Verbal Assault Vehicle: Fat Wives Club

Years ago, some Mr.-Ed-mouthed drama-queen idiot dolt of the vulvanic persuasion branded me a verbal assault vehicle.1


Punctuation is really just one of many crutches like stop signs and don’t-smoke-while-pumping-gas warnings that are only truly needed for stupid people who can’t think for themselves and need instruction they should already know in the first place. Don’t get me wrong. Who can’t figure out who goes next at the fucking stop sign or how loud is too loud when they’re with their fellow annoying ooohing-at-the-baby-shower-gift bitch girlfriends at a restaurant?

So here goes.

Everywhere, with the resilience of roaches, making scratching chalkboards into lullabies…

Fat Wives Club

Why do I consistently pick on them, you might ask? Well you don’t recognize the way they demean my kind on a daily basis.

Take the high road? Fuck you. Me… I’m going to verbally assault these people at every turn, every breathing moment I can until I die (and then my music will live on and do it for me), because… well like a good ass-whoopin always proves, people as ill-equipped as the ones I rail on should keep their fucking mouths shut. No mouth. No rail.

If you play obvious then I will counter with obvious.

Me: Make-up = Faggot. You: Fat = Grimace.

My Girl: Gorgeous. Yours: Well at least she has a state ID to document she’s “female”.

Me: “Freak” with zero debt. You: “Normal” mortgaged for the rest of your slave existence.

And the tally is: I win. I lose. Doesn’t matter.

Get the game?

Besides these issues only exist because they started it. They start it every time. I never walk around bothering anyone until they bother me first. They always say “I bring it on myself” because of the way I choose to look. Pathetically average khaki flip-flop-wearing zeros go get their friends and girlfriends to point me out in their own so very specious way at the grocery store or any other public forum for that matter. I need to do a hidden camera documentary to reveal the unoriginal sameness of these daily encounters. It’s a brilliant double-edged sword. Great ploy. But I can only use the experiences in my life… the real ones I know, which of course becomes criminal to some because I’m using them to untrap a trap rather than allow the trap to be trapped again by beating around the bush, instead of stabbing right at the core of the fucking heart of this.

People who fuck what they want are shaking their heads yes.

People who do not fuck what they want are shaking their heads no.

I’ll spare you any “N-word” (not my fucking quotes, just like I don’t use sneakers, veggies, or goodies either) analogies but I will say this: Suggesting I be civil with these people = asking a black man to sit down and enjoy a KKK convention. I know I know… the black man was born that way and I wasn’t, right? Wrong. That’s just more thinly veiled bullshit to get away with the same behavior until it gets caught and you move on to the next group to treat like second-class citizens because you’re the second-class citizen.

Now you say, “Well you’re just the same as them by discriminating back in the polar opposite way.” Wrong. Here’s why:

If you hit me 10 times without my provoking you, I get 10 hits back. I don’t become you until the 11th hit. Every one up to 10 is credit or payback which is justified. Also, if my hits are harder and sting more, too fucking bad. Maybe you shouldn’t have hit in the first place or maybe you should have chosen another situation.

This too:

You shoot me. I die. It’s homicide.
You shoot me. I live. I shoot you back. You die. It’s justified homicide.
One is jail and one is not. One is a crime and one is not. The court of law would not make a distinction between the two if they were the same.

Plus even if that “I’m being the same as them” concept was true it unfortunately won’t stop me because… well…

They fucking have it comingThey brought it on themselves… shineless scum (which is the real issue of all of this)… so let’s get to it.

Let’s begin with one half of the American Cracker Couple: Fat Wives Club. (I’ll get to the guys later. See: Save the best for last.)

