پاکستان میں Mostbet com ویب سائٹ ملاحظہ کریں، اور آپ یقینی طور پر کھیلوں پر شرط لگانے یا آن لائن کیسینو میں کھیلنے کے لیے یہاں واپس آنا چاہیں گے۔ کھیلوں کے شائقین کو ایونٹس کے ایک بڑے انتخاب، مختلف پروموشنز اور بونسز، مفت بیٹس، مفت گھماؤ اور زیادہ مشکلات تک رسائی حاصل ہے۔ اور کھیل کو مزید آسان بنانے کے لیے، ہم نے ایک موبائل ایپلیکیشن تیار کی ہے جسے آپ آسانی سے اپنے فون پر انسٹال کر سکتے ہیں۔

The 10 Most Awesome Things About Having a Physical Disability – A Guest Post

October 23, 2013 Written by One Classy Motha

Day 4 of our Disney vacation and it seems like I might have overestimated the effectiveness of Gold Bond Medicated Powder…dear god, it feels like my nether regions were the scene of a porcupine turf war, and both sides lost. 

Moving on.  Today’s fabulous guest post is by the wonderful Meredith from Pile of Babies.  I loooove me some Meredith! Everytime her post is delivered to my inbox, I read it immediately because she’s so freaking funny! When you’re done reading this, you have to check out her recent post about bad holiday gift ideas– I was peeing my pants!

 _______________________________________

I have a physical disability: I was born without fingers on my right hand. Don’t worry, it’s cool. Bitches love nubbins.

…Actually, no they don’t. I’m not even sure why I said that. I think it’s because I was trying really hard to make this a post that had no swearing or inappropriate humor, and I cracked after two sentences.

Sorry.

Anyway, one thing I’ve noticed from living a life with a handicap is that a lot of people assume that your disability is something to be sorry about. Like your life would be somehow better if you didn’t have it. Well, the joke’s on you, fools! The truth is that there is all kinds of awesome going on when you are missing a body part or two or three or…what’s the maximum number of parts you can lose before you’re a head? I’m going to use broad strokes and say five.

Here are my top nine most awesome things about having a physical disability:

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Join us. (image via markramseymedia.com)

1. If you love attention, boy do I have a gig for you!

Ever wonder what it’s like to be famous? To go to the grocery store and have people give you a double take? Do you enjoy being gazed at in adoration and/or horror by people you don’t know? Get yourself a physical disability. Every day of your life you’ll feel like Angelina Jolie, if Angelina Jolie had survived a horrible house fire.

2. “So sorry, my hand isn’t thinking straight.”

You can use your disability as an excuse for the most random things, and even the most enlightened people will think it over for a second before calling you on your bullshit.

“Dear Professor Dumbledore, I am so sorry that I missed my exam this morning. See, my finger-less hand was acting up, which made walking impossible.”

“Dear supervisor, I apologize for calling my co-worker Brad an ‘insufferable miserable cock-wielding nightmare.’ I’m afraid my lack of limb got the better of me today. It won’t happen again.”

3. You get to stand with the oppressed. It’s where the cool kids are.

You know all those people who are gay and/or not white and/or of a religion that doesn’t start with “C”? These are your people when you are disabled. And it has been my experience that the most kick-ass people are the ones who have had to deal with a whole lot of adversity. Nothing gives you perspective like being told you can’t have a job because of the person you’re married to. Or that the apartment you came to look at just got leased the moment they saw your skin color. And honestly, nothing is funnier than the saddest experiences you’ve ever had; so come sit by me, and we shall tell tales and laugh about whitey/straight people/assholes who can walk. It’s gonna be a good time.

4. We have the Paralympics: they’re like the regular Olympics, only harder.

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Please, bitches. (image via wikipedia)

“Hey, did you see the winter Olympics? Man, those skiers were amazing.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, are you talking about the skiers with two legs? Yeah, really inspiring. ‘Hey, look at me! I’ve got one leg per ski and an arm for each pole!’ I bet that takes a lot of skill and all kinds of inventive assistive devices. What’s that? It just takes practice? Oh, I see. Well, that sounds hard, too.”

5. It’s easy to id the bad guys.

Basically, if someone screams or can’t stop staring when they see my disability, they go into a certain box. And in that box, I am liable to stroke their faces gently with my nubs, or perhaps see if I can stick just the tip of one into their mouths.

6. You get to check that box on forms.

As a white woman, I don’t get to check a whole lot of special boxes on forms.

