spot those? They are all die hard environmentalists! Everything they own is “green” and they insist on forcing their ways upon you harder than a cock on a foster child. Apparently it is important to invest in an environment-friendly world. By the time she get’s done talking to me, I am aware of where to buy everything from ‘green’ food, to ‘green’ clothing, to a ‘green’ dildo (In my book, a green dildo is an award winning zucchini in some red states. But that’s a red neck current event we’ll tackle at a later date).

I can appreciate listening to most of these points, and by ‘appreciate’ I of course almost always mean ignore. But the most appalling thing that they have ever tried to make me do is give up using deodorant. Good Lord, I don’t know how to tell someone like Below-the-Belt Bearded Lady, that I don’t want a long lasting and healthy Earth if it is filled with people that smell like homeless hooker asshole. Furthermore, after this point in the conversation, I wouldn’t know how to continue talking to someone like her while continuing to keep eye contact. For in my perverted and twisted mind, no deodorant = blatant disregard for all personal hygiene= no landscaping of Bushkill Gardens down south. Oh no, now all talks of clean air are seriously hindered by my traveling eyes that can’t seem to avert from looking down at the tight sweat pants stretched over a bulge (I originally attributed to a pre-op tiny member). Now it’s all I can focus on, and I know that I will never be able to interact with BTBBL ever again. So, simple as that… the bitch’s gotta go. Chuck her into the circus where she can amuse those who have no idea about the simple horrors of 1970’s porn.

3) Chloroform Steve

In the spirit of Valentine’s Day, nothing says “be mine” quite like the scent of chloroform. In fact, the first part of his name speaks chemical volumes. I’m quite positive that this is a name that his mother appointed to him, seconds after he stomped out of her vagina. One look at him, and she immediately tossed him into the lost and found pile at the hospital. I haplessly discovered Chloroform Steve’s existence at the gym after I kept finding mysterious rags surrounding the machines I was using. Clearly, it was his way of romantically saying “Do you like me? Place the rag over you mouth and nose if the answer is yes.” And although the gesture was sweet, I had to respond by running like a motherfucker… seeing as i would not like to spend the remainder of my 20’s chained to a lawn mower in his mother’s shed.

Once you know who to look for, Chloroform Steve is easy to spot. Maybe it’s the empty shallowness of death behind his eyes that gives him away? Either way, it’s not something you can conceal without a pair of clown size sunglasses. His gaze alone leaves so few options for him in his future career. The options go as follows: A) child molester B) serial killer OR C) All of the above. He is the token creeper who has been featured on To Catch a Predator almost as many times as Chris Hansen himself. I would prefer to have him shipped off, because quite frankly I am concerned for my safety, and also the safety of all pre-schoolers in the tri-state area.

I get particularly concerned when I see his type working out a tad bit too close to the “Kids Club” at my gym. It’s not the blatant stare into the glass door that concerns me most, it’s the boner he’s trying to conceal while he’s fixated on the arts and crafts table. So my job is to dig into the depths of the Kids Club ball pit until I spot him. Then I drag him out, and prepare him to get shipped off via Chuck-a-Bitch. In the circus, I’ve already made arrangements to keep him contained in the cage in place of the wild animals. I stress in place of and not along side the animals… as he is a threat to their asshole safety. Bottom line being that people that look as if they may have a chloroform rag, bottle of lotion, and a human flesh jacket on them at all times, are most likely best removed from society/their mother’s basements.

4) Purple Men

The juice heads on the Jersey Shore certainly went down on this concept harder than an Asian boy at a massage parlor (a culture where even the men and women really do have a nack for looking alike). But moving on, there’s something about taking an incredible amount of steroids matched with hourly tanning sessions that make one start resembling Barney over time. In fact Barney and purple juice heads have more in common than you may think. 1) The purple shade itself is an obvious given 2) The sheer size of the pimply beast & 3) The complete lack of genitalia.

The one thing they do differ on, is Barney’s naturally cheery disposition. Purple Man has two states of emotion. The first of which being roid rage. He’ll get all bent out of shape about everything. It could be something as simple as discovering a day old bronzer stain on their favorite baby gap-size gym tank top, to discovering that he ran out of Astroglide during a “manly” boat outing with 10 of his closest butt buddies. (An activity that often leaves me puzzled with these shore types. No matter how many cum dumpsters they seem to have hanging around them on this boat, they always seem to end up knee deep in Italian sausage regardless. They are almost always engaging in some stupid shit like arm wrestling, or regular wrestling…both of which lead to sword play and then inevitably tea bagging. I really don’t necessarily mind any of this behavior. In fact there’s typically a time and a place for it. It’s most commonly referred to as: The Gay Pride Parade),

Secondly, they have the emotion of extreme bitch-like sadness. Normally I’d just attribute it to unfortunate genetics and a mean case of syphilis, but in this situation there’s more to it. See, this all comes from the side effects of all the hormones they pump into their puffy purple bodies. Aside from sprouting man cans, and pimples that can rival those of a puberty stricken 13 year old, they get real wimpy. On the days that roid rage isn’t getting the best of them, a Daniel Steel novel and a box of tissues will make them shed more tears than the General Vag ABC cast on the most recent season of The Bachelor. These are the days I’ve learned to keep comments about Purple Man’s “Ed Hard-On” sunglasses to myself. This is simply because I can’t take the aftermath of the hurt feelings and the tears…followed by an intense effort to try and breast feed me from his tanned tits. In fact I just found out that new medical studies show that juice heads can actually produce milk from their man cans: it’s called Muscle Milk. Maybe you’ve heard of it?

This asshole’s bipolar emotions are becoming a real drag so he’s a great candidate for my circus! He’ll be the incredibly strong man that can lift hundreds and hundreds of pounds, then wipe his sweat off with the same embroidered handkerchief he uses to wipe his tears . And nothing my friends, nothing is more entertaining than watching a large man bawl his eyes out (with sound of course).

