NinjaPenguins

Are you telling me that Nick fucking Sally didn’t prove what a desirable stud Nick still is, which I’m 99% sure is the reason that repulsive relationship happened? Surely his awkward tussle with a woman his mother’s age brought home what an absolute warrior the dude is. I can’t believe he hasn’t tried to run his wounded tit game on Sally to try to score sympathy sex. Adam does deserve better, but the heart wants what the heart wants. NGL, I really, really enjoy Nick losing. I wish Cane hadn’t been mentioned; it left a greasy film on an otherwise underwhelming but inoffensive episode. He makes Nick and Billy look like paragons of class and sophistication. Poor Lily, stuck with that liver-lipped, cow tipping double flusher for eternity thanks to the kids.

Dear Buttbiscuit; Everyone I hate gets to be happy, but what about me? Me, me, me. Diane and Cricket have their snouts in a trough full of my sloppy seconds, but I can’t get any secondhand dick to save my life. Cricket is so fucking rude, rubbing her date with Danny in my face. La dee da, she’s getting his special sauce in more ways than one. I don’t care. I don’t. Then my so-called bestie roasted me for faking my own death after he abandoned me to fix his mom’s hot mess. Who does that? Friends before family when I’m the friend. Children owe their grown ass parents NOTHING! Now my kids… they hate me. It’s not fair. I didn’t do anything to them, but they won’t meet me for a drink! I called my daughter, who pretended she had to work, and then I tried that other one. Where’s the respect? Bestie is trying to teach me to be a better person, but honestly, all I hear when he talks is BLAH BLAH BLAH. I want instant acceptance, not homework. You want to meet for a drink? I won’t tell Chelz. Unless it benefits me. Signed; Accept Me Now, Regret It Later Dear Regret; I… I don’t know where to begin. Oh wait, yes I do. Shut your everlasting gobstopper, cocaine bear. I’ve done some bad things; you, for instance, but as low as I have sunk, I didn’t pretend to die in a fiery wreck to frame some asshole for murder. That kind of bullshit tends to linger on the palate, you know? Kids don’t want to drink with their mothers, especially their narcissistic, self-pitying mothers. At least you have a best friend who will try to curb your worst impulses, even though that’s actually your responsibility. Teaching you to be a good person will be as successful as trying to teach Adam Newman not to smolder with raw sexuality or Nick to remember to remove the nipple clamps before leaving the house. Instead of worrying that others are happy, concentrate on how much joy your misery brings to others. Good luck! Dear Buttbiscuit; It’s been a loooong time since I’ve dated anyone, but tonight I accepted a dinner invite from an old flame. The food was excellent, the conversation pleasant and the making out perfectly adequate. I haven’t been intimate with a man for so long that I was ready to climb my date like an artfully dyed Christmas tree when his hand brushed mine across the table. You see, I was hitched for years to a man who chose a cage of denim over a passionate marriage. I’m willing to believe I once got pregnant via toilet seat, because not even a subatomic particle could breach the impermeable Levi barrier. What I’m getting at is that I was psyched for sex… until he put on some mood music for dancing. I’m certain it was his own creation, and it was excruciating. I wouldn’t even call it elevator music; would the next level down be escalator music? Play his song to a greenhouse full of vibrant, thriving plants overnight and you’ll wake up to a shed full of compost. This is so awkward. Signed; The Milquetoast Muse Dear Muse; We’ve all heard the siren song of boner killing behavior on the part of our lovers. Do you think it’s easy to pop some hardwood when my girlfriend sashays into the boudoir wearing Little House lingerie? I still let her use me as a butter churn, but getting the lovin’ oven pre-heated is no joke. If your sexual appetite is strong enough, you can overlook almost anything. I may be out of line here, as I’ve never heard this particular aural clam jammer, but it’s hard to believe it could cancel out the desire for intimacy that doesn’t include getting dry humped by a stonewashed pants poker. I will be sending you my famous pamphlet, Getting Busy with Buttbiscuit, which includes all the erotic advice any couple could want. Readers can order it for $69.69 (see what I did there?) plus shipping and handling. You’ll thank me for it. Dear Buttbiscuit; Hello again, my benostriled friend. I dare say your sister has done it again, offering me something I want and then cruelly taking it away. My highly motivated legal team will make short work of her shenanigans, but this ridiculous game does have a silver lining. I can now execute one of my charming little schemes thanks to our battle over Glacade. The word Glacade will be repeated over and over again for the next several weeks, reaching a level of infamy once reserved for ‘reliquary.’ You will speak and hear the word Glacade so often that it will lose all meaning, becoming a nonsense term that inexplicably triggers discomfort in your soul. Glacade will be the key that unlocks your own personal Pandora’s box. See? I can get mythological too. Glacade. Signed; Glacade Dear Glacade; Do your worst. You’ve messed with the wrong family and are trying to compete with the wrong company. See, we’ve figured out that you plan to destroy Jabot from the inside by investing in an outside company. Ballsy, but I promise that Jack and I will need a wagon to carry deez nuts everywhere once the full scope of our plan is revealed. Will it make sense? Nah. Will I be taking all the credit for kicking your ass even though Adam provided our best piece of ammunition? Fucking right I will be. Glacade. Damn you to hell, Tucker McCall!

