Happy Friday, folks! “Aunt Fatty” is on hiatus, so “Uncle Fatty” from The Midnight Goose blog is taking the hell over for the day.
Hi. I’m Allen T. St. Clair. We might not have met before, but let me assure you, I’m actually a decent person. I’m generally kind, friendly, supportive—a real cheerleader for my family, friends, fellow bloggers and authors. Making others smile is one of my favorite hobbies and makes me feel better about myself…which I guess means I’m not being entirely altruistic, if such a thing exists.
However, I also am (internally) a total douchebag. I’ve constantly got an internal monologue going on about what I think but don’t say out loud. Don’t we all, though? We all have thoughts we’d never share with others because, well, we don’t want people to know how truly horrible we are in real life, amirite? In my defense, though, usually my mean thoughts are about people who deserve them.
People I refer to as “Dusty Bitches”. Now, when I call someone a “Dusty Bitch” out loud, it’s meant with love. When I think: “Oooooh, look at this Dusty Bitch”, it’s not meant out of love. It means I’ve hit my limit with someone’s particular brand of bullshit and wish they’d get a tape worm from eating buffet sushi. But I try really hard to keep those thoughts to myself.
So today, I’m going to make an incomplete list of the Dusty Bitches we’ve all encountered at one time or another. Buckle up, ya’ Dusty Bitches, ‘cause we’re all going to Hell with this post.
Dusty Bitch Type #1
Karen, I know you want your venti almond milk unicorn latte with three pumps of raspberry flavor and rainbow sprinkles mocha chocha latte ya-ya served in the skull of a Shih-tzu at 195 degrees, but I ain’t got the time to hear you tell the barista that, okay? I was late to work the moment you started thinking about ‘Gramming your drank. Get a gawt damn “mocha” like the rest of us and move on with your day. You’re a Dusty Bitch.
Dusty Bitch Type #2
Thank you for telling me the best dog food I need to be feeding my pet, Moon Flower, but not all of us live on a communal hairy hippy ranch where we don’t have jobs and have all the damn time in the world to freshly puree yams mixed with Yak milk and blood larvae, okay? Purina is perfectly fine for my dog. She’s got 6 years (at best) left in her regardless of how much money I spend on dog food. Besides, she was more than happy to eat that cheese covered tater tot I dropped on the kitchen floor that immediately collected all manner of her own hair and floor germs. I’ve seen the things she licks, so I don’t think she’s all that concerned with her health. Go build a Yurt with your other friends who possess ample pube hair and names they gave themselves after a ceremony of dancing naked under the full moon while swinging friendship beads and dead cats who were possessed by the spirit of Jerry Garcia. You give me angina. And you’re a Dusty Bitch.
Dusty Bitch Type #3
Look, Brenda. We all respect the fact that you feel that since you have a bi-level blonde haircut that you should be treated better than everyone else when shopping at the Tar-zjay. I get it. You’re important. Only someone with that much confidence would rock a haircut even Cher would look at and say: “Gurrrrrrrl. No.” The manager doesn’t want to speak to you and your brood of children all dressed like they fell out of a early aught’s Old Navy commercial. Put your expired coupons away, pay for your shit, slide your sparkly oversized sunglasses over your overly mascara’d eyes, and let us all get on with our lives. You’re a Dusty Bitch.
Dusty Bitch Type #4
Okay, John. We’ve been in an environmental crisis since two dingleberries* said: “I bet if we dig up this congealed dinosaur shit, we could make the things go faster and emit smoke that we can all choke on ‘til we die.” For the record, oil was discovered in 1859, so this shit is getting old. I don’t want to avoid getting crushed by your lifted quad-cab with tires fit for Paul Bunyan and his big blue ox “Babe”. Your penis is huge, okay? We get it. But we don’t all want to be wading in salt water in Iowa, so why don’t you cut it the fuck out? You’re a Dusty Bitch. Yes, dudes can be Dusty Bitches, too. Congrats for proving it.
*Those “dingleberries” were George Bissell and Edwin L. Drake. Look there! We’re all learning.
Dusty Bitch Type #5
Spencer, Brandon, Booker, Tucker, and every other entitled guy with a trendy non-name nowadays who is being told by they momma how special and unique they are and how they are a “prince”. Stop sending your unsolicited dick pics to…everyone. No one wants to open their phone and think: “Who licked the orange dust off a Cheeto and sent me a picture of it? How odd…oh. My. God.” Hardly anyone gets turned on seeing a picture of your nasty, shriveled business that you’re incredibly proud of for some reason. Keep it in your pants, leave people alone, and learn to flirt like a civilized human being—with displays of ritualistic dancing, offering dowries, and challenging competitors for affections to duels at sunrise. It’s called “being a gentleman”? Look it up. You’re Dusty Bitches (well, before you licked the dust off).
Anyhoozles, this concludes the first edition of “Allen’s Dusty Bitches”. Feel free to comment the Dusty Bitch tropes that annoy you—and leave “Aunt Fatty” some well wishes.
I gotta go.