5) Facebook Fanatic

I’ve said my peace about people who’s Facebook rights should be revoked before. Those, however, were the days when Facebook chat and Facebook poking were my greatest issues. As time progressed, the outlets for these Facebook douchebags have multiplied. Now they have all these Farmville and Mafia applications to chose from. And of course these douchebags can’t keep this shameful habit to themselves. No, they must clutter me with invitations to join in on these activities that have reached incredibly retarded decibels. Let’s be honest, if Facebook never existed, there is no way you’d march up to each of your 300+ friends, acquaintances, and strangers, and ask them to join your mafia… or grow a fucking farm with you! You’d be deemed handicapped and then immediately kicked in the pussy. (this is whether you are a female and have a pussy to begin with, or a male who’s love of these Facebook applications has made your cock jump ship). Why stop there? You might as well start suggesting to your friends to start taking trips out to the Renaissance Fair in place of Monday Night Football.

Next I’d deprive myself sexually for weeks if I failed to mention an alarming breed of Facebook Douche-Nags. Now, I must have mentioned this before but it seems as if the problem has been reaching levels I think that National Security should address. I wouldn’t be surprised if Bin Laden had a day or two when he was feeling a tad bit emo and wanted to express himself through a deep status quote. Then he’d see who his real Al Qaeda friends are by closely monitoring who failed to comment or “like” his status. Either way, Bin Laden is the only person I would take interest in Facebook monitoring. The rest of the losers need to take it down a few notches with the daily fortune cookie quotes that often sound like they were written by a dyslexic 5 year old. Instead of this, it might be wise to revert to hobbies they are better at, like scrap-booking, cheer-leading, or purging.

Lastly, as per usual, I’d like to throw a shout out to the fuck heads who persist to take pictures of every single meal they ingest. If I think about it real hard I can get sharing that special dinner every now and again at a restaurant that makes a dish of food look like a Degas. However, I still can’t understand why one must document and share the 500th plate of Pho they’ve consumed in the past 48 hours. Or that half eaten turkey sandwich even your dog refused to finish. Thanks, I get it, you eat several meals a day…I can tell by your ever expanding FUPA that seems to become more and more visible with each day on the side of all your food pictures.

I’m shipping these fuckers to the circus out of sheer principle! For I am well aware that from the second the y arrive there, I will be seeing Facebook mobile uploads of cotton candy, pop corn, and corndogs for life.

6) Nosey Nitwits

A.K.A Dumb fucking dildos that should look into minding their own business. Recently there seems to be an epidemic of sorts. People have been losing excitement and interests in their own lives by the hundreds, and have wandered off to inflict themselves on the lives of those that surround them on a daily basis! The word on the street being that the condition is particularly pervasive in the cougar population. Ladies and gentlemen, I have warned you of this creature before. I’m not referring to a more or less stable older women… I’m talking about the full blown ready to pounce on the next piece of cock they lay their eyes on type of cougars. The scent of desperation follows them everywhere they go, much like a pushy homeless man looking for change. They will let NO ONE stand in the way of getting male attention because it has a 80% chance of leading to male pounding. Sadly, there is only one place where it is legal for them to strap on their favorite push-up bra and the tightest pair of silver spandex money can buy…then be let free to stalk their pray without police warrants or taser equipped body guards: the gym!

They may look like they are innocently running on the treadmill, but here’s where you’d be sadly mistaken.They are secretly taking note of everyone’s personal business, and cup size. I recently had the distinct pleasure of being educated about this breed by a person who has been on the run from them for years now. As we played a friendly game of just-the-tip (a game i offer to only the best mentors), he informed me about the little tricks he picked up on over the years: The head cougar will always find the treadmill closest to the alpha males (and if at all possible, within 6 feet of the men’s locker room). She will then proceed to run fast enough for her implants to bounce at such speeds that her gigantic nipples burn two wholes in her sports bra. The first nitwit to actually accomplish this task, gets all the male attention for the day and therefore wins the slew of sagging genitals. The rest are forced to sulk at home, and stalk their male of choice from the privacy of their own ice-cream stocked refrigerators. The winner, or the “Alpha-Cougar” is elated. And just as she’s about to do her victory cool-down run, someone walks in and golden showers all over her parade. For there is one thing, and one thing only, that can stop even the hottest cougar right in her tracks. It is their form of kryptonite: young and tight vagina….GUILTY!

Long story short, it seems like I’ve acquired quite the following of Alpha-Cougars that curse the day I scanned my gym pass at the front desk. I’ll be honest, I’m somewhat shocked that some of the hottest cougars I have ever come across would be at all threatened or displeased with me and my retarded antics…but sadly, this seems to be the case. And because I’ve never once strayed from being that anti-social little twat I was raised to be, they have very little information on what my plan is for them in their very own habitat. This is precisely why they have become more and more nosey with each day. No matter what anyone says, they have a sneaking suspicion that I am out in the parking lot handing out my panties to just about ever male who’s been in need of a brand new jizz rag.

I’m sure everyone can relate to a form of this nosey nitwit. I would like for you to gather up yours and send them into Chuck-a-Bitch. There they will all compete for the attention of the midget clowns, all the while seductively shoveling elephant shit.

These were just a few helpful examples from my own life, of people that are best left to be shipped off to a community where being a train wreck is not only acceptable but encouraged. So join me in the launching of Chuck-a-Bitch.com, where one person’s trash (friend/family member/co-worker/boyfriend/gynecologist etc). is another person’s circus performer. Your all very welcome in advanced! But, you should know that I accept thank yous in the from of alcohol, hookers, money, candy, Chuck-e-Cheese coins, and porn.