“Are you a veteran?” No. My fear reflex involves a whole lot of urination.

“What is your race/ethnicity?” Just white bread whitey white white.

“Are you disabled?” Why…yes. Yes I am.

Guess who’s getting to the interview before they learn I’m not qualified? This gal, right here.

7. “Thanks, I’ll just supervise.”

Worried about carrying heavy things? Don’t feel like helping when your best friend moves? Excellent. I’ll save you a spot on the couch.

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“You’re doing great, Grandpa! Just hold still! Also, good call wearing the socks on the hardwood floor! Small steps, please.” (image via prioritymoving.com)

8.Thanks to Oscar Pistorious, you can now be the “good kind” of disabled person.

Before, they pitied us. Now, they fear us. Oscar Pistorious, the Olympic runner who is also a double amputee, murdered his girlfriend last year like an asshole. Now, let’s just say some generalizations are being made.

“You should meet my friend Bill! He’s really cool. You should know, though, that he doesn’t have any legs.”

“Excellent. I shall bring my gun in case I need to use it for self-defense.”

“…What are talking about?”

“You know…Pistorious? What if he’s one of those crazy cripples who likes to murder people?”

“Oh no no no — he’s a nice guy. Really articulate, doesn’t shove his lifestyle down your throat, you know. All those things that make difference comfortable for us.”

“Nice! Do you think he’ll let me touch a leg?”

9. People assume that you’re brave

I am a coward. I am afraid of heights and people and driving on steep hills. So if people want to think that I am brave because I walk around with my hand out and my freak flag flying, that is cool with me. I’ll take it. Sure, you can call me courageous. “Hero” is also a word that doesn’t get thrown my way quite enough, but I think we can both agree that it applies.

***

So the next time you run into someone who is missing a leg, or has both arms cut off at the elbow, pick them up and apologize (the dude’s missing a leg, for chrissakes), and then tell them how lucky they are. And when they ask why, tell them because of Oscar Pistorious and heavy boxes. And then walk away proudly, knowing they will have a great story to tell their friends.

 

Meredith Bland is a freelance writer and award-winning humor blogger.  You can read her nonsense at Pile of Babies.

 

My sponsor GiftsForYouNow.com has like a BAZILLION gifts that you can personalize for Christmas (or any occasion). I bet they have a tree skirt for my wine glass.

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What Cosmo Doesn’t Tell Us, a skanky guest post.

October 19, 2013 Written by One Classy Motha

Guess where we are this week! Here’s a hint:
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It’s Disney, bitches! <— that should be their new slogan, it’s trendy, hip, and a sassy Donald could totally pull it off. 

Anyhoo, while I’m gone, I’ve asked some of my favorite funny people to “Please, please, share some of your awesomeness with my readers!” and they said yes (even after I made it clear this wasn’t a paying gig).

Today’s guest post is by my most favorite skank in the whole wide world, Shay from Trashy Blog.  A self-proclaimed Magazine Whisperer, she’ll make you laugh until you’re crying.  I swear it, people, read her stuff…after this, of course.

P.S. – Dear Burglars, our house is NOT empty. We obviously needed someone to stay with the dogs. But Mr. Bojangles says you’re welcome to stop by for a cuddle, just call first because he hates surprises…

 

What Cosmo Doesn’t Tell Us

 

A friend approached me as I was leaving the gym the other day. “I saw you running on the treadmill, but I didn’t want to interrupt you to say hi since you seemed very into your Cosmo,” she said.

I recoiled in horror. “Bitch, please! I don’t read Cosmo! It was a People. I find celebrity gossip much more useful than the stupid sex tips in Cosmo, as I try to avoid sex as much as possible.”

“But wait,” she said, “I’ve heard you say that you used to be a skank.” (Do I say it that often, by the way? Like I’m proud of it or something? Like I still believe that the guys from my skanky past wanted to be with me because of how insanely hot I must have been looking those certain nights and not because…well, simply because I was an available skank at last call? Because I totally know better. Totally…)

“Sure,” I replied, shrugging, “but that was before, when I was single and it was with random people. The world was my oyster. Now I live in the land of the mundane. There are about a million other things I’d rather be doing—like eating Cheetos, cleaning the bathroom, or changing a shitty diaper—than having sex with my husband.”

My friend started laughing like I was kidding. Cute little thing has been married for about two years and still loves doing it with her hubs. So sweet.

