Fuck You Friday

I’ve got a mum and I am a mum. Which means I am going to be on the giving and

I’ve been hooked since the first episode of this unbelievably magnificent TV show. I have loyally stood by while all

Bitching Hour. Not actually an hour, but roughly the time between 5-7pm when you’ve got kids to feed, bathe, dress and

Ah, the humble brag. One of the most annoying things on Facebook and all social media come to think of it. Nothing gets my back up more than someone who is unable to own their own apparent majesty and just fucking BRAG.

One of the things I miss most about the Facebook mums groups I’ve been kicked out of is the plethora of humble brags. Especially where cakes are concerned.

I’m going to warn you now, there is nothing funny about this post. You might want to pass over this one if you are the skipping, clappy handy type (not that there is anything wrong with that, gimme some please). And I promise something much more fun than this is coming on Friday.
I’ve had some really interesting messages over the past few weeks. Everything from Trolls telling me I suck, “fan mail” *chortle* to Far Kew and heartfelt messages from friends and complete strangers thanking me for the laughs. I love it. Some of them have been quite personal ones, telling me my rants are the only light part of their week as they are suffering from depression. And those ones hit a bit of a nerve.

Far Kew is fine with life, she gets a bit ranty throughout the week, but stuff just rolls off her. Me? Not so much in tune with the rolling.

I was pretty shitty to receive my Telstra bill this month seeing as I wasn’t able to use the service

I often need to take a quick trip up to Sydney for work purposes and usually the cheapest flights are with Tiger Air. They are relatively new to the scene, but legit enough that I will fly them and not worry about plummeting out of the sky in a fiery wreck.

Until this week.

My alarm went off at the unwelcome but not obscene time of 6am and I had a quick splash and kissed my kids goodbye. I had a dream run to the airport, arriving 1.5 hours before my flight was due to leave, which is unheard of for me as I am nearly always scrambling in there looking like a not-so-hot mess right at the last minute.

Y’all know I hate to go shopping. It’s where the most insufferable fools like to hang out, seemingly just to give me the fucking shits.

If I want to make a place in a fiery hell-like situation seem preferable to living, I take my kids to the local shopping center and combine two of my most hated tasks. Shopping. And shopping with my children.

My local hell-hole, I mean mall, is your typical run-of-the-mill centre with the usual suspects available like Coles, Woolies, Target, JB Hi-Fi and a food court. But you cannot enter this place without finding those fucking vending machines selling life-threatening confectionery, cheap plastic trinkets or choke hazard bouncing balls. Or it could be those machines with the claw which I am certain they wax up so you never fucking win.

If you can get past those without your kids having an epic meltdown and almost dislocating your arm from pulling, you will be met in about 5 steps by one of those merry-go-round kiddie rides. Cue another epic meltdown if you do not let them at least sit on it for a couple of minutes. They have flashing lights, friendly paint-jobs and are super fucking appealing to kids.

I’ve spat out the same sad old lines time and time again “Sorry, mummy has run out of money.” “This one is broken.” “No, we don’t put money in these it’s a waste.” My kids are usually happy to sit on it and pretend for a few minutes while I muster up the strength to keep going.

Once they get their fill of the Wiggles’ Big Red Car or the Thomas The Tank Engine ride, we press on. But little more than 8 fucking steps later and there’s another one! YIPPPEEEEE.

I want to choke myself.

If you have been keeping up with this blog, you will know that I recently registered the domain www.cuntasaurus.com after I called out the haters in a recent post about trolls.

I was kinda amazed it was still available, but I snapped that shit up faster than you can get flicked in the eyeball by a purple asparagus rubber band. Pretty fucking fast.

What are my plans? Well. I know there are people out there that have used cuntasaurus as an insult. But I believe I am the first to liken it to a Thesaurus. Even if I am not, I’m claiming it. So there.

You see, I am actually a pretty polite person in real life. Far Kew is my evil sidekick who can say and do whatever the fuck she feels like.

But she won’t say c*unt. And neither will I.
Occasionally I will roll it out for shock value, but to me it’s just a word too far. It doesn’t suit me and it doesn’t suit Far Kew.

In comes my idea. The Cuntasaurus. An insult bible for those who can’t or won’t say “The C Word”. When asshole just won’t cut it, consult the cuntasaurus for the perfect smack down.

I need your help. Let’s do this together!

I invite you all to send me your best insults for potential inclusion into this handy pocket guide. There are no rules apart from you having to have “liked” the Fuck You Friday FB page.

So PM me your best withering insults that will send even the biggest douche bag running for the hills.

Just don’t say C*NT.

THE END.

I consider myself an all or nothing individual. There is absolutely nothing I like to do by halves. For example, I cannot eat one chocolate, one biscuit or one piece of cheese. Nor can I drink one beer. I must drink ALL the beer to be satisfied.

Because I can no longer eat Kale and realised I hadn’t eaten a green vegetable in quite some time, I decided to steam two bunches of asparagus and eat it for lunch. Two whole bunches of steamed asparagus on a plate, with nothing else. That would fix my iron deficiency for sure!

15 minutes later I needed to pee and the stench was unbearable. So, I consulted the wild world of web for some answers. The smell is down to a compound called methyl–mercaptin found in asparagus, that once broken down by the body produces a sulphurous odor likened to rotting cabbage. Several medical papers also suggest that not all humans produce this foul smelling piss after eating asparagus and there are also some that are unable to smell it at all despite it being present. Weird.

Mind you, this information was collated after having actual humans agree to pee in cups and then smell each others pee. I’m not too sure how fucking scientific that would be.

On Wednesday this week, I had to drive to a place called Footscray, when it was pissing down with rain.

I’d never really given much thought about the origins of one of my favourite words. Until a superb video was shared

Yesterday I was cursing the school holidays as I spent hours stuck in traffic which eventually forced me to stop for a snack in one of the richest suburbs of Melbourne. 2 coffees, a quiche and half a baguette cost $30 and we never reached our destination.

This Fuck You Friday Blog started about 3 weeks ago when I gave the middle finger to the North Shore Mums Facebook group. It went viral ( 173,000 hits and counting) and I was thrust into the spotlight.

Instagram. When I first heard of it I was unconvinced. I really didn’t think it would become as huge as

I am one of millions of Telstra customers who foolishly believed “You get what you pay for” when it comes

I grew up in the 70’s when Suimin instant noodles in those styrofoam cups were considered pretty exotic. Fluorescent pink

It’s Fuck You Friday! YEAH!!! If the shocking victories in this week’s Super Tuesday 2 are anything to go by,

The other day I had a fantastic lady from the USA who will remain nameless send me a PM that

Check out the podcast Woog & Berry from Mrs Woog @ Woogworld featuring my fine self. I come on at 32.30.

Don’t let the fact that the online articles are often riddled with mistakes and half-truths fool you. This is the