Haters B Hatin'

Dear White People Who Try To Act Ghetto,


Please stop bitching about not having a job and about people not taking you seriously when you write on facebook something similar to this:


“Y U muthafukas be hatin on me?  U don’t even no me an u run yo muthafukin mouth bout me an my fam,  Bitches done even know da way I am so fuck yall and don’t mess wit me.”


Wow!  It’s amazing that you’re not the CEO of a Fortune 500 company by now!  And you wonder why they won’t  let you work the front counter at McDonald’s.  You’re relegated to burger flipper or fry girl/guy because even Mickie D’s doesn’t trust you to deal directly with the public.


But I’m compassionate, because I know it was difficult to grow up in a nice brick home with your own room, nice clothes, family who loved you, and a car when you turned 16.  It’s no wonder, with this most difficult life you’ve had, that you turned to the ghetto mentality.  [Rolling eyes.]


Despite my sarcasm, I will try to help you by outlining some things to avoid saying on facebook, Twitter, or in your daily life.


1.  Baby daddy/baby mama - White people!  Please stop saying this!  In fact, everyone stop saying this.  Basically, you’re just telling people, “I’ll knock up/get knocked up by anyone and I won’t even remember their name.”
2.  You know what I’m sayin’? - No, we don’t know what you’re saying, because you’re stupid and we’re not.
3.  You don’t know me! - Unless you’ve taken a time machine and gone back to appear on The Jerry Springer Show circa 1991, this phrase should never again be uttered.
4.  Haters be hatin’. -  No.  Intelligent people be hatin’.
5.  Typing “da” or “tha.” - The word is “the.”  It’s three fucking letters!  The average 4-year-old can spell it, and I know you can too.  Stop trying so hard to make yourself look ignorant.
6.  Yeahhhhh, boyeeeee. - The only way white people should be allowed to use this phrase is if they are Vanilla Ice or one of the original members of the Beastie Boys.  Otherwise, people want to slap the shit out of you when you say this.


Now, don’t get me wrong.  The occasional ghetto slang is okay if you’re trying to be funny, but if you truly think that talking like that makes you a badass, then you are dumber than a box of hammers.

If you seriously think talking like this makes you a “gangsta,” white people are rolling their eyes at you, black people are laughing behind your back, Hispanic people are just relieved you’re not trying to imitate them, and Asian people are glad that there is one more person’s ass they will kick on the SAT.


So, follow my guidelines and one day you could become assistant manager at McDonald’s, or maybe even at Kohl’s.  If what I’ve written here pisses you off….well, I’ve just got one thing to say:  Haters be hatin!




Sincerely,


Opto-Mom

Newsflash - Cement Asses and Frozen Armadillos

And now, it’s time for another edition of Opto-Mom’s Newsflash.  But first, I want to remind you that I'm doing a reality TV blog called Unvirtual Reality.  Current shows I am covering are American Idol and The Bachelor.  So put your crazy pants on and check it out! 

Now, on to the Newsflash:

PUT SOME CEMENT IN YOUR BUTT

A woman in South Florida apparently took the song, “Baby Got Back” just a little too literally, and decided that she wanted an L.A. face and an Oakland booty.

So did she go to her family doctor? A plastic surgeon? Oh, noooooo! This lady goes to a transgendered woman (still technically a man), named Oneal Morris, who was masquerading as a doctor, to get butt implants.

Does this piss any of you women off? It must be nice to have such a tiny little ass that you have to go through surgery to make it look good. I could help some of these poor girls out if they need a butt transplant, as I would be happy to share some of mine.  I should really win some type of philanthropy award.

And we haven’t even gotten to the best part yet. Faux-Doctor Morris cut her “patient” open and injected a mixture of Fix-A-Flat, superglue, cement and mineral oil into the buttocks area.

Hey, don’t judge! Mineral oil is good for you, right?

So this patient is now under the care of REAL doctors, and she has some major issues that they are trying to fix. Really? Who would have thought that letting some stranger squeeze cement and stuff under the skin of your ass would cause problems?

