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.
So, Milkshakes and Dumpy can’t act right, so we don’t have any content for you this week (we are the worst). We are hoping to be back next week with a holiday-themed shit storm for your reading pleasure.
What is your favourite Christmas film? Love Actually, hands down. I have to watch it every single year while I’m wrapping presents and drinking egg nog or it’s just NOT CHRISTMAS AND WE CAN’T HAVE THAT ALRIGHT.
Have you ever had a white Christmas?
In Reno-Town, where I live, it could be a whiteout on Christmas morning or it could be sunny and 50 damn degrees. I, 100%, prefer a white Christmas. We don’t get enough snow, so when we get any I get stoked as hell. So, yes, three inches is a lot to us. In case anyone needed to know, you know.
Where do you usually spend your Holiday?
Up until just a couple years ago, I was still spending Christmas Eve at my parents’, who live a whopping 10 minutes away. Along with my spending the night, we still participated in all of our favorite Christmas traditions- reading our favorite Christmas books, leaving milk and cookies out for Santa, hanging the stockings, etc. (no, I’m not shitting you).
Now, we have our big Christmas dinner on Christmas Eve (because on Christmas Day, we are too present-ed out to cook), hang our stockings, and read our books (no more leaving out cookies, because Santa will just get into the cookie tins, anyway). We are 78, 68, 35, and 30 and we still sit around the fire to read The Night Before Christmas. Only now, my dad has to be bribed with fudge to participate, and he pretend farts and cracks inappropriate jokes throughout. My brother acts like it’s too stupid, but we still end up fighting about who will get to read first.
Then, because I’m totally an adult, I go home to sleep, then drive back over at 7 AM to see what Santa brought me.
What is your favourite Christmas song?
Ya’ll are gonna kill me, but I LURVE Mariah Carey’s All I Want For Christmas is You. Sorry not even sorry.
Do you open any presents on Christmas Eve?
Since I can remember, the girls (me, my mom, aunt, various girlfriends or wives of my cousins and Uncle Gary-because at Christmas, he’s one of the gals and Grandma- when she was with us) have exchanged “Christmas Eve” gifts. They are supposed to be Christmas-themed and/or homemade and not excessive. Over the years, we have just used it as an excuse to go balls to the wall insane with gifts. Besides opening my stocking, it’s one of my millions of Christmas favs.
Can you name all of Santa’s reindeer?
I really should be able to being a Christmas-obsessed 3rd grade teacher. So, we have Rudolph, Comet, Vixen, Blitzen (that’s one isn’t it?), Buddy (no, wait- that’s an elf)…That’s all I got! I can’t name them all, ya’ll!
What holiday traditions are you looking forward to the most this year? Making cookies with my mom- that end up being eaten almost entirely by us- has become a favorite tradition. Cookies for daaaaaaays (or, maybe not a lot of days since we eat them all the day we make them).
Is your Christmas tree real or fake?
I’m probably going to jinx the fuck out of myself, but I’ve had the same fake tree since 2004. I’ve had to add a couple strings of lights over the years, but it’s still mostly kicking. When I was a kid we always had a real tree, but it was almost half brown by Christmas Day every year. My mom was tired of the fire hazard and having a dead tree in all of our pictures, while my dad was tired of pretending to water it, so when I was in middle school, we got our first fake tree.
What is your all-time favourite holiday food/sweet treat?
I’m straight addicted to my mom’s Muddy Buddies. We called it dog food when we were kids (Shit, maybe it was called Puppy Chow. Yeah, that sounds more appetizing). I also love the Scottish shortbread my mom and I make. It gives me warm fuzzies and a bit of heartburn- if I’m being honest- because one or ten never seem to be enough.
I know it says sweet treat, but my mouth is already watering thinking of the Christmas prime rib and Yorkshire pudding we have on Christmas Eve.
Be honest: Do you like giving gifts or receiving gifts better?
Who doesn’t love getting gifts? But, I do love the giving part of Christmas. My mom always says I’d be ecstatic with an old shoe, because I’m just so in love with every gift I get. But, if I find something really amazingly perfect for someone, it’s *almost* better than receiving. This year, the gift I found for the dude could be the most epic gift I’ve ever given him, but I could also be way off and it’ll be a total dud. I think it’s the not knowing that’s so exciting?
What is the best Christmas gift you have ever received?
Until a puppy pops out of a box on Christmas morning, it’ll forever and always be my Barbie Dream House.
What would be your dream place to visit for the Holiday season?
I’ve always wanted to go somewhere that’s well and truly cold and snowy. Or, to the cottage and village where Kate Winslet’s character lived in The Holiday.
Are you a pro present wrapper? Or do you fail miserably?
I mean, I hate to brag, but I’m kind of amazing. Wrapping presents is in the top three of my favorite things about Christmas. I always hope I get a fellow lady when we do Secret Santa at work (But, if I get a dude, I just put it back and redraw, anyway. Shh- don’t tell), because the way I put their gifts together is even more fun than shopping for said presents and women actually notice if it’s nicely wrapped*.
Most memorable holiday moment?
It was Christmas ’94, and I was an idiotic eleven-year-old. I had been given toe socks for the first time.
They were all the rage. I was really excited to stuff my fat piggies into their own warm, snuggly sleeping bag.
While some of the adults were talking after a gluttonous family meal, I was working intently at getting all of my toes into their own toe hole. My big toe was in, then the next three went in seamlessly. As I went to get my littlest piggy (and when I say little, I mean little. I possibly have the shortest human toes on planet Earth), it was gone. All of my toes appeared to have their own hole, yet my pinky toe was gone and it’s toe condom (what else does one call an individual toe cover?) was still limp.
Without thinking, I yelled, “OMG. My pinky toe is gone!”
Everyone froze, their 8th piece of after-dinner-fudge, mid air.
My mom just said, “Oh, honey.”
My dad said, “I knew those would confuse her, Judy.”
My Uncle Gary just laughed and laughed and laughed.
