Raging Case Of Classy

Bitches STILL Gots To Learn: An Amendment To My Primer To Being Friends With Me During Football Season

I’ve had this saved to my Pinterest account for a while and it’s pretty fitting tonight.


I was editing my post from last year about how to remain friends with me during football season because I have an amendment to add.  This amendment just came up within the last month or so.  A “friend” posted a video of an Alabama fan to his wall and tagged me in it so it showed up on both his wall and mine which meant that his friends, who aren’t my friends, could also see it.  And that always seems to be where the fun starts.

See, this has happened before with well meaning friends and football jokes.  We joke with each other, we get each other, but then THEIR friends come in and act like complete and total twat waffles.  You wouldn’t believe how much vile trash talk I’ve fielded about Alabama from people I don’t even know.  I have douche bags on my Facebook block list I’ve never even been friends with.  I don’t have to put up with their asses.  The funny thing is, I’ve been told by friends that these anuses (ani?) have complained that I have them blocked because they can’t see when I write something funny now.  Odd how that works, isn’t it?

Maybe I went a little too much balls to the wall in this case but I can’t say I didn’t warn him in Rule #3.  Learn from his mistakes, y’all.  Prepare to be schooled.

My former friend, and I say that because I discovered he apparently unfriended me after this happened, posted the following video on his wall and tagged me.  Again, in direct violation of Rule #3 but I let it slide by offering a joke at first.  Do I have to tap this shit out on stone tablets before it’s taken seriously, like the 10 Commandments?  Because I totally can.  But even Moses reached his boiling point and said “Fucketh thou shit.”  And if you disagree with me, you aren’t human.

But I digress.  Here’s the damned video.

My former friend’s friend (I know, I know, this is getting more confusing than what the hell Bruce Jenner has under the hood but try to stay with me) is an Arkansas fan so we’ll refer to her from here on out as WPS (Woo Pig Sooie).  Anyway, my former friend deleted the entire Facebook exchange that came about due to the above video sometime soon after this whole cluster went down.  I know this because when I saw the Facebook notification informing me that there was another incredibly brilliant comment and total stinger posted by WPS (that would be her final comment), I couldn’t find the exchange on my wall anymore.

Good thing I saved those screenshots I took.

Also, seeing as he makes all his posts public, I have chosen not to edit out his name, but I did edit out WPS’s.

You can follow along in the slideshow, starting with the still picture from the video I posted above.

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Textbook example of violation of Rules #3 and #5, y’all.

It’s also an example of the newly added Rule #10:  Your friends will act like defective butt plugs to me if you choose to tag me in an Alabama post, kidding or not, so you’d better be damned sure you want to try that fuckery with me.  When they do, I will go balls to the wall (I have three balls, little known fact) with them.  I will call them out on their own bullshit, I will remind them of the WORDS they typed and not let them get away with back peddling.  I will shine the light of Nick Saban’s football brightness on their absolute and complete ignorance, classlessness, and lack of grace.  I will put you in a very uncomfortable position because YOU put me in one.

I hope the door hit your fat ass on the way out, by the way.  And Roll Damn Tide.

Jumping The Shark

Do you remember that old Happy Days episode?  Ratings for the show were dwindling, the “kids” had grown up, Fonzie was becoming that old, creepy uncle you don’t want to invite to Christmas dinner but have to, so they decided it would be cool to have Fonzie stir up some television drama by jumping a shark on skis.  Fonzie was on skis, not the shark.  Just to be clear.  Here’s a reminder:

That episode was the final proof I needed that Potsie and Ralph Malph just needed to come out of the damned closet already.  That episode also birthed the term “Jumping The Shark”, which is now used when something has went to shit.

I have officially jumped the shark, as of this morning.

School was delayed here by two hours due to bad road conditions but instead of sleeping in, I was wide awake at the butt crack of 6:30 a.m., writing an apology letter to my best friends for something that I won’t get into here but they were gracious and loving and funny, as usual.  That’s why I chose them to be my best friends.  Collectively, they told me to not give it a second thought.  And I won’t.

My recent weight gain has caused all kinds of physical problems I’ve never had before.  I somehow bruised or injured my heel since I’ve been home from a quick trip to Texas this past weekend.  It is incredibly painful to walk on so I have dusted off the old cotton candy pink Crocs out of desperation.  I started my diet (yes – again – and screw you) yesterday.  I have a lot on my mind and it’s safe to say I’m pretty overwhelmed but I didn’t realize how overwhelmed until this morning.

Our driveway is very steep, so when icy weather comes, we move the vehicles to the top of the hill so we have a chance of getting out if we need to.  On the long trek up the hill this morning, I heard our neighbor’s very loud modified car start up in his garage.

Now, I am happily married.  But I defy anyone to say that just because they’re married, they don’t give a shit about how they’re perceived.  We all want to be cute.  There’s no crime in that.  My usual standard when leaving the house, no joke, is asking myself would I be embarrassed if I was in an accident and had to get out to exchange information with someone?  Would I be mortified if a Doctor had to cut my panties off?  No?  Okay, let’s go.

This morning, I didn’t really give a shit and didn’t even care to ask myself those standard questions and was only reminded of those standards when I heard my neighbor’s car start.  E and I have debated if this dude is gay or not, which is really neither here nor there, but honestly, if he’s gay, I care more about how I look than if he was straight.  If you can impress a gay guy at 9:30 in the morning, you are fucking golden.  I was not golden this morning, as I realized in utter horror that my neighbor saw me at length in this lovely ensemble.

