NinjaPenguins
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Well, that was a waste of a perfectly good hour. Unless you enjoy watching people babble away at unreceptive walls, which I don’t. Diane tries to be gracious towards Nikki; Nikki displays the manners of a feral honey badger. Tucker can’t feel the polar breeze coming off Audra and embarrasses himself trying to ask her to go steady. Finally, we have Jack being told by three different women that maybe, just maybe, Ashley is a grown ass woman who is probably not doing something catastrophic. He just won’t hear it. What a terrible storyline. I don’t even care anymore which party is remembering Paris correctly.
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6 hours ago, boes said:
That luncheon with Chance and Dummer and ButtBiscuit and Chelsea the grinning deathshead was so utterly grim, wasn't it?
Grim is the ideal word for it. Watching Chelz beam with approval as Chance and Summer exchanged banalities over the menu made me think she desperately needs a hobby other than spelunking in Billy’s sinuses. Then Buttbiscuit bestows his blessing, like anyone gives a fuck what he thinks. The pinnacle had to be Billy thinking he could be a Jack-like figure to Chance. For someone who looked up to Jack, the stale slice of butt bread learned sweet fuck all from him. Jack wouldn’t be caught dead in that ugly leisure suit, for one. Was that velour?
I now see the resemblance between Daniel and his mother! He’s been absorbed into the asshole collective, where you do what you want and then rationalize it later. We still don’t really know why Heather and Daniel broke up or what his terrible behavior was. We know he works his issues out with Lily’s support, and now that he’s all fixed, Heather wants him back. Gross.
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Dear Buttbiscuit;
Somehow, through no fault of my own, I have reunited with my ex. We just have that combustible chemistry, that irresistible magic that simply cannot be denied. You know how as a child, you’d strip Barbie and Ken naked and rub their smooth parts together? It’s that kind of fiyah. Now, technically, I am in a relationship with a very fine lady, but aren’t technicalities swept away by the roaring tides of destiny? I plan to break it off with her as soon as my nards drop. Sadly, my current girlfriend’s brother clocked the insane sparks flying between my ex and me and quickly deduced what was up. See, current girlfriend is out of town helping her traumatized daughter, which would make me seem like a callous bastard if I had planned this, which I did not. I don’t want to inflict the fire in my pants on girlfriend and daughter, which means that my acorns will continue to jostle my tonsils. I just don’t have the stones to make her cry, you know? My question is simple. Girlfriend’s brother is a cheating dog, so he doesn’t get to judge me, right?
Signed;
Wandering Dick
Dear Dick;
Yes. Yes, he does get to judge you. You’re stepping out on his sister, you stupid asshat. If people had to be perfect to call out dickishness in others, I’d be out of this plum, low effort job. Hell, I’m a disgusting, backstabbing, cheating dog and I am judging the fuck out of you. Buddy, who are you trying to convince of your unstoppable chemistry with your partner in infidelity? The readers or yourself? I think your description of two plastic dolls bumping uglies just about captures the heat you two idiots generate. There is never a good time to tell your partner what a faithless shit you are, so just rip the goddamn bandaid off. Do you really want to wait for your girlfriend to help her daughter recover and then return to town ready to pick up where you left off, only to get her heart caved in by your betrayal? You may not have put ‘boring affair’ into your genital GPS, but you still chose to park your penis on scumbag lane. Looks like the Bluetoothed Flapjack Monster hatched two assholes instead of one!
Dear Buttbiscuit;
I decided to let my uncle mentor me in my new career, and now his head is almost big enough to support his nostrils. As far as I can tell, business in Genoa City is all about buzzwords, buying nameless companies and nepotism. My uncle treats it like it’s a mysterious art, full of secrets that only a corporate sensei can teach. I mean, this guy spends a lot of his workday texting way too many eggplant emojis to his girlfriend. At about 3 p.m., he jimmies the lock on an executive restroom to make the company deposit. Yesterday he sent me a picture captioned “check out our shipping logs LOL!” He didn’t appreciate my advice to see a doctor. Today I endured a terrible lunch where I earned praise for using the term ROI while this yappy little raptor nattered on about jambalaya. I feel like I have a second asshole, which, come to think of it, might explain my uncle’s fecal photography. How can I gently end this mentorship and find a teacher with an actual work ethic?