It turns out my pinky toe got stuffed in with its neighbor and 24 years later, even after numerous strokes and some pretty debilitating health issues, my uncle still asks about my missing toe as he laughs and laughs and laughs.
What made you realize the truth about Santa? ARE YOU SAYING SANTA ISN’T REAL?
Do you make New Year’s resolutions? Do you stick to them?
Ain’t nobody got time for that business.
What do you wish for for Christmas this year?
Health, happiness, and the ability to eat myself silly without gaining any weight. I mean, a Christmas miracle *could* happen. You never know.
What makes the Holidays special for you?
My mom. Christmas is so special to me because of the magic she created and then let blossom in our hearts. I’m a huge Christmas freak and it’s 100% due to her. My Scrooge of a boyfriend is forever grateful to her that I have Rocking Around the Christmas Tree on repeat all season long.
Favourite Christmas smell
Mrs. Meyer’s Iowa Pine dish soap and spray cleaner smells like the real thing. I’d spray the cleaner on me as perfume if I didn’t already obsessively spray it on every single surface in my house. I GOTTA MAKE IT LAST THE SEASON.
Also, the way every single one of my mom’s Christmas decorations smell. It’s a smell I can’t explain-a mix of winter berry, peppermint, cranberry, pine, and pure Santa magic.
Honorable mention goes to Bath & Body Works Spiced Gingerbread Swirl. I smell like a cookie all day and I’m not mad about it.
What is the worst/weirdest gift you have ever received?
See above. You could give me your old athletes foot-riddled tennis shoes and I’d be honored you thought of me.
Favourite Holiday drink? ERG NERG (Yeah, I’m bringing that back.)
Oh, and I’m positively obsessed with White Peppermint Mochas from the ‘Bux.
Have you ever spent Christmas in another country? No, I WISH. But, really, would it be Christmas if we didn’t do every single thing the same, down to the order in which we do stockings, presents from Santa, and all of the other gifts, and how we always eat the same breakfast casserole on the same Christmas plates from 1992? No, I don’t think it’d truly be Christmas somewhere else.
What place/landmark in your town do you love to visit during Christmas? I live in Reno. There isn’t exactly landmarks all done up in gorgeous Christmas decor or expansive Christmas markets full of vendors and delicious treats round these parts. So, does the local Target count for this? They always have their store done up all in red. It’s quite festive.
I feel like I need to know in what context this question is being asked. I was really nice when it came to holding doors for the elderly or giving to charities. If you’re asking about my spending, exercise or food habits, I’ll need an exact definition of what you mean by ‘naughty’ and ‘nice’. For example, I think it’s really nice that I ate my boyfriend’s chocolate pie, because two days before I ate his (and mine), he had commented on his pants feeling a bit snug. That was a really kind act, despite what he might say.
Do you own/wear a Christmas themed jumper or T-Shirt?
So, funny story. I used to own an especially hideous one. I loved it for the five hours I owned it. In our old place, we had this massive, ancient industrial-looking heating element on the ceiling in our bathroom. My dude had to be careful not to have it on when he was standing, as it was literally just exposed heating coils and he was almost gifted with spontaneous male pattern baldness on more than one occasion.
So, the year we found our hideous Christmas sweaters at a local thrift store, I immediately washed mine and then hung it up to dry. My boyfriend thought it’d be smart and time-saving to hang it on the heating element.
Well, it’s just lucky we didn’t burn down our apartment building, because my sweater very quickly became a maroon reindeer and evergreen snowflake wool S’more.
RIP Exact Sweater My Third Grade Teacher Wore in ’91.
*This is a really sexist generalization, as my Uncle Gary loved to make his presents look amazing. He’s the only living man I know who enjoyed that kind of thing, though. So…
Why don’t you play along? I’d love to read how Christmas is special to you. If you don’t celebrate Christmas, write about a holiday you celebrate that’s special to you.
Just a little heads up, my dudes: I’m taking a very short, two week hiatus. Besides the McMilkshake and Dumpy post we are planning on for next week, the blog front will be a little quiet. It turns out I’ve done and signed up for too much this holiday season yet again.
So, (after the diet shit show post next week) the next time I’ll *see* you is after the happiest day of the year. Merriest of Holidays to all and to all a good couple weeks!
The new president of the board where I teach is a passive aggressive power hungry bitch. She keeps praising me to my face and then going behind my back and saying nasty things to my co workers. And then she denies it. How can I deal with her and keep my sanity? And if that isn’t possible, how can I kill her and not get caught?
-Anonymous Idiot (who should have said no)
Dear Anonymous Idiot,
I once briefly worked at a place that shall remain nameless that had a board that was almost entirely run by moms of students attending. I think that was a major conflict of interest, but what do I know?
(I had way more to say here, but figured it’d be better for me to watch my big mouth.)
One of these moms hated me simply because she assumed I was too young to be responsible for her child’s education. She actually said to a teacher who worked there, “I don’t want that 18 year-old know-nothing around my son.”
No way! You think I’m 18?!”
I was 28.
So, all that to say, I know what you’re going through.
As far as I’m aware, school board members are elected to their positions. Next time she comes up to be re-elected, you know what you need to do. Until then, just be your amazing self and pay no mind to people like that. If you know you’re doing your job well and her comments are unfounded, it’s her problem not yours.
Also, it wouldn’t hurt to document the ever-loving shit out of every interaction and record every snippet of gossip you hear her quacking. You may need it, because if karma truly exists, ample evidence from the sane party will work in your favor big time.
Besides, if she’s doing this to you, she’s probably talking behind other backs as well. She might piss off the wrong person and your documentation could be the cherry on top of getting her removed from the board.
Best of luck and don’t do murder.
Love, Your Aunt Fatty (who is really, really mad about this bullshit for you)
Dear Aunt Fatty,
Can you help me find my calling? I see people around me who know what they want to do or are happy with what they are doing. From the moment I started searching for a job and a career, everyone asks me what I want to be…. and I don’t know. I don’t know who or what I can be. I’m average on everything including translating for the looks of things (didn’t get the translating job I applied for) and all I can see myself doing is retail, but I know that I can’t keep my big mouth shut anymore. If a customer pisses me off I will slap him with the keyboard or my hand. Depends what’s easiest at the time. How should I go about finding what I’m meant to do in life?