It seems that perhaps Mr./Ms. Oneal Morris has been doing a little surgery on herself, as well. Here are pictures of the fake doctor:

Baby got....something.

Here's a little tip for everyone:  If a doctor asks you to come to their house and lay on the counter, and then they get out a bottle of Jack Daniels, a steak knife, and some tire sealant....they are probably not a real doctor.  I know it seems like I'm generalizing a bit, but I'm pretty sure you can take this advice to the bank.

HIT ME WITH YOUR BEST CRITTER

As you may or may not know, the armadillo is the state varmint of Texas.

Ok, I don't know if that's really true, but there sure are a lot of those fuckers down here, so we're going with it for this story. 

A man in Pleasant Grove, Texas, was trying to sell a frozen armadillo carcass to a woman in a parking lot.  Apparently, the woman was going to eat the critter, because, you know, we don't have any freakin' beef or anything down here in cattle country.

There was some dispute over the price of the armored delicacy, so the man started throwing the frozen animal at the woman, causing bruising on her leg and chest.

That's how we roll in the Lone Star State!  If you piss us off, we beat you with a frozen armadillo.

You've been warned....

Dear Opto-Mom: Response to The Queen's Question

First of all, I would like to remind fans of reality TV  shows to check out my new blog, Unvirtual Reality.  We are currently discussing The Bachelor and will add American Idol when it starts next week.  I've only got like 3 followers, so I would appreciate it if you would get your sweet asses over there right now and make me feel important!

After my last Dear Opto-Mom post, I received a question from The Queen.  I am certainly not one to reject the needs of royalty, so I am giving her my advice and sharing it with the rest of you peons, as well.  You're welcome.

 Dear Opto-Mom:
I'm pretty sure my neighbor is getting laid on a regular basis. We live in an apartment complex with very thin walls. He's either screwing the hell out of his wife,, or he needs to see a doctor, cause if he's making those sounds when he craps,, it can't be good.... Should I go check on him?


Dearest Queen: 
Ahhhhhh, the apartment complex. I fondly remember the days of thin walls, car alarms, meowing cats, and horny neighbors. Our first apartment after we got married was right below a sheriff's deputy's apartment. When we first moved in, we thought, "Wow! This is great! No one will break into our apartment or car with that deputy car parked out front."


However, said deputy was a damned freak! It should also be noted that he was a right portly fellow and when he got busy with his lady friends, tectonic plates began shifting and the patterns of the tides were altered.

And this fellow had STAMINA. Holy bedbangers, did he have stamina!?! One time, I heard the Barry White start up on his cassette player, and I knew it was on. Then the banging of the bed against the floor (which was actually our ceiling) began. I went and took a bath, shaved my legs, dried my hair, and he was still going strong!


The hubs and I thought about trying the “if you can’t lick ‘em, join ‘em” tactic. And I do NOT mean that literally, regarding the licking ‘em or the joining ‘em, because just ewwwwwww.  But this Master of Love was quite noisy, and his grunts and groans made me laugh. Just for the record, husbands are not generally amused when you laugh while you’re supposed to be in the throes of passion. So we usually just turned on some death metal to try and drown out The Big Loud Copulator.
 
I’m convinced that his lady friends had to go to the emergency room for a tune up and fluid check after visiting with him. And possibly some sort of front-end alignment.
 
But my advice to you, My Queen, is to record the sounds of their voracious love-making and then set it to some background music. Kinda like a soundtrack!  You can just go with the basics (“Let’s Get It On”) or could get really creative here and use different songs throughout the boinking process.
 
For example, during the foreplay section, you could play "The Stroke."  If it sounds like the wife is getting her head smacked into the wall, you could go with "Bang Your Head," and follow up with, "My Neck, My Back."  During the loudest part, use, "Let's Get Loud."  When things sound like they are taking a bit of a kinky turn (you hear farm animal noises or whatever), go with, "The Sweetest Taboo."  For the big finale, I suggest, "Boom Boom Boom."  You get the idea!
 
After you have made the soundtrack, make lots of CD copies and hand them out to the neighbors.  It would be a nice touch to make an album cover with the couple's picture in it.