Signed;
Cute In a Suit
Dear Cute;
Does Kyle have custody of the brain today? Why are both my nephews like this? This afternoon, before placing my pancake ass on the executive griddle, I announced that I would be writing my Buttbiscuit column while bearing down on the Brown project. Still you write this letter. Too bad. Maybe if you’d have more respect for your mentor, he’d teach you some prime anti-asshole maneuvers. Dude, you don’t just get involved with the yappy little raptor; you get her cultish loyalty to her demented mother and her father’s post-ball scratch pull my finger jokes. Enjoy, pretty boy!
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I’d like to help Li out with some basic advice, despite the fact that she causes me acute discomfort with her psychotic browbeating of her sister. I hope this helps!
- It’s okay for a woman to enjoy sex. Really!
- It’s not okay to slut shame your sister or imply her daughter is also a predatory, gold-digging whore.
- Finn’s family by marriage is not your property or your own little fiefdom to protect from interlopers.
- No one appointed you guardian of Finn’s & Steffy’s family.
- Finn gets along really well with his cousin and has already gone to bat for her. Take a hint.
- Bill Spencer doesn’t need your protection, although he clearly could have used some kind of protection in his younger days.
- You seem unhinged please shut up.
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12 hours ago, Anna Yolei said:
I honestly can't even say this is the worst scene of the show this month, much less in the last few years. B&B has been in desperate need of levity and yeah, this ain't it but if the choice is this, any of those options, or him groveling at sourpuss Katie's feet? It'll take this
Yeah, I mean, I probably cringe harder whenever the dreaded “cha cha cha” is uttered (I even feel like a fucking idiot typing it out). I might have pulled something cringing at obnoxious Rick roaring “I own your ass!” at Ridge. Holy crap, this show is loaded with cringe. I like levity too, though it’s better when it’s intentional. It’s too bad Bell has never grasped earth-based humor.
The scene with Poppy dancing at the restaurant offered some amazing secondhand embarrassment too. Dancing in public is apparently shorthand for free spirit. The applause from the other diners was like the frosting on the cringe cake. Forget this month, Luna catching her parents sexytimes might not be the most awkward moment this week.
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Brad Bell probably had some HIGH-larious Three’s Company style hijinks in mind for our couples and, being completely devoid of imagination or any familiarity with how humans act, he was determined to make it happen, no matter how awkward and unnatural. As usual, his dumb idea will be executed with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
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3 hours ago, Artsda said:
Have they mentioned where is Flo? They're acting like she doesn't exist or not engaged.
Fine by me!
Shame on this show for ditching Wyatt. He has that special magical ability of making Liam vaguely tolerable. That’s next level shit right there. Show should be bottling it, not getting rid of it.
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Dear Buttbiscuit;
I have to tell you, that nephew of yours is a kick. I’ve got a sweet lounge lizard lifestyle going on, and part of the fun is trolling random dopes who stroll across my territory. Yes, Kyle showed me his pomp hand the other day, but I’m willing to take a punch to further my revenge goals. Your nephew isn’t even the goofiest tit I’ve come across during my newfound life of leisure; the other day, I spotted a shriveled lemon being released from an old tube sock. Don’t order the flapjacks anywhere in Genoa City is all I’m saying. Anywho, the shiny floor model dildo stepped to me again today, full of youthful swagger and enough hair gel to shellac a wildebeest. I yanked his chain about family loyalty for a few minutes, but quickly got bored when he failed to have a single insight. Kyle Abbott has the introspection of a sea cucumber with none of the personality. Your family must be so embarrassed.
Signed;
Abbott Hunter
Dear Hunter;
As a matter of fact, we are embarrassed. Do you have to call attention to our shame, sir? Imagine knowing your only living son is a tool, but not like a useful tool, like a Swiss army knife. No, he’s like a battery powered q-tip/earwax vacuum. His mom is proud of him, I guess, but what the hell does she know? He brought an asshole into the family, and now that fucking rectal remora has attached herself to my other nephew. Next time nepo nipples tries to feed you a knuckle sandwich, you have my permission to roll him up like an old copy of Punchable Face magazine and stuff him in a mailbox. Hopefully he’ll be delivered to Uranus. Ha ha!