Same thing I do when Nick appears on screen.

Dear Chatty Cake; I make terrible video games tailored to a niche market in South America. I will require a position for my mother as well, and she’s not playing with a full deck. Do your employees get office sex breaks? Oh, and dental coverage. Keep in mind that I will not take orders from bouffants, unwrapped mummies or nose holes that can park a fleet of eighteen wheelers. If you’d like to conduct an interview, I’ll be drinking vodka in front of alcoholics at the athletic club while watching locals do the walk of shame. Your future co-CEO, NP

How can anyone say that Ridge has no affect? I find him quite convincing as a humorless prick and dictatorial ass who is trying to forcibly stage manage everyone’s grief. Eric’s obliviousness defies belief. I guess you could chalk it up to denial, but his family has piss poor pretending skills. Finn is still at work researching his miracle cure for Eric, isn’t he? Good luck competing with that, Liam.

Dear Buttbiscuit; Isn’t it simply atrocious how little respect a sharp dressed gentleman commands these days? I suppose it troubles you not at all, being that you shop for togs at Mortuary Surplus. The clothes make the man, and today was a splendid day to don my burgundy turtleneck of trolling and deliver a master class in hand mixing a bowl of butt batter. First, your mother. That’s not a “your mama” joke; the ultimate prank was played on her when the doctor handed her a pair of nostrils with a baby attached. Oh, the fun I had flicking her last nerve, winding her up and pointing her at Jabot. Then I dangled some juicy bits about your mom in front of Mamie just to see what she’d do. A little bonsai told me that you clever Abbotts have deduced my ultimate endgame - to give myself a psychological boner by fucking with people. That listening device has incredible range, right? You cheeky buttons put the bonsai in the bathroom, believing I would walk away the first time Kyle brought a rain bonnet into the shower or you got hit with the raw vegetable platter spatter. By the way, teaming up and coming directly at me is not really a plan; it’s vague bullshit that means sweet fuck all. At least offer specifics to keep it interesting, like putting itching powder in my turtlenecks or something. The best part of this whole thing is that even though you know I’m just messing with you guys, you still let me live rent free in your head. I think I even saw some red carpeting rolled out in your nasal atrium. Have fun running yourselves ragged while I drink it all in! Loser. Signed; Living My Best Life Dear Living; Fuck you! We’ve got plans like you wouldn’t believe. Who do you think you’re dealing with here, anyway? I’ll have you know that I’m a highly sought after prize in the cutthroat corporate arena. Two major players want me in the C suite, but I’m sticking around my home turf to stick it to you. We’re going to go directly at you, but also flank you. My brother will bite his lip while I manspread to air out the bait and tackle. We’re thinking outside the box and inside the envelope, playing chess on a checkerboard and flying under the radar while going over your head. Suck on that, buddy. Dear Buttbiscuit; Well, lucky for me, my cousins have accepted me back into the family and the family company. I’m excited for the opportunity, but at the same time, I feel one cousin is just waiting for me to fail. He seems to buy into the Newman party line that I was plotting a coup against the patriarch, when I was honestly trying to offer him the best care possible. Why would anyone believe a damn thing that a man who gaslighted his own children says? I know I’ve burned my cousin before and should be grateful for a second chance, but I have to keep it real here - it’s total bullshit that the Newmans lied about me and my cousin seems to buy in. Signed; Doing My Part Dear Part; The only kind of deal the Newmans have to offer is a raw one. They should be classified as a cult by the government. Did you know they were recently kidnapped? Supposedly they escaped, but you’ll never convince me that the criminals didn’t tell those weirdos to GTFO. Look, I can relate to being the pariah in the family who no one trusts because I may have betrayed them on multiple levels. Let me share the strategies I use to cope. First of all, apologize once, but then remind your fam of your original apology. Be hurt that they seem to forget it. Make sure to persistently dog them, acting all prickly and persecuted when they rightfully tell you to back off. This is important: talk about how you’ve made amends and worked hard on improving yourself even if you haven’t done diddly. In this town, there’s no point in action as long as you can talk a good game. Don’t believe me? I slept with brother’s wife, fucked up the corporate finances and I’m currently bro’s co-CEO. Live the dream, man. Live the dream.

