Mountain lions are totally pro choice.

Responsibility. Blag.
Dishes. Blag.
Laundry. Blag.
I hate doing what I have to do and often procrastinate wildly in protest. I figure that I could get ten times as much done, if I was relied on to do nothing at all (which would basically even out to be the amount I do now, if you think about it carefully, but this way I would feel way more superior and isn't thats what life should be, making tiara time a permanent fixture of being). The less you expect from me the greater the chance I will not only exceed your expectations (given) but blow them out of the water with a bazooka because I have a secret infatuation with Superwoman and would love nothing more than to overachieve all over your face.
Its the handcuff bracelets. Oh, yea. And the tits.

Now that the byproducts are old enough and skilled enough to cook for themselves, I do take up the periodic kitchen boycott. If I were a mountain lion (stay with me here) I would be done by now. They'd learned how to eat by themselves, procure and process their own food, build their own sleeping arrangements, my time as their mother would be complete. No need to thank me on some overly righteous holiday created by a bunch of Sky God worshippers with an Oedipal complex exploited by a card company who makes shitty, overly dramatic, safe, moral (fist-pumping) and UNREALISTIC movies that, yes, once brought tears to my eyes when I was Mrs. Crochet You An Ornament for Christmas but that time IS LONG FUCKING GONE (I was faking any way)!!! ROAR! Time to fuck more mountain lions and birth more of you fluffy/fangy little buggers!
That's my job. It's what I do.
(Backs that ass up)
Either all my friends are total wussies or no one takes me seriously. I have given those around me permission to clobber me with bricks for violating specific sets of rules and to date, no one has yet to throw a brick in my face. Geez, no one has even attempted to wound me by taking out a foot temporarily. I bet if I had fucked the President, gotten caught (but I wouldn't have gotten caught), and gone through public humiliation the size of the Titanic one of you people would have hit me with a brick as I attempted to fuck the very next President (because I would have tried to fuck the next President, I cross party lines ALL THE TIME).
This is my bet but as the rule of my Universe goes, I never win bets.
Pay attention. I am serious now.
So here it is. Again. I am allowing personal violence to wash over me, without ramifications, if necessary, choose your weapon wisely.
If you ever. Ever. Ever ever ever ever hear me say something to the effect of "I would like to have another baby" consider my body inhabited by demons or space aliens. Grab a knife and go Jack the Ripper. Grab a bat and go Babe Ruth. Grab a set of dentures and go Manhunter. No babies shall ever inhabit this uterus henceforth, nor shall that sort of talk ever be tolerated under my roof (to include the roof of my car, or any one else's roof, or any temporary roof I might be under, like if I decided to hang out with some homeless people downtown in a box, then yes, that applies there as well).
Babies, totally unnecessary, pour moi. I could just be a middle aged mountain lion that struts about the prairie practicing safe mountain lion sex. Or, I could start fucking zebras: Option 2.

I remember when I was a kid and my parents would say "Not in THIS HOUSE!!" and I would think, cool, 'cause I am totally doing that shit in the yard 5 minutes after you stop roaring at me.

Work. Blag.


  1. I have always found it easy to look away when someone says, "Smack me in the face if I ever do this"... mainly because I'm the bitch skipping hand in hand down the road with said person after robbing the 7-11 of all their Butterfinger Bars. But, if you ever, EVER say that you want another baby in my presence, I will donkey punch you in the boob. Promise. I would like to ask the same of you... Just punch the right one, cause the left one is already bigger.

  2. this is why I love you; fucking butterfingers rock.