After two 12 plus hour days on the road, Boog and I could not wait to get home tonight.  Knowing we had left the Three Beotches in the capable hands of a good friend’s 19-year-old cat-owner stepson made it easier to go away.  He agreed to check on the cats daily, to scoop their litter boxes, and to feed and refill water as necessary.

He did not.

We came home to find out that he had been here once or twice as there were only two empty cans in the trash can and the remaining cans were in tact in the closet.  There was no water in two of three water dishes in the house.  A bag of crunchies in the laundry room had been chewed through and eaten from.  The litter boxes were overflowing, and the carpet has been violated in multiple spots.

Needless to say, I am fucking livid.  It is taking every ounce of self control I have not to call or to go over to their house right now.  And, Howdy Doody can forget the C note I promised him.  I will be going voodoo and psycho hose beast on his ass.

Without a doubt, this issue is to be continued …

Back to Sin City

Crossed Texas in one long day

Tucumcari blows chunks.

This is the post where I go all teenage boy.  Keep reading if you must.

I touched her boobs and I liked it
The feel of her silicone implants
I touched her boobs just to try it
I hope my husband don’t mind it
It felt so soft
It felt so tight
Don’t mean I’m in love tonight
I touched her boobs and I liked it
I liked it

Just like a backwards girl raised in the South, I felt my little sister up.   The new boobalas are pretty ridiculous for a small-framed 6 feet tall 140 pound skinny bitch.  Perhaps, I still do not understand the need to upgrade her full C’s to DD’s.  Whatever butters your biscuit … or her tickes her boyfriend’s pickle.  Oh, noes!  Where is the brain bleach? I must remove the image I just created in my own head.   However, I am absofuckinglutely sure of one thing:  she thinks they were worth every penny and that is just another reason my family is a freak show without a tent.   Expect more stories from the road and back at home … we are leaving Loozyana tomorrow.  Befittingly, this NSFW video must be played.  Yes, it has boobalas because I like them.

In keeping with my vow to the Cult of Insanity, I am posting about last night’s cherry bouquet sake adventure and back dating it for Saturday.  The psycho hose beast let her guard down and had a little too much to drink.  Here’s what was Plurked in case you are not a Pleep:

cajunvegan is Nucling frunk

Boog stated he took the iPhone away twice, and I insisted that I had to blog at 11:30 pm before I passed out.  Well, there you have it.  I am a lush.  My freak show family has driven me to drink every day that I have been here.  I apologize if I offended any of you in your threads.  I do not recall everything that took place.  I may have even had relations.   How’s that for pathetic?

I remembered today why I left Louisiana.  If it is even possible, I think Sybil is more psychotic than ever.   It is no secret that the women in my family have toxic relationships with each other, but this visit has solidified the fact that my mother and I will never be close again and that I am no longer going to allow her to emotionally blackmail me.  I will continue to medicate for everyone’s protection and try to break the cycle.   I never want to hear the words “You sound just like your mother” slide off Monkey Boy’s tongue or make him feel like he has to keep his feelings bottled inside and tread softly when around me.  If I ever find out he has to write about me using a pseudonym such as Sybil on his blog because he thinks I have multiple personality disorder, I would no longer care to exist.

Damn you, vile woman!  You’ve impeded my work since the day I escaped from your wretched womb.

Where do you think you’re going? Nobody’s leaving. Nobody’s walking out on this fun, old-fashioned family Christmas. No, no. We’re all in this together. This is a full-blown, four-alarm holiday emergency here. We’re gonna press on, and we’re gonna have the hap, hap, happiest Christmas since Bing Crosby tap-danced with Danny fucking Kaye. And when Santa squeezes his fat white ass down that chimney tonight, he’s gonna find the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nuthouse.

My Christmas Day was eerily similar to Clark Griswold’s, but I would not have had it any other way.