The Big Book of Fuck

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The Big Book of Fuck Coloring Book!!!

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Fuck it. me. you. off. this. everything

Coming Soon!!

The Big Book of Fuck Coloring Book!!!

Fuck it. me. you. off. them. everything

Keep me informed about The Big Book of Fuck!

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Fuck
Fuck it
Fuck you
Fuck everything
Fucker
Fuck me
Fuck my life
Fuck this
Fuck this job
Clusterfuck
Fuckster
I’m fucked
Wanna fuck?
Oh fuck
Fuck yeah!
FuckFuckFuck
Fucking Fuck
Fuck a duck
Fucking pissed
What the fuck?
Fucked up
Oh fucking hell
Fuck that
Fuck everybody
Fuck him
Fuck her
Fuck Y’all
Fuck all y’all
Fuck y’uns
Fuck no!
Fuck you, you fucking fuck!
Fuck bucket
Da fuck?
Are you fucking serious?
Why the fuck would you believe that?
Fuck yinz
Fuck youz
Fuckin’ A!
Unfuck yourself
Go fuck yourself
fuctasti</p>
<p style=”text-align: center;”>Fuck
Fuck it
Fuck you
Fuck everything
Fucker
Fuck me
Fuck my life
Fuck this
Fuck this job
Clusterfuck
Fuckster
I’m fucked
Wanna fuck?
Oh fuck
Fuck yeah!
FuckFuckFuck
Fucking Fuck
Fuck a duck
Fucking pissed
What the fuck?
Fucked up
Oh fucking hell
Fuck that
Fuck everybody
Fuck him
Fuck her
Fuck Y’all
Fuck all y’all
Fuck y’uns
Fuck no!
Fuck you, you fucking fuck!
Fuck bucket
Da fuck?
Are you fucking serious?
Why the fuck would you believe that?
Fuck yinz
Fuck youz
Fuckin’ A!
Unfuck yourself
Go fuck yourself
fucktastic</p>

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The Mice and The Cattle Prod

Once upon a time, a girl was so in love with a boy, she would do anything to make him happy. Including move into a run down 1970’s mobile home just because the owner would grant the boy permission to hunt on the land surrounding the trailer park (which consisted of 5 trailers on a dead end dirt road in southern Missouri.)

So this girl (me) was from the city.  And I didn’t understand country living, much less country living in a run down trailer with a tin roof. We could hear the constant pitter patter of little mouse feet above our head at all times. It didn’t matter how many traps we put out, these were obviously intelligent mice who could avoid being caught in our simplistic traps. One evening, when the little prancing of mice like sugar plum fairies was more than we could handle, Phil got up from his comfy living room chair and started rummaging around the spare room, y’know the one with all the junk piled up that didn’t get unpacked in the move. He comes out with this long yellow rod.

“WHAT is that?”

“My cattle prod.”

“Why do you need that?”

He didn’t answer. Over the past twenty years, I’ve come to understand that he doesn’t always feel it necessary to answer me. Even if I ask like a kid, repeating myself over and over. He’s just silent. He doesn’t hear me. At. All.  He’s concocting or scheming or thinking or something. All I know is that it doesn’t involve me. And if it does, I think I’m supposed to be reading his mind, but I’m still not good at that yet. Maybe in the next twenty years I’ll get better.

 

Ting.

Ta-ting. Ting. Tang.

Ta-ting. Ting. Ting.

Phil has got the cattle prod, business end to the ceiling, zapping the mice. They’re zipping around up there like a huge batch of popcorn. And Phil can’t stop laughing. And neither can I.

Ting.

Ta-ting. Ting. Tang.

Ta-ting. Ting. Ting.

* * *

So one night while we were sleeping in our bedroom, far, far away from the kitchen end of the trailer, I heard noises. Like mice. IN my cabinets. I wake Phil up. He grabs his pellet gun.

We sneak vewy, vewy quietly to the kitchen.  He motions for me to open the cabinets. I tiptoe to them. Slowly reach my arm out. Before I grab the cabinet door, I make eye contact with Phil. He’s ready.

