———-Nobody is safe from my blog.
Not my family, friends, co-workers, pets, or even the woman at Target who bent over with her pinky pink g-sting stuck up her ass.
“Excuuuuuse me,” I should’ve said. “My son here likes your pink panties. Perhaps you’d like to show him your nipples, too.”
Nobody is safe.
That means you, Kimmy, who after two glasses of Chardonnay sticks plastic spiders up your nose for my amusement….
….and then flirts with the Adam Levine lookalike stud at the next table.
Or the Anti-Christ I worked for a couple years ago.
You. Are. Not. Safe. Biaaatch.
You who had me believing I couldn’t even staple two simple pieces of paper together.
You who had your Christian music blasting as I entered the room.
You were Ann Colture, Leona Helmsley, & Tyra Banks rolled into one.
Shame on you for making somebody feel reduced and belittled.
Now I can kick your nasty ass on this page.
I guess my only question is: what are you going to do about it, Punk?
Mr. Liverpool, you are no exception.
You may think you control things around the house with your complaining about burnt bacon /toast, mushy beans, and runny eggs, but all of your irritability about my lack of culinary skills will not make me a better cook, or the mail order Russian robot chick you always dreamed of.
The more you criticize, the more I’ll burn your stupid bacon.
The more I’ll blog about your bad behavior, babe.
J. remember how pissed you were about that “wet t-shirt” blog I wrote about you?
As I recall, you won that damn contest. 50 Dollars!
I’d say your damn lucky to have some nice boobs, girl.
None of you are safe.
I will find you.
I will expose you.
And you will end up in this blog.
Don’t test me.
–Dear, Reader, have you had any back lash from individuals who did not want to be in your blog? If so, does that bother you?