Sincerely, A Very Knowledgeable and Talented Queen Who Can Do Anything and Everything She Sets Her Mind To (I wrote this, because I only speak the truth)
Dear A Very Knowledgeable and Talented Queen Who Can Do Anything and Everything She Sets Her Mind To,
First, I think it’s really awesome (and also kinda like playing with fire) that you trust me enough with this serious issue.
Next, I’d like all of my readers to know that I know you personally, so when I say you can literally do anything, I damn well mean it and I’m qualified to say it.
You are too legit to quit and genuinely one of the kindest and most thoughtful people I know.
You impressed the hell out of my family when you took us on a personal tour of the Lincoln Cathedral. You knew so much and presented it to us in such an engaging way, I was in awe.
You know a handful of languages, dude. That’s like four fingers less than most people.
What I truly see you doing is working at a museum or important historical site. I see you being a director. I see you being responsible for all the important shit that goes on at these places (whatever that shit is, because I don’t know). I see you speaking your myriad languages to the other important director people of other important museums and/or historical sites. I see you wearing super smart lady suits that look killer on you (You’ll spice them up with a peekaboo lace camisole underneath and sky high heels. Or sensible flats, because let’s be real- heels blow).
You will be K-I-L-L-I-N-G I-T, girl.
If this is not what you want to be and you end up working the till at Tesco, I’ll be equally proud of you, because that’s just one step closer to being able to travel the world with your Soul Sister (me).
I know you’re feeling down right now, but don’t you dare ever say you’re average. Don’t you ever say that again.
Love, Your Aunt Fatty (who is #crossingherfingersandtoesbecausesicilyandobviouslyforyoutooimnotcompletelyselfish)
Now that the cold weather has arrived, us girls need a little extra warmth on our bodies. Like most, I love the colder months because I don’t have to use a weed wacker on my legs to get them touchable smooth. How often should a lady shave those stems in the winter?
Going to run in an Abominable Snowwoman contest
Dear Going to Run in an Abominable Snow Woman Contest,
I’m so glad you brought up this very important issue. This is so something that needs to be covered every year when the temps drop and the chill hits.
Despite what every man on Earth may say, it is not at all necessary to shave for the entirety of Sweater Weather season. Like, there’s not one single reason to get your razor wet once.
If your body is covered head to toe in warm stuffs why shave? Even if you were rocking a tank and booty shorts, what’s a little butt hair poking out? We all have it. Right, ya’ll have an abundance of butt hair, too. Right??
Coming from someone who likes to look decent, I sure as fuck hate the process. I positively hate shaving because it takes so long my fingers are pruney and the water has run cold. I only shave for my massage therapist and only the places she will have to touch (and I’m only doing this as a courtesy, as I imagine rubbing down legs with a million porcupine spines has to be unpleasant).
I can just hear my dude groaning subconsciously. Sorry, boyfriend. You have hairy armpits, too.
So, rock on with your hairy bad self. Your built-in insulation will save on heating costs too, so I see this as a total win-win situation.
Love, Your Aunt Fatty (who is also participating in No Shave Octembanuaryarch)
Thank you so much to Giggling Fattie, who submitted her question above and also kindly posted on her blog about my Ask Aunt Fatty series! Check out her fantastic blog that I know you’re gonna love here.
A few of you sent in submissions (thank you, thank you, thank you) that I didn’t get to this week. Stay tuned for next week’s post to read your answer from Aunt Fatty.
Keep sending in your problems, people. I know you got ’em!
A week or so late and a lot of dollars short, here we are with our Thanksgiving update. We might also be late posting, because the diet struggle bus got caught in traffic in Eat Everything Even When You’re Full and Fat Food Town.
How was Thanksgiving? Did you eat your weight in pie?
A: Thanksgiving was SO good!! I didn’t eat my weight in pie but I drank it in wine and other various cocktails (evidently, I forgot I was 36, and had to be up real early the next day). There only ended up being 8 of us, but we ate and drank and laughed until no noise came out. I had everything I wanted and didn’t feel guilty for a single second. It was legitimately the best day I’ve had in months!
K: Damn near. I started out the day trying to be really disciplined, though, so I made diet pumpkin cinnamon rolls that are supposed to be only 3 Weight Watchers points per roll for breakfast.
Spoiler Alert: My boyfriend has requested that if I promise cinnamon rolls again they not be made with Greek yogurt and pumpkin purée.
He was not a fan, and if I’m being honest, they were not worth driving to my parents’ house to borrow a rolling pin because I don’t own one and then having to knead weird Greek yogurt-y dough.
After the disappointment of not-sweet-at-all cinnamon rolls, it was game time when dinner rolled around. I basically stuffed myself silly. I barely even came up to breathe mid-bite. I guess what I’m thankful for this year is not asphyxiating at the Thanksgiving dinner table.
How is the diet going, by the way?
A: Soooooo I kinda hate it. Not the diet itself; Weight watchers is fine, and probably the least sadistic diet in the industry at the moment. What I hate is the fact that I can’t behave like a normal person around food, so I have to call on other people (who also can’t act right) to tell me what to do. It’s bullshit. You want to know what else is bullshit?! If I want to shop at normal stores, and not have Omar The Tent Maker design my wedding dress, I’m going to have to follow some sort of program for the rest of my life. I could sit and eat an entire container of Oreos just thinking about it.
K: I think I’m doing half alright, actually*
*This was more than a week ago.
RED ALERT. NOT DOING ALRIGHT.
I’m struggling HARD. The abso-fucking-lute worse time to start a diet is during the holidays? What was I thinking? This was my dinner and drink of choice this past Friday night:
And then it just kind of spiraled out of control the rest of the weekend, because once fries tough my lips it’s OVER.
Was it hard to get back on the stinking, sucky ass diet horse after the biggest eating holiday of the year?