“You know what I’d like?” I continued, rudely breaking off her laughter. “I’d like a magazine that gives tips on how to avoidhaving sex with your husband. Where the hell is that magazine?”

I decided that since the writers of Cosmo magazine don’t seem to understand what women truly want, I’d share the tricks I keep up my sleeve as a little guide for the real women of the world.

Here, I present to you tips that you might actually find useful in a little listy I like to call:

 

Trashy Blog’s Six Tips for Getting out of Sex with Your Husband

1. Say this when he asks you to have sex: “I already had it with my boyfriend like 10 times today. I’m kind of tired…”

2. When he persists, say this: “I have chlamydia?” Keep it in question form so he knows damned well that you don’t, but that you’d be willing to go catch it to get out of sex with him. (Some of these tips will make you look like a real asshole, by the way…but remember, it’s all for a good cause.)

3.

Seriously, there shouldn’t need to BE a number 3 after the first 2. Even if they don’t believe us, they should be so disgusted by our antics for getting out of sex with them that they give us a pass. Ugh. What the hell is wrong with husbands these days, all wanting to have sex with their wives and shit?

4. Fart. I did this one time just as we were getting ready to get down and dirty in the very beginning of our marriage. My husband laughed and said, ”If you’re trying to turn me off, it’s not working.”

DAMMIT it’s hard being this sexy.

I hadn’t actually been trying to turn him off, but I filed that response away for future knowledge. I knew that if it was in the back of his mind, then someday—granted, maybe a couple years down the road; I just had to be patient—it would be enough to turn him off. And I was planning to try.

5. “How‘bout them Duggars?”

6. Breathe on him. Holy shit, this story is so embarrassing that I’m going to turn red while I’m typing it, just as I turned red in the coffee shop when I told my friends about it…but isn’t that what blogging is all about? Embarrassing yourself for a greater cause–or at least a little bit of negative attention?

The hubs and I were sitting down for date night one Thursday night. We had put the kids to bed about an hour prior to when I finally joined the hubs on the couch after doing my nightly routine of cleaning up and getting things ready for the next day.

I sat down next to the hubs with my freshly-poured glass of wine, and suddenly he wrinkled his nose. “Do you smell that?” he asked, turning toward me, where I was all snuggled up next to him.

I shook my head. “No. What does it smell like?”

He scrunched up his face into a disgusted grimace. “I don’t know. Like…puke…and wine.”

I looked down at my wine glass and then back at him. I think we may have both realized it at the same time. “It’s probably my breath,” I said.

The hubs tried to be nice. “No. NAH, it COULDN’T BE! I mean, you haven’t puked tonight, right?” But I could see that he had already accepted it just like I had: He was smelling my breath mixed with the wine.

I have no clue why it smelled like puke; stranger things have happened. The point was, it did.

When I told my friends about it the next day at coffee, I said, face blazing with embarrassment, “I guess I need to pick up some breath strips while I’m at Wal-Mart today.”

My asshole friend Nancy goes,“Why? So your breath can smell like puke…and breath strips?”

I give up. I fcking give up.

Alright, peeps, so give them a try and report back. I’d love to hear how my tips worked for you. And if you’re one of those married women who, after 29 years, still loooooveshaving sex with her husband…

…quit lying. Let me know how the tips work for you, too.

Trashy Blog was created and is written by Shay, who withholds her last name not to be all Beyonce, but instead to preserve a bit of anonymity–because have you seen the trash she puts out there? Trashy Blog is updated once a week, normally on Fridays when Shay has time to kick back with a beer and trash her skanky little heart out. Check her out at www.trashyblog.com.

 

 

 

Want to read another funny broad? Visit my sponsor Alyson over at The Shitastrophy!

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Free Advice Friday! Whine & Wine!

October 4, 2013 Written by One Classy Motha

Dear Kim,

I’m writing to you because I know that you’re a wine lover. My husband and I are having a very special couple over for dinner next week. They said they like Cabernet (like you), but since we don’t drink wine we weren’t sure if we should serve a Cabernet from the Sonoma or Napa region. What do you think?

Penny in Foryourthoughts, ND
 
 
Dear Penny,

Let me answer your question with a little story.

When I was 14, I went to my local pet shop to purchase 2 pet mice. The shop owner, who reeked of Bourbon and Tab, insisted on picking them out for me. He stared at their little mouse bits for several minutes and handed me what he claimed were two boys. I named them Sparky and Morris.

Over the next few weeks Morris became fatter & fatter and meaner & meaner. It wasn’t until we saw Morris bitch slap Sparky and shriek “Don’t touch me, asshole!” that my mother recognized the symptoms of pregnancy.

