The Insolent Bitch

Fuck You Too, Facebook

2010-02-15T12:16:00.000-08:00

I admit I stayed away from Facebook for as long as I could. The first time I learned about it was a couple of years ago when my schizophrenic red-headed deaf aunt sent me a friend request. I totally ignored it because this was coming from my schizophrenic red-headed deaf aunt. The same aunt who crashed her bike because she had to throw up while riding but didn't think to stop the bike first. So yeah. Excuse me for not jumping on the facebook ~~howagon~~ bandwagon right away.

It was only when I began to receive several other requests from family and friends to join that it caught my interest. I signed up and wasn't that impressed. I logged in once a week, if that. Why? Because I didn't give a shit about people's Farkle scores and I nearly shit my pants in disgust over those Farm Ville status updates. DumbShit found a purple leprechaun sucking her cow's dick while being pounded in the butthole with an ear of corn! She needs help watering her ~~crotch~~ crop! Want to join Farm Ville and help DumbShit out?

Now? I still hate it but Facebook is like a social networking heroin and I have to have it every.damn.day.

(Why is this?)

So I decided it would be awesome (like in a fuckin'-a type of way) to join Facebook as the InsolentBitch and see how many awesome friends I could find and see how many weird and disturbing groups I could become a fan of. I also had dreams of being sponsored by something totally rad - like Hooters - and getting paid every time someone left me a comment that said "ur mean". I envisioned a movement, people.

Sounds totally awesome, right? Yes, I think so too!

But Facebook doesn't. Facebook hates my idea.

You know what, Facebook? You have crossed a line. A fucking big-fat-bolded-underlined-italicised LINE.

Facebook wouldn't let me register under Insolent Bitch. Oh no, no, you have to use your real name.

So I used "Insolent Bich" instead and decided to try to change my name in account settings:

They apparently take it very seriously:

Well, Facebook, riddle me this: what happens to those of us who wish to remain anonymous and use your site inappropriately? Hmmm? What happens to US?

And by the way, their automated approval system is horseshit. Horseshit I say!

*shakes her fists in the air*

So I decided to ask for help:

And this? Is the "help" I got:

No wait. I take that back. I also received a threat:

Okay, Mary wasn't totally useless. She did recommend a Page. So at her suggestion, I created a Facebook page. Click here to join me on Facebook.

All in all? I still hate Facebook. But I.just.can't.stop.

Simon Cowell Drinking Game Sans The Drinking

2010-02-09T20:41:00.000-08:00

Okay, while watching American Idol tonight (I know, *hangs head in shame*) I came up with a Simon Cowell drinking game except it doesn't involve any alcohol. Actually, it doesn't involve any beverage whatsoever. It just involves laughing your fucking ass off.

Here's what you do next time you're watching American Idol:

1) Each time Simon says something, imagine that is what his girlfriend tells him after sex.

B) Laugh hysterically while stuffing more Cheetos into your mouth.

Because, yeah, is anything funnier than imagining the chick he just banged saying “You're a saucy little thing, aren't you?” in a pedophiliac-like Brittish accent?

The answer to that would be: No.

Because It Was Not A Dare: Grocery Shopping

2010-02-07T21:22:00.000-08:00

Yeah, I know. What has my life become when I am blogging about grocery shopping on a Sunday night? I think the answer is so obvious it's nearly bitch slapping me in the face as I type.

So I decided to go grocery shopping today. Fun! Okay, fun for those of you who are into that sort of thing, but for me? Not so much.

I pulled into the parking lot and was instantly reminded that it was Sunday afternoon. Oh. dear. God. The after church crowds.

Even better? It was sunny out. This is a tourist town. Sun + Tourists = Fucking assholes who like to hang out in whichever store/restaurant/whorehouse I wish to enter.

I sat there in my car, staring at the store entrance, watching hoards of people enter. For every twenty people who entered, only 1 came out. I was battling my inner voices.

Should I go in? Do I really need toilet paper this much? Is Preparation-H this important?

Answers? Yes.