A: It took me an extra day to get back to it because Friday I felt like a bag of smashed assholes, and I needed grease and sleep; rinse, lather and repeat. Then, I made the mistake of weighing myself, and magically found it much easier to get back to it. On any given day I can fluctuate 2-4 pounds just in water and how full I am anyway, so let’s just say the number wasn’t great. For the record, I would do it all again (hangover and all) because it was good for my soul to be with the people I love, and disconnect from the day-to-day nonsense for a few glorious hours.
K: See above.
What are you hating right now about this diet thing?
A: In theory it’s a great plan. They make healthier foods zero points in hopes you’ll choose things like eggs and veggies over a 12 point donut for breakfast thus staying fuller for longer, and giving your overworked, over-caffeinated body some of the things it actually needs. The problem is, I find myself skipping healthier options in order to make room for the naughtier ones. A glazed donut is 12 points. My favorite yogurt with almonds and a scoop of protein is 8 points. The donut always wins.
K: Three things:
1. I hate leftover chicken with my entire being. The second you reheat it, it takes on a whole new flavor that activates my gag reflex. In order to force it down, I drown it in BBQ sauce. It used to be “free” to dip your chicken in the sweet sauce, now it’s not. Because chicken is a “free” food, I’m eating chicken all the time. I’m just gagging as I eat every meal. It’s great.
(I’m still dipping my chicken in BBQ sauce and not counting it and Weight Watchers can suck it.)
2. How much spaghetti squash can one person eat? Because, I think I’m at the lifetime limit already. IJUSTWANTSOMEFUCKINGPASTAALRIGHT.
3. Cauliflower rice is not rice. Like, not even remotely close to being rice. Frankly, I’m appalled.
Anything you’re loving?
A: Love is a pretty strong word to describe a diet. I love that I might not die of diabetes if I lose 40 more pounds. I appreciate that my pants fit better. Which brings me to another point: How did I ever wear said pants before this, when they are still so tight now? I think they were holding on for dear life and no one had the heart to tell me my cellulite was showing. But yeah, there’s no love here. Just broccoli and my attitude.
K: I love the idea that I am heading in a healthier direction. I love that my pants are a teeny, tiny bit looser. I love that I look a little more you-know-I-don’t-think-she’s-pregnant-I-think-she-just-ate-a-burrito-for-lunch. Also, I LOVE eating poached eggs for breakfast instead of a bagel smothered in cream cheese.
(The last one is a lie.)
How are ya’ll doing? Anyone trying to diet now? How’s it treatin’ ya? Let us know in the comments!
I’m posting today to apologize for not posting my usual on Wednesday and today. The Christmas crazies have kicked in and I’m finding myself overwhelmed trying to fit in all the fun. Maybe one year I’ll slow the shit down and actually enjoy the holidays.
I’m fully expecting that you will see an update on how Dumpy and McMilkshakes are doing. Spoiler alert: We’re struggling and dieting during the holidays can suck our sagging back fat.
Check out the first posts in the Diet Chronicles of Dumpy Von Marshmallow Waist and Duchess McMilkshakes:
I’m positively loving writing ridiculous advice from Aunt Fatty, but I only have one submission waiting for my anti-advice, so I decided to wait and see if more of you felt the need for crappy life lessons from a wholly unqualified individual (to the person waiting: I hope it wasn’t, like, a time sensitive issue. If so, my bad).
So, in order for Free Advice Friday From Your Aunt Fatty to work, I kinda need people seeking advice. I considered just writing fake submissions, but I want to bring real life fuckery to you, not made up bullshit.
So, get to writing in. You can submit your queries here.
Check out the posts I’ve already done thanks to your submissions:
In going back through these previous posts I’ve done, I’m noticing that each new post got less likes than the last. Maybe you’re all busy with Christmas crap like I am or I was mistaken and ya’ll actually really hate this series?
Well, on that depressing note, I’ll take my leave. Hope to *see* y’all next week.
I’m friends with a handful of co-workers on Facebook. I recently made a vague post referencing work in a comedic fashion and was reported to my supervisor. I wasn’t written up and I’m in no way in fear of losing my job, but I’m upset that one of these so-called ‘work friends’ ratted me out over something so harmless. What should I do? Should I block all work friends on Facebook? Should I post a feckless comment about how snitches get stitches? Help!
Snitches Gon’ Get Stitches
Dear Snitches Gon’ Get Stitches,
OH HELL NAH.
This kind of backstabbing career climber bullshit is why I have to keep my mouth kinda shut about work on Facebook (I have a really hard time doing this, because I have some important shit to say).Some snitch did the same thing to me last year. I made a comment about being aghast at the behavior I witnessed on the first day of school and not even a week later I got an email from my AP about how he was disappointed by my comment, didn’t think I was happy at my school, etc.
The joke was on whoever tried to tarnish my record, though, because I was evaluated as Highly Effective (the highest rating you can get) last year, so…
Now, I do believe there ought to be some kind of standard when it comes to posting about work, but unless it’s damning, downright nasty, or it reveals information that violates HIPPA, I say people need to get off their high horses and worry bout themselves.
What I would do is block your work snitches from your posts. They won’t know you did this, but it protects you and your free fucking speech. But, before you block them from your posts, share some super snarky passive aggressive post because that’s what professional adults do. Let us know what you do!
Your Aunt Fatty (who is really pissed off for you)
A huge invasive snail vine on the opposite side of my backyard fence is out of control (which I constantly battle to keep from choking my Toyon tree and my Cape Honeysuckle shrubs). I usually win that battle but recently an entire extended family of opossums has taken up residence in the vine (and a couple of rats – EEWWHH!). I don’t mind the opossums – they are cute in an ugly sort of way. However, my dog Shiro thinks they are a puppy snack. He is constantly leaping to the top of the six-foot fence and plucking them off. Luckily, it is true that opossums play dead and I can usually get him in the house and the poor critters have scuttled away by the time I go to check on them. Obviously, this is not an ideal situation for my dog or the opossums!