I’m embarrassed to say this but…I returned Morris (renamed Judy) to the pet shop like she was a wayward teen from the 1950′s. I thought for certain Sparky would become despondent and depressed, but instead he seemed relieved that I took care of his “little problem”. I swear I saw the stress leave his tiny rodent shoulders. Silly mouse.

Penny, I think you know where I’m going with this…get your guests drunk and, like the pet shop owner with mouse genitalia, they won’t know the difference.

And stay away from French wines, you won’t know how to pronounce them and you’ll just look stupid.

Your welcome,
Kim
 
 
 
Dear Kim,

Like you, I’ve been a stay at home mom for 9 years now. My question is, how do I keep from losing myself, the person I was before I had children?

Margaret in Kidtopia, KS
 
 
Dear Margaret,

Oh Margaret, Margaret, foolish Margaret- you can’t. I’m so lost that the vanity plate on my minivan says “WEAR M I”.

Back in the 90′s, I did a stint as a Life coach at S.O.S. Counseling (Stop Officially Sucking). I was a young, single professional that had a naive view of life. The Motto on my business card was “There’s Always a Way”. Years, marriage, and two children later, I realize my business cards should have read “There’s Always Xanax and Tequila Chasers”.

Somehow my life had changed…
My “Excuse me while I use the restroom.” became “I gotta go potty!”, my purse was suddenly a suitcase without wheels, holding everything from tampons to harmonicas, and my boobs went from supple sexual globes to functional flesh flaps capable of holding promotional bank pens and loose meter change.

Here’s my advice Margaret: embrace it and cry until the tears dry up.

If you’re really desperate, you could try taking a pole dancing class. It’ll give you those familiar inner thigh bruises and knee burns reminiscent of your wild college days, but when you get home you’ll still have to throw your stilettos in the closet and wipe up the baby shit. Is pole dancing really worth your Better Homes & Garden reading time? Besides, there’s always retirement.

Kim

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Weekend in Crappy Pics!

September 30, 2013 Written by One Classy Motha

On Friday, I snapped!

We’ve lived in this 25 year old house for 8 years now, and on Friday I walked into the laundry room and decided “Enough is enough!”

I present to you The Worst Laundry Room in America…

It’s like the room is the spin cycle.

I started ripping off shelves, hooks, wallpaper…anything that I could break or tear with my bare hands. I must admit, I looked a little unhinged but it felt great…until I pulled a muscle in my neck while screaming “Die! Die! Die!” a little too enthusiastically.

When Brian came home and walked into the laundry room, he clutched his wallet and cried “What was wrong with the laundry room the way it was?” I assured him that I could do this on a *budget.

*I’m sure my idea of a budget is much more realistic than his, so we’ll just go by mine.

 

On Saturday, I took a break from the laundry room project and we went to a corn maze…at a winery! C’mon, you didn’t see that coming?

This was the same corn maze we went to last year, the one where I got lost with the kids for hours and quietly decided which one I would eat first if we were stranded for days.

What’s the most ridiculous and least helpful phrase one can utter while in a corn maze? (which was heard no less than 50 times)

“This looks familiar…follow me.”

Familiar? Really? You remember encountering that right hand turn surrounded by those cornstalks? Well, that’s freaking faaanstastic!!! Hallelujah, it looks familiar!!! I can almost taste the Chardonnay that’s waiting for me back at the picnic table. Well, lead the way, Pocahontas.

We also did corn cob shooting. But of course, right?

This bike thingy. Ana treated the track like her own personal roller derby, running people off the road at every opportunity.

 

And then there’s this, a paint can of wine.

And this is what happens when a group of mommies drink wine next to a bounce house…

There were chickens. Why? I have no clue.

“Mom, I wish we had chickens that pooped out eggs for us.” Me too, Ana, me too.

Not surprisingly, aided by children, the chickens later escaped and fled to the woods. But surprisingly, Ana was not involved. I did, however, inform a winery employee who looked shocked and said, “I don’t even know what to do with that information, this has never happened before. DAVE! THE CHICKENS ARE GONE!”

I started to walk away but, deciding to take this rare opportunity, I turned around and smugly said, “Oh, and my daughter had nothing to do with it.” That felt weird.

 

On Sunday, I painted that son-of-a-bitch!

And I’ve got bigger and better plans for this room, stay tuned! (I think I heard Brian cry)

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