Advice Column: Here's To You, Miss Robinson!

Dear Ghetto Genius, 

I am a divorced 32 year old mother of two. I am infatuated with the 18 year old maintenance man's son. I am not looking to find my kids a daddy or myself a husband. I just want to have some fun. My question is; is it wrong for a 32 soon to be 33 year old woman to sleep with an 18 year old man?? 



Dear Ain't Nobody got Time for a Salutation,

Hi, I am H-Bomb. How the fuck are you doing? Now that we have the pleasantries out of the way, let's fucking do this shit.

I know, I know, y'all haven't heard from me in a hot minute. I may have even become fodder for a game of dead, jail, or rehab. Alas, my hiatus was nothing more than life getting in the way of fuckery, but I got that shit on lock and 'ol H-Bomb is about to start kicking it old school and wrecking shit on all your issues. And I know you motherfuckers got issues. I read the comments. I seent it.

So, little miss Cougar Tits got her honkers in a bind, cus she wants to fuck on the no-no bits of the maintenance man's son, aka, the gardener's boy. Cliche as fuck, sure. But, the truth of the matter is bitches need dick or bitches go cray. It's an irrefutable fact that I can back up with 100% certainty, as a bitch who goes cray when she doesn't get the dick.

You got 2 kids and the wrong kind of Big D? Someone get this woman some good dick, stat, before she loses her goddamn mind and becomes another statistic of a suburban ex-housewife gone butt-booty-crazy. How, pray tell, would I know you are the Mayoress of Suburbia and the Princess of The PTA? Cus I am a motherfucking snoop, yo. No, not Snoop Doggy Dogg; but I am nosy as fuck and I like to do my research on the magical internets.

See, when you send ya boy an email and he forwards it to me with his usual, "Yooooooooooooo, this is you, bitch. Put your scotch down and handle this," I see your email address and sometimes even your name. Quick search on FaceBook, in between my usual CornHub (did you see that shit on April Fool's Day? HILARIOUS) and online shopping nonsense, and I found you, saw some pics and got a feel for who the fuck this Cougar of the Cul De Sac really is. Guess what PumaPuss? You are not too shabby! I would knock the dust off your beaver, if you ever wanted to swing that way. Don't worry, 1 year away from To Catch A Predator, I am not going to divulge your identity. Your secret is safe with me, Ivanna Humpalot. But, on the reals, you are a hot piece of ass and I think you have a chance of riding the Pound Town Express all the way to Cougartown!

To be a Cougar or not to be Cougar? That is the question.

Be. A. Fucking. Cougar.

I know, I shocked the shit out of everyone with that answer. On the reals though, get yours. Get it in a house. Get it with a mouse. Get it in your box. Get it with the young Fox. You say he is the maintenance man's son? Sounds like he knows how to handle a hoe, then. Like Ghandi said, "Be the Hoe you want to see in the world."

Ghandi, Ron Jeremy, whatever. Don't let his age get to you either, Beaverella. If he is old enough to serve our great country, he is old enough to serve that fine coochie. Old enough to set the table, old enough to cum to dinner. And on dinner. And in her. I hope at this point I have made it abundantly clear: Fuck bitches, get youngins! Just remember to wrap before you slap, lest he has the clap. This is not the 80s and STD's are for teens humping in cars and old people fucking in the nursing home. Clap on, Clap off. No Clappers!!!

"BUT WHAT IF PEOPLE FIND OUT?" I know sweet tits, you are mom and a fine, upstanding, pillar of the community who wants to see some 18 year old's 'pillar of the community.' It's a risk, and the other PTA Putas could be find out you are a harlot who wants to get her cookie eaten like the last supper. I get it. I too have to live a double life; that of a person who is respected in the community and deals with fancy fucks all day long, but also longs to get filled out like an application by the pool boy. The older/younger fantasy works for like 99.9% of the free world. Every woman has lusted after some young stud, and every dirty old man, is well, a dirty old man. Deal with it. And if someone has some shit to say to you about getting your o-glow from the barely legal boy, please direct them to this link: 

Flash Furniture

Then, buy them this chair and tell them to take a fucking seat, shut the fuck up, and if they want to stay and watch you hump your hottie, to pop some popcorn and enjoy the show! You good? Yeah, I think we are done here.

This shit is waaaay too easy,

H-Bomb

PSA: So You Think You Met A Fuckboy?

Dear GG Fam:

Have you or one of your squad fallen victim to a Fuckboy? Do you think you or someone you know may be vulnerable to Fuckboys? Did you wake up this morning, and say to yourself, "Self, I think I just fucked a Fuckboy?" 

Do not fret, my pretty, because it is not your fault. If you or one of your homegirls has been or is currently being fucked on by a Fuckboy, it is because Fuckboys are replicating at a rate faster than that of chlamydia during spring break. You see, before, you could tell a Fuckboy from a first glance - his Affliction shirt, day-glo orange tan, car that overcompensated for a small penis - the obvious Fuckboy give-aways. But today's Fuckboy has become faster, swifter, cleverer (but not really) and all-around, fuckier. Today's Fuckboy has a certain way of getting past Fuckboy radars of yore. Or women, as a whole, are getting dumber. I am going to go with what is behind door number 1, Bob. 

I will admit, I have seen some Fuckboy fuckery firsthand, and will now breakdown some of the more common species of homofuckboyious, more commonly known as "Fuckboy."

1) The Married-Man-Fuckboy:

This is the Fuckboy who is currently explaining to his wife why he has an Ashely Madison Account and his browser history is full of a website called backpage.com. Because trolling for strange punnany on Craigslist is so circa Fuckboy 2010. No, this Fuckboy thought he was going to have his cake and eat it, too, but that Ashley Madison tricked more Married-Man-Fuckboys than Thai LadyBoi in Vietnam into them thinking they had their Fuckboy game on point. However, now that the Ashley Madison spot has been blown up, I think we are going to see a The Married-Man-Fuckboy kick it old school. With the advent of the internet, we saw a downslide of skeezy men in bars, hitting on unsuspecting women, with obvious wedding ring tans and game so smooth, Billy Dee was getting the vapors in his no-no parts. Beware of The Married-Man-Fuckboy, and all of his "my wife just doesn't understand me like you do" bullshit game. And remember, Fuckboys, ain't shit, like bitches, hoes, and tricks. Ba-LEED-dat. 

2) The Convenience Fuckboy:  

Did you change your name to 7-11? No? Hmmmmm. Well, this type of Fuckboy is under the impression that you are there for his convenience and amusement. The real shittery of this Fuckboy is that this one isn't always about sex/dating. Maybe this Fuckboy thinks you may be attracted to them, so they, in all their Fuckboy bullshit ways, figure out a way to manipulate that to their gain. This Fuckboy usually also suffers from another disease, called hand-to-pocket disease. Are they down on their luck and need a good friend "to help them until they get back on their feet" or some other such monkey-mouth-bullshit? This Fuckboy is almost the worst of all (but wait, you will meet the worst soon), because they know all the right buttons to push to get you to buy them dinner, take them to concerts, wine them, dine them, but ain't no one 69-ing no one. Take this simple, one question "is this a Convenience Fuckboy" test: when you ask Fuckboy to hang out, do they always have some excuse or fuckery in their life, but when they want something from you, they call/text non-stop, until you breakdown and give into whatever it is they are wanting to do, but just don't seem to have the funds, a ride, or anyone that actually wants to hang out with their Fuckboy ass? You know the answer, sister girl. Rule numero uno: Fuck bitches, get money. NOT Fuckboys fucking on bitches and getting money, rides, dinner, movies, etc. If they want to treat your ass like an amusement park, charge that Fuckboy admission. Change your name to Busch Gardens. Stop shaving your pubes. Go fucking nuts. But, don't get tried by a Fuckboy anymore.