I wasn’t expecting the assassination attempt right up front. Pretty slick, boes.

Dear Buttbiscuit; How has my son disappointed me? Let me count the ways. I need cannon fodder for an inevitable corporate battle, yet Apple Cheeks won’t lay it on the line for the woman who raised him. I feel like he blames me for passing on the overdeveloped nostrils gene even though the experts said it’s impossible to trace its origins. One geneticist suggested my son was bitten by a radioactive anteater as an infant. To add to his laundry list of shameful acts, he’s romancing a chirpy noodle intent on making prairie upholstery chic happen. I just don’t understand how a young man could hesitate to help someone who changed his diapers and had to use fire hose tubing as a nasal aspirator. I suppose a little consideration for the person who brought you into this world is expecting too much. Feel guilty yet? Signed; Mamie is Lamie Dear Lamie; No? Perhaps your son is in a precarious position, living large and being in charge of a company that actually produces tangible, specific goods. Meanwhile, a douche shark circles his island of success, waiting for him to wander into the shallows so it can strike with its bulbous, bouffant shaped head. It could be best if your son was to hunker down where he is, fortify his own position with harpoon wielding mercenaries and give the apex smirker absolutely no quarter. Think of the shame you’d feel if your son was bested and replaced by a nerd kicked out of boarding school for lewd and lascivious acts with a batting helmet. Speaking of laundry lists, can I bring mine over this weekend? Your Gain dryer sheets are boss. Dear Buttbiscuit; I recently took a powerful blow to the head, which explains why I returned to Genoa City aboard the Newman’s private jet. I think I know what my next book will be about, though it will be mistakenly classified as fiction. Imagine, if you will, a family so insufferable that you’d prefer an hour of listening to Danny Romalotti’s music to spending five minutes in their presence. The mother was recently held hostage and pumped full of vodka, yet no one thought to call ahead and have a maid or something deep six the booze? I think I’m the only one who caught her eye fucking the liquor bottles. She was able to distract herself by pulling her pants up to her armpits, but how long will that last? Her husband, the devil rest his soul, offered everyone a drink despite a doctor advising us not to mix alcohol with poison. He kept mumbling about his “sweet baby” like a creeper between brazen gulps of tequila. Maybe that’s how he embalms himself, I don’t know. The son was almost comic relief as he manspread on the sofa, grunting about bourbon and holding his stab wound like it was still bleeding. Or was he? I caught him tweaking his nipple, rolling it between his fingers, a look of stupefied pleasure on his dumb face. Our eyes met and… he winked. The pinnacle of the experience was the daughter, my ex-wife, expressing compassion for the young woman who had been brainwashed to hate us all since birth, believing she was our daughter who we thoughtlessly abandoned. These toxic twits reacted as if deviating from their orthodoxy was an unspeakable act of blasphemy. I discovered that I come from a family of sociopaths, but I feel I got off lucky that it’s not these jerks. Signed; Seriously, Put the Vodka Away Dear Seriously; Huh. I wondered what all the Newmans had gotten up to. You’re welcome, by the way. I solved the thorny mystery of their disappearance, but I was behind on answering letters so I kind of sat on it. Turns out no one gave a fuck. Congratulations on your bouncing baby girl! Dear Buttbiscuit; It’s me again, that romantic victim of unrequited love! Don’t you feel sorry for me? You better. It would be a shame if someone’s girlfriend got a pink slip. Ha ha. So, yeah, my mom is a total crackpot and won’t leave me alone. I was chatting with my creative director about what else, my OBVIOUS and ADORABLE feelings for hot cop. It’s so weird how everyone notices my huge crush because I’m certain my expression never changes. Maybe I fold my arms differently? Anyways, my mom comes storming in, looms over my employee like it’s time to throw down and then tries to guilt trip me into spilling my iced tea. Blah blah blah, I’m shutting her out and can’t I see she’s working soooo hard to be a better person, blah blah blah. I think she believes if she says she’s trying to be better, that’s the same as doing it. I don’t think it works like that? A better person would accept that her kids can confide some things in friends. A better person would feel ashamed that their daughter unwillingly confessed because her mom browbeat and manipulated her. A good person doesn’t follow their bliss when it could hurt other people, right? Her advice to take whatever I want sounds like the same old her. She got her face cracked super hard when we caught her crush making out with her nemesis. I was too scared to laugh. My mom is a lost cause, isn’t she? Signed; Give Me a Chance Dear Give Me; Duh? I mean, I’ve often pursued the unattainable, costs be damned. It usually ended in tears, humiliation and recriminations… for my brother. Maybe your mother is one of those lucky people who never pays the piper for their sins. Someone else has to catch hands when we start shit on a whim. Not gonna lie, it’s a charmed life. Boundaries, though, are a key ingredient in healthy, happy relationships, which means you’re looking at a lifetime of sorrow. What would help is to stop writing to me about your supremely uninteresting feelings for whatever sorry son of a bitch has captured your fancy. Set an example for your mom and shut the fuck up already.

