Thursday, May 27, 2010

Dear Bitches,

A'ight you fucking queens. The point of this blog is to write. The point of this blog is to entertain. The point of this blog is to give unfiltered, no holds barred, bitchy fucking advice. And guess what.....

IF YOU BITCHES DONT WRITE ME QUESTIONS, I GOT SHIT TO WRITE ABOUT!

/sigh.......now that that's off my chiseled manly chest. Ive talked to you. All of you. In a bar most likely, because who wants to be social in an environment without the best social lubricant, alcohol. And you all say you like reading this word vomit. So throw me a bone, and if your hung, a boner. Write a question, make up a question, plagerizes your mothers Dear Abby write-in. How am I supposed to talk an editor of a newspaper into publishing this drivle if there is nothing to bitch about.

Seriously, I spend 8 hours a day with a headset on staring at a computer screen at work, go home to play too many video games, and try to keep my B.A.C. at a lively level of .21 just to stay lucid enough to type (.32 is necessary for any sort of social interaction above a polite nod to the guy who blew me in the alley last weekend).

So send your friends dying of a broken heart, your mother trying to rekindle her gray and saggy love life, your boss trying to explain to his wife how he knocked up the 18 year old copy girl, your sister who is spends her nights trying to suck the whiskey out of any Irish man around, your brother who just got hit on by the star quarter back, or your dad, just trying to find a way to break through the monotany of middle age.

Send them all, to Bitch Please (care of b.please@hotmail.com) with all thier woes, thier needs, thier questions, thier desires, and thier numbers (only for hotties between 18-35). Send them to a bitter, jaded queen who will tell it like it is.

Hell, if its too much to ask them to email, just slip me a note in the bar this weekend. Im the one either coming out of the bathroom with a smile on my face, or the one passed out on the dance floor, unlight cigarette hanging from my mouth, empty flask of rum, empty cocktail glass, and the D.J.'s digits in my pocket.

Here's to the Breeze's,

The Bitch

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