3) The Zero-Fucks-Given-Fuckboy: 

You must be so careful of this one, because the Fuckboy is so strong in them, they actually don't have any fucks to give, or so they would like you to believe. The Zero-Fucks-Given-Fuckboy is a borderline narcissist, if not a complete narcissist; that is another reason why you have to be uber-careful with their trickery and devil-penis-sorcery. They will lead you down a path of roses and sunshine, making you believe that they are in it to win it, and saying and doing all the Fuckboy Shit to make you think they are, on some level, picking up what you are throwing down. Then, as fast as you can say "abra-ca-Fuckboy" they pull one of their zero fucks out of their messenger bag of bullshit (because you know this Fuckboy is probably a hipster, on some level) and ghost your unknowing ass. And you say to yourself, "Self, did I just get played like the Ravens did by Oakland last Sunday, by this Fuckboy?" Now, here is where this Fuckboy gets their name. This kinda Fuckass-Fuckboy-Bitchface McGee earned his rep as the Fuckboy of Zero Fucks, because he will ghost your ass and then do some nefarious fuckery, like tryna get with one of your homegirls. He will give Zero Fucks that he is tryna kick game, and poorly, with your mothafucking bestie from the jump. He will pay no mind to the fact that he KNOWS that your ride-or-die bitch is going to send you screen shots of your conversations, and he will KNOW that she knows that you know that he knows he is spitting the SAME.EXACT.GAME to her. Because this motherfucker gives what? ZERO FUCKS. You almost have to admire his tenacity in being a Fuckboy. Nahhhhhhhhhhh. Fuck this Fuckboy, right in his Fuckboy dumper.

4) The Back-and-Forth-Fuckboy: 

Oh, this Fuckboy. This motherfucking Fuckboy. This is the worst of the worst. If the 3 aforementioned Fuckboys got together for a circle jerk in hell, and by some sort of slut magic produced a baby, it would be this Fuckboy. This guy, because he is not really a Fuckboy at first, doesn't even know he is playing games and dipping his toes in the pool of Fuckboy. Y'all meet, you hit it off, you start a thing - dating, fucking, beastiality (I don't know your life), and then shit starts to get real. And that is where Mr. Nice-Guy becomes The Fuckboy of all Fuckboys. He likes you, but he is not ready. He still has feelings for his ex, but you know, he is feeling you. He wants to be single, but he LOVES spending time with you. He likes you, but just can't do another long distance relationship (but will hang out, fuck you like it is his job and he is picking up a paycheck on Friday, and still tell you he adores you). He got baby momma drama, so he gotta keep you on the DL. I can keep going, but you get it. I get it. We all have gotten this or some sort of foolery equivalent to this before. You want to like this Fuckboy, too, but at the end of the day, if he is spitting this kind of foolishness your way, HE IS A FUCKBOY. The end.

I know, you are probably wondering how I know so much about Fuckboys? Well, you see dear heart, I am a Fuckboy magnet. Most of these scenarios mentioned above are ones that I have experienced or witnessed first hand. So, please, take what you have read to heart, and when you see the tiniest glimmer of Fuckboy beginning to rear its fugliness, you can pick up your Michael Kors tote and beat that Fuckboy within an inch of his life. Whatever you do, do not fall prey to his Devil-Magic-Fuckboy ways. There is not enough Rose and weed for those broken hearts. Trust me.

I would drop the mic here, but instead I am going to swing it and see how many Fuckboys I can knock out with it.

XO

H-Bomb

Advice Column: You Got That "Gone Girl" Kinda Future

Dear ghetto genius,

I have been with the same man for the past 3 years. We have had our ups and downs, most of all we've had 2 kids together. We like most couples argue but unlike most couples we never come to a resolution. It seems to me the biggest problem is having our own space. He doesn't want it and I crave it. He wants to spend quality time together but when I agree to to he's either on his phone playing video games or watching TV. I am inside all day with the kids you know stay at home mom gimmic. I cook, I clean, I nurture and put out on a regular basis. He still doesn't want me to spend time with my friends. Its becoming to the point where I can't see myself living like this anymore. He gets jealous of when I need to go somewhere and I look good doing it. I've had 3 kids, getting a chance to straighten my hair is a much needed ego boost. He's a good father and provider, he's just a control freak. He wants to put a ring on it and I'm freaking out. What should I do? How do I fix things with out completely kicking him to the curb.

Looking forward to your insight,

Char



Dear Char,

Pull up a chair, sister-girl, and welcome to H-Bomb's house of brutal fucking honesty. No use in wasting what little time you may have left with the flowery intro, so Imma get right to it. First, let me make myself as clear as a stripper's shoes; Yo man is fucked up in the head. Not in the funny, cute, frat-boy jumping off someone's roof on a skateboard kind of way, but in the chop you up and leave your parts in a ravine kind of way. You see the movie Gone Girl? That movie had some crazy fucking shit in it. If you haven't, I suggest you see it together, for two reasons. 1) You need to see someone else deal with kind of fucked up, crazy, shit you are dealing with and 2), You need to see that movie, so you can see what happens when you put up with that kind of bat-shit-cray for too damn long.

This motherfucker got you living like a ratchet-ass Rapunzel, whose weave fell out, and can't no man, woman, or police officer come and save you. Straightening your hair is a luxury? Oh helllllllllllll naw. I get it, being a mom to three kids is hard as a motherfucker, and I don't doubt you are the bombmom.com, but if your man won't even let you have 25 minutes to fix your hair, so you don't feel like Raggedy-Anne's meth face sister, then he is more than just a "control freak," he's a motherfucking sociopath.

When a man wants you to spend all your time either with him, or taking care of your family, and doesn't want you to have any friends, hobbies, or interests of your own, that is not a not a boyfriend, that is a warden. Did you write this letter from a lady's prison? If so, I am gonna need some Orange is the New Black lesbian love stories, too. Cus that shit is hot. All kidding aside, people in prison actually have more freedom than you. They can have visitors, human interaction, and time to themselves. You have none of those things. See where I am going with this?

You say he is a good provider and father? And? I know a few mens who are GREAT at being a dad, and complete shit at being a partner with Baby Momma. And you know what? That is ok. I am pretty sure that prior to the last 3 years and 3 kids, you manage to get by just fine. You can do this on your own. You just need to realize that, before your kids think you went out for milk and then a few years later they find you floating in the river. I am not trying to be over dramatic here, either. Your man does not sound like he is playing Cards Against Humanity with a full set of answer cards. You savvy? If you don't want your kids to grow up thinking it is ok to lock someone up and throw away the key, then you need to get the hell out of dodge, with a quickness. While your relationship with him is important - what the kids see, mom tired, worn out, always home, SAD, depressed, lonely, begging Daddy for attention, that is what they will take away from all of this. You gotta think about the long term, not just the messed up past and your current fuckery.

With all that being said, I know this kind of extraction can and will take time, but the first thing you gotta do is get it in your mind whether or not this dude is worth fighting with, and for. If you can't picture your life without him, then get some fucking counseling, build some healthy boundaries, set some parameters, so you don't end up losing your shit one day and going all Snapped on his ass and then you are both dead, in jail, or someone is in rehab. Now, if you are Tina in the back of the limo in "What's Love Got To Do With It," then kick his ass, tuck and roll out the limo, and go win your Grammy. Or something to that effect.

Whatever you decide to do, do it all the way. Don't half ass two things, when you can whole ass one thing.


Be easy.

H-Bomb

Advice Column: Twisted Sister (In-Law)

Happy 2015 Sir Ghetto! :) My Question is this....

