Hello!

You may be wondering where I’ve been. Or maybe you don’t care.

Either way you, good reader, are in for quite a story!

Just read the title. It’s pretty self-explanatory, really.

Here’s how it all began…..

<cue fuzzy nostalgia vision and tinkly music that comes with every flashback> 

It started with minor disagreement over my alleged ‘drunken escapades’ by my self-righteous, yet curiously voeyueristic neighbor.

Now, I’ll admit I may have mown down her cutesy little mailbox with the bluebirds on it.

I may also have thrown my half empty bottle of Jim Beam through her front window in a rage because her stupid mailbox got in the path of my truck.

Things were pretty fuzzy- like they are on most nights for me. That’s not important though.

The end result of that wild, drunken night involving my neighbor’s mailbox was a sentence of 1500 hours of Community Service, 6 months of Anger Management and the payment of various fines and damages to the city and my neighbor.

I paid the fines, no problem.

Community service got off to a bad start when a bum at the homeless shelter I was volunteering at vomited on my Feragammo boots soon after he ate the soup I prepared.

Things got better though when those in charge of the shelter let me answer phones instead of cooking and mingling with the clientele.

 Anger Management was a bit rockier. My assigned counselor, Maddy, was an unpleasent woman in her late 50s. It was hate at first sight, but I could’ve stuck it out if she hadn’t been habitually late to our sessions.

Now, I’m not a punctual person. I’ve kept many people waiting and I won’t appologize for it. The difference between me and everyone else is this: my time is vastly more important than anyone else’s!!!!!!

After she stood me up for one of our sessions, I decided I’d had enough. So I went to Maddy’s office and I held her and her receptionist hostage with a very sharp letter opener I found on the assistant’s desk.

After a 3 hour long stand-off, complete with the police, news reporters, helicopters and tear gas, I surrendered the letter opener and allowed the authorities to take me to the county jail peacebly.

And that’s where I’ve been this entire time. Honset!

Hello.

Have you ever noticed how some words just sound….icky?

I’m talking about the English language, not any of those other ones.

I don’t speak any other languages, so they don’t bear mentioning.

If I were running things (and don’t think I haven’t thought about it) humanity would communicate by grunts, elaborate gestures and crude drawings.

 Oh,and just so we don’t revert back to our caveman origins square dancing and line dancing would also be acceptable ways of communicating.

Seems I’ve wondered a tad off topic. No matter; here’s the list of ugly sounding words. At least they sound ugly to me, and that’s all that really counts, isn’t it?

Good to know we’re on the same page.

• jocular
• palpitate
• kumquat
• jukebox
• cackle
• sarcophagus
• fructify
• gargoyle
• linguistics
• spandex

Well, there you have it. A list of what, in my opinion, are a few of the ugliest words in the English language.

Do you agree?

Do you disagree?

 Do you know what the words mean?

Do you care?

Good evening,

Tonight’s topic is one that’s had me concerned for quite some time.

Parents who give their children last names as first names.

Why do new parents do this to their children? Although some girls know the heartache of this worrying trend, it’s boys that are usually saddled with these unfortunate monikers.

Don’t know what I’m talking about? Here’s a few examples:

• Landon
• Grayson
• Parker
• Preston
• Ramsey
• Bryant
• Benton

I could go on, but I don’t think it’s necessary.

Now, you, kind reader, maybe wondering what the big problem is. It’s true, I haven’t been blessed/cursed with children, so why should I care?

I don’t, but it DOES annoy me. And it’s generally a bad idea to annoy me, as I suffer from the type of  rages where I blackout and lose hours (and sometimes days) of time.

 Maybe some of you have even named your child (or God forbid, children) one, or even a combination of these types of names.  Do you know what career you’ve set your child up for? Domestic servitude.

The same way that girls named Crystal, Amber, and Misty somehow wind up swinging from a stripper’s pole, boys named Benton and Ramsey end up being butlers to the wealthy and chauffering  around Mrs. Daisy.

And if that’s what you as a parent want for your child, then send little Porter or Preston my way. I know I could use a good (and discreet) chauffer to drive me home after one of my blackouts.

Please submit your child’s resume in the comment box. I’ll be waiting

Seriously, guess what today is. C’mon, take a stab at it!

No, it is NOT National Toothpick Appreciation Day! Anyone with a lick of sense knows that falls on May 14.

It’s Mothers’ Day, silly. At least it is here in the good ‘ol US of A. And let’s be honest, does any other country REALLY count? I think we all know the answer to that.

This is the last time I’ll mention Mothers’ Day in this post. 

Why? Because I don’t have a mother.

As my earliest readers know, my origins include a petri-dish, a turkey baster and a giant pea pod. A most unusual
childhood, to be sure.