I left the quiet safeness of my car and headed towards the automatic doors and as I passed through them I totally realized that I'm pretty certain hell has automatic doors to its entrance too. And probably lots of tourists. In Bermuda shorts and flip flops, but I digress.

Grabbed a shopping cart and swabbed it down with approximately 32 anti-bacterial wipes.

On my way to the produce section I got behind an old lady with a cart, it was quite obvious neither hip worked, and she walked like a leprechaun zombie only slower. I knew, though, that once I tailgated her with my cart she would move over and let me pass by her. Apparently she's as stupid as she is slow because she totally did not get my hint.
Getting perplexed I darted through floral, my secret short cut, and left her in my dust.

Oooo look! Avocados are on sale! Score one for me! Oh damn, of course, only a few ripes ones left. I spotted The Perfect One and as I moved to pick it up I was fantasizing about how it would melt in my mouth later. I grabbed it, still dreaming of its goodness, when out of the blue a leprechaun hand swooped in and grabbed it from me. Um, excuse me? The leprechaun zombie looked me in the eye, and let me tell you, that bitch had no soul. I saw it first, she attacked. I let her keep it because I was not about to pick a fight with a mythical un-dead bitch who's skin texture eerily resembled that of the avocado.

Moving on, I decided to ditch produce and head for the chip aisle. On my way there, cruising along, I glance down the pet food aisle and holy-shit-on-fire it's like every old lady in the city flocked to this aisle to purchase cat food. At this very moment I thanked God that I am petless. Score another one for me.

Which reminded me, I needed Preparation-H. After having baby I now sport a hemorrhoid. Can you say g-l-a-m-o-r-o-u-s? So I stop in the pharmacy area. Of course it's by the condoms. Of course there's childless teens looking at condoms to purchase. And of course said teens are so immature (but obviously ready for the sex) that they cannot pick out condoms without giggling, so I can pretty much imagine they literally shit themselves while laughing at me. Especially when I was debating between the real Preparation-H at a staggering $10.00 or the store brand, because for $2.00 less I get 20% MORE! I looked at them, they're trying to stifle laughter, I say "You don't want to end up having to buy this stuff, so be careful with the butt-sex. It can get ugly if you don't use enough Ben-Gay to numb the anus beforehand, that's the secret to good and painless butt-sex". I couldn't quite figure out the look on their faces. It was either the look of them realizing "Ooh, BEN-GAY! Why didn't we think of that?" or thinking "Let's call security, I'm scared". I walked away, smiling to myself for doing the rest of the world a favor. Do I feel guilty? No. Why? Teens need to learn the hard way. Because if you're too much of a dumbass to realize that Ben-Gay would burn the ever loving shit of of your butt, you probably shouldn't be having sex. Just sayin'. Score one for me.

I reached the chip aisle, finally. Why is it so busy here? And why is everyone wearing football jerseys? Oh no. Oh no. It's fucking Superbowl Sunday?! Why oh why did I come here?! Oh no. Oh sweet God! The chips are right next to the beer. FUCK THIS. I don't need chips anyway, they're not good for me. Score another one for me. I'm going to get some bread.

Oh sweet, no one's in the bread aisle. Wait. Why is there only white bread left? Where's the fucking wheat bread? !SALE, 2 for $3! What. The. Fuck. The best sale on bread ever and the fucking old people and tourists snatched it all up? Bitches from hell.

FUCK THIS, I said to myself. I am done!

Wait. I remembered I needed toilet paper. Ugh.

Back-tracked halfway through the store and found the TP. Wow, 48 rolls for only $16.99. What a great fucking deal. (note: Sarcasm) At this point? I don't care. I threw that shit in my cart and headed for the check out line.

What do we have here? Only two checkers are working? What the fuck? I got in line. And by line I mean a succession of approximately 242 people (give or take 200).