My younger bro's wife, despite my being polite and welcoming to her,  goes out of her way to be rude and stank as far as I'm concerned (I have at least a decade on her). She will speak to everyone EXCEPT me (meaning my husband, my in-laws, etc, even going as far as ignoring me in my own house during kids' parties). How would you handle this? A friend told me that my brother (who I'm cordial with, but not close to) is likely badmouthing me to her.



Dear Twisted Sister-In-Law,

BOOM! You win the award for shortest, yet most concise question of 2015. Mr. Ghetto Genius himself is going to chime in, in a moment, but I had to weigh in on this, too. See, my big bro OG was once married to a dismal specimen of a sister-in-law, whose trifling ways were known far and wide. She was so ratchet and awful, after they divorced, I made my brother promise to never marry another woman without my meeting them and approving them first. I still have the bar napkin contract that he signed 5 years ago, and I have checked with legal - it is a binding contract. So, I may know a thing or two about bitch-ass-trick-sister-in-laws.

But back to the lesson at hand - what should you do with some little bitch wants to throw shade, but doesn't even own an umbrella? Rule #1 is pretty simple: Bitches ain't shit, but hoes and tricks. Now, before one of you 'burn your B-R-A for the E-R-A,' patchouli-scented, unshaven, hippie-bitches wants to come at me for calling a woman a bitch, hoe, and trick, please direct your protest to the corner of "Go Fuck Yourself" Avenue and "Zero Fucks Given" Boulevard. Bitches will always be nothing more than hoes and tricks. This shit ain't new to no female.

See, this little twat-waffle wants to come in to your family and even worse, your house, and not pay the proper respects to the lady of the manor, which is rude as fuck, but also a sign of deep immaturity. Old H-Bomb would have told you to take off your shoe and smack that bitch in her trick mouth, but I recently turned 35 and have gotten all mature and shit. Well, except for that one night 3 weeks ago, when I left my driver's license and debit card at a strip club, but that is another story for another time. So NO, smacking her in the mouth is not the answer, even though I bet it would feel amazing to knock Tricken Little down a peg, or two. But, we must act like the nice, dignified, and mature ladies that we are,  and be the bigger person. It is killing me to type those words, but they are the truth.

I know, my advice is way out of fucking left field, but the thing I have learned in the last few years, especially when dealing with dumb skanks, is this: if you give someone rope and rope and more fucking rope, eventually, they will hang themselves. She's gonna keep acting stank, and eventually people will figure out that she is nothing but a hating ass bitch who is grinding her axe on the wrong woman. So let her. I mean, sure it is uncomfortable being around the Lady from Shady Lake, but that is her shit, not yours. Not your circus, not your monkeys. Do you, and do it well, that is the best way to let her know you got her number, but you ain't trying to call her anytime, ever. Now…here are some thoughts from the male skank, J-Wundercunt.

The most amazing thing with these collaboration advice columns is that H-Bomb and I are always on the same page. Except the whole finger in the ass thing…she doesn't think that shit is hot and as for me,  I think it works when the person you're doing least expects it. I'm all about the element of fucking surprise, bitches!!! But I digress…

In-laws…you either love them or you fucking hate them. What I don't get is when someone is marrying into a family, it should be quite fucking obvious that these are the motherfucking people you will have to deal with the rest of your life. Family gatherings, kids birthdays, bbq's, interventions, whatever…once you say "I do", a light should go off and tell you, "Ok motherfucker, even though you're happy with your man and may not like some of his/her family members, kill these bitches with kindness and don't act a fool. Even though you may not like them, do your best to show some goddamn respect."

Now, that typically doesn't go down like that all the time. I mean, look at all the shit you see on the news during the holidays and such when Aunt Rachel shanks her bro's wife in the face with a turkey leg. Shit gets real when the least bit of animosity is felt. That's what you have going on. You gotta a trick ass SIL thinking she runs the place when she's around and in turn, doesn't have the fucking decency to acknowledge you…especially in your OWN FUCKING HOUSE. That right there is some shit that will get a motherfucker ass fucked going in dry.

You don't want to be that bad bitch who goes in dry from behind while beating the bitch with her own dildo…fuck that...be the bigger person like H-Bomb mentioned. However, by bigger, I don't just mean being all mature and shit. I mean, take your so-called trifling ass brother to the side and tell that motherfucker what is up and why the fuck his broad gotta kill your vibe every time she's around. If y'all are siblings, act like it and talk like adults without one of you acting like a little bitch kid who just dropped their ice cream cone in front of the homies.

Shit like this lingers and it's fucked up. But you shouldn't suffer. Talk to your bro and see if he can put this shit to an end. No one, I mean NO ONE, should act as if you don't exist…especially at your motherfucking house. If your bro isn't trying to hear it either or doesn't want to make this better, then fuck him too and ride the wave with your nose in the air. Eventually, everyone will catch on and that bitch will get outcasted faster than you think.

Man, this might have been one of the first columns that didn't mention sex. Wait, I lied.

Don't go in dry…that shit hurts.

BOOM,

J-Wunder and H-Bomb

T'was The Night Before Christmas…The Untold Version

T'was the night before Christmas,
And all through the pad,
Not a creature was fucking,
Not even your dad.

The Fireball was poured,
In a pint glass with care.
In hopes that J-Wunder,
Soon would be there.

The women were saddened by the ones in their bed,
They dreamt of the Ghetto Genius,
Showing up instead.

H-Bomb in her track suit,
And I in my cap,
Had just sat down,
For a dance on our laps.

When up on the stage there arose a roaring laughter,
I sprang from my dance,
To see what was the matter.

Away to the door,
I flew off like a thong,
Leaned over a trash can,
And threw up for so long.

The ass on that stage,
Of the woman so large,
Left H-Bomb and I,
With memories so scarred.

When what to my watering eyes had appeared,
Cat Woman had started
Stripping for beer!

With a little look around,
To survey the club,
I saw Anonymous,
Waiting for her with a sub.

Before I could catch him,
He took off so fast,
Down a back alley with her,
And that gargantuan ass.

From the mind of J-Wunder,
To the Ghetto Genius wall,
I got you back fucker,
By posting this all.

Happy Holidays to all,
And to all,
A drunk night.

It's MY Birthday and I will celebrate as long as I want to

This is what happens when THE CREW is separated by thousands of miles and time zones and other logistical nightmares. One of us gets a wild hair in our taint about something, and without even thinking about the feelings and emotions of the other members of THE CREW, pens some silly nonsense, bashing people for their thoughts and actions, based solely on their own narrow minded perspectives. Well, that and the fact that we all probably have a combined -1,000,000,000,000,000 fucks to give about what other people, even our own dearly beloved CREW, think of the shit we say and do. So, there's that.

Usually, J-Wunder and I are so copasetic it is scary. For those of us old school motherfuckers who used to watch The Patty Duke Show on Nick at Nite, we are basically identical cousins. But only in our thoughts. We couldn't look less like each other if we tried. For fucks sake, I have hair. But, we are so much alike in our mindset that we have joked that we are Siamese twins, separated at the genitals. USUALLY. But yesterday this shit dick wanted to attack one of my most sacred and loved traditions: The Extended Birthday Celebration.

For those of you in my inner circle, you know that when it comes time to celebrate my expulsion from my mom's lady cave, you had best have your dancing, drinking, and fucking shoes on and be in it to win it. My birthday celebrations are usually on par with what I can only describe as "If Mardi Gras were to be moved to Las Vegas." I have to start reminding people in October that it is a marathon, not a sprint, to stay hydrated and make sure have stretched properly before hand. And yes, my shit has lasted for a month before.

Now, before people start attacking me for being a grade-A attention whore birthday cunt, let me give a point-by-point rebuttal of Mr. Wundercunt's searing dissertation of my sacred birfday tradition.