Dear Buttbiscuit;
So I’ve got this bendy straw full of spoiled skim milk working as an executive at my company. He came in hot with ideas and projects coming out his prodigious nostrils. The ideas were hot too - hot buttered ass. No one wants to listen to a podcast from a gambling addict where he muses on love, loyalty and the pressure of being a rich, well-connected white fuck. If anyone wants to hear about the time this guy slipped into a casino with a royal flush duct taped to his left nut, just sit next to him at the Athletic Club and wait. The product proposals are somehow worse. Nipple nectar for dudes whose titties have no pity? Self-cleaning underwear? Fuck outta here with that crap. I can’t fire the guy, so I need to know how to neutralize him. Oh, and I asked my dad not to talk to me, but now that he’s respecting my request, I’m pissed.
Signed;
That Nose Knows Nothing
Dear Nose;
Maybe your dad finds it easy to avoid you because you’re a judgmental prick. Ever think of that? Are you telling me that you’ve never been making out with some chick and needed to squeeze one out, only to feel the tragic tickle of a trickle? Congratulations on your sublime bowel control, sphincter savant. The rest of us mere mortals would empty our bank accounts for a pair of self-laundering carrot cuddlers. Winter can be very unforgiving on the nipular surface for guys with sensitive skin, but apparently you were born with a rhino hide or the ability to lactate Gold Bond. La dee fucking da, buddy. Put some respect on your co-worker’s ideas - you might not need innovative solutions, but let others benefit. Jerk.
Dear Buttbiscuit;
I think I might be allergic to bees. BOO-bees. Hahahaha. Really though, I see a pair of Lake Titicacas and black out, only to regain my senses moments later. I usually feel vaguely ashamed, dirty and slightly aroused with low impulse control. I recently spotted some twin torpedos and rented the Jeremy Stark Memorial Sleazebag Suite to motorboat some balloon animals for a nice tension release. It’s cool that the grannies out there feel free to show me their bazooms, but it makes me so gosh darned giddy. TITS! Do I have a problem?
Signed;
Rock Out With Your Rack Out
Dear Rock;
You’ve got a number of problems, but let’s deal with the most pressing. Naturally everyone in Genoa City knows about the Flapjack Monster sightings that have plagued our fair town. Your first warning sign is a blinding blue flash and when the floaties finally clear, you’re hypnotized by a pair of psychedelic floppers. Really, those things should be called flopjacks. Anyways, aren’t you, like, 79 or so? Should breasts still be such a novelty to you? Grow up!
Dear Buttbiscuit;
You pompous windbag, monopolizing all the nostrils so the rest of us have little to turn up at the stench of the peasantry! I might be drunk on vodka, but you, sir, are drunk on meddling! Everyone disappoints me. My sponsor started drinking again and came around looking for a compassion handout. I might have spoken a kind word or two, had I not caught him putting his filthy hands all over my desk. I cannot have a sponsor who is imperfect. I cannot. My ex, a disgustingly soft touch, has reached out to help me, as if his little pill popping habit could possibly provide insights into my unique rich lady suffering. He sickens me. Is it wrong if I instruct security to turn the hose on my now former sponsor? He left an oily print inside my beautiful teak desk drawer.
Signed;
Flask and You Shall Receive
Dear Flask;
It’s amazing that you can hit rock bottom and still find a lofty perch from which to look down upon your fellow man. Instead of trusting your security team with a fire hose, why not address the issue of allowing any random asshole to wander through your offices like free range chickens? How many different criminals are going to fuck up your family before you catch a clue that your crack security team is perpetually high on crack? I wouldn’t be so hasty in rejecting your ex’s support; play your cards right and you could be the next Jabot CEO!
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Maybe they could stop adding Newmans. Who looks at the ones we have and orders another batch of those assholes? If you have to add to existing families, there’s always Abbotts, Winters, Chancellors… Enough already with the Newmans.
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I honestly think that’s just how Cole looks. It just struck me what a thin little family he and Claire and Victoria are. They probably could have sat in lawn chairs and caught a gentle breeze from Wisconsin to Oregon.
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Man, this show has got to ease up on RJ & Luna being pure light and love and joy and all that other saccharine claptrap they’re trying to sell. Can’t they just be a fun, light, young couple? Everything is zero to twu wuv with this show’s clown ass head writer.
Good ol’ Truthful Thomas. “Yes, I tore after Emma hell-bent for leather because she was going to tell you Beth was alive, which would have cockblocked me, btw, and I pursued her aggressively enough that her high rate of speed took her off the road. I then became an instant vehicular accident analyst and deduced survival was impossible. I tampered with evidence so no one would know I was there. But I’m not responsible. Forgive me?” Sure, bud.