I must take exception to this. Sure, Victoria can’t open a cardboard box without help. Her brother Nicholas, on the other hand, has already mastered the art of the plumber’s crack and has logged, and I do mean logged, significant quality time with a broad variety of bathroom devices. He’d have great plumber potential if not for his allergy to hard work.

Dear Buttbiscuit; My girlfriend and her mother have lost their damn minds over my biological father. I mean, the guy is a liar, a prick and a habitual turtleneck wearer. I don’t deny any of that. The problem is that they want me to mend fences with dear old dad or at least fake it until he spills the tea on whatever vengeance he has planned for their family. I want nothing to do with the guy. My girlfriend is talking some serious smack about fighting him head on to protect our respective family companies and our kid. I don’t think she gives a pinched loaf about my company and is exaggerating the threat my father poses to my business in order to recruit me to her plan. The last time she faced my dad head on, he was blinded by high beams and bounced off the windshield of her Mini Cooper like a briskly spiked volleyball. Things have gotten a little tense, and I’ve had to postpone sharing my pink pants chat with her. I don’t even know what Neil would want here. Signed; No Time for Turtlenecks Dear Turtle; Bravo, sir, for sticking to your lofty principles. I, too, believe that the high road is the most honorable path to travel, with occasional shortcuts through shagging your relative’s significant other. Don’t allow your fractured relationship with your father to be weaponized. Not everyone can fake it until they make it. I’m sure all will be revealed soon enough through the overweening, stumblebum efforts of another family’s idiot failson. Sit back and enjoy the slapstick corporate comedy stylings of Smirky the Turkey as he catches his wattle in the barn door while pretending to be cock of the walk. Your girlfriend needs to chillax and wait for the simmering stupid to reach a roiling boil. You may want to put your pants commentary in the circular file; I once remarked on my lady’s love of shit brown fabrics and found myself basting my own drumstick on Thanksgiving. Dear Buttbiscuit; I’ve got an assload of problems yet only a cheek’s worth of clue on how to solve them. My mom is trying to reunite me with my asshole wife. I’ll always love her like a sister, but I don’t want to stick around for when my soon-to-be ex evolves into her final form: the Phyllociraptor. I’ve got this uncle, we’ll call him Uncle Bitchcakes, who won’t stop breathing down my neck. Don’t take that lightly! When my uncle exhales, upper level atmospheric disturbances can agitate your pores. He thinks I still want his dumbass job and that my new go getter attitude is a little too convenient. I’ve accepted a different high level position, but that doesn’t calm his tits at all. Uncle Bitchcakes thinks he’s soooo good at reading people just because he won some Go Fish tournaments or something. I’m just as perceptive as he is, and I say he’s insecure. He knows I’m about to rock the COO thing like a goddamned earthquake and that cream, like my hair, always rises to the top. I’m going to vanquish the family’s nemesis in a corporate chess match and prove once and for all who the big swinging dick in this family is. Hah! Signed; Nephew of Bitchcakes Dear Nephew; Trust me. Your family knows you’re a dick, okay? When your soft, swaddled vanilla azz finally rolled into work, did you hear one co-worker say to the other “Just a minute, Jack. The people of Genoa City need me. I’m almost done with the Buttbiscuit column”? Like, how are you not getting this? I’m scared, bro. Why were you late, btw? I hope it wasn’t because you spent two hours pairing an eggplant tie with a suit made in rich, drizzling shit brown. You aren’t going to vanquish anyone, ever. The family nemesis is lighting up triple word scores on a Scrabble board while you try spelling out FUCK YOU by sneezing with a mouthful of alphabet soup. He’s probably giving your girl vitamin D injections on the side too. Your mom still thinks you’re special though, which is exactly why you shouldn’t listen to a word she says. Talk about bad judgment! Dear Buttbiscuit; Sometimes I think I’m still in love with my husband, but then he acts like a big meanie and I want to kick him in the crotchal area. Other times, I’m pretty sure I have a huge crush on this hot cop who won’t be a cop for long. Hot cop has a girlfriend and an annoying mother, so I’m being very respectful and not padding my bra to get his attention. Aren’t you proud of me? OMG! I was meeting with an employee and we ran into hot cop and I’m, like, so embarrassed because this chick could totally pick up my horny vibe. I’m just so interesting, you know, that people notice my every emotional nuance. I’ve had guys tell me I possess the flirtatious personality of a sea cucumber, so either my employee is deeply in tune with me or sea cucumbers are the sluts of the ocean. I’m sure she has excellent advice to give, as she latched onto the other woman’s cop husband before he died like he was the last chamber pot in a dysentery epidemic. Still, I’d like to hear your opinion on this. Signed; The Main Character Dear Main Character; Shut the fuck up, asshole. I… I’m sorry. Kind of. There’s only so many dumb people with dumb problems that a genius should be expected to tolerate, and you just happened to write the letter that nudged me over the edge. Honestly, you might as well hold out for a reunion with your inept husband. You two are painfully perfect for each other. He’s playing way over his head right now, and if I’m going to shield one of my nephews from assholery, it’s going to be the one who doesn’t let his son drive Matchbox cars up my nose while I sleep. I’d wish you luck, if I cared.