He nods.

I fling open the door.

pop. pop-pa-pop-pop.

“Got’em!!!” He yells.  And that he did. The mouse was dead. He walked over and grabbed it’s tail and flung it out the front door.

And then it hit me.

I am now officially a redneck. Not because we were mouse hunting in the middle of the night. Nah.  But because we were mouse hunting butt-ass naked in the middle of the night in a run down trailer in southern Missouri.

Butt. ass. nekkid.

INTJ

* *Because I’m feeling challenged–I needed to read this. (p.s. i really need some alone time. like months of it.)* *

originally posted march 8, 2010

Have you ever taken the Myers-Briggs personality test? You should–and then tell me what you are! The Myers-Briggs tests are usually not free, but there are some that are free and probably just as accurate. You can try here or Google something for yourself.

INTJ = Introversion, iNtuition, Thinking Judgment

I found out only 1-2% of the population is INTJ. Really? I am not alone?? I mean, I like to be alone–a lot–in a physical sense. After discussing certain INTJ traits with another INTJ, I stumbled upon an INTJ website written for you to help you deal with me. (Oh the beauty) LOL

I couldn’t stop laughing when I read the FAQ’s. Here’s one. If you don’t know me, you won’t really understand this. If you do know me, you’ll laugh as hard as I did. (The truth is always funniest, isn’t it?)

Q: What are the pet peeves of INTJs?

A: Thanks for asking. Our pet peeves are:

  • We dislike surprises.
  • We hate having decisions made for us. We’re INTJs; nobody is more qualified to make decisions than us.
  • We dislike getting gifts, as it burdens us with the need to reciprocate.
  • We hate small talk, gossip, and relationship/people talk. Really anything mundane is beneath us.
  • We get particularly annoyed by attacks on our intelligence, competence, and integrity.
  • We hate it when people try to manipulate us.
  • Insincerity and lying.
  • People interfering with our alone time.
  • People who are chronically late.
  • People who talk incessantly. We will just engage our “nod and smile” autopilot and mentally go somewhere else.
  • People who are stupid, arrogant, opinionated, and/or closed minded.
  • Crooked/badly placed pictures.
  • Superficiality (body piercings, pimped out cars, brightly colored anything).
  • Salespeople. INTJs are immune to emotional manipulation and have zero tolerance for lines of bullshit.
  • Incorrect grammar and word usage.
  • People who waste our time (see Salespeople, people interfering with our alone time, etc.).

And seriously–I agree with 100% of the above.

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Voice Commands

I seriously couldn’t wait to post this story. Phil and I must have laughed for a half hour about it when it happened around 2am and then again just as hard when we woke up. And this is one of those stories that will be around a lifetime!

Remember that our bed is in the living room because we’re remodeling? There’s a door we let the dogs out of in there, so when Patches got up at 2am and scratched to go out, I was not a happy camper. Okay, happy that she’s a puppy and not piddling on my floor, but it was -23 degrees overnight and our poor furnace is not keeping up. I also don’t sleep with much between me and the covers. Can you say COLD?

Plus, I think I’m getting sick. Phil didn’t know I was letting the dog out so he asked, “Honey? Are you okay? You’ve been making a lot of noise and you’re not sleeping good.” I was all stuffy and my head hurt and I was having bad dreams.

But I stopped whining long enough to let the dog out.

Then I let her back in.

Before I could get back to bed, she was already on my side, snow-covered paws walking circles in my little comfy spot. I was not about to lay down on a snowy bed.

So I found a nice fleece blanket (soft!) and rather than turn the obnoxious bright lights on, I opened my cell phone as a nightlight.

I accidentally hit the voice command button, so while I’m trying to straighten the fleece blanket over my snowy side of the bed, the voice command lady saying with her robotic voice, “Please say a command.” Pause. “Please say a command.”

Phil: “Butthole.”

Robotic lady: “Please say a command.”

Phil, louder: “Butt. Hole.”

Robotic lady: “I’m sorry. Did you say, ‘Call Phil?'”

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