Wake-Up Call
On the bright side, the local toddler club voted me Best Dressed this morning.  On the downside, I”m pretty sure my possibly gay neighbor has turned photographic evidence of my shark jumping over to the TV show “What Not To Wear.”  I’ll let y’all know when my episode airs.

I Do Not Negotiate With Terrorists.

This will not be my most ladylike post.  Oh, stop laughing.  Fine, none of them have been ladylike but this one will be the least ladylike.

I’ve been busier than a one armed monkey with three dicks this week.  The kids and I leave for Texas the day after tomorrow for our annual summer visit and haven’t packed one fucking thing.  E’s Birthday was this week, we had a date night last night, I took the kids to lunch with E today because by the time we get back from Texas, the kids will be in school and won’t be able to go to lunch with us.  Gracie wanted to go decorate her locker at her school today.  So, obviously, a lot of important stuff on top of an already incredibly busy week.

I went to get my hair cut yesterday by the only person alive who is allowed to touch my hair and surfuckingprise!  He no longer works at that hair salon and he didn’t have the courtesy to call a bitch up and let her magenta haired ass know.  Wait.  My hair on my head is magenta.  Not my ass hair.  Wait.  I have no hair on my ass because I….  never mind, fuck it.  So now on top of everything, I have to hunt down my gay hairdresser so he can cut my hair before I leave for Texas.  You’d think it’d be easy to locate a flamboyantly gay man covered in tattoos, sporting much better cat eyeliner than I could ever do and wearing glittery flats in the deep South but guess what?  It’s pretty damned hard.

Luckily, Landon got his business card a few months ago and was gracious enough to give it to me yesterday.  I cannot make this shit up:  My hair guy’s business card has a unicorn on it.  If I’m lying, I’m dying.  It has a rainbow and unicorn and all kinds of gay shit on it, just in case you weren’t clear about which way he swings.

So I text him this morning.  Here’s how that went down.  I would screenshot it but it takes too much work to block the pertinent shit out and seriously, at this point, my head will explode.

Me: Hey, it’s Stephanie with the magenta hair.  Where are you?!  Went in yesterday for a cut and they told me you weren’t there anymore.  I didn’t let them TOUCH my hair.  But I do need a cut.  Let me know where you’re at.  🙂

Unicorn Boy:  I’m at XYZ Salon in Bumfuck Bama.  🙂  Those girls are crazy!  ♥♥♥ I’M SO FANCY! ♥♥♥

Again, I cannot make this shit up.  Out of nowhere, he texts “I’M SO FANCY!”  Like I didn’t know.

This is my life.

So, I’m making pee pee and have like three seconds to myself and decide to check in on Facebook.  My supposed friend Gary (I ain’t even going to give his ass a fake name because he deserves the hate mail and brown paper bags of flaming shit coming his way once my loyal and devoted readers get their revenge for me and I know you will) has this as his profile picture:

Still hot.

Still hot.

My friends Robin and Kari (real names but seriously, I have like zero time to even make up fake names right now) and I were involved in a “Selfie War” last fall.  Some pretty funny selfies were posted, which I may post at another time but not right now.  I sent the above picture to only them the next day, along with my frenemy Gary because somehow he was involved.  In this picture, I’m dying my hair magenta, I have some sort of seaweed/clay mask on my face and because I was out of shower caps, I improvised with a Kohl’s bag.  I didn’t use a Wal Mart bag because I’m classy like that.  The choice here that brings me the most shame, however, is the Trekkie tee.  I hang my head on that one.

After I post on Facebook that Gary will “RUE THE FUCKING DAY!”, he then, I guess, attempts to make amends by posting this horrifically photoshopped image he had made of me last fall.

Even horrifically photoshopped...  still hot.

Even horrifically photoshopped… still hot.

When Gary originally publicly terrorized me with this monstrosity last year,  some of his friends (not mine because mine graduated high school, minimum) thought the above was a real picture of me.  Never mind the awful photoshopping.  On top of that, that isn’t even a fanny pack, it’s more like a cooter pack, neither of which I would ever wear.  Also, I would never wear tacky red nail polish like that and I do not wear gold jewelry.  My arms actually touch my sides and I don’t have neck rolls which can store enough food crumbs for three days in a life or death emergency.  I also have nipples where they’re supposed to be.  You can’t miss them.

There’s my dirty laundry.  I do not negotiate with terrorists, Gary!

Now y’all excuse me while I drive to Bumfuck Bama to see my FANCY, gay (and fabulous) hair dresser.

Raging Case Of Classy

I looked at old cruise photos tonight instead of packing for the one we board in 10 days. Don’t judge me. I do my best packing with ridiculously tiny, self-imposed time constraints. If my stress level doesn’t result in a trail of vodka scented tears all through the house, I’m doing something wrong and straying from decades of personal packing procedure.

Looking at the photos, it is amazing to see how much the kids have grown in the last few years. I’d like to think that I’ve matured the last few years also, found some deep insight from seeing more of the world now that I’m in my mid-30’s. *Cough cough*

And then I stumbled across this picture.

Do I have something in my teeth?  No, seriously?

Do I have something in my teeth? No, seriously?

Have I learned and grown from that experience? Hell, yeah. I’ve learned that when I crack the old “Do I have something in my teeth?” joke again in less than two weeks from now on Formal Night, I’ll make sure my husband doesn’t have the camera.