Dear Buttbiscuit; I think you’ll appreciate this. Today, I rolled up on Crimson Lights, being a connoisseur of scones and that essential building block of life, the coffee bean. I had the good fortune to do a little ship watching as well, as a twin behemoth booger barge was docked next to the coffee stirrers. The captain, a dissipated, donkey faced lout, attempted to engage me in a battle of wits despite being armed with a rhetorical rapier honed to the lethal sharpness of a bowling ball. Pointing out that I have no job might be a clever jab, if I wasn’t rich as fuck and free to troll all day all night. The pinnacle of our interaction was his scanning me like an x-ray machine, clearly seeking to read my body language even though he’s people-illiterate. God, it was peak cringe, like this mofo really thought he was some hot shit government agent profiling an unsub. I had yet to imbibe caffeine, so I was able to keep very still as he lobbed his verbal popcorn farts at me. TL:DR, I’m going to turn Kyle upside down and mop Jabot’s floor with his chemically frozen pompadour. Oh yeah, what do you do when some cheese dick assassinates your character in a flashback? Signed; Tucker McCall, Dunking on Douchebags Dear Tucker; You fool. There is no fighting the flashback. The insidious thing about this narrative device is that it is completely out of your control and usually scripted by a profoundly untalented soul who hasn’t had an original thought since 1982. It’s bad enough when flashbacks show us something that just happened a few days ago, flashbacks to shit no one saw the first time can be used to rewrite history and retcon storylines. Like nostrils forbid an hour per day be filled with fresh material. Speaking of fresh, I don’t want to hear any more back sass out of you, mister. I quickly deduced that you were putting on a front today and immediately adjusted my vision to see what you had cooking on the subconscious spectrum. Underestimate me at your peril, sir. I am a poker player of unparalleled talents, a gambler with a heart of gold, a fearless desperado who philosophizes about gambling like a rube who’s never done it before. You know you’re using Kyle like a burning bag of dogshit to be left on Jabot’s doorstep. I know you’re using Kyle like a burning bag of dogshit to be left on Jabot’s doorstep. My brother, on the other hand, looks at the preening douchebag he created and refuses to see that Kyle is basically a whoopee cushion destined to rip one under his scrawny ass. My nephew is incompetent enough to blow up in both your and Jack’s faces while I laugh and laugh. Good luck with that!

Cheer up, folks! We can still anticipate how this asshole family will blame Adam for everything. And we’ll always be able to cherish the tender memories of Victor and his idiot son wrasslin’ a woman. I understand there’s also an unearned victory lap ahead for Buttbiscuit. There’s always a silver lining!

So… are you all telling me Nick didn’t die? Asking for a - no, it’s me. I want to know.

I always miss the good stuff! Was the acting on par with Nick’s tour de force performance yesterday? His facial expressions were perfect, for a Pepto-Bismol commercial. Has everyone escaped already? Damn work.