Oh there was the welfare mom yelling at her 4 children to "behave" as they all ran around screaming "SISSY FARTED ON MY'S FACE!". And of course we have the 190 year old woman bitching the checker out for not discounting her Fancy Feast cat food. But I have a COUPON for ten schents off of 12 cans! (*said in old lady accent*) Then there was the gothic guy, full of angst as he gripped his box of Fruity Pebbles. And the young teen who was so ugly but she thinks she hot and she keeps looking around to see who is looking at her and I'm sure she thought I was a lesbian checking her out because I was staring at her ugliness thinking Girl, you should NOT be wearing wedges with capris, that is SO last year and she was probably thinking Everyone loves my hot wedges, they're so cute, even that lady keeps staring at me. She wants me.

I am standing there and all of a sudden it dawns on me. I have toilet paper and generic Preparation-H (20% more, who could pass that up?) in my cart. I am the epitome of an embarrassing moment. It looked like I was there on a dare or something. Alas, I was not. No, I was there purchasing expensive toilet paper and cheap hemorrhoid cream and THAT, my friends, is why I write about grocery shopping on a Sunday night. I obviously have nothing better to do.

So after waiting in line a God-awful thirty minutes I finally made it to the checker who looked like he was about to cut a bitch. I can't blame him, if I worked there I would personally bash my skull in with the till drawer until I hit the temple in just the right spot, causing immediate death.

I jokingly asked him if he would take a third-party out of state check. He said no as if I was serious. Great. Now he thinks I seriously have a third-party out of state check AND I am buying sphincter cream. Nice one, dumbass.

I completed my purchase and ran back to my car.

Well that was worth it.

Shenanigans: The Pizza Edition

2010-01-31T21:50:00.000-08:00

When I was a teenager I was often left unsupervised. My mom worked nights, slept days and my dad worked days, slept nights. My younger brother and I were left with a freedom we didn't quite know what to do with.

Sometimes our antics involved catching the neighbor's cats in a crab trap we rigged to hang from a tree (we learned a lot from cartoons). Sometimes we engaged ourselves in other things, like making the World's Fastest Whirlpool in our swimming pool out in the back yard or playing Super Nintendo (shut up) for 24 fucking hours straight breaking only to piss and get beverages.

My favorite though? When we ordered pizza.

I know, it sounds so boring, doesn't it? Read on, just read on.

One time my brother called our local Pizza Hut, pretending to be a man named "Hans". Hans was a character my brother made up when pranking people (this was before caller ID). Hans had a very high pitched voice, to understand this voice you have to imagine a pre-pubescent boy pretending to talk like a woman using a European accent while trying to stifle laughter. Think Mrs. Doubtfire but only creepier.

Hans called and attempted to order a pizza, only to be hung up on. Hans didn't stop there though. He called back and demanded to talk to the manager on duty and proceeded to tell the manager the best story I have ever heard. "How dare your staff hang up on me!", Hans shouted in anger. "When I was a boy I was in an accident and my BALLS were chopped off! Now I talk like this and all I want is to order a goddamned pizza! This is discrimination.". The manager not only apologized up and down to Hans, but he sent us a free pizza. It was awesome. A little awkward when we had to answer the door and actually accept the freebie, but awesome nonetheless.

We would call for pizza a few times a week, making up coupons as we went along, each one getting more and more extreme.

At one point, for the price of one (1) large pizza from Domino's, we were getting:

2 Large Pizzas
2 2-liters of pop
1 Order of bread sticks
1 Order of dots

I am not shitting you, my friends. We told them we had a coupon to buy one large pizza and get all that other shit free. And they believed us. They never once asked for a coupon upon delivery. They are... retarded. But that is what you expect when you hire teenagers to run your business, they just don't give a shit.

There was only one instance where we were called out for our misuse of pizza delivery. The Round Table Pizza manager called back and left a message on my parent's answering machine telling us we better damned well have a coupon next time we order. My parents were all like "what is she talking about, kids?" and we were like "we have no fucking idea, she must be high". And she probably was because they never did ask for another coupon.
I would be a crotchety cunt too if I was in my forties working at a pizza joint and the most important thing on my To Do List for the day had involved worrying about coupons. Can you imagine working for her? Don't let those snot-nosed kids get away with 10% off their order this time, do you hear me?! You all had better start taking your career at Round Table Pizza seriously. I'm going ~~down to the local bar to drown my sorrows~~ home for the night and when I return in the morning I expect to see that tiny little fucking piece of shittily cut out paper with the words TEN FUCKING PERCENT on them, or you are all fired. SHIT CANNED, do you hear me?!