1. The Only Child

Nope. Definitely not an only child. I am the youngest and the only girl. One would think that kind of birth order fuckery would be why I am the Birthday Princess for as long as I can possibly be, but there is more to it than that. Grab your tissues and turn off Iyanla, cus I am about to make you cry harder than the time that kid hit you in the dick with the wiffle ball bat.

My brothers and I have birthday's that are very close together. Like just a few fucking days apart. And around a major national holiday. I got shafted on my birthday as a kid more than I got shafted by anything as an adult. True story. Growing up, if I wanted a Barbie themed birthday party, that fucker OG  wanted a G.I. Joe party. And guess what? My moms was NOT trying to throw two birthday parties in two weekends, around Thanksgiving, for two kids whose idea of fun was to torment each other on the regular. Momma dukes ain't got time for that.

So how did we celebrate our birthdays? Together, at Thanksgiving. It all of a sudden makes sense why OG loves pumpkin pie so much, besides the fact that it is fucking delicious, it also reminds him of his "birthday cake." When I got old enough to properly celebrate my descent from heaven to walk amongst the mortals, I made sure that I made up for all the missed birthdays of childhood. Now I dare a mother fucker to tell me that I can only celebrate my birthday for one day. I will politely tell them to please eat this bag of dicks I have put together, just for them.

2. The Home Schooled Kid

While I was not homeschooled, the fact that my birthday falls around Thanksgiving means several things:

- I rarely got to have an "in class" birthday party. You know, before all the schools got freaky-deaky about what you could bring to school, and you would bring in cupcakes for the class or some other deliciousness that was full of high fructose corn syrup, gluten, and peanuts. The kids would get all jacked up and sugar and sing to you. Yeah, that happened like once for me. ONCE. I might as well have been home schooled when it came to my birthday.

- As I have mentioned several times, my birthday falls around a major holiday, which means that even if my moms was trying to have multiple parites for her multiple fuck-tard children, like half of my class would not have been able to go, because their family was all "you need to spend time with us." Selfish fucking bastards. I remember having one birthday in elementary school that fell the weekend BEFORE thanksgiving and I got have a birthday party. That shit was so live, kids were jumping out of the windows of my house and being all kinds of cray. It was pure fucking magic.

3. The Celebutante

This one is a little tricky to refute, because I have joked that I am the mayor of West Palm Beach and that I know just about everyone, or am one genital touch removed from everyone. Kind of like the Kevin Bacon game for your privates. I have either banged you, someone you know, or you have banged someone I know. In some instances we met in school and have remained friends for 20+ years, but the probability of us knowing or having touched mutual friends no-no parts is still high.

Because I know a lot of people, I can not expect everyone to be able to be at the same place, at the same time, on the same day. I am a crazy bitch, but that is just ludicrous. Being the benevolent human being I am, the multiple birthday celebrations are not so much for me (haha who the fuck am I kidding? Of course they are) but for the wonderful friends of mine who can not all be in the same place at the same time. Kids, work, beating that bitch's ass for looking at your man, I get it. Life if busy and we are all busy. I have at least 2 major parties around the birthday season, but I also say yes to every person who wants to take me out to dinner, drinks, strip clubs, card board boxes under the bridge, or the van down by the river, to celebrate my birthday. And because of my overwhelming kindness, my birthday often stretches out far longer than my actual birthday of 11/22. Please, feel free to send presents. I am size 7 in shoes.

I get that all of this sounds like me just being an entitled little brat. But please allow me one last time to defend myself: Fuck you if you don't like how long I celebrate my birthday for. No one wants your party pooping ass there any damn way. Haters to the left.

And to my dearest, most cherished homeboy J-Wunder. The next time you write some shit attacking the things I love most: me, birthdays, booze, me, parties, me, Imma beat your ass like Solange did to Jay- Z. Funny how both your names start with Jay. Now do me a solid, and eat this bag of dicks I made for you. I even put extra Siracha on it, just the way you like it.

Kisses Bitches!

H-Bomb

What The Fuck Were You Thinking When You Got Dressed This Morning Vol. 3: The Spring Music Festival Edition

There is really not much I love more than getting white girl wasted, while swaying (fuck you, box wine, FUCK YOU) to my favorite jams, with my favorite people. Thank fucking HAY-ZEUS I happen to live in South Florida and one of my favorite peeps just also happens to be a marketing director for one of those fancy-as-fuck companies that puts on big shows. No more blowing dudes for .38 Special tickets under the 595 overpass for me! I get to see awesome bands, from good seats, pretty much on the regular. Being H-Bomb has its advantages.

However, there is a major fucking disadvantage to all of these awesome concerts. For many years, there has been either a significant lack of full length mirrors or a significant decline in bitches who keep it real when their friend asks, "Does this outfit make me look like a busted can of biscuits?" Either way, I have spent the last few years not-so-silently suffering from the fashion crimes against humanity that these bitches inflict upon me whence I am out with my crew listening to music, getting crunk-face and watching a 2 day montage of, "What not to Wear: The Bottomed Out Edition."

The fashion fox passes (faux pas, for you Downton Abby bitches) I saw this past weekend were mostly a collection of fat girls in clothes I wouldn't have worn when I was actually a size 2, in addition to girls in shorts so far up their chochas, my vag hurt looking at them.

I really need to know who-in-the-1990's-fashion-hell decided to bring back the mom-jeans and more importantly, the mom-jean-shorts. No really, I bet some sadistic motherfucker at Urban Outfitters decided to have a laugh at the expense of all the dumb twats who will buy anything if it looks like it was actually from Goodwill and possibly was in a Joey Lawrence video. I am a child of the 90's. Floppy hats? I rocked them shits. Z Cavariccis? You bet your fucking coochie-lable-tag I had those. Knee High Socks? More like thigh highs on my borderline midget ass. And most of those things have come back in style, much to my chagrin, but none so much as the goddamn mom jeans. I did my time in high-waisted-mom-jean hell and I am all set now, thanks. And just in case any one dared to question just how much of a 90's Fashion Icon I am, I submit to exhibit A. Suck it, Trebek.

1990's H-Bomb.  Sweet perm, stylin' vest, and some acid wash mom jeans

No one loves the 90's more than this bitch. Trust. Any Saturday/Sunday that I can bogart some cable and watch 90210 reruns on The Soap Network, you had better believe I am watching that mess. The hair! The Fashion! The Drama! I am all about it. If I was 20 years younger, and this was the style, I would be all over it like I am on your mom on $2 Jaeger night. But I am not, so I wear my fly as fuck outfits from Ann Taylor Loft and The Gap, and I sit back and watch these bitches who have no idea that there was an original 90210 rocking the same shit I did 20 years ago.

This past weekend, I went to a 2-Day festival at the beach. I knew I was gonna see some shit that would make me feel hella old, but I was hella stoked because I was going with some awesome chicks, to drink drinks and jam out with our clams out. But not literally. However, some chicks missed the memo about keeping your kibbles and bits in your clothes, because bitches were literally "bottoming out" of their mom-jean-shorts. I give you example B.

Mos Def said, "Ass so fat, you could see it from the front." NOT, "Ass so fat, you can see it from the bottom of your shorts." I was almost drunk enough to go up and try to pull her jeans out of her cookie, because my cookie was feeling sympathy for hers, but I didn't want to catch a case over some broad in shorts that probably looked like she was peeling apart a grilled cheese when she took them off. Fuck. That. Shit. 

And don't think I am hating on chicks for wearing busted ass shorts, because they are skinnier than me. I was also snapping pics of bikini-clad-bottoms and sending them to my friends to show off chicks who had all the business in the world wearing that itsy-bitsy-bikini. I love a good ass, especially in a bikini. I do not like to look at an ass that looks like it has been in a panini press all day. 