Dear Buttbiscuit; Dude, I think I’m in serious trouble. I’m in Oregon, which, believe it or not, is a state. Like holy shit, right? My mom is supposed to be in a hospital, but this crazy old bat and my mom’s assistant have me, my dad and my sis locked in a house. My mom’s assistant, Lady Buttkisser, created a ruse to lure her into a trap, and now the rest of us real Newmans have been rused too. My dad scored a lot of tail in his day, including the crazy bat’s crazy sister. The crazy sisters weren’t even talking at the time, so I don’t see the need for a revenge ruse? I can’t imagine spending decades rusing because some dame dumped Adam. So Madame Maniac tells us we’re all going to have heart attacks because we’ve been poisoned. That’s pretty rude to do to your guests. I thought she said “fart attack” at first and was super excited because I could use some cover for the crop dusting jag I was on. Seriously, if you lit a match in this house, there’d be a fiery mushroom cloud rising in the west. Well, she said that the apple polishing brown nose and her crazy ass would be watching us die, at which point my boxers were filled with saturated shats. I’m nervous that dad is going to open a hell mouth if this hostage stuff continues. He can’t always control them, you know? Could you call Chance for us? Or maybe mention something to Adam. I know you’ve always got your eyes on him. Thanks, dude! Signed; The Fumigator Dear Fumigator; Let me see if I have this correct. You’re locked in a house with vengeful women, you’ve been poisoned and you have no idea where your mother is. You’ve been used, rused and abused. Instead of calling 9-1-1, you use your phone to write to me? I don’t… I mean… it’s rather intoxicating that your numpty family frequently places their fate in my hands. On the other hand, you’re all annoying and needy as fuck. Here’s some news you can use - Chance has no jurisdiction in Oregon. Even if he did, he’s thinking about leaving police work for business. Apparently anyone can become an executive in Genoa City, so long as your fam owns a corporation. Nepotism has certainly enriched my life, but goddamn, not everyone is cut out to be shoehorned into the corporate lifestyle. I suppose I could make a cryptic, sassy aside to Adam about your peril to titillate and intrigue him. I just wonder what your kidnapper’s end game is. You can’t disappear three prominent businesspeople, poison and torment them and expect it to work. If someone were scripting this crime, they’d have to be very clever to resolve it in a deft manner. You could always fight ruse with ruse, but let your dad and sister figure it out, okay? Meanwhile, Oregon is a lovely state. If you escape, make sure to enjoy the scenery! Dear Buttbiscuit; I’m really into a certain guy, but his family is pure, conniving trash. I’m afraid he’ll fully morph into a garbage person if he spends too much time with his father. This guy feels like if he resists telling a lie, that’s a praiseworthy achievement he should get a cookie for. That’s the kind of values system his father cultivated. Today he told me that his father faked dementia to prove one of his children is a traitor. Someone outside the family got scapegoated, but my once and future lover didn’t seem upset by this heinous scheme. I once faked an illness in order to prop up a total waste of a human trafficking character, so I know the hurt it can cause. To do it to your own kids is next level. My guy said he understood why his father did it. What? How? I just feel like he’ll never be truly psychologically healthy as long as he makes emotional compromises to stay connected to his dad. How can I help him? Signed; Romantic Red Dear Red; I’m probably the wrong guy to ask that question. See, my father was an amazing man, my brother a great role model, and my two older sisters thought I was the cutest thing. Guess what? I turned out to be a fuckstick. If I may be so bold to assume, it sounds like your fella probably started out with a set of normal parents but eventually came under the spell of a domineering biological father who is married to the ultimate enabler, a woman who hates the very existence of any child of her hubster’s who didn’t luge out of her lady parts. I’m right, right? He’s probably got half-siblings who learned to abhor him at their mother’s knee. The desire to belong in a family is strong, even if they’re a clown cult led by a total dick who thinks being an orphan entitles him to engage in sociopathic behavior without consequences. Your boyfriend is rationalizing a hurtful, hateful loyalty test because the truth that his father is incapable of love is too painful. Fuck me, I’m deep. The only way he will ever be free of the dysfunction is when - wait. I don’t suppose his father has a ring that should have been thrown into Mt. Doom? Anyhoo, I hope the sex is good, at least.

Phyllis turned in her father for embezzling or fraud or something like that, I think. Clearly a woman of principles, she then embarked on a decades long crime spree with no regrets. I’m not sure I want to meet the woman who somehow produced a human velociraptor, unless maybe she shows up to take Phyllis back to Jurassic Park.