However, if you find out it's the crapping problem, just tell him to eat more fiber.  But the whole coordinating a sex CD sounds a lot more fun, so I hope that's it.
 

Dear Opto-Mom: Pervert Wife, Stealing Granddaughter, and Whiny Co-Worker

First of all, I would like to say, "Welcome back to my blog!" Sorry I've been absent, but we are all moved into our new house and I have internet service again, so I'm BAAAA-AAAACK! (More on the new house later.)


Secondly, since I've had trouble keeping up with this one blog, I thought it only reasonable to start a second blog. Yeah, that makes sense. Whereas this blog is very random and willy nilly in nature, my 2nd blog is more specialized: Reality T.V. I am currently watching and discussing The Bachelor, so come on over to Unvirtual Reality and let's get snarky on some bitches!


Just a reminder about the Dear Opto-Mom segments: These are actual questions taken from Dear Abby articles, but instead of including Abby's wise and trusted advice, I have included my own unwise and totally irresponsible suggestions.

_____________________________

DEAR OPTO-MOM: I met my husband, "Jerome," two years ago. During our courtship, he helped me to find faith. Because of that, I wanted a completely honest relationship with him and confessed to a "less than moral" experience that occurred several years before I met him. Apparently he was able to accept it, because he proposed and we have been married for several months.

 

 Recently, however, Jerome has been saying it's bothering him and he doesn't know how to let it go. I'm angry and hurt that something that happened long ago is now causing problems in my marriage. It has made me question why I was honest with him.

 I'm afraid Jerome will never forgive me. He says he feels as though he has to compete with my past and doesn't feel he can live up to it. How do I tackle this problem? I can't change my past, I can't take back what I told him, and I can't do anything to change my husband. Please help. -- HAUNTED BY THE PAST

DEAR HAUNTED:  What a lovely story. Now, tell us what your big secret is. I promise we won’t laugh or think less of you. {crossing fingers} Were you a prostitute? Did you cheat on a math test in high school? Did you read the National Enquirer while you were standing in line at Wal-Mart and then put it back without buying it?


 Seriously, you can’t write a letter like that and then hold out on the best part. Ok, I’ll guess some more, and you let me know when I’ve got it. Slept with a priest? Replaced your grandma’s Alzheimer’s medicine with Tic-Tacs? Worked your way through college on a stripper pole?


 Come on! I’m working my ass off over here. Just tell us! Were you a waitress who spit in someone’s food? Did you leave a flaming bag of poo on the doorstep of some dude who dumped you? Are you a child molester?


 If you don’t tell me what it is right now, I’m just going to assume you’re a child molester. Ok….that’s it! You want to play smart with me, I’m going to turn you in to the proper authorities as a child molester.  I hope Jerome leaves you forever.  You’re sick, you know that? Don’t ever write to me again, perv!

 _____________________________

DEAR OPTO-MOM:  My granddaughter, who is 18, had a child last year. She kept the baby and dropped out of school. She is now working and has returned to school to get her GED. My husband has always loved her and helps her financially.

My problem is she has twice stolen from a fund I keep for our church. Although she is the only one who could have done it, my husband refuses to believe it. I now insist on locking everything up.

Abby, if she had asked for the money either time, her grandfather would have given it to her. I think she gets an adrenaline rush from stealing. What can I do about this? -- AT A LOSS IN SOUTH CAROLINA


DEAR POOR GRANDMA: What the fuck is wrong with kids these days? Stealing from a church? I think you should chop off one of her fingers every time she steals. But wait, then she would just apply for disability and milk the taxpayers for the rest of her life. And I‘m sure should would continue to milk Gramps, as well.  "Poor little me.  I don't have any fingers.  Boo hoo hoo.  Can I have $500, please, Gramps?  Just stick it between my freshly pedicured toes (since I no longer have any fingers)."

 Seriously though, Granny. Get yourself a nanny-cam and put it in the room where you keep the money. That way you will have proof to show your husband since he obviously takes the word of a teenager over his own wife. And when you get the proof, please tell him that Opto-Mom said he’s an asshole.