There was another time when we were expecting a pizza delivery and we thought it would be hi-fucking-larious to dress my brother up as a girl. Only by girl we meant seven-year-old psychotic doll-like girl. He was in his early teens and was a fat bastard. I put make up on him, clipped a nice poofy pink bow into his brown curly hair. I picked out one of my nice pink sweater-shirts for his, as my mother called it, baby fat to stretch out and gave him the perfect accessory -- a giant purple stuffed animal. He looked cute in a scary personality-disorder gender-identity-crisis type of way. We pissed our pants with laughter as we envisioned the nightmares that poor pizza boy would have that night. We tipped him a buck, what did he have to complain about?

Yeah, we had some good times.

And do you know what? I still, to this day, use the coupon trick. I live in a different city now but I still get 10-20% off of every pizza order I place and they never ask for the "coupon". Ha.

Stupid Answers to Stupid Questions

2010-01-29T00:22:00.000-08:00

Q: Kissed someone on your friends list? I have no friends, that would be a no.
Q: Been arrested? Nope.
Q: Held a snake? Ohhh yeah. Oh, a real snake? Yes.
Q: Been suspended from school? No. It's hard to be suspended when you're homeschooled.
Q: Done something you told yourself you wouldn't do? Ohhh yeah, like this meme for example.
Q: Laughed until you started crying? Yes.
Q: Caught a snowflake on your tongue? Um, yeah?
Q: Kissed in the rain? Yes. With tongue, too.
Q: Sang in the shower? Quietly, to myself.
Q: Been pushed into a pool with all your clothes on? No.
Q: Broken a bone? Yes. My right pinky finger. Jumped off a swing to impress a boy.
Q: Shaved your head? Hell fucking no.
Q: Played a prank on someone? Who the fuck hasn't?
Q: Shot a gun? No.
Q: Donated Blood? No.
Q: You hung out with? Myself.
Q: You texted? No one.
Q: You were in a car with? A hitchhiker.
Q: Went to the movies with? The hubster.
Q: Person you went to shop with? The voices.
Q: You talked on the phone? What the fuck are you asking?
Q: Made you laugh? Um, yeah.
Q: Sun or moon? Moon. The dark side of the moon, to be specific.
Q: Winter or Fall? Both.
Q: Left or Right? Middle.
Q: Sunny or rainy? Snowing.
Q: Where do you live? In my home.
Q: Club or pub? Neither. I'm a homebody. Drinking is for losers.
Q: Are there 1 or 2 people who you can always trust and rely on? Yes.
Q: Do you want to get married? I am.
Q: Do you twirl your spaghetti or cut it? Both.
Q: What time is it? Time for a nap, these questions blow.
Q: Are you afraid of commitment? No, I am married. Hello.
Q: What is your greatest hope/wish? That my son is happy.
Q: Do you cook? Oh girlfriend, hell no.
Q: Current mood? Insolent.
Q: Kissed someone? No. Just fucking with you. Yes.
Q: Sang? Duh.
Q: Listened to music? No. Music should be forbidden, it's of the devil!
Q: Danced Crazy? Yes.
Q: Cried? With every question the tears flow harder.
Q: Liked someone you can't? Yes.
Q: Who was your first date? A boy who shall remain nameless.
Q: Who was your first roommate? My mom and dad.
Q: What alcoholic beverage did you drink when you got drunk the first time? Sangria.
Q: What was your first car? A Hot Wheels El Camino towing a boat on a trailer. (Not shitting you)
Q: When did you go to your first funeral and viewing? When your mom died.
Q: Who was your first grade teacher? Mrs Aase and my mom said he was hot.
Q: Where did you go on your first ride on an airplane? Disney Land.
Q: When you snuck out of your house for the first time? Never did.
Q: Who was your first Best Friend? My fist.
Q: Who is your best friend? My hub. And the voices.
Q: Where was your first sleepover? I don't remember but I'm sure it got kinky.
Q: Who is the first person you call when you have a bad day? I call on the blogging world.
Q: Whose wedding were you in the first time you were a Bridesmaid or groomsman? I was a flower girl for my ex-aunt's wedding. She was a fat pig.
Q: What's the first thing you did when you got up this morning? Took a shit while brushing my teeth.
Q: First tattoo or piercing? Ears. They closed though.
Q: First celebrity crush? Prince William. Shut up.
Q: First crush? Nameless.