In today’s Dear Buttbiscuit, readers will hear from Genoa City’s most prominent residents about what they’re thankful for this holiday season. I’m personally grateful to the Genoa City Blowhole for giving me a platform to tell people who annoy me where to get off. Victor Newman: I’m grateful for my many lifetimes, k? Of course, I also appreciate the great fortune I have accumulated over the centuries, from the golden, ruby encrusted codpiece gifted to me by Montezuma to the well-endowed ivory horse statue that Caligula pleasured himself with. I am thankful for some of my children, k? A dear hobby of mine is to constantly rank my children based on a number of factors: intelligence, loyalty, quality of birthday gifts, gait, etc. Sometimes it comes down to mere whimsy. I also do this with my grandchildren, and I’ll be damned if Summer doesn’t always come in dead last. Did I ever tell you I was at the first Thanksgiving? I emerged from the deep woods with the world’s first pumpkin pie and was chased into a bear’s den by pilgrims attempting to banish me with bibles. Youhaveanicedaynow. Nick Newman: My penis. Definitely grateful for the ol’ poon spoon. Tucker McCall: Turtlenecks. Or are turtlenecks grateful for me? I am deeply thankful that my enemies are a bunch of dumbass pigeons. Kyle Abbott: I’m so lucky to have a son who is invisible. It’s amazing how easy it is to parent him and enjoy carefree, childfree holidays. I’m blessed to have a mom who realizes I’m a grown ass man and tells me how smart and special I am every day. Sharon Rosales: I saw Chance naked and wept with gratitude. Nate Hastings: I am thankful I have a pushy aunt determined to steamroll my way back into the family I betrayed. Also got a pretty good feeling that karma is about to express Victor’s anal glands for him. Lauren Fenmore: I’m grateful my husband finally came home from Singapore after extracting his crazy mother from a clusterfuck. I’m grateful that even though I no longer have a place to live, I can still borrow a friend’s restaurant over the holidays. Finally, I’m so thankful for the excess of turd brown fabric abandoned at a local shipping depot. Chelsea Lawson: I’m super stoked that Marchetti has come into some free materials in rich, brown hues that are perfect for Thanksgiving. I’m so deeply appreciative of my boyfriend and his broad, omniscient nostrils that can inhale both our farts, tell them apart and appreciate them on a quantum level. Jack Abbott: I’m grateful to still have any lips at all considering how often I bite them. Words can’t truly describe my joy at living a Phyllis free life and that I’m not burdened by the guilt of producing Summer. Once a month, I come home, loosen my tie, tell Alexa to play Lady Marmalade and cut loose until I get a charley horse just to celebrate. Phyllis Summers: Grateful! Grateful? Why should I be grateful? It’s hard remembering to say the right things when your kids are talking to you. I want to speak my truth, not rack my brains for what society considers ethical and moral. None of my ex-husbands invited me for Thanksgiving. I never got my parade for ending the velour menace. Fuck Thanksgiving. Fuck it. And fuck you too. Lily Winters: I’m thankful my boyfriend’s ex has the personality of dandruff. Claire Grace: I’m grateful that the Newman family is dumb as rocks.

Next week looks pretty darn good for Abby and Adam.

I was worried about Nikki cutting up her feet after she dropped that bottle, tbh. Also strange thar Claire and Aunt Jordan would leave such a handy weapon around. I know Nikki is not in prime physical condition at the moment, but a glass bottle is not something you should risk leaving for your hostage. Man, that Abbott family holiday pic upthread. Kyle has developed an acute case of punchable face.

Ridge was just awful today. Where do any of these fuckers get off hiding Eric’s illness from Zende. That’s his grandfather too. The way this show treats adoption and adopted children is just… there really are no words. I can’t believe anyone thought this script was a good idea. Everyone else covered the lunacy of FC being able to push only one line at a time. I’d rather not see Thomas and Hope at all, but I’d much prefer watching them work on HFTF than playing grab ass at the office. As if Ridge’s condescending, self-serving bullshit wasn’t enough, we also have Li continuing to spit venom about her niece. I’m glad Finn stood up for her. I’ll also cast a vote against Bill being Luna’s father when Kelly is right there. I’ve been eagerly awaiting Liam’s face getting cracked - don’t take that away from me, show. Poppy’s disdain and disinterest when Bill was talking to her was kind of funny.