The other issue I had with the chicks this weekend were the ones that didn't understand that not every fashion trend is for them. I am not a skinny chick. I rock between a size 10-12 on a good day, but the difference between them and me, is that I know it. I dress for what looks good on my frame, not what looks good on a 6'2" vietnamese size 2 mannequin at Forever 21. And if these chicks feel great rocking their outfit, good-for-fucking-them. But guess what? I am pretty sure many of us don't want to be subjected to your flabalanche hanging over your shorts or watching your cottage cheese sizzle in the Florida sun. I give you exhibits C and D:

Just because you can get into a size 4 or an itsy-bitsy-bikini, doesn't mean you should wear it out. Ever. And to these girl's friends: shame on you for wanting her to look like a sea-beast in a bikini so you could look better. SHAME THE FUCK ON YOU for not pulling her aside and saying, "Boo, you think maybe you want to put on some shorts that might fit a weensy bit better or maybe don't borrow my bottoms?" You are not being mean by gently letting your friend know that she looks like a condom filled with mayonnaise. Ok, maybe don't use my exact phrase, but feel free to use the Cliff's Notes version. No really, feel fucking free to let a bitch know what is up. Ain't nobody got time to look like 10 lbs of crazy in a 5 lb bag. Ba-leed-dat. 

Besides being too fat to breathe in your shorts, too big for the junior section bikini, or having an ass that looked like someone squeezed the wrong end of the toothpaste, the other thing I saw a lot of this weekend was, what I like to call, the "kitchen sink" look. Where you take a bunch of different clothes and accessories and put them all on at once. I get that is fucking called "layering." I still hate it. Why the fuck do you want to look like a homeless person who has to wear all their clothes at once because they have nowhere to store them? The irony of this outfit is that it supposed to look so effortless and carefree, like, "Oh, look at how whimsical I am, I just put on whatever is in the closet, matching be damned." Fuck you in the field where you think you live, wannabe-woodland creature. You spend more time trying to look like you spent no time putting together an outfit than I do looking like I turned the lights on when I got ready - and I had time to shave my beaver, because if you are going to wear shorts where your punanni hangs out, you had better have tamed your bush. I saw this chick when I was watching Train and felt like I wanted to run a train... on her outfit. I present to you, Exhibit E:

I call this ensemble: Fanny Packs Across 'Murica! Now, I own a fanny-pack. It's Gucci. For years everyone said that my fanny pack was wretched and my argument was and always will be, "IT'S FUCKING GUCCI, BITCH."My fanny pack is the epitome of grace and elegance and usually filled with fine booze. Not Molly, generic cigarettes, my sister's fake I.D., and broken promises. And for fucks sake, the "overjorts" are almost as bad as the mom-jeans. If the only farming you have done is just straight up being a hoe, then do you really think that overjorts are the look for you? At least she had both straps snapped. ThankfuckingGod.

I know, I probably sound like a crotchety old hag, and I honestly could care less about that than your brother after I bang him. I had to make mention of this shit because it seems like the older I get, the uglier clothing gets. And I know, some of yous guys are saying, "Well, isn't that what your mom said?" And the answer to that is NO. Phyllis was pretty fashion forward, because I was fashion forward. In my pic from my High School graduation, she is wearing a dress that she borrowed from me. Covered in daisies, because like I said, I am the ultimate 90's bitch. 

Good fashion is timeless, trends and fads are just that - trends and fads. I thank my lucky stars there was no Facehole when I was growing up, mostly because of the slutty/drunk things I did back then, but more because of all the busted-ass outfits I wore. And OG's mullet. Which was pretty fucking sweet. 

And just to show you all that I am not hating on the youngins because I am jelly school, I will leave you with these parting pictures, to cleanse your eyes from all the aforementioned fashion fuckery. You are are very fucking welcome. 

Azzzzzzzzzz N Titties. And Big Booty Bitches.

H-Bomb

Advice Column: The Truth Shall Not Set You Free

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Advice Column: Under Cover Brother Lover

Hi J!! I just saw your post about your awesome advice column, and I have something I could use your advice on.

One of my best friends from elementary school on died in 2009. She committed suicide, she was 25 years old. We hadn't been as close for a few years before she passed away (our lives were just in different places, no bad blood or anything like that) but it still hurt like shit. Still does, and I miss her like crazy.

We pretty much lived in each other's houses for like a decade, so I know her parents and her two brothers very well. I hadn't seen her oldest younger brother (let's call him Jason) for a couple years, until this past weekend - he and his brother came to a birthday party for a mutual friend. It was great to catch up and we had a great time, getting drunk, whatever. At the end of the night, Jason and I were alone in the kitchen and he kissed me. I was shocked but I kissed him back - I'm single, he's single, he's a really nice guy and pretty cute, so why not, right? I ended up going back to my place and after Jason dropped his brother off, he came over and we hung out for a few hours. No sex, just lots of making out and cuddling (awwwww!) and it was really nice.

I'm not sure how I feel about this and the possibility of more happening for a few reasons. One, Jason's brother and our friend walked in on us kissing, and neither of them were thrilled about it. They didn't say anything at the time, but my friend and I talked the next day and she told me the main thing that bothers her is that Jason's sister wouldn't have liked it bc she was very protective of her brothers. I had that thought too, but after thinking about it some more, I think it doesn't matter what she would have thought, because (and I do not mean this to be harsh) she isn't here anymore and she made the decision not to be here. But then I thought some more, and if Jason's brother was bothered by it, what would their parents think? I don't want to do anything to upset them, you know? I don't have a bad relationship in any sense with any of them; I just think it might be hard for them to see their one of their deceased daughter's best friends date their son. I don't know.

The other reason I'm confused is.... Jason is a really nice, good guy. He's a little shy and a homebody. He's probably never said anything mean about anyone his whole life. Other than being a nice girl, I am none of those other things. I have no idea how to proceed with a guy like him, especially given the history of our relationship as brother/sister's best friend. I am so used to being with bad guys and being a bad girl and I have no clue how to do this!

Any advice that you have would be great. Thank you!!




Dear Potential Bro-Banging Friend,

I saw that you typed this word vomit on your iPhone and for that I am impressed, but for fucks sake, y'all need to put a pin in it sometimes. I could have written this jibber-jabber in a 1/4 of the space and still gotten the point across. Your thumbs must look like a 14 year old boy's palms when he first learns how to make the magic in his pants, by himself. But, you brought up some good shit, so I am going to let the Niagra Falls that is your question, slide, and give you what you want. Well, kind of. You see, J let me tackle this because if there is one thing I know, it is about sibling hook-ups and over-protective little sisters, whether they are on this planet or not.

You see, I am the younger sister of OG, whom some of you have seen in previous columns and have heard the level of bat-shit-crazy I bring to the table when he is concerned. I have gone as far to make him sign bar napkins at 2am, stating that he will not marry any more carnie-trash-skanks without my prior consent. One trip down the skank-rabbit hole is all it takes for a sibling to have to step-in and lock it up for the other sibling. I will say this...no matter if I am on this planet or not, you fuck with my brother and I WILL find a way to get back to you. I will get all super natural, Patrick Swayze in Ghost, if I have to. If someone doesn't believe in the afterlife, fuck with my brother and I will make you believe. Trust. With that being said, I am also going to let slide the little remark you made about "Jason's" sister not having a say in things because she is not here anymore. Suicide is fucked up and tragic and should not be an excuse to rub your Hot-Pocket all over her brother's wang, because you got a little drunk and hor-nay.

Now that I have said my over-protective sibling peace, I can tackle the rest of your meow-meow with some ease. Grab a seat and a take a load off, shit's about to go down faster than a 2 dollar hooker. Biz-natch.