My Mom: Accused Me Of Having Sex As A Teen

2010-01-28T22:17:00.000-08:00

I was seventeen. My younger brother, whom we will call SlutRompus, and I were horrifically bored one day. We had previously found a condom at a neighborhood friend's house and we thought this was the perfect opportunity to take it out of its shiny wrapper and play with it like a balloon.

SlutRompus, all of fourteen at the time, thought it would be funny to put the condom over his head. He actually managed to put the entire thing around his entire head, down to his neck (our neighbor must have had a huge cock or an even bigger ego).

One slight problem though. He was suffocating. I mean seriously suffocating and gasping for air. I did what any good sister would do and I sat there, laughing at him. I was laughing so hard I nearly passed out myself.

I just about pissed myself in hysterics when, to allow himself air, he managed to poke his finger through the condom, forcing a hole by the mouth. With a big "pop" he gasped for air and was able to breath again.

Needless to say, when he removed the condom it was a shredded piece of dilapidated latex.

We didn't want my parents to see it, because seriously, how would we ever have explained that we had taken a condom from the neighbor's house, played with it like immature retards and one of us had almost died because of it? No. It was best kept from them.

So, we wrapped it up in one thousand layers of toilet paper and threw it in the bathroom garbage can. No one would ever be crazy enough to actually dig in the garbage can, right?

Enter my mother.

One day, my mother comes to me. Crying. Here is our conversation:

Mom: Are you (sniff sniff) having (gulp) the SEX?

Me: Mom, what the hell are you talking about?

Mom: I was cleaning the bathroom and found (sniff sniff) THIS.
~holds up the shredded bits of condom~
(which she is holding with her bare hands, by the way)

Me: Oh.My.Goddamn. Woman, seriously, how could you think that is mine? You see, SlutRompus and I swiped it from the neighbor's house and we were playing with it and Slut almost died and he had to cut a hole with his fingers and we and we... oh forget it. Yes, it's mine.

What is so funny about this is that I was homeschooled in high school. I spent my time coding HTML and chatting. I had exactly one boyfriend up until this point and that lasted three weeks (I broke up with him by the way)(Of course it matters who broke up with who). The fact that she thought I was having sex was fucking hilarious.

I brought this up to her and my brother the other day, I was snorting while remembering this story. And they? Stoned face. They couldn't remember it. But I will never forget it because this shit scarred me for life. Almost as bad as when my mom had the birds and bees talk with me when I was eleven. She told me that people who are married and in love make love and it feels so very good.

Excuse me now, I need to go jab a piece of razor-sharp metal into the memory sector of my brain.

Sell Yourself, You Whore

2010-01-28T15:23:00.001-08:00

Leave your link, pimp yourself out. Free for all. I won't even ask you to suck my dick in return this time.

Are You A Stupid Ass Driver?

2010-01-28T14:17:00.000-08:00

My job's location requires me to commute a total of two hours per day.

I look at the one-hour-each-way drive as a time for me to get my work hat on in the morning and as a way for me to wind down on my way home in the evening. I want to kick back, listen to some sweet tunes and chill on my commute down the highway.

Except, that just can't happen because of the fucking stupid ass drivers on the road. Seriously.

I think these moronic imbeciles are completely oblivious to the fact that they fucking suck at driving.

So how do you know you're a bad driver? I've compiled a list of the reasons that pop into my mind.

You are tailgated so often that you actually have to have a bumper sticker on your car/truck that says "If You Can Read This, Get Off My Ass".