I want to talk to the neighbors about removing the vine but here is my conundrum – they have only lived there a few months and I have never gone over to introduce myself and welcome them to the neighborhood. So am I a shit-head if I go over now and say hi but please tear out your ugly, invasive vine? What would you do?
Sincerely, Tired of the Opossums (check out her blog here!)
Dear Tired of the Opposums,
Where do I even start with this? I’m kind of speechless and that’s pretty much never happened in the whole of my entire big-mouthed life. I don’t know if I should start with the opossums or the rats or your new neighbors who have moved in, next to not only a human family, but AN EXTENDED OPOSSUM FAMILY.
Now, I can’t help you on the plant issue as you were basically speaking Chinese to me and I kill any and all plants within a square mile of my being with just my…being. So.
Oh, but after reading your submission again, you’re not asking about the fucking plants, anyway.
OK, so for your neighbors. I, too, am guilty of being that neighbor who never introduces themselves until I need something. “Hi, I’m your neighbor you see leaving the house in no bra and ratty pajama pants to go to 7-11 for Ho-Hos, nice to finally meet you when I have a bra on. So, could YA NOT BLEND SMOOTHIES AT FOUR IN THE FUCKING MORNING? Thanks. See ya around.”
I think you need to do this in stages.
Stage One: Bake something delicious and take it to your neighbor and introduce yourself. People are always more willing to go along with things when you bake them something they can’t say ‘no’ to.
Stage Two: Next time your dog tries to eat an opossum family, make a big production about it, so they come outside to see what the racket is. When they see you wrangling your dog, a pack of possums and some mangy rats, they will see there’s a problem with opossums that can’t be ignored.
Stage Three: Mid-battle make your plea. No one being asked to help someone who is literally wrangling opossums will be difficult. When they see how backwoods fucked up your situation is, they may just do what needs done then and there.
Please update us on the opossum situation. Better yet, send pictures.
Your Aunt Fatty (who is worried about what kind of opossum-rat diseases you have now)
Dear Aunt Fatty,
How the fuck do I get my husband to open the frigging curtains in the morning?! Seriously, it’s like he has some weird allergy to it. Or he doesn’t like daylight. Maybe he’s a vampire! He never opens them. Anywhere in the house. He just leaves it to me to open them all. It’s like what my mother used to say when I lived at home and left any curtains closed, “THE NEIGHBOURS WILL START THINKING SOMEONE DIED IN HERE!”
Open the Fucking Curtains Once in Awhile Will Ya? (Check out her blog here!)
Dear Open the Fucking Curtains Once in Awhile, Will Ya?,
Girl, I just witnessed the dude who lives here pass the HAND towel to dry his hands on the DISH towel. The hand towel is the one closest to the sink for ease of drying one’s HANDS. The dish towel, the towel that is reserved for drying CLEAN DISHES, is at least 12 inches further away from the sink than the hand towel and he goes for the MOTHERFUCKING DISH TOWEL every time.
I wish I could help you with your problem, sister friend. The only consolation I have for you is that millions of other women are also standing, dumbstruck, in the kitchen or the bedroom or bathroom, just staring at the socks that are in front of the hamper or the wet towel on the floor right under the towel rack or the curtains that seem to be invisible, right this very minute.
What I do know is that men don’t give a fuck about the different designation we give to towels that essentially look the same. They don’t give two shits about opening the curtains (he probably doesn’t even know you have curtains). They don’t ever think about how the decorative pillows on the bed should be arranged (and, he probably wants to mutilate them).
When he doesn’t open the curtains, message me with your favorite, most apropos Michael Scott meme and I’ll send one back and you’ll be all better.
Your Aunt Fatty (who totally gets it and has a twitching eye because of them* too)
I forgot to link to the lovely, Raili’s blog on my last post. Check her blog out here!
Have a personal problem? In a crazy conundrum? In the middle of a sticky wicket? Send them to your Aunt Fatty, and I’ll make it better for you. Submit them here.
*We love you, men. We wouldn’t be able to live without you. We’d have clean dish towels, yes, but we’d also have empty hearts. So, don’t hate me too much. In fact, send me a problem you have regarding the fairer (more annoying) sex and I’ll make it up to you.
We all know about the five stages of grief, but did you know there are five stages of Thanksgiving? No? Well, sit down and unbutton your pants. It’ll be a bumpy ride along the lumpy gravy train to Food Coma Town. All aboard!
Stage one begins at the first sight of a fallen leaf. This glorious sight means pants weather. Fat pants weather. Fat pants weather means Thanksgiving is a-coming. With Preparing-for-Thanksgiving-Fat-Pants, comes the ceasing of any and all grooming below the belt. The growing hair provides warmth as the nights grow colder. Also growing, is the instinctual need to add a layer of blubber to the body for insulation. Diets begin to fizzle out, PSLs begin to replace protein smoothies, and an anticipation for what’s to come makes even the most sensible of individuals start to prepare their stomachs for the absurd amount of food that they’ll be stuffing into them.
As the days get shorter and the big day gets closer, the more competitive of eaters begin training their stomachs for the massive meal with marathon eating that includes, but is not limited to: the better part of large cheese pizzas, pints of Cherry Garcia, and entire bags of wasabi kettle chips.
Dreams are feverish, wanting, longing.
Stage two occurs during the day in question. The anticipation of mounds of gravy soaked carbohydrates and creamy cocktails to wash it all down has finally come to fruition. Despite a meals-worth of gherkins, deviled eggs, and shrimp dip, plates are piled high and inhaled with wild abandon. Oh, the rapture. The exhaltation. The pure delight.
Food is consumed at an alarming rate, and fabric is pushed to max capacity.
Somewhere between buttering a fifth dinner roll and the unbuttoning, unzipping, and unraveling of anything constricting, a realization that “filthy pig” doesn’t even come close begins to weigh on the psyche. For only a split second, “Maybe I should stop?” crosses the mind, but someone says “pumpkin cheesecake”, and any and all semblance of humanity is lost amidst belches tasting of turkey giblets.