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Two things:
1. Victoria turned Cole into a vampire on the plane ride to Oregon, right?
2. My baby my baby my baby my baby back ribs SHUT THE FUCK UP, VICTOR!
I’m like Nick and can’t count properly.
3. Someone needed to record Jordan’s conversation with Claire and send it to Ashley so she can understand what gaslighting is.
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Even a blind waffle will eventually fall face first into a puddle of syrup, I suppose. Liam is right about Thomas, but Hope doesn’t want to hear it coming from his dickish, condescending piehole.
10 hours ago, KerleyQ said:especially the part about how, if he'd gotten away with it, he'd be content to still have Hope believe her baby was dead. That's just something I wouldn't be able to get past, and I get Liam's confusion and dismay that Hope has gotten past it to this degree
I can’t get past it as a viewer. Even if Thomas never did anything else, this is still a bridge too far for me. Too bad that all Liam running his mouth will do is make Hope double down on the relationship. His concerns are valid but he has zero credibility with her.
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Dear Buttbiscuit;
Let me tell you something, young man. You wouldn’t think so, but it’s entirely possible to get properly shitfaced at work, stumble into the most popular place in Genoa City and be rescued by a considerate tart. Isn’t that wonderful? No one but the hotsy totsy who fetches you a room and sobering liquids will ever know your shame. Discretion is a marvelous thing. My daughter is flying across the country with her newborn grown ass child, a moldy string bean and the family’s paramilitary squad so that the big baby can confront the vicious peafowl who injected me with vodka. ONE ON ONE!!! Just the baby and the crazy aunt who dominated her life. What evil scheme will they come up with? Nobody cares about my feelings, nobody but Petty Officer Giuseppe Seahorse, aka the Stoli Pigeon aka my fucking flask. I don’t know why I’m writing this.
Signed;
I Hate My Family
Dear Family;
Join the club! Your family is what happens when you appoint Nosferatu to lifeguard the gene pool. You wrote in to vent, obviously, since I bet your husband hears the words you say but doesn’t really listen. Amirite? Holy shit, I’m deep. That being said, lighten up. It’s not like your daughter is flying to Oregon to spring your kidnapper. Unlike the police-free kleptocracy of Genoa City, they probably take serious crimes seriously over there and won’t let aunt and niece huddle over a bootleg laptop plotting world domination. You were hunting any excuse to drink, and your daughter’s wack ass decision to facilitate an in-person meeting that could occur over Zoom gave it to you. It’s not easy, but you gotta plow through this setback and keep fighting the fight. I don’t even get how you seem to be brand new to Newmans not giving a shit about someone’s feelings. Hello?
Dear Buttbiscuit;
I’m concerned that the fragile truce I forged with my upright bonobo brother could be in trouble. He stomped into the Athletic Club just as my lady and I were headed upstairs for truffles. He had been involved with the lady as an insult to me before, so I had to be very careful not to gloat about reintroducing her to orgasms. He was his typical crude self, all snippy with her like he had a heat rash on his hemorrhoids. He claimed he was cool with me, but he had his arms folded in pout position, which revealed the hilarious smallness of his bidness suit. Fortunately, his scowling dickishness wasn’t the boner killer you’d imagine. Thanks for listening!
Signed;
Truffles Ruffled
Dear Truffles;
Thank you for writing in! It’s a pleasure to hear from someone without a problem or who needs me to pull advice out of my nasal archives (I’ve rearranged my collection according to the dewey decimal system via serendipitous paprika-propelled sneeze). There’s no pressure to perform when someone is dunking hard on their brother under the guise of soliciting my wise counsel. Well played, sir. Just remember to know your limits; I used to rub my brother’s face in my wife-fucking hijinks and ever since, my manscaping lotion is occasionally replaced with Nair. I know it’s not my girlfriend, because she’s always said she’d rather play on a golf course than hike across the desert. Good luck!
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33 minutes ago, Joimiaroxeu said:
Sally told Adam she had gained three new clients. Apparently none of them saw what a depressing mess she made of Daniel's condo
Sad, single, dystopian divorced dad certainly isn’t my aesthetic cup of tea, but it must turn someone’s crank in Genoa City.
35 minutes ago, Joimiaroxeu said:Tucker mocked Kyle's bouffant and got socked in the jaw for the privilege. Whee! (Or maybe Kyle was offended by Tucker wearing a brown turtleneck with blue pants. 😼
Shit, I’m offended by this. Do better, Tucker. And don’t let up on that bouffant either. That shit’s not right.