Dear Buttbiscuit; I’m feeling a little blue about an estrangement from my son, but I do find some solace in messing with the Abbott scion, who is pure, concentrated smirk in human form. Oh my god, he is so much more fun than you ever were. Sure, you’re both manspreading idiots with surplus self regard and a dearth of actual talent, but there’s something so delightful about the arrogance of callow youth. This bozo, whose hair frontage could be surfed, thinks he can reject my revenge plan and then come strutting back into the fold like nothing happened. Like, OMG, he recorded his aunt talking smack about me! Motherfucker want a milk bone for his loyalty? I’m so gosh darn impressed with his intelligence gathering that I think Tom Cruise should play him in the movies. Did you even know he escaped from his playpen? He thinks I’m buying the disloyal Abbott act, but wait until he realizes I’m paying admission with gold foiled rabbit turds. Don’t hate the player or the game; hate your fuckboi nephew instead. I’mma burn Jabot down and he’s wearing kerosene cologne. Signed; Tucker “Fuck All Y’all Abbotts” McCall Dear Tucker; You’re going to burn down Jabot, huh? What are you going to do, embezzle, fuck the boss’ wife, invest in yachts and racehorses or taint some face cream? You better bring that A game, bish. I certainly didn’t recruit that oversexed vanilla Gumby doll to play double agent, and my brother is refreshingly honest about his son’s numerous limitations, so I know he didn’t either. My sister wouldn’t trust her nephew to sell shit to a dung beetle, so she’s out. Hmmmm. I guess that leaves his mother, who will be performing her one act play, The Handmaid’s Tale But In Grape, this Thanksgiving. This could definitely play to my advantage when it eventually blows up in their faces. Be warned that my nephew’s dumbfuckery is like a grenade with a wonky pin; the failure fallout could land anywhere. No one is safe. Be careful and have an evacuation plan in place. Dear Buttbiscuit; Something is wrong, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. Maybe because it’s currently knuckle deep in a gold mine, I dunno. My mom has this assistant who should be called an assholistant because she’s always stomping around Newman Enterprises, shuffling papers, picking up lunches and just working, working, working. I don’t wanna come back to the company and have this chirpy squirrel making me look lazy AF. I wanna sit in my office and run my fantasy football league, microwave tater tots and soak my skidz in my private bathroom. So this ASSistant tells us Mom was visiting at her aunt’s lake house, had a seizure and the aunt was able to call ASS on a plane she caught to fetch some work here in Genoa City. Okay, I’m not Einstein, I didn’t come up with theory of relatives, but why hop a plane to get work that could be emailed or faxed? I guess my mom is in the hospital, though no one can tell us what hospital that is. ASS called her aunt, who spoke to my pop and what I overheard made my thinker itch. This aunt was faaaaake with a capital FAAAAAKE and was oozing sarcasm the way my [redacted] oozes [redacted]. Something stinks here, and as a sufferer of chronic swamp ass, I know from stench. Like wouldn’t the hospital call my dad direct? Just tell me how Adam is behind this. I’ll be up in the friendly skies turning the jet into a tube of flatulence to give her ASSness something to think about. Signed; Prince Banana von Hammock Dear Prince; I wish I could tell you that Adam did a naughty, naughty thing and would be spanked with a bare hand, but your dilemma is caused by complete strangers. My sources report that someone, somewhere has a ridiculous plan that can only work if the target is dumb as a fucking stump. Needless to say, the plotter(s) have hit the jackoff jackpot. If anyone needed proof that great wealth is not created by great intellects, your family is it. Of course, Victor Newman has made thousands of enemies over the millennia, spawning an incredible amount of multigenerational grudges that will haunt your family until the end of time. Sucks to be you! I keep trying to point Tucker McCall in your family’s direction, as maybe he’d see how easy you guys are to roll and would stop pestering my family, but nooooo. When the alarm bells only ring in the empty gorilla cage, you know you’ve got yourself some marks. Enjoy Thanksgiving! Dear Buttbiscuit; I recently received a call about an old flame. It was totally out of the blue, and now I’m supposed to hurry to some lake house in Oregon. I knew the lady in question from Genoa City, so I did some googling and found your paper. So much has changed and yet so much is exactly the same. Your writings give some indication that you know Victoria Newman pretty well. Is there something going on with her that an ex needs to know about? Why Oregon? Why am I showing up there like a naive dumbass? Signed; A Cole in One Dear Cole; Oh, the things I could tell you about Victoria! Of course, a gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell, but you wrote to me. I foolishly had two children with her, which means that Victor Newman will hover over them all their lives like a gargoyle. Having Victor and Nikki grandparent your kids sucks owl hemorrhoids. Sure, they can buy the tots anything they want, but you have to constantly teach the little buggers morals over and over again, at which point I turn them over to my brother and sister because I’m no hypocrite. After reaching the dizzying heights of romance with me, Victoria hit rock bottom with a cancer faking nutbar who mysteriously disappeared. She threw herself into business and at a guy with ambition, a girlfriend and an extraordinary part. I don’t know where that stands now, but I doubt she needs an intervention. The guy lost his part and thus gained my admiration. Honestly, it sounds like you’re being lured into a horror movie like situation, but if you go armed with your wits, you’ll probably be fine.

I might want to check into this hospital, as long as Nikki isn’t my roommate and Claire isn’t my nurse. Same. Her attitude has sucked for months now, between trying to dictate the love life of her employee and trash talking Adam. Throw in not telling Victoria what her father is pulling and you’re truly cruising toward peak asshole.

Wouldn’t Claire be Adam’s niece if it does unfold that she’s Victoria’s daughter? I’m all for Adam getting some, but not Bold & Beautiful style.

Beth deserves better than being tormented by a product of the man who went to extremes to hide her from her parents. Plus, I would bet cash money that Brad Bell has an intern replacing the names Steffy and Hope in years of scripts with Beth and Kelly. He’s original like that.

Do not put the idea of a Thomas/Hope baby out into the universe, show. Do not. I wish Liam would just admit he was an unforgiving asshole when it came to Hope’s transgression even though she forgave him repeatedly for his Steffy bullshit. Own the wrongness, you little ratfuck. Thomas is obsessed with the idea that Hope could possibly fall in love with him, and Hope seems obsessed with the idea that Thomas is laser focused on her. So romantic.