This is a bonus stage that only the truest of fat pants champions ever reach. This is when you become truly drunk on food. Instead of blood, you’ve got Grandma’s famous gravy in all it’s sodium-induced glory coursing through your veins. Incoherent babbling and hallucinations are common. If you’ve ever thought you were eating a piece of pie, but upon sobering up, you realize you ate half of a fabric leaf napkin ring, you’ll know you reached this challenge level.
Additionally, if you become food, you’re delirious af.
Stage four generally comes during the requisite food-induced coma directly following the unadulterated eating frenzy that went down like something normally reserved for the animal channel. After realizing that a five gallon bowl of jello salad has been demolished by only one person, in a span of four hours, a deep depression is expected.
The depression stage is especially bad if pant buttons are blown off due to the sheer force of an expanding gut, or expensive Spanx can’t even, so they jump ship.
Phrases like: “What the actual fuck is wrong with me? You promised yourself you wouldn’t eat six potatoes worth of mashed potatoes again!” And, “Did I even enjoy that half a pie I inhaled?” is common.
Usually, one must ride out this disastrous depressive stage at home, on the couch, with plenty of Maalox, hobo hair, and possibly Depends.
The last stage of Thanksgiving is amnesia, as anyone who survives Thanksgiving forgets the killer heartburn, diarrhea rash, and shame in less than a year’s time.
Unlike the five stages of grief, the five stages of Thanksgiving are cyclical and incurable.
Some scientists and theorists believe that there is something about the falling of leaves, the arrival of layered-clothing-weather and the availability of pumpkin spice everything that sparks something animalistic, ugly, and shocking in usually sensible individuals. Source
Enjoy drenching your plate in gravy. Take pleasure in numbing your fat pain receptors with booze. Be mindful of how delicious pumpkin pie feels sliding down your gizzard. Enjoy the glorious gluttony!
For Fat AgonyAunt (Love what you’ve done with my name),
A neighbour (yuk) has stopped to chat at the gate on occasion when walking their dog. (A friend of the husband from years ago) the last twice he has spoke about an open marriage … they are naturists and have just returned from their villa in a naturists villiage in Spain. Yesterday he asked the husband (he hasn’t said these things to him) if we would go for supper next week, p.s. they have a hot tub. Question: what if he brings holiday snaps out … or strips for natural hot tub?
Freaking Out About The Freaks
Dear Freaking Out About The Freaks,
You mean you’re not into a freaky deaky neighborhood partner swap? All the good kind of neighbors are open to buck naked and hairy hot tubbing and sharing their spouses like their favorite casserole recipe. Aren’t they?
Oh, I’ve just been informed that this is, in fact, not normal behavior and you have every reason to be a little put off by being stopped by them for fear they will show you pics of their wrinkly parts!
So, this is what you do…
You get to them first. Be a bigger Freak a Leak by showing them your holiday pics at the even nude-ier naturalist village (just print pics off of some nudist site that don’t show faces, only bare asses) and maybe even ask them their opinion on homemade German dungeon porn. Without a doubt and in no time they will be the ones avoiding you, you freaky dog you. *wink*
Or…not and you will have created an even more awkward situation, but it could be fun trying.
In all honesty, I’d just try to avoid them like the plague. Figure out their schedule of leaving the house and never leave your house at the same time. You know, be a real mature adult about it.
I feel like you need to update us on how this all transpires. Write back, Freaking Out. We all want to know if you got roped into nekkid hot tubbing or not.
Love, Your Aunt Fatty (who thinks this conundrum is really hilariously amazing. Sorry not sorry)
Dear Aunty Fatty, I have an umh ‘delicate’ problem. My cute little fur baby has gas. All the time. Bad, smelly, horrible, silent bombs. Help! Should I collect it to fuel my car?
Dear Watering Eyes,
ABORT! ABORT! ABORT!
Just kidding, you can’t just pack up and leave your beloved shit-smelling fur baby.
So, story time.
My aunt and uncle had a dog once who had the most rancid farts, they could legit melt the varnish off furniture. They were so bad, you could taste them hours later. (This dog also loved to eat all of the bad things that made him fart, then puke, so he could eat his puke and then fart puke-smelling gas bombs. It was a vicious, noxious cycle.) Yet, this was one of their most beloved fur babies.
Moral of the story?
No matter how many nose hairs they singe, we still love them. We make accommodations to make them and ourselves as comfortable as possible.
What I would suggest is to first make sure it is, in fact, your defenseless fur child. In all likelihood, it could be the dude at home. For years, Aunt Fatty’s own father got away with blaming, at least, half of his farts on the poor dog.
If it is your poor pup, just cover your nose and mouth with a pillow or spray some essential oil air freshener (my favorite is Fuck Me, My Eyes Are Burning) to cover the horrific smell, while reminding yourself that your fur baby eats the crumbs you drop on the floor and sometimes they make your life easier by eating their own poop. Sacrifices.
Your idea of collecting the gas to fuel your car is genius. I’d legit start working on how you can make that happen (hook a fatty up if you ever become rich and famous on your fart fuel).
Love, Your Aunt Fatty (who is retching a bit)
Dear Aunt Fatty,
How do I ask my boss for a raise to allow me to buy lunch for my co worker everyday, because she can’t remember to throw away her Tupperware? There’s enough penicillin growing in our staff fridge to cure a small country’s syphilis outbreak. Please advise.
Worried About Contracting Syphilis From the Staff Fridge
Dear Worried About Contracting Syphilis From the Staff Fridge,
Ah, the joys of workplace refrigerator sharing. I bet the microwave is an equally horrifying place.
Honestly, I wouldn’t even waste your raise on some chick who has zero regard for everyone at your place of employment opposed to having their food mingling with mold spores.
I’d pack my damn lunch in a mini cooler that I know isn’t growing bacteria and forget the cesspool of contagion that is your kitchen at work if it were me.
Yo, this is $13 on Amazon! Snatch it up before it’s gone!
You will almost certainly look like a construction worker lugging your bulky, plastic job, but it’s better than getting the plague from your hazmat work refrigerator.