_____________________________

DEAR OPTO-MOM:  I share a small office space with a co-worker, "Tammy," who is going through a nasty divorce. At first I tried to be supportive and listen to her problems, but now I think it was a mistake. I now dread going to work because I know I'll have to listen to a litany of complaints as soon as I walk through the door.

I have tried to encourage Tammy to talk to a priest or a psychologist, but she refuses because she's embarrassed. Is it time to inform our manager? I don't want to get Tammy in trouble, but I feel I'm incapable of giving her the kind of support she seems to need. I'm not sure how much longer I can take this. Please help. -- WELL-INTENTIONED IN MINNEAPOLIS

Dear Well-Intentioned: Oh, sure! Tell the boss so Tammy will get fired. That’s JUST what she needs right in the middle of this suck-ass time in her life. She probably talks incessantly about her divorce because she’s tired of hearing about how your little Suzy went poo-poo in the big potty last night or about little Timmy’s huge win at the state Parcheesi tournament. Way to be a great friend, ya bitch! Maybe next week you can have her car repossessed.

_____________________________

Now, don't forget to go check out Unvirtual Reality to meet the crazies trying to marry Bachelor Ben!

 

Sexy Stuff for Your Kids

Well, it’s pretty much official: we are buying a house!


Halle-freakin-lujah!


We are keeping most of our furniture, but I wanted new bedding and decor for our bedroom and for Miss Smarty Pants’s room.


So, I got online to do a little browsing. I decided to look for cute stuff for MSP first. Since I was pretty sure she didn’t want her room to look like a 1970s-era Florida Motel 6, I searched for “kids bedding.”


I’m sure you’re relieved to hear that I found some really weird stuff; otherwise, this would just be a post about me shopping online, and that would be boring as shit.


In the kid department, I was expecting to find stuff like this for a 10-year-old girl:

However, I was NOT expecting to find stuff like this:


Well, this is TOTALLY appropriate for the child who sleeps with his or her chosen mate.

“Sexy and Pretty” is a great theme for a 10-year-old girl, wouldn’t you agree? And there are two of them from which you can choose. Golly gee, we live in a great country!

Perhaps “Sexy Poker,” complete with the naked woman silhouette is a better option for a boy.

There was a whole series of these for the kid who enjoys online dating. “Say, baby, what’s your sign?”

This one was made from one of Andrew Dice Clay's jackets, circa 1988.

Though these are pretty fabulous for any child, my daughter decided to go with a peace sign theme. Whew!

Because the search for bedroom stuff was so much fun, I decided to check out bathroom stuff. In case you’re not aware, the trash cans, shower curtains, soap dispensers, tissue holders, etc., are collectively called “bathroom ensembles,” which I subsequently learned is code for “outrageously overpriced items for your crapper room.”

 Seriously, people, $150 dollars for trash cans and soap holders for the room where you take a shit? Some of the trash cans are $40-$50 alone! It’s a place to throw away snot rags and tampons, for Pete’s sake. The damn thing should make me cookies for that price!


It pissed me off so much, I decided to just focus on cool shower curtains.


Ladies, this one is for you.

Please do not shoot tiny circles out of your abdomen.

This one would make some of my family feel right at home. Wish they had one with prison bars.

If you can’t afford a real chandelier, but still want that little extra touch of class, this is the one for you.

I’m not sure I could make poopy with Edward glaring at me.

Somebody get the plunger!  Momma's stuck in the toilet again!

This one is titled North Carolina Outer Banks Vicinity. Wow! I can’t tell you how long I’ve been searching for this exact shower curtain.

DC Transit Map. It would be more helpful if they marked the areas where you are most likely to be the victim of a homocide.

I suggest you get this one for your kid’s bathroom. You will get 50% off if you also purchase one of the sleezy comforters shown above.

There’s nothing I enjoy more when showering than studying chemistry.

If sushi is really this important in your life, please seek psychological help.

Here's a great one if you like to decorate for Christmas? I am just so disturbed by this one, yet I cannot seem to look away from Santa's ass.