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Like I was rooting for Zende when he was giving it to RJ about his privilege, but the dating by deception thing is so not cool. As Kerley said, it’s creepy. Keep it honest, bud.
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Dear Buttbiscuit;
Ugh. Dad’s making me work with my little bro again. We’re going to be co-number twos, heh heh. I love an afternoon number two at the office as much as the next boss, but I don’t want to work with one. Dad assigned us a presentation, which I guess is like a book report, which I have to tell you I never did. That’s what girls with glasses were for. Dude, I’d never tell my brother this, but he had some good ideas. I know they’re good because they made my brain hurt. He didn’t even complain when I just sat there poundng cookies and doodling dongs with smiley faces on my napkin. I put my most toxic crop dusting chemicals out there and that bastard didn’t flinch! Man, I don’t like any of this. If my bro truly has changed, then I don’t get to be right anymore. I fucking love being right. I slipped a booger I’d been keeping in my pocket into his coffee, but I felt a twinge of guilt. Help!
Signed;
Swingin’ in the Banana Hammock
Dear Banana;
You don’t need help. You need to embrace the spell your brother has enchanted you with. Watch your dad very carefully, because as you and your brother really connect as a team, he’ll start trying to stomp on your relationship like Godzilla put the boots to Tokyo. He doesn’t want you to get along with your siblings. He wants you to fight Mortal Kombat style for his approval and the status of favorite child. You’ll see. Sounds like you already unleashed a FARTALITY on your sibling lol. You brought up one of my favorite things - the workplace deuce. I still take mine at Jabot, usually with a six pack of Modelo, my favorite podcasts queued up and one of my big brother’s business cards to implicate him in case of a catastrophic containment failure at the chocolate factory. Always have a plan BM, I say.
Dear Buttbiscuit;
So I burned a pretty sweet piece of ass today, betraying my bed buddy for reasons I can’t quite explain. Maybe it’s because I am falling for him and don’t want to be vulnerable like that. I’m sure he’ll end up back with his sister soon enough, and no one wants to come in second to that asshole. Or maybe it’s because he’s really just a hair model pretending to be a corporate schemer with all the authenticity of a Jardiance commercial. He’s got no shot at victory against his family’s enemy, so why not stick with the winning side? I’m not even sure I’m actually betraying the guy; this could be one of a thousand pointless moves made between McCall and Abbott forces that means jack shit nothing. I’ll miss that D though.
Signed;
Business as Usual
Dear Business;
I hate to see your bed buddy hurt… no, I don’t. I lied. In fact, when Tucker McCall pulls the rug out from under the guy, give me a ring so that I may enjoy watching him face plant. He won’t be talking smug shit with his lips kissing parquet, now will he? Being a virile man at the height of my powers, I understand the lure of sex as well as anyone. It can be hard to resist physical pleasure, and you can be taken by surprise by finding an otherwise dull pretty boy with significant crotchal talents. (By the way, guys, sticking your dick in crazy isn’t necessarily a roller coaster ride through an orgasmic playground. Sometimes it’s just basic vanilla bullshit). I guess I haven’t been very helpful, but don’t let that stop you from alerting me to your buddy’s imminent pantsing!
Dear Buttbiscuit;
What in the hell is going on around here? My baby has a sponsor, k? The hell does she need a sponsor for? I fund her lavish lifestyle, yougotthat? This piece of crap was wearing a damn hoodie, k? What can a poor do for my baby? I had a sponsor many years ago, k? I was handsomely rewarded by the Borgias for summoning certain useful entities to harass their enemies and satisfy the base appetites of their allies. Ah yes, I remember those voluptuous creatures well; I called them entitties. No matter! Who is this fool to sponsor another man’s wife?
Signed;
I Also Called Them BOObies
Dear BOO;
The fool is not sponsoring your wife in a financial sense, like the way the Genoa City Blowhole is funded by advertising from Rexx Rugs, the Danny Romalotti Abandoned Insecticide Factories World Tour ‘24 and online betting apps. See, he’s supporting her as she struggles with her addiction, offering her real talk and no judgement as opposed to happy clappy blither blather and oppressive policing of her every move. It’s a good thing to meet with your sponsor, and you should unconditionally support your wife doing so. Don’t be such a damn dickflap every time someone other than you helps your family. If you could stop calling your grown ass spouse your baby, that might prevent what is probably the familiar sight of villagers marching on your estate with torches and pitchforks. Fair warning!