You are following a slow truck. There are cars behind you. A passing lane emerges and you decide to pass the truck, only, you're going the same fucking speed as the truck. The car behind you is on your bumper, honking and yet you still coast slowly down the lane, parallel to the semi.

You turn left onto a busy road, causing on-coming traffic to have to make a split second decision to either slow down and let you "win" this round or t-bone you - hopefully killing you - but wasting too much precious time talking to law enforcement and pretending to care.

You are older than 65. License immediately revoked.

Have a disabled sticker or plate. License immediately revoked.

You whip in and out of lanes without using your turn signal. Are your sausage fingers that obese that they can't manage to flip a switch for half a second? If you can't coordinate the use of a turn signal while changing lanes you probably shouldn't be driving. Just sayin'.

You break at every intersection, even at green lights, and you tap your break while going 5 mph below the speed limit on a straight piece of highway. You should die, really.

I am going 70 mph in a 55 mph zone and you're still riding my ass.

You are going 40 mph in a 55 mph zone, I am riding your ass and you will not pull over even though there have been more than five (5!) ample places to do so.

Your kids are not buckled. I will call CPS on your ass quicker than you got knocked up, you piece of shit. Not only should you lose your license, you should also lose your kids.

Your dog rides in your lap. At home? Cool whatever you want to do. On the road? Totally inappropriate and dangerous. I push for carseats for animals just so humans can't do this. And the proceeds from the carseats will be given to the widows and orphans of the victims of car accidents that were pet-related. And maybe in the process they'll realize how a 45 year old man driving a compact car with a dog sitting on his lap appears to the rest of us. Hint: Not. Cool.

You talk on your phone, text, light a cigarette or apply make-up while driving.

Imagine if there were laws banning these people from obtaining and/or keeping driver's licenses. We could eliminate an unthinkable amount of cretinous drivers out there.

And I am all about making the roads a safer place. So the next time you encounter one of these mindless twits, send 'em to me. I'll deal with them. But you have to provide my alibi.

Sex Life After Baby (or lack thereof)

2010-01-27T20:06:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away... I Had Sex. A lot of it, too. Then, I had a baby a couple of years ago. And now? I have cobwebs between my legs and my hymen has re-grown itself.

Once you have a kid, things change. I know how annoying it is to hear that. Every single fucking person said this to me while I was pregnant and I wanted to hit them in the face with my 19-inch spiked strap-on cock for offering me this completely fucking obvious piece of advice.

But hear me out.

Things really do change. And by things I mean everything, especially one's sex life.

My husband and I were the kind of people who did it four times a day. Now I would have to check my calendar to be certain, but I think we dust off the cobwebs once every, oh I don't know, 4 weeks if we're lucky. If he's lucky I stay awake long enough to finish. And by finish, I mean him.

Where there were once moans of passion during our hot love making sessions, there is now the screeching sound of a staticky baby monitor and feeling of guilt, nagging in the back of my mind saying You really should be sleeping, you filthy whore.

And the voices are right, I should be sleeping. *

I used to masturbate too. There was a time my beloved vibrator's batteries were changed on a bi-monthly basis. Then my son was born and the only vibrating item in my life that required batteries more frequently than that was the bouncy chair. Now he is older and the bouncy chair is long gone but so is the use of my snuggly wuggly vibee.

Never in my life did I think I would have baby spit up in my hair, poop on my shirt, my arms and hands soaked in infant pee, Preparation-H on my torn ass, a pad the size of an adult diaper in my sweet mesh underwear, stretch marks that look like a fireworks show and a fat roll above my womanly parts and STILL go out in public ~~thinking~~ hoping I look good. Rockin' those pre-pregnancy jeans that are just a few sizes too small. Parading that nice roll of fat that hangs over my rubber-banded jeans. Tripping like an idiot while trying to teach myself to walk in heals again, that are, just a tad too tight.

My goal used to be to tan at least a few times a week, after a good work out, of course, and to get fresh manicures/pedicures every two weeks. Now, I aim a little lower. I try to have a shower in by 5:00 pm and I wash my hair every Sunday. Oh, and I even clip my fingernails once every few weeks. Because I'm hot like that.