Here are a few simple rules one must abide by to assure lifetime charter membership:

First off you do not have to be fat to be in the Fat Wives Club. Fat is a state of mind more than anything else…but it’s also fat…so if you chubby mother fuckers thought you were off the hook for a second there…

Now the adjective bitch slap (you gotta read it fast…yes you Tourette’s mother fuckers too):

You must be a hair-set curled bangs jumpsuit being eaten by your ass cheeks with heels pedicured E.T. tendriled evolution toe tree-climber havin’ ass longer than Florida wider than Texas unless that’s supposed to be inflatable-furniture-type this close to the smallest crumb of one notch above nothing when you were in high school but those days are so fucking dead and gone while you’re wearing whatever make-up scheme you were calling other women sluts for a year ago with your blonde highlights and ignorant unworldly everybody’s weird but you bitchin’ about garbage so you leave little irritating notes everywhere in your t-shirt over dress shirt everything pink this season Ugg moon boots knee-high moccasin fashion victim piercing laugh Friends try-hard tragedy but you suck a pretty mean dick when no one is looking with your Jane magazine readin’ reasons why Maxim magazine can even sell one fucking issue because you’re a walking living breathing poignant excuse/reason why men should beat off brand of whore.

It’s no doubt that without a two bulldogs fighting their way out of a bag backside revealing your grocery store line irritant and fake smile crow’s feet laden generic non-lucid expression with mom jeans belt one foot from your armpits three feet from the floor Lynn Cheney book chat fanny pack wearin’ boring small talk butterball husband nagging Magnum P.I. fantasizing get the best dick only after the Playboy you pretend not to notice under the mattress but you’re too fucking nosey and intrusive not to notice and sure it’s just a coincidence you happened to tie that sweater over your fat fucking “you’re right it was cold this morning but it’s not now and hmmm where can I put my sweater” so you just coincidently have to hide your disgusting wide load ass because birthday cakes for Jesus at Christmas and redefining Pictionary as a torture weapon are not key to your existence.

Your membership may be denied or revoked at any time for any reason(s) we deem necessary.

If you fit the look like absolute shit when you’re naked no that’s not two people bungee jumping those are your tits and we gotta lie to you because your baby is actually the ugliest little bastard we’ve ever hurt our eyes with while you’re stuck with the pitiful level of the shed and garage are more appealing than you type of geek who would actually have to buy your unwanted “pie” because you get plenty of attention from the ones you don’t want but keep dangling that carrot while carrying your outdated shoes in the mall with your nasty panty-hosed rats and sandpaper heels all out and exposed scaring/scarring/scaring children while you think wearing something black with jeans and heels is dressed up or edgy and walking like you’re carrying a quarter in your ass while nastified with elbow fat and a triple chinned upside down Halloween gourd chested watermelon bellied don’t know sandals are atrocious at any time for any fucking reason and you drown yourself in that disgusting foul fume you call “perfume” with the douchebag taggin’ along carrying your bags with the same fucking pants... and the same fucking shirt… the same fucking combed to the side hair… singing the same fucking trite unthreatening songs… in the same fucking car… driving to the same fucking worker bee job… in the same fucking boring suburb… watching the same fucking TV when you get home… on the same fucking couch… going to bed at the same fucking time… fucking the same boring way… waking to the same fucking alarm… with the same bad breathed hairy no one else really wants ‘em so I’m stuck with ‘em cause I can’t get what I truly want spouse day after day after day after day after day after miserable day after day after repetitive day after day after where’s the match so I can light myself on fire and jump off a cliff emotionless bacterial ridden mold day… you’re in the running for membership.


You can be clean, primped, boring, painfully predictable to the point of assuring the contempt of those who know you best, never take any true risk in front of any real audience under any real spotlight but be wild, crazy, fun, sexy, and appealing all at the same time.

