She walks, she talks, she crawls on her belly like a reptile. She's almost human. It's.....THE OPTO-MOM!!!

Sunday, May 27, 2012

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!



Friday, February 3, 2012

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:


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.


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....

Saturday, January 14, 2012

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.

Monday, January 9, 2012

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!