If you think "he's a homebody and I am a social butterfly and opposites don't attract," isn't a problem, it will be. The thing is, chick-a-dee, I know many couples who you would look at and be like, "What in the actual fuck possessed those two ass hats to get together," because you would have never put those two together in a million fucking years. And you know what? Those are the most stable relationships I have seen in my 34 trips around the sun. When you are dating someone for more than kisses and cuddles, that superficial shit is what the relationship is all about. But, if you are trying to get that motherfucker to like it so much that he wants to put a ring on it, that superficial shit is just that - SHIT.

When you get down to brass tacks in a relationship, it's not about you two loving all the same goddamn things all the time. It's about what's at your core and if that shit meshes, then all the other stuff is inconsequential. The couples I see that are up each other's culos 24-7 because they like all the same shit, are the ones that I also know want to secretly choke-slap their significant other when they breathe too heavy during American Idol. Conversely, like my boy Chris Rock said, you also can't be too opposite of each other - you have to find out if you have the right balance of ying and yang to make this mess work. But, that is up to you to figure out if you even want to take it to that level. You following, Sweet Tits?

I can see your hesitation and that isn't a good sign about the future of this...whatever the fuck it is. Take it from me, as I am the Queen of being unable to read horrible signs and hesitations. It doesn't help the fucking situation that when it comes to relationshit stuff, men are simple and women over think every, single, solitary, minute, fucking detail and crush any chance of shit being chill and happening naturally. If anyone questions that last statement please refer to the above grade-A meow-meow that was typed out on an iPhone, for the love of all things holy. Sweet tapping dancing Jesus, I have a hard enough time typing more than a few words on my phone, so forgive me if I am still trying to wrap my mind around the fact that you wrote all that on a fucking iPhone.

AIN'T NOBODY GOT TIME FOR THAT!!!!

If you are worried about what his family will think if you two decided to do more than grind on each other's fuck parts like a bunch of teenagers, that too is a load of horseshit. Don't make this into some Romeo and Juliet-type nonsense and make it more than it is. No matter how protective a family is over their own, if you are a decent girl-girl and you are going to make their boy happy, they are going to allow that shit. Unless they are selfish assholes; because if that's the case, fuck them and the horse they rode in on...sideways.

If you are good like you say you are - and you do seem like it from your email that would have probably been on pink paper with hearts and flowers with scents of Love's Baby Soft, if we still lived in an age where you wrote letters asking for advice - then this should be a no brainer for them, since you already have street cred with them. I know that if I was smart and hitched my wagon to one of OG's friend's when I had the chance, I probably could have avoided the slew of twat-waffles that came my way. And if I was less of up an uptight cunt and let my brother date some of my friends, he may not have ended up with the girl with the busted unicorn tattoo. True story.

Hindsight is better than night vision, let me just tell you.

Much like men have the hot/crazy scale, where they decide how much crazy they are willing to allow versus how hot a chick is, women have the risk/reward scale. That is where we decide if the risk of trying to start some shit with a dude will be rewarded with either some good-ass sex or an awesome ass fuck relationship (or if the stars in the universe align, both), or if we need to pack up our baggage and hustle our hoo-ha somewhere else. That, my dear sweets, is something you have to figure out on your own. No advice J-Wundercunt or I could give you will be right for you, because we are not you. You seem to be pretty aware of what you are going to do, so trust yourself that you are going to do the right fucking thing, even if it's not the easiest thing to do.

Sorry I couldn't give you an absolute answer, however, let me leave you with this quote from one of the greatest movies of all time: Get busy living or get busy dying.

In other words, DO YOU. All day, every day.

H-Bomb

Single And Not Quite Ready To Mingle

As the wretched Hallmark Holiday that is VD, I mean Valentines Day (but really, it is the herpes of the holiday world), approaches, I start getting asked by my friends, co-workers, the dude at Dunkin' Donuts who makes my morning crack infusion and just about every other fucker who knows I'm single, what I am doing for VD?

And I know you want to know the truth since you stopped by this little slice of the interwebs; I am going to tell you. It's pretty much the same thing I do every year.

NOT A GODDAMN THING.

I am not boycotting the herpes of holidays because I am not a fan of romance, love or any of that flowery shit that makes other women's ovaries tingle like me in a shoe store with a stolen credit card. Most would be surprised to find out that I, H-Bomb, am quite the romantic when I so choose to be. Cocoa Butter Butt Lotion? Check! Jodeci CD? Check! Cooking dinner in my skivvies when my person comes home? CHECK! I can pull out all the stops to show the chosen one why they are THE chosen one, if I so choose.

Besides the fact that I worked in the restaurant industry for many years, 5 of which were spent at the Cheesecock Factory (where there are no limits to people's foolery on this day), the reason that I am single and would rather eat a Pringle than go out on VD is that I have a wretched dating history and have been on some pretty fucking awful dates. Like the kind of dates that when I tell people I have been on, they are like, "No fucking way, that shit cannot be real?!" To which I gently and sweetly reply, "No, SERIOUSLY...a 38 Special concert (in 2006), 1 hour from my home in PA, in a blizzard and then the guy told me he doesn't drink after I was already trapped an hour from home." How fucked up is that, right? 

My most recent episode of dating douchery took place just a few weeks ago. Because fuck logic and reason, that's why I went out with this person...AGAIN. 

Smart H-Bomb knew this was a bad idea from the jump, but not-so-sharp H-Bomb said to herself, "Nahhhhhh girl, it can't be that bad." And it really wasn't THAT bad - like nothing that will get me on a Lifetime movie for choking a motherfucker out in public, but it was another re-inforcement of my impeding spinsterhood.

The guy is a relative of a very dear friend. He is younger than me. He has the biggest case of Peter Pan Syndrome EVER and I don't think he could grow up if I paid him a million dollars - you will see why this is a key factor later. There are a few more non-pluses, but overall the kid is sweet, likes me, and has been pursuing me for some time. The back story is that 6 months ago, I gave him the opportunity to date me and he said no to me. Can you believe this fucking fool? I guess shit really does happen.

So I picked my ego up off the floor, got back on my horsey and rode off into the sunset never to give it another thought. We hung out a few times after that, as friends, and one night he asked me for another shot at the title. I said no, gave him my litany of reasons, but this fucking kid was persistent and eventually wore me down. So we hung out a couple more times, and even went to a family function together (where he was texting most of the night), but I knew I was not feeling it anymore and needed to let him down gently. Yes, I have human feelings and fuck no, I don't want to talk about them.

The last hang sesh in question comes around and all week long this kid is texting and calling me, telling me he can't wait to hangout, blah blah blah and to take me out. Remember that last part...it will be useful in a few minutes. What I am about to say may come as shock to the delicate minds of some, but I am what some might call, "a stickler" for punctuality. I know it, he knows it, and yet he is still almost a half hour late to our date. But, the bar has scotch and it is happy hour, so I work on getting happy like a motherfucker. 

When he gets there, he sits next to me and we make a few minutes of small talk and he says to me, "I have some bad news about tonight," to which I reply, "That's why I drove myself." I am expecting him to say something like his friends are going to meet up with him or some other such bullshit, but no, this dude lays on me this gem: "I have enough money to cover myself, but not enough to pay for you, too."

WAIT A HOT FUCKING MINUTE, SON. 

You told me you wanted to take ME out and now you can't PAY for ME? Did I miss the memo where I was being Punk'd? 

Before anyone hands me a golden shovel and a key to the Playboy Mansion, let me give the facts. Every time, and I mean E-V-E-R-Y-T-I-M-E I have hung out with this kid, his fund situation has been slim to none. I have zero problem paying for my own shit...never have, never will. My personal rule is pretty simple - if I don't have money to go out, I don't go out. Fortunately, I happen to make decent skrilla and keep my overhead to a minimum, so covering my own bill during happy hour ain't no thang. Especially since my ass likes to drink scotch...and LOTS of it. 