Love, Your Aunt Fatty (who is really sensitive to smells or just the thought of smells so she repeatedly dry heaved writing this response, as she imagined how nasty that heathen’s two month old leftovers probably are)
I know ya’ll are a messed up group of people (who isn’t messed up in today’s world?), so get those questions in!
What was your biggest diet disappointment this week?
A: I have several so be patient with me:
1.) A single serving of Oreos according to the WW app is 3 cookies. Just 3.
2.) 3 cookies is 7 (!!) points.
3.) Even though Oreos are vegan, they are in no way healthy.
4.) Try as I might, I am not at my goal weight this week.
5.) I won’t be at my goal weight next week either.
6.) Vegetables still taste like vegetables.
K: On Fridays, along with my coffee, I treat myself to a scone or some other decadent delight from Starbucks. Since I’m counting now, I had to look up how many points the pumpkin scone is. I figured it couldn’t be much more than 15. I mean, it’s pumpkin. Pumpkin is healthy.
I didn’t end up getting the damn pumpkin scone, because it’s 22 mother fucking points. For anyone totally unfamiliar with Weight Watchers, let me paint you a really hideous picture. My daily point allowance is 28 points and my weekly “cheat points” are set at 42.
Because I wanted to eat the rest of the day, I had to pass on the pumpkin scone for the first time in three years of Friday Starbucks cheats.
I died a little inside when the barista, who knows me way too well, said, “You’re not getting your pumpkin scone today?” and I had to make myself say, “No, Alex. Just the coffee.”
What was your biggest diet success or win this week?
A: I know there are people who eat only when they are hungry and stop once they are satisfied, so I won’t break my arm patting myself on the back for a week of eating like a normal person. I am, however, a little proud of the moments I was able to walk away from the treats in the break room. Or, when I walked places I normally would have driven to. Lastly, I’m grateful I didn’t give up the second day when I really wanted to… because I really, really wanted to.
K: I didn’t kill anyone in the name of hunger. That’s all I got.
What is a diet/Weight Watchers injustice you faced this week?
A: I’m not sure if I’d call it an injustice really, but I went to an actual meeting and it was insanely annoying. If you are STILL fatter than me you do not get to tell me how to do this. How ’bout you follow your own advice there, Patty? Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle fat? I’ve decided to keep my interactions very limited from here on out.
K: When reading through the Weight Watchers app for ideas for low point snacks (I was really hoping I’d happen upon a monster brownie only clocking in at two points) I caught an article on FAQs. Let me just share a screenshot:
Fruit, ice (Thanks, WW, for making ice zero points. That’s big of you), and nonfat, unsweetened yogurt are all zero point foods, but, somehow, magically, when they are blended into a smoothie, the smoothie is not zero points.
I am no math whiz, but I’m fairly confident that 0+0+0= MOTHER FUCKING ZERO*.
What is a diet tip or hack you learned this first week?
A: For me this whole weight loss thing can’t be black and white; perfection or failure. Don’t get me wrong, it’s real easy for me to be a stickler for every bite, point, step taken, and to make myself batshit crazy until I give up. In all reality though, I don’t want to live like that. On the flip side, it’s also really easy to eat whatever I want with reckless abandon and then get pissed when my jeans don’t fit. If I am going to make this a true lifestyle change I need to live somewhere in the middle- that grey area where most of my choices are good, but sometimes I eat three donuts for breakfast in the bathtub, and skip the gym all together.
K: La Croix the shit out of your day. Want a bag of M&M’s? FALSE. Drink a La Croix. Feeling like you need a milkshake and a side of fries to dip in said milkshake? FALSE. Your fat ass can drink a La Croix and it can like it.
If you don’t know what La Croix is just imagine a fruit-flavored soda but without any of what makes a soda taste good. That’s La Croix. It’s disgusting, but the skinny bitches drink it, so I’m hoping to be let in on the secret sometime soon.
How about an “ah ha” moment or sudden moment of clarity?
A: Right now my life is an absolute dumpster fire.
This past week, I ended two jobs I LOVED in exchange for a job out of necessity, and it has made my heart so sad. I want(ed) to eat all the things because I needed to feel better, and I did slip a few times:
Me to Katie- “ Sooooo you’re my accountability buddy and here we go. I just used all 26 of my daily points, PLUS 10 exercise points and TWENTY MOTHER FUCKING NINE flex points on dinner because my heart is sad and I hate my life and I miss my mom. That is a 65 point DINNER dude. 65 points. I’m gonna let that sink in for you.”
Yea… that’s real life. But I got back on. I didn’t keep eating everything that didn’t try to eat me first for days upon end. The “aha” in all of this is that I don’t need to be a complete lunatic to make progress in the right direction. I lost 4.6 pounds this week- not a bad start. I just need to be consistent most of the time and be brave enough to get back on when I screw it all up. Perfection isn’t realistic and my goal this week is to spend more time in the grey area. It feels more doable, and there’s Oreos in there.
K: It feels good going to bed not feeling like a fat piece of shit. I mean, I’m still fat, but I feel less “piece of shit”. Some nights, before the Weight Watchers Awakening, I would go to bed right after eating 18 bags of popcorn, an entire pint of Halo Top, and half a watermelon. It’s pretty alright to not feel like my food choices are literally and figuratively choking me out.
What are you struggling with this week? Any fun diet tips for Dumpy and McMilkshake? What would you like to see us cover? Let us know in the comments!
*There are a lot of ‘mother fuckers’ in this post. Excuse our French, we’re just REALLY FUCKING HUNGRY.
Don’t forget to send in your questions to Aunt Fatty here. And, check out the first post here! I’m handing out advice that’s wanted like candy at a Weight Watchers meeting, so you don’t want to miss out!
I can’t stop eating cake. I eat cake every day. And it’s not just limited to cake – I also eat cookies, donuts, brownies, etc. If I don’t have any cake, I bake some and then I eat it. I just love cake. What should I do?
Yo, is this a real problem? Cake is not bad. Cake is delicious. I daydream of cake. I real dream of cake. Cake is fucking everything. So, for realsies, I think you’re living your best life.