I sport a gorgeous hemorrhoid, which makes pooping oh-so-much-fun and didn't help any when my asshole tore eleven weeks post partum because of, get this, constipation. I sent my husband out for medicated wiping pads and Preparation-H. He was mortified, but like a good bitch, he did it. I think he just wanted out of the house because between a discontented infant with reflux and a hysterical hormotional wife screaming "my asshole hurts so fucking bad, this is worse than labor" from the bathroom, a dude can only take so much.

So you can sort of imagine why I'm not all like "oh I wanna fuck four times a day" anymore.

Yes, having a baby changes things. **

*= Because when you have a child that likes to get up with the fucking chickens upon sunrise, and you've been up until the wee hours of the morning doing necessary things like laundry, cleaning and blogging, you get a little behind on sleep. And then, you can throw in a few night time wakings because binky fell out of someone's little mouth and is no-where-to-be-found and it's a fucking emergency and mommy has to go on a 3:00 am binky hunt. At that point in time, I have nothing on my mind but sleep, well, besides fantasizing about throwing binky into the seventh layer of hell, where it belongs.

**= Before you roast me for being an ungrateful shit, you should know we struggled with infertility and t took us a long time to have our baby. He is the joy of my life. It's my blog, though, and I can bitch all I want about not having sleep and/or sex. So there.

Blogging Back in The Day

2010-01-24T22:16:00.000-08:00

It's great to be back in the blogging world after all this time*. Eleven years is a hell of a long time. As I wrote on the who is this bitch? page, I started blogging in my late teens. Way before it was called blogging.

Back in my day, we had webpages, and we had to walk miles upon miles, uphill both ways, barefoot through the snowy hills of HTML code. We purchased domain names for $50.00 a year. Because it was relatively new(ish) then and if you wanted your own thing, you had to do it yourself and you had to pay for it.

Oh sure, if you didn't want to do it all yourself there were sites like angelfire.com where you could click a few buttons, type a few words and voila! you have a free website. But, it wasn't like what we have today. Back then, if you used a free hosting site, you had about 200 pixels of space in between the blinking, flashing advertisements attached to your free page.

If you used one of those free sites, chances are you used background like this:

And a font like this on top of that awesome background.

Animated clipart ring a bell?

There were no fancy ways for readers to leave comments. Oh no. We used guestbooks from sites like Bravenet and shit. Those too, were ridden with ads and had virtually no spam filters. I had exactly four hundred emails a day advertising hotcuntsforless.com and such.

You can clearly see why we were forced to write our own code.

Anything other than HTML was virtually unheard of for amateur use. Fancy things, like CSS for one example, was only used by Wizards of the Web who were far too fucking cool to teach us anything about it. Until now.

Now? We can use DASHED lines in what-used-to-be-called-tables. And we can customize like we only dreamed of on those cold, lonely nights back in the day when we were pounding out our sites and loving every minute of our Windows 2000 upgrade.

Blogging now? In 2010? Is fucking awesome.

*= Don't get me wrong. I haven't been in a fucking cave. I have been blogging, writing, etc. under different names. I am just back to blogging under the InsolentBitch aka InsolentGoat.

Before You Send Hatemail...

2010-01-24T21:03:00.001-08:00

I love hatemail. I print out each and every poorly written email, put them all in one giant pile on my bedroom floor and then roll around in them like a dog rolling in fresh shit.

With that being said, a lady can only make so much fun of adults with second grade reading levels. You know?

I am all about helping out the less fortunate, so I decided to give you some helpful hints and guidelines to follow when sending me (or anyone, for that matter) hatemail. This also applies to leaving comments.

Ready to begin?

~cracks knuckles~

First things first...

HOMOPHONES.

You're. Your. Yore.
To. Too. Two.
Lose. Loose.

Learn the differences, dumbasses. Seriously.

Example: Your such an idiot and a real bitch to. Looser!