We continue on our busted double-dutch date and chit chat about the weather and fishing...no seriously, fishing. I, for real, no bullshit, begin to not feel so hot (and I had been sick a few days prior) so I tell him I think it's time for me to make tracks and we get our checks.

I get my check, pull out my card and hand that shit over. He starts fumbling in his wallet and grabs some cash and looks at me and says, "Can I borrow some money, I don't have enough to cover my check."

Ain't this a goddamn bitch?!?! 

Surprise, motherfucking surprise. I grab his cash, throw his check at the bartender and tell them to take care of both with my card - the least I can get out of this is a couple of extra SkyMiles. But for real, I can't even get mad at the kid for doing his thing, because I got played for an ATM on a whole mess of occasions and still kept coming back. Well played, young sir, well played. 

Since I am convinced that someone has put Crisco on the slip-n-slide into spinster-hood that is my dating life, I will quite happily sit out this VD, while so many others get duped for the eleven-teenth time, under the guise of romance. But if you make someone cover you, after you tell them you don't have enough money to pay for  them and yourself, don't be hating on them when all they give you is an ass-out hug good night! Happy VD, suckers!

VD ain't shit but deception and tricks. Well...to some of us, anyway.

I'm out. 

Mirror, Mirror On My Facebook Wall...

Mirror Mirror on my Facebook wall, what is the biggest lie of all?

I contemplate deleting my Facefuck page multiple times a day; but then I go back, like the junkie I am, and scroll through my feed to see what the fuck is up with all my peeps. It's not that I am sick of the kitten videos, BuzzFeed quizzes or even the 1,014,777 statuses my friends and family post of their kid getting potty trained. I contemplate deleting it because there are so many motherfucking liars out there.

I don't give a shit if you lie to yourself about what the fuck ever you want to lie about, but what cracks me the fuck up is when I read a post about something ludicrous, I cringe and am all, "Heeeellllllllllllllll naaaawwwww...that fucker is all about the smoke and mirrors today." This isn't another one of those columns where I give you a list of reasons why I hate Fuckbook or the people we hate the most, because that shit has been done more times than a bus stop skank and is so 2013. This is all about the biggest lies we tell Facebook, and the world, but we seem to forget that there are always one or two people out there that know all our dirty little secrets and can, and just might, put that shit on blast one day.

We get it, your life if fucking perfect all day, errry day. No really, keep telling us. I love reading about someone's so called perfect life, when I know that person is a grade A train-wreck, but on FB they are parent of the year, their kids are all on honor roll, and they just ran a marathon for charity. Better yet, they "Love their life so much because God has blessed them with this and that and blah, blah, blah, blah bliggity blah!" Bitch, please. <Insert eye roll here>. The only person you are fooling is yourself, which is even funnier because the more you post about your awesome life, the more people are figuring out that it is not so great. Hey, I'm not saying I'm a fucking saint because the reality is, we ALL do it. Let's not get shit twisted. I mean, who would want to constantly put, "My life is so shitty...Fuck this...Fuck that...Fuck everybody" on their page, right? What needs to be known though, is that there are a lot of motherfuckers out there that do it way more than others. I'm talking like DAILY. And for those that want to pull the "Well, if you don't fucking like it, 'unfriend' them or 'hide their news feed'." Hey assholes, why would we do that when it's shit like this that we talk about so those who need to get checked, get checked. That's just what we do so before anyone wants to go and stand on their soap box, preach a sermon and give whatever rebuttal you have, just know this - AIN'T NO ONE TRYING TO HEAR THAT SHIT. But I digress...

Oh, and what's that? You love the Lord? Good, I am glad you like posting Bible quotes and showing everyone how pious you are. Can you tell me what part of the Bible where it talks about what you did a few days ago? I think I missed that Sunday school class. I love the Hypochristians who claim to love the Lord, but will be the first to crucify some motherfucker for the same shit they just did. Let me guess...because you're a "changed person," you get to judge whoever the fuck you want, right? Tell me how that fucking works, y'all? Because I'm clueless to how someone is all, "Glory be to God...God is good," then does some ridiculous shit like stays up for 2 days high off coke, in Vegas, walking around clueless as to why they are broke as fuck but is all "YOLO, bitches" and is posting pics like they just partied with Justin Bieber, Charlie Sheen, Miley Cyrus and Lindsay fucking Lohan. Now that I think about it, in John 3:16 it said, "Thou shalt do stupid shit and give big ups to thy Lord and Savior because YOLO is thy best thing to the game and bitches can't be tripping off thy neighbor while posting selfies and all the greatest achievements one does for their friends, family, humanity and all mankind, son." My bad, peeps. What the fuck was I thinking?

And for those of you reading this, shaking your head and saying, "I don't do that shit, so this ain't about me," you are right. This shit ain't about you. But you better not be the other kind of liar; the worst one yet: The Relationship Faker. Those are my absolute favorite. I just rolled my eyes so hard reading about one person's undying love for another I think I pulled an eye muscle, because I know that couple and I know they would shank each other faster than two fuckers fighting over a menthol cigarette in prison if they didn't have kids, two mortgages and getting divorced wasn't going to cost more than staying together. But on good ol 'Book they are more in love today than when they met.

This just in: FUCK. THAT. NOISE.

Now, I am not hating on love. Far from it. I LOVE, love. I love people in love and all that romantical and sexical shit, because that is the best shit out there. Can I get an Amen?

What I can't stand is motherfuckers who profess their love and devotion for each other all up and down Facebook, but behind closed doors want to throat punch a motherfucker every chance they get. When I see an, "Oh, my babe is the best and I love them to death," but know you make your babe sleep on the couch and wouldn't fuck him with H-Bombs snatch and Flo-Rich pushing, I almost piss my pants from laughing. It almost makes me look at myself in the mirror and ask myself, "Self, what the fuck just happened and did my homie just start acting lessons? Because this motherfucker just won an Academy Award, yo."

YOLO this, bitch. The older I get, the more I can see the bullshit from the real shit. I think that goes for most of us, too. We all know what the fuck is up, so people need to quit trying to "Fake it til' they make it" and keep shit real. That's how we do here.

Reality. It's not just for television anymore.

New Year, Not So NEW YOU

Every year, right before the end of the year, we all take a good, long, hard look at ourselves in the mirror and say to ourself, "Self, you are gonna be the best goddamn you YOU have ever been this year." You have these lofty notions of conquering your life personally, professionally, financially, spiritually and whatever other fucking-ally you can actually think of.

QUIT THAT SHIT.

You and I both know for goddamn sure that your New Year's Resolution is going to last about as long as Hugh Hefner's erection without viagra. But, don't beat yourself up about it. Unless you are into that shit, then carry on. Many people try and fail at New Year's Resolutions because they forget that you can wish in one hand and shit in the other and see what fills up faster. So unless you are actually planning on DOING something about your New Year's Resolution that shit is going to go the way of the doo-doo pretty fucking quick.

We have spent months, but in reality, more like 45 mins, coming up with a list of the most often unacheived resolutions. Basically, we figured out what we fucked up in the first week of 2014 and wanted to share our failures with you, for your enjoyment. You are very fucking welcome.


1) No more hoe shit.

If you are like me and most of my homies, you like to ring in the New Year with a bang. Literally. Too bad you never catch the other person's name, or even got that $20 they promised you for doing the thing you can do with your tongue, a wooden spoon and a tub of Crisco. Shame and Crisco are both  very hard to wash off and usually require multiple hose downs in the neighbor's kiddie pool.

So this year, you decided that you were not going to find the guy or girl with only one wonky eye and  the least amount of genital scabs, and you were not going to show them how you spent years perfecting the Nature Boy Ric Flair's Figure Four leg-lock into a sex position that is illegal in 22 states and 11 countries. You were going to be better. You were going home, alone, to masturbate with only your tears of loneliness as lube.