You voted for Bush because you’re not really part of the American Human Garbage Assembly Line… or the 51% shit. All those Hollywood entertainers who voted for Kerry are all dumb (what do they know) because they haven’t figured out that your life is so much more appealing proven by the many fruits discussed above in your by-laws. Those Hollywood losers are actually stuck fucking a fantasy, enjoying themselves every moment, traveling throughout the world on private jets away from troglodytes like you, not considering suicide as a way out of the hell you’re stuck in because you’re such a potent value to our society. They never get to experience the uplifting eight months of gray plus four months of old-people-die-from-the-humidity-and-we-pay-tolls- to-wait-in-traffic-jams warmth and enlightenment of your lovely hometown. That turkey-gobbler-necked Bill O’Reilly says they’re “dopey” and you look just as shitty as he does so you must be right too. They just don’t have your “smarts” and common streetwise sense. Besides, they don’t really have to do hard work like applying Pledge to an already clean coffee table to pay their bills like you do. Keeping house is hard work I know. A quick nobody with nothing anyone wants is a genius and a moron who makes millions per movie is an idiot. I, no we, fucking get it.

You’re not really an annoying cunt when you talk on your cell phone to your fellow nobodies about nothing while at the cashier in a store because everyone around you realizes that you’re super super duper important and it just can’t wait. They just can’t resist eavesdropping because you’re a magnetic super super duper star who glows like a jewel. Everything is about you. How ugly you are in the morning carves that one in stone.

Everyone believes you when you roll your eyes at things that prove your obvious insignificance. In fact you’re like a pied piper mesmerizing all the lost souls that need to be prayed for. Everybody Loves Raymond teaches you because everyone knows that Ray guy makes hot women cum in their panties.

Things that don’t count:

  • Your husband has internet porn, golf stories, and a hairy back and ass (latter-day Greg Brady type of shit).
  • Your husband stares at every other female with all of their limbs and points out his favorites every time they pop up on the TV screen (probably while picking his nose).
  • Your daughter is an Aqua Net whore behind your back because she never had a healthy role model when it comes to sex or hair.
  • Your daughter cum-guzzles because your lead reveals her days are numbered and she’s going to be stuck with someone like him.
  • All the kids at your son’s school make fun of him because you hit him… no, pummeled him… no, flogged him like a dead horse with your ugly stick and lack of composure.
  • Those stamping-out-gorilla-cookies jokes about your face still haunt your inner child.
  • Those fake nails you got along with a million other accessories specifically designed to divert attention from said gorilla-cookie face.
  • When “body shape” comes up on one of those diet forms you resist the urge to write “fraggle” but you still hum “Down in Fraggle Rock” (clap clap).
  • If you ever fell on your back you’d dry up in the sun like a turtle because you’re a Weeble that does wobble and does fall down.
  • You tap your feet to “Uptown Girl” and daydream that Billy is singing it just for you while you try to forget the husband you are stuck with.
  • Besides Creed, deep down you know if there really is a God and he really knows all the things he’s supposed to know then he’ll definitely hate your guts too.

So to conclude:

A little boy haircut no arch in your foot stomach flap(s) neck roll basketball-sized crotch area raccoon eyes makeup beaver meets hamster storing food cheeks Knots Landing ended 15 years ago and so did the hair scowl divots and ditches of the forehead life is enviable.

Three-quarter-length pants with perfectly white tennis shoes dangling ugly fake gold earrings gutless appearance of the “I just want to be comfortable” nothing unique, shocking, or engaging crowd so I can use the fallacy of “morals” and being “humble” even though I secretly wish I was rich with my name in lights as the reason I never engage in any activities I was never invited to anyway walking hand in hand with my every-man who I “love” because I confuse sentiment with true feelings is something to strive for.

The smell of perm solution and fake nails, the sound of your shrieking laugh, the supple touch of your beanbag-chair body and the taste of your ‘70s bush should attract sexy hunks but the world is unfair. You’re just misunderstood and there isn’t enough Fabio to go around. Poor you.

Ugly is real.
Pretty is fake.
Fat is healthy.
Skinny is unhealthy.
Dumb and poor are real life and hard work.
Smart and rich are superficial and easy.
I’m stupid.
You’re smart.


Pretty is real.
Ugly is fake.
Skinny is healthy.
Fat is unhealthy.
Smart and rich are real life and hard work.
Dumb and poor are superficial and easy.
You’re stupid.
I’m smart.

1 You gotta read the whole thing and pay attention while using a functioning brain or of course you’ll get lost.

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