“I bake some and then I eat it.”
1. You can bake
2. You can eat what you bake because it’s edible
These are not real problems.
Unless you think it’s a problem. Then it’s a problem.
I’m no expert or anything, but I think cake has tons of sugar and no-no flour in it, so if you’re on some kind of diet, I think cake is the opposite of what you’re supposed to eat. I could be totally wrong, though.
If you feel like your cake consumption is a problem, maybe eat half of the cake you normally eat and see if life is worth living with less cake. If you find this is not a sufficient amount of cake and your life has lost all meaning, just eat your normal amount of cake.
I really wish I had your problem right now. I’m going to go cry in my zoodles.
Your Aunt Fatty (who hates you right now, btw)
Dear Aunt Fatty,
Where shall I seek my Soul Mate?
I wasn’t sure if this was a legit submission as I get all kinds of spam email from my site now that I’m self-hosting, but I figured I’d better help a, uh, bunny out, just in case.
Here’s my philosophy on soulmates. Why don’t you make yourself comfy? Pull up a chair. Make yourself a cup of tea. While you’re at, can you make me one, too?
Your soulmate can always and without any ounce of doubt be found in a perfectly powdered donut. An artfully iced cinnamon roll. Even a plain piece of white toast smothered in Nutella. If you’re not a fan of eating “morning foods”, I guarantee you will find true love in a perfectly crafted chocolate lava cake with melty vanilla bean ice cream on the side. Better add some hazelnut sauce while you’re at it.
People can’t always be relied upon to be someone’s soulmate, but carbs are always, always there for you. Remember that.
Your Aunt Fatty (who really wants a donut now)
Dear Auntie Fatty,
I joined a dating site in order to try to get over a guy, thinking if I had someone new, I could forget my feelings for him. Horrible I know! But then I met someone on there. He’s really sweet and we hit if off. Only thing: I’m still all hung up on this other dude! I can’t drop my very deep feels for him. I was an adult about it and told the sweet guy I had feelings for someone else and that it wasn’t fair to him if I wasn’t honest with him and myself. He was totally cool and wanted to stay friends. That was a few weeks ago, and we still talk a little bit, but he keeps pushing to actually meet (cos we haven’t yet!) and he says “just as friends” and he knows I’m not ready for a relationship. I’ve agreed to meet him now but I’m afraid he’s not really looking at it “just as friends”. What do I do on our meet up to ensure he gets that?! No solid plans yet, either ping pong or maybe just coffee at a bookstore, so these ideas have got to be flexible!
Sincerely, Hardcore Friendzoning
Dear Hardcore Friendzoning,
I know making generalizations about men on dating sites isn’t fair, but what I have personally experienced would scare the bejeezus out of you. If you need a brief mental image of what I am referring to, picture a grown man asking for his diaper changed.
Almost every single guy I met during my brief foray into the terrifying single-and-dating life wanted “more than friends” action.
Also, many were on there, like me, to forget a former lover or relationship. When that is your reason for being on a dating site, it’s kind of blue balling your dude friend. Very few men are just looking for a friendship when they get on a dating site, whether what they want is a committed relationship or just sex.
This is my opinion from what I’ve experienced, personally. Others’ experiences and perceptions may be different.
So, from what I see, you’ve done your part in expressing what your boundaries are in being on the dating site and hanging with him. It’s up to him to respect those. If he doesn’t, you stop interacting with him, or he’s going to end up hurt if he has real feelings for you and you are not ready to reciprocate.
Dating is the epitome of the hard knock life, man. All too often you fall for someone who is pining away for someone else or vice versa.
Because this shit sucks, I suggest you go on a date with Ben & Jerry, because, well, duh.
Otherwise, I’d suggest bowling- it’s the least sexy date you can go on. The shoes look horrific and they smell even worse. Bowling alleys are loud, smelly, and dirty. Finally, unless you’re a professional bowler, all people look awkward bowling. Go bowling.
Your Aunt Fatty (who loves you and just wants what’s best for you)
Dear Aunt Fatty,
JoJo wants me to ask you when we have ice cream and I eat it all, what should she do? Keep in mind that the shit sat there for a whole week before I ate it. Go.
Goose Pal, how are you still alive and well enough to write this email? It doesn’t matter if the ice cream has been in the fridge for over a year and there’s an inch of freezer burn covering the entire carton, YOU DON’T TOUCH YER BOO THANG’S ICE CREAM. I love you, Allen, but, pal, you done wrong (that was a lot of commas, but it had to happen).
My dude once ate my leftover helping of this decadent chicken fettuccine Alfredo I make whenever we are feeling like our arteries ought to be clogged. It’s made with cream cheese, full fat milk, and a buttload of parmesan. I thought about it all day long. I was practically foaming at the mouth by the time I got home. When I discovered his crime, I, legit, didn’t talk to him for a week and two days. He got off easy.
I believe eating your spouse’s/partner’s/dog’s treats they are probably saving for later should be punishable by death.
So, it was nice knowing you, Allen.
Regretfully Yours, Aunt Fatty
I was shocked at the amount of emails I got from ya’ll. I didn’t think this would get the response it has. If you’re reading this, feeling pretty ripped off because your query wasn’t included in this first Free Advice Friday post, fear not, you will be included next week.
Some of your questions were legit issues and I’m still trying to work out the perfect fucked up answer. Some of your issues were pretty damn funny and I’m trying to find out how to be funnier.
So, you gotta wait another week. I really hope I can make the suspense worth it.
Keep sending in those fucked up problems, my weirdos! You can contact me via my Contact Page.
*I don’t want any of you thinking of a crusty, old woman when you read ‘aunt’. Think more young (ish), wildly idiotic when it comes to being an adult, and super cool because she knows what ‘trill’ means (after doing a Google search). Think the kind of cool aunt who takes you to get Pink Drinks and then falls for your wily ways so she buys you, on her almost maxed out credit card, an entire new wardrobe at Target, complete with unicorn earrings. I’m that aunt.