Nah, fuck that shit. You found some bitch at the bar that was licking crusty fireball shots off their equally crusty friend and you decided to take them both home and give them a shame shower. Like a fucking boss. And like the boys from The Lonely Island say when you crymax, "Doesn't matter, had sex." Welcome to 2014 you sick fuck. We missed you.


2) Stop spending all your skrilla.

Most everyone we know lives beyond their means. And if they aren't, then they are hella broke, homeless or just fucking lying to themselves. There is the guilt in spending money, but then you have to try to keep up with everyone else who is doing the same thing and it is just a vicious cycle of people living paycheck to paycheck. Sure, there are people who are frugal, good with their money, and live within their means. GOOD FOR FUCKING YOU. Don't judge the rest of us that like to go out to fancy dinners at Church's Chicken, buy the finest of Target silks, and the classiest of pregnant strippers. Go do you, while the rest of us make a resolution to not spend as much in 2014.

How-the-fuck-ever, when you break that resolution know that it is not your fault. Stores and online prey on the booze-addled, stripper-soaked brains of New Years shoppers and have these recockulous sales where things are like 75% off, and even if you don't need them or even fucking want them, how can you say no to 75% off? HOW? You would be stupid not to buy those Vera Bradley pajama pants that are 2 sizes too large, but are only $8. I mean, what is eight-fucking-dollars in the grand scheme of things, baller? Seriously.

And that is how you get bamboozled by the mall into breaking another resolution. Next year, when you make the same goddamn resolutions, save yourself some time and bring the stripper into the dressing room with you, bang her out, and then buy that shirt that looks like 1999 roofied it, threw up all over it, and then let the stripper spit wash it. Then go and ask your neighbor to hose you down in their kiddie pool.


3) Work less.

Work hard, play harder. That's the motto we all strive for. Nothing is more fucking rewarding than making that paper and knowing you earned that shit, right? Last year, you knew you busted your ass  LIKE A BOSS because you took care of your priorities and did what you had to do to pay your bills, put that roof over your goddamn head and take care of your responsibilities (illegitimate children included)...all while having a fucking blast and doing regretful shit like getting that blowjob in Thailand at that one bar, from that one hot girl, who was really a 14 year old boy named, Wilson. Wait, what?

You worked like a motherfucker on a mission. I'm talking some H.A.A.M. shit!!! So hard that you are worn the fuck out. Exhausted. Beat. Delusional and basically...just over all the bullshit. And as much as the pay was all gravy, you come to the realization that you not only proved yourself to your employer, but the shit you had to endure was really fucked up, stressful and was an experience "you never want to come face-to-face with again." That said, one thing you promised yourself, your family, friends and God is that last year ain't gonna happen. EVER. No fucking way. No fucking how. It's all about work/life balance in 2014, right?

Come the first day back to work, guess what? All that "I'm all about no stress, working smarter and not harder" attitude is thrown out the goddamn window. Not even one week back into the New Year and you're working harder than a high school freshman trying to fingerbang his first girlfriend under the bleachers at P.E. Talk about fucked up. The dream you so wanted in 2014 isn't such a dream anymore. Why? Because you're an overachieving asshole that is all about hard work. All about the stress, putting up with the bullshit, dealing with dumb ass co-workers who don't know a dick from a goddamn push-pop. You thrive off the shit that ruins people. You bitch, moan, whine and complain and at the end of the day, work harder than anyone there. The kicker...you don't get acknowledged for shit. Why? Because no one give a fuck. Unless your ass is writing the checks, sucking the head execs dick or playing that political game that we all know happens in ever office...basically kissing ass and brown nosing so hard your head smells like shit.

The only benefit from working hard, working late and sacrificing more than you'd like...you still get paid that dolla dolla bill y'all!!!

Only way to keep this resolution...be the top dog, win the lottery, have a heart attack, nervous breakdown or go postal on some motherfuckers.


4) Workout (duh).

So you've gained some weight since Halloween. No biggie, right? All depends on who you ask I guess. People may not be honest with you because the truth is, when you try to throw on those jeans you've been dying to wear or that top that is all bout it, bout it, you'll figure out soon enough that you went from fit to motherfucking fat. Yup, I've been there and done that shit too. Matter of fact, in the last 4 months, my sorry ass has gained 25 pounds. My excuse? I started that see-food diet where any food I see, I fucking eat. Also got a little something called aguaphobia where I can't drink water so to replace that shit, I drink massive amounts of alcohol. This helps with the see-food diet I'm on. But I digress...

December 31st rolls around and as you stuff your face with more fried food, chocolate, desserts and booze, you promise yourself, "Come January 1st, my new life is going to start! I'm all about getting back to where I used to be." You hit the gym New Year's Day and what do you know...it's packed as fuck!

Every goddamn person there with exception to the die hard fit bodies had the same exact fucking plan as you. You know...trying to make some life changes Biggest Loser style. Knowing you're already there, you do your best to find a cardio machine to do your thing. And what do you know...all those goddamn machines are taking with fools on those fucking things for 45 minutes to an hour, thinking they are gonna lose 50 pounds in a fucking day.

Down but not out, you check out the classes that are being taught and just your fucking luck, every session for the next week is booked. You go find a machine to work out on and go fucking figure...they are all taken except the ones that you have no idea what the fuck to do with. You could do those machines but the fear is that you might do that shit wrong and look like a dumb ass so why fucking bother. 35 minutes have passed and you've had zero productivity, hit up the water fountain 5 times and you hit up the sit up machine and did one set of 3 reps.

The only conclusion that comes to mind is, "This shit is ridiculous, I'll wait til it gets less packed and come back in March. By then, I'll definitely have all the motivation to get my shit together before summer."

Have fun with those 25 extra pounds you add on, on top of the 15 you already gained fucker.

Hey, happens to the best of us. Besides, we all convince ourselves we look good no matter what AND thank God for black being a slimming color.


5) Ease up on the Social Networking sites/texting.

"I spent way too much time on Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest, Twitter and dating sites last year. I also texted way too much and avoided talking to actual people face to face. Time to stop living my life via the internet and make the effort to be more personal with my friends and others who I can actually have real conversations with."

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Really, asshole?!

AIN'T NOBODY GOT TIME FOR THAT!

If you think for a goddamn minute that you can put the phone down and actually act like a person back in the early 90's, you are sorely mistaken, motherfuckers.

Social Networking, texting and anything that has to do with a computer or cell phone has fucked up our social life and minds to the Nth degree. I'm guilty, you're guilty, we are ALL fucking guilty.

Face to face conversation? If I were to do that, that would take into my Facebook stalking and Instagram post of me at this nice restaurant. Now why would I do that? You want me to call you? Sorry but, I'm busy texting three other people at once so how about you just text me what you want or need. Sound good? Greeeeaaaaat...thanks a ton!

Communication today is fucking generic and peoples agenda's are not as important as they make it out to be. I mean, if you call watching the "Bachelor" or the "Diner's, Drive-in's and Dives" important goddamn business as to why you can't have a 5 minute fucking phone conversation then yeah, I guess you are a busy ass motherfucker.

The success rate of some shit like this is probably 20% and the only reason why is because a motherfucker is either broke and can't afford a phone or internet, fools don't have good reception or internet out there in the world of BFE or you're old school Amish or one of them crazy ass Mormons who just fuck all day, making babies and shit and really don't have time to socialize with anyone other than tons of wife pussy.

Let's be real...you will be Facebooking, Instagraming, Pinning shit and Tweeting like crackhead in the Crack Olympics in 2014!!!!


New Year, Not So NEW YOU!

Happy 2014, y'all!