But I think I’ve narrowed it down to these two. I would love your opinions on which to purchase for that extra bit of fabulousness for my bathroom.

Classic film

Or Culture and Literature

Happy Hallow-Christma-Giving

I’m so confused. (Yeah, there’s a shocker.)


Is it Christmas already? Did I sleep through Halloween and Thanksgiving, or did we just skip all that shit and go straight to the Ho Ho Ho Season?


Oh, it’s Halloween today? Well, ya could knock me over with a feather, because I went to The Wal-Mart looking for some Halloween stuff, and thought I had stepped into a Winter-fucking-Wonderland.


There were Christmas dresses and wreaths and lights and various holiday doo-dads all over the place. And hidden behind a lovely selection of Hickory Farms Holiday meat baskets, I finally found 2 bags of low-budget Halloween candy (you know, the kind with mostly those crappy-tasting jawbreakers?), a Superman cape, and a hooker wig.


Luckily, I already had a costume for Miss Smarty Britches and myself (so that hooker wig's still available, ladies!). We took part in a haunted birthday party last weekend. MSB was the Grim Reaper, and I was a zombie.

Just add red lipstick, and I'm Courtney Love!

We really had a lot of fun scaring the shit out of little kids. Yeah, we’re mean.


The kids went on a “haunted” walk through the woods. MSB was up in a treehouse, so it looked like she was floating, and she threw plastic spiders on the kids when they walked past her.


They stuck my ass out in the woods by some fake headstones with a spooky light. I laid down in front of the headstones, and my cousin dumped two trash bags full of leaves on me.


When the kids walked by, I stuck my hand up out of those leaves, and the screaming and crying began! WooooHoooo! I fucking ROCK as a zombie! Then I limped after them a la Jason Vorhees, eliciting even more peewee panic.


So, tonight MSB is trick-or-treating with my sister and her two-year-old, who is the cutest stinking li’l cowboy EVER!

And I’m at home with more than 5 minutes to myself, so I decided to grace you with a Halloween blog post.


Now, last Halloween I did a post about how all of the female costumes were slutty, naughty, or sexy. I suggest you read it HERE, or my zombie self will come to your house and eat your brains.


This year, I've decided to post about what some of you people do to your poor dogs every Halloween. That's right....doggie costumes! Along with what I think these pups would say to their owners if they could talk.

"I hope you get warts."

"Somebody better save me a turkey leg."

"A cat?  You dressed me up as a fucking cat?"

"I'm a wild and craaaazy guy!"

"What are the guys down at the park gonna say?"

"Oh yeah.  I'm cooking you up something REAL nice.  Check your shoe in the morning."

"I couldn't be Toto.  Nooooo, I've gotta be that skipping bitch Dorothy!"

"Gilligaaaaan!"

"The bitches love a baller!"

"I'm the bride, and this is MY day!  I said I wanted roses, not no cheap ass daisies!  It's MY DAY, DAMMIT!"

"Kiss my ass.  Really."

"I'm really more of a jeans kind of girl."

"Garsh, our owners are creative...NOT!"

"I am Bark Vader."

"Shit on your rug, I will."

"I bit the sheriff...."

"What do you mean you don't know nuthin' 'bout birthin' no puppies?"

"I never get my own costume!  I always have to wear my cousin, the chihuahua's hand-me-downs.  NO quiero Taco Bell!"

"What am I, Jurassic Bark?"

"I am SO chewing your hat later, sailor boy."

"Yeah, I'm Paula Deen's dog."

"Slash can't rock out without his hat and guitar.  Bring me my fucking hat and guitar!"

"Hey, Marmaduke.  Wassup, big boy?"

"Weiner dogs dressed as hot dogs:  yep, that's original."

"Pimpin' ain't easy."

"You've jacked my hair all up.  Do you have any idea how much my salon charges?"

"But I'm not even a hound dog!"

"Have the lambs stopped crying, Clarice?"

So, there you go.  Hope you enjoyed this year's Halloween post.  And for cripe's sake, just let your doggie be a doggie!