The fact that I’m motherless doesn’t bother me, really. I can’t miss what I’ve never had.

For example, I’ve never had webbed hands and feet. Although webbed appendages would come in handy in certain situations, I can’t say I miss not having them. So, to be clear: I don’t mind being motherless or un-webbed where my hands and feet are concerned. I’m glad that’s settled.

Well, I guess that’s about it for today. You’re probably all having supper with your mothers, wives and grandmothers. If you live in Appalachia they could all be the same person to you!

Hey, I’m not here to judge, just to ridicule.

Anyway, I’d like to close today by telling all of you how great I am. God, I love me!

I share the city I live in with about 1.2 million others who also have the honor of calling it home.

That doesn’t sound too impressive compared with population of New York City (over 8 million) or Los Angeles (just under 4 million) but it’s not a contest, is it?

Oh, it is a contest? Shit! Why am I always the last person to find these things out?!

Well, here’s some interesting information that may redeem the reputation of the city I live in: It has the most strip clubs (both nude and topless) per square mile than any other city in the US!

While that may not be something most people are proud of, it does explain why so many of the strip clubs here serve food.

Nearly every radio station in the area plays a commercial for at least one strip club at every break.  Of course, they aren’t called “strip clubs,” “titty bars”, or “nudie bars”. They’re referred to as “Gentleman’s Clubs”.

The radio adverts always promise  (along with the “friendliest, sexiest ladies in town”) a five star, all you can eat buffet that’s usually free with the price of admission.

Nine times out of ten, the woman reading the ad- she always has a sexy voice BTW- lists a few of the things on the buffet. They invariably include rib-eye, New York strip, and porterhouse steaks, spare and baby-back ribs, lamb, veal, and all types of shellfish- including Maine lobster.

My question to all of you is:

Does anyone else find this disgusting beyond belief, or is it just me?

When someone mentions a strip club, do you immediately think of

• Naked (or nearly naked) dancers gyrating within close proximity of you?

or

• Eating a meal– with naked dancers gyrating dangerously close to your dinner?

People who prepare food in restaurants, cafeterias etc are required by law to wear hairnets at all times.

There’s no law requiring the same of strippers. Whose hair would you rather find on your baby-back ribs? Hair from the head Juan the grill cook? Or pubic hair from Cristal the Naughty Nun?

I look forward to all of your replies.

As you all know, I’ve been waiting for my laptop computer for a few weeks with bated breath (if you are new to this blog, please refer to my last post, What’s the Deal, Madame Bitters, for a full explanation).

Well,  I’ve got some good news. It’s finally here !

So to kick this thing off right (and as a reward to my faithful readers) I’ve decided to answer an often asked question from my readers: Why I fear/loathe birds.

I’m a big believer in giving the public what they want, within reason of course. So here it is; My Bird Story:

 
Long, long ago (about 20 years before I became Madame Bitters) my parents took me and a cousin of mine, Jake on a weekend trip to a farm. I think the farm belonged to a friend of my grandparents, but I don’t know. It’s really not important to the story– I guess I shouldn’t have brought it up.

 Neither I or my cousin Jake had ever seen, much less visited a farm because we were children of suburbia. I was excited because there were cows and baby cows, more commonly known as calves, at the farm and I couldn’t wait to pet them. I’ve always liked cows, although now I prefer to eat them rather than pet them.

When we arrived at the farm my cousin and I bolted from the car as soon as my father released the parking brake. There was a lot to explore and many cows to pet and Jake and I couldn’t wait a minute longer.

We ran through a patch of field and when we came upon some trees Jake hung back. He had to pee, he said and then he told me to go ahead and that he’d catch up with me. I agreed, as I had no desire to watch him relieve himself.

I had only walked for a few minutes through the trees when I came upon a small pond. I approached it, thinking there might be frogs or baby ducks to play with.

How wrong I was.

I had just reached the edge of the pond and was looking at the scum on it’s surface when I heard a honking sound followed by an evil hiss. I turned my head toward the sound. Less than 10 feet away was a huge goose and he was pissed  . He was honking, hissing, and flapping his wings, which I suppose was an attempt to seem bigger and more threating. He needn’t have bothered. To a seven year old girl who was small for her age, the goose was straight out of a nightmare.

Well, after I saw that goose (who I know had to be at least 3 feet tall) I did what anyone would do. I ran like hell; as fast as my short little legs could carry me, which it turns out wasn’t very far. Who knew an angry goose could run so fast? It was a lesson I learned the hard way.