When I receive an email like this I automatically believe you wear a helmet and velcro shoes because you simply must be retarded to type that. Unless you mean to imply that I am, in fact, looser, then you nailed that part.

I don't want to overstep my bounds here or anything, but may I suggest putting down the beer bong and picking up a dictionary? Or even paying a visit to dictionary.com? All you need is at least one sausage finger to work it, give it a whirl.

Let's see what happens when we know how to use words:

Corrected: You're such an idiot, and a bitch too. Loser!

Ahhh, that's better now. See it's not so hard! No excuses now, cumsack, no excuses.

Ready to forge ahead? Next up...

IDLE THREATS

This section applies to gems such as "I am going to sue you for being so mean"* or "I am going to have your website shut down" and even "I am going to kill you"**.

Yawn.

We've all heard it before, sweet pea.

Idle threats make me chuckle. And do you know why that pisses me off? Because every time I chuckle I piss my pants a little.

So knock it the fuck off already. Or I will have your email carrier revoke your email account.

*= Actual email was from a teenager who claimed her father was a lawyer and she was going to have him sue me and shut down my site because I was, get this, mean. And I believe her actual phrasing was she was going to "sew" me. Yeah.

**= Like people who threaten that would actually use their welfare cash to purchase an airline ticket (instead of purchasing pot and double stuffed Oreos) and actually be resourceful enough to find me.

Moving on, moving on...

ABBREVIATIONS

Abbreviations are freaking awesome when used appropriately. But when they are used out of sheer laziness, I have a problem with them.

Example of the right way: The nurse gave Mr. Smith his lab results, saying "The Dr. says you have the clap".

Example of the wrong way: u r so stupid

Okay, let me get this straight. I want to wrap my head around this. Your sausage fingers cannot type the extra two letters in a 3 letter word? Seriously?

I especially love "2" instead of "to". That extra letter is a fucking killer, isn't it? It just takes way too much extra time to type a tee and an o, doesn't it?

Correction: "You are so stupid."

I only used four extra letters. And will you look at that, I still had enough time left to use a period.

I think that is enough for now. I don't want to run the risk of the hater's poor lone brain cell having a meltdown or anything. Do you think they will comprehend this? I guess we will have 2 wait and c.

Contact a Bitch

2010-01-23T22:49:00.000-08:00

So, you want to contact me, eh? Awesome.

My email is: prolifesnark @ hotmail.com

You can also leave a comment for me on any of the posts on this blog.

But, my little darling, I warn you: If you choose to send me hatemail or leave a hateful comment I can and will post everything you type solely for the purpose of making fun of you. I suggest reading my "Before you send hatemail" post. Just sayin'.

Likewise, if you send me lovemail I reserve the right to hump your sweet face at any given time. Or pimp you or your blog out. Just sayin'.

Who is the InsolentBitch?

2010-01-23T12:49:00.000-08:00

You should know I began my career as an internet blogger back in the day before we even had actual blogs. This was way back when viewers left comments via a guestbook and css was rare.

This was way back in nineteen ninety nine. I was but a stereo-type supporting repugnant teen, ready to take on the world. I started my first blog at angelfire.com. It was an ad-ridden html atrocity but it was mine. All mine.

I quickly outgrew that and decided to get my own domain. From that moment on I was the proud owner of insolent.org. I spent hours upon mother-fucking pain staking hours writing my own html code. It was awesome.

I had a big following of lovers and haters but then I did the unthinkable. I gave up blogging. I know, I know -- wipe those tears sweet thing -- Goaty's not done yet. I got married, then divorced, then married again and also birthed a human being. And in the process? I managed to hold in all of my misanthropical rage. But now? I am back. And ~~better~~ bitchier than ever.

So since I am all grown up and shit, I decided I need a more grown up sounding name. Which is why I am now known as the InsolentBitch. But you can still call me Goaty if you suck my dick and send me $10.00 cash.

If you've gotten this far and are shaking your head, this is probably not the blog for you and I suggest you move on.

If you're chuckling along with me (you sarcastic bitch you) please pull up a chair and get cozy. Welcome.