The goose knocked me down and it began snapping at my flailing arms and legs. A goose has a bill like a duck; it’s not sharp but it left terrible bruises where he “bit” me. It was honking and hissing and I was screaming and crying. I’m sure we were quite a site as we rolled around on the ground as I fought for my life.

The next thing I remember was waking up in a strange bed with my mother and some old lady, who actually owned the farm, sitting next to me.  Jake saw the goose attack me and he ran to the farmhouse to get help. When he, my mom and dad and the old lady (who had the good sense to grab a shotgun before leaving) found me they said I was bleeding and lying unconcious in fetal position while the goose continued it’s attack. The goose only stopped when the old lady fired the shotgun in the air to scare him off.

I stayed inside the farmhouse and didn’t venture outside again until it was time to leave. Even then my dad had to carry me out to the car.

During my stay at the farm and in the years since, I’ve found out a few things about the goose. It’s name was Eddie and he was legendary for his bad disposition.

He was old. My mother told me how Eddie had attacked my uncle 25 years before. She knew it was Eddie because he was missing a little of his bill, probably from fighting off a coyote. Eddie was big enough and mean enough to fight off a coyote and win, of that I have no doubt. She thought Eddie was long dead or else she wouldn’t have let me run off unarmed.

People had tried to kill him over the years, but for whatever reason they never could. To me Eddie is a lot like a mean, bitter old man. They say the good die young, but assholes live forever. That’s definately the case with Eddie.

I don’t think he’s still alive. Although geese can live for decades in a safe environment, he’d have to be at least 50 years old by now. I think he’s down in hell, guarding Satan’s duck pond and fighting with that 5-headed dog that guards the gates of hell.

Poor doggy.

First off (before I make my excuses), I’d just like to thank my readers/contributors for their patience concerning my infrequent appearances.

I’ve been having some problems with my computer– I can’t get on the damn thing.

Now, I’m not going to point fingers and make accusations that my roommates, Thom, Victoria, and Monique are inconsiderate, douche-bag, computer hogs. That’s not my style.

It’s also not my style to tell Thom to quit looking at porn because I’m tired of cleaning the office chair (and the floor beneath the chair– and the keyboard) after his frequent visits to those sites.

No, I’m going to take the high road and say that my roommates and I are having “scheduling conflicts” and “suffering from addiction” and leave it at that.

But there is a light on the horizon.

I’ve ordered a laptop and it should be here no later than the 10th of next month. No more fighting over who’s turn it is to use the computer next and no more cleaning up after Thom’s turn.

I am counting the minutes.

Until then, those of you who are somewhat new to this blog should read every single post I’ve ever written– including the pages located in the top right corner.

There are 3 of them– “Please Allow Me to Introduce Myself,” “FAQS” and “Where I Came From.” It should give you newbies some insight into my pathology.

For those of you who have been with me since Day 1, please sit tight and hang tough. This hurts me more than it hurts you.

Feel free to donate to my PayPal account. You may also suggest future topics that you’d like me to write about if some of you would like a bit of creative control.

I’m always open to suggestions and ideas. As long as they don’t suck!

Thank you

~MB~

This morning, around 10:00 or so, I decided that I wanted to make Bread Pudding; mostly because I had a bunch of stale bread to get rid of. Plus, I like Bread Pudding.

Now, I know some of you are thinking, Madame Bitters, why didn’t you crumble up the stale bread and feed it to the birds? Am I right? Is that what you were thinking?

Damn, I’m good!

I don’t like birds.  I don’t want them in my yard or anywhere near my home.

There’s a story that explains my fear/hatred of birds, but I’d rather not go into it. Suffice to say, I had a bad experience. That’s all I’m gonna say on the matter.

Hmmm… seems I’ve wandered off topic. Sorry about that.

Anyway, I decided to make Bread Pudding at around 10:00 am. So I began gathering my ingredients, tearing up the bread, etc.

Then I go to my liquor cabinet for some bourbon (Bread Pudding needs bourbon for it’s sauce). I move the bottles around and, out of  my numerous bottles of booze, there is not a drop of bourbon to be found.

Dammit!

So I get dressed and I leave the house for the nearest liquor store, which is far, far away. The town I live in is “dry” as are the other towns near me.  To get the bourbon I need, I have to make a half hour drive.

This wouldn’t be a big deal under normal circumstances, but since it was a NASCAR weekend, the traffic was thick and the trip took about twice as long as it normally would have. Since I don’t care for NASCAR, I had forgotten about it.

I make it to the liquor/convience store around 11:30. I go in, go straight to the liquor aisle and pick up a small bottle of bourbon. Less than 5 minutes later, I’m ready to buy my booze and make the drive home.

I go up to the counter. The man looks at my bottle and says, “I can’t sell this to you.”

So I dig around in my purse for some ID and I show him my driver’s license.

“No, the state law prohibits me from selling alcohol before noon on Sundays.”

Shit! I’d forgotten about this law. I try to convince him by telling the clerk it’s for a recipe I’m making. It makes no difference

So I stand at the counter for the entire 15 minutes while he straightens the cigarettes and lotto ticket dispensers. At 12:01, I buy my bourbon and drive home.

Now this story, which I admit was a little long, is to illustrate an example of a stupid law. Granted, I do live in the Bible Belt (I’ll bet the NASCAR reference gave it away) so this law may not be viewed as stupid by certain people.

Here are some laws that serve absolutely no purpose whatsoever, except maybe to be included on lists like this one.

Here they are in the order in which I found them:

1. It’s illegal to operate a motor vehicle while blindfolded– Alabama
2. There is a $500 fine if you bother a butterfly in Pacific Grove, CA
3. You may not pay for a  50-cent item with only pennies– Canada
4. It’s illegal for a man to give his wife or girlfriend a box of candy if it weighs less than 50lbs– Idaho
5. It’s illegal for anyone to give lighted cigars to dogs, cats, birds or any other domesticated animal kept as a pet– Illinois
6. It’s illegal to pick ones nose on the Sabbath- Israel
7. It’s illegal to transport and ice cream cone in your pocket– Kentucky
8. It’s illegal to fish for whales on Sunday– Ohio
9. Prostitution is legal, but it’s illegal to use the services of a prostitute–Sweden
10. It’s illegal to use a lasso to catch a fish– Tennessee
11. It’s unlawful for chickens to lay eggs before 8 am and after 4 pm– West Virginia

I really can’t bitch too much, though. While I may not be able to buy booze until noon on Sunday, at least I can fish for whales!

Does anyone ‘get’ David Lynch?

Because I sure as hell don’t. I’ll elaborate further in a minute, but before I do I gotta be sure you know who David Lynch is.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with David Lynch, he’s the creator of the bizarre TV series Twin Peaks. It aired in the early 90′s and was about the murder of a girl named Laura Palmer.

David Duchovney (he played FBI agent Mulder in The X-Files, he plays novelist Hank in Californication, and is currently in a rehab clinic that specializes in sex addiction) played the investigating detective– who also happened to be a cross-dresser.

While he’s probably best known as the creator of Twin Peaks, he has also directed a few films. A friend of mine burned me a copy of Blue Velvet, which is arguably his best known film. It stars Dennis Hopper who plays a sexual deviant.

Perhaps I should back up a bit….

This whole thing started when I took a quiz at a site called helloquizzy.com called Which director should film your life story? I took this quiz, answered the questions honestly and my result was… David Lynch.

A couple of days later I told my friend (who we’ll call Tasha) about the quiz and my results. She laughed for a very long time.  

Tasha, being the kind of friend that she is, wanted me to understand how funny the results of my quiz were. So she dropped off a burned copy of Blue Velvetat my house for my viewing pleasure the next day. 

I didn’t have anything better to do that afternoon so I popped it in the DVD player, kicked back and watched a film so odd that the adjective ‘odd’ doesn’t begin to convey it’s weirdness.

Now, I’m not going to go into the particulars of Blue Velvet because after watching the entire movie, I’m still not sure what it’s even about.

 Blue Velvet is an cinematic experience that mere words simply cannot describe. But I can share a few things without spoiling the plot– if it could even be called that.

1. Blue Velvet looks like it had a budget of about $300. There are probably snuff films out there that cost more to make. In fact, the similarities between Blue Velvet and a snuff film are scary.
2. The set and the people inthe film (like the extras and supporting cast) look like characters that should be in an SNL skit.
3. Dennis Hopper’s character (and probably Dennis Hopper himself) is a sexual freak, a deviant of the worse kind. I’m no prude, but the stuff he did and said in Blue Velvet made me cringe in horror. I won’t elaborate because I may have flashbacks.

Now, this movie received rave reviews. I’m not really surprised. Blue Velvet is the sort weird independent film that frustrated movie critics jizz themselves over. I fucking hate movie critics for this very reason!

Anyway, my question still stands. Does anyone ‘get’ David Lynch? If you do, would you mind explaining him to me and a few million other people?

Wow! It’s been awhile, hasn’t it? You’re looking well. In fact, I think you may have grown a little bit since we last hung out.

Oh no, you don’t look any taller; I meant horizontally. Fat-ass.

That’s not a putdown, by the way. I likes me some junk in the trunk! Know what I mean? You don’t?  Oh well, it’s not important

Golly, I’ve missed you so! Did you miss me?

You better have….. If you know what’s good for you!

Smooches!

~MB~