Dear Buttbiscuit;
I am genuinely confuzzled, though I doubt you possess the insights and empathy to advise me. My estranged wife remembers our break up as a dramatic scene of rage and violence on my part. I remember being hurt and angry and perhaps a bit rough with the cafe furnishings, but not violent. Our interaction didn’t draw any attention from the other diners or the waitstaff, which seems unlikely if I’d shattered a glass and tossed a chair. At the same time, she seems genuinely afraid of me. I’m not a man of violence; I once applied too much force in pulling a turtleneck over my head and wept after I saw the neck was stretched beyond endurance. I don’t know, man. I could be remembering things in a way that favors me. I hope not.
Signed;
WTF?
Dear WTF?;
You bastard. You better not have raged at my sister or I swear to god I’ll have Jack kick your ass. You may laugh, but you don’t want to fuck with spry older gentleman strength. You ain’t up for that smoke, bro. I’d handle you myself, but Chancellor-Winters has a manicurist on staff and my nail game has never been tighter. Perhaps you should immediately seek therapy to get at the truth of what happened. Real therapy, not talking to a woman who let my ass escort her through a dream. Even I recognize the desperation there. Woof.
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Yeah, Poppy, the dress with the screaming pink ass bow is the one.
I think Steffy’s crazy detector started tingling a little when Thomas was prattling on. He is just exhausting with all his hopeful gushing that Hope is going to fall madly in love with him. Buddy, you’re the only available man who she can be 1000% certain won’t fuck Steffy. Calm the hell down.
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10 hours ago, MsMalin said:
I was thinking this morning about how boring all of these characters are:
Nobody has a pet
Nobody has a hobby
Nobody watches tv or goes to the movies
Nobody reads
Nobody cooks
The only things we have ever seen is Victor playing chess, the horrible concert that Chance and Summer went to and Nikki pouring herself a drink which she considers cooking.
How. dare. you. Are you saying these characters we spend weekday afternoons with don’t have rich, full lives? Pets? I don’t know how you missed the big, dumb poodle following Jack around the Abbott mansion. He needs a groomer, but still. Daniel has a raptor AND a stray asshole that occasionally lands on his doorstep. Hobbies? Nick has an extremely versatile hobby that he can enjoy with others or all by his lonesome. As for reading, Victor doesn’t keep a copy of the Necronomicon around for funsies, and Tucker subscribes to that notable magazine, Turtleneck Connoisseur. Billy watches Animal Planet and Nat Geo Wild in the hopes he’ll spot the alpacas who gave him up for adoption.
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7 hours ago, boes said:
Oh Nick, imagine a sentient wheel of excess goverment cheese mating with a sub-par Dubuque canned ham, and you'd STILL be shooting too high to hit your mark. But then again, darling Nick, no matter what you're aiming for, love, family, business, urinal, you'll always going to end up peeing on your own leg and, unfortunately, ours as well
Set this to music and you’ve got yourself a hit! Unless you let Danny Romalotti perform it.
I often defend Sharon, but who the fuck dumps Chance for one more shot at the brass banana? And imagine having a whimsical buttbiscuit as your dream guide; most people would rather have Freddy Krueger greet them after they doze off.
Show, it’s okay to have Tessa on screen and not have her sing.
WTF with Harrison showing up at the dream party and yelling “Hi, Mommy!” ? Even in someone else’s nap time meanderings, Summer makes it all about her.
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Finn, I want to be on your side, man, but then you go and say melodramatic shit like “you’ll never be with Hope as long as I have breath in my body” to Thomas. Just tape a Kill Me sign to your back instead. You fool. If Hope wants to do stupid, gross things with another consenting adult, that’s her business. Are you her personal bodyguard or something? Getting involved in the relationship of a woman not your wife isn’t the best look.
Steffy can eat a big bag of shit. Nothing is ever Thomas’ fault, Hope needs to be 1000% loyal to him, Thomas has worked sooooo haaaard (off screen), Finn has a different opinion than her, blah blah blah. Keep enabling that natural born asshole, Steffy. It’s clearly helping your brother.
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This show was foolish to break up the best pairing they had, which was Liam and Wyatt (IMO). Put them with Bill and you had comedy gold. Am I to imagine that Luna will call Waffles out on his wandering dick and delusional babble? I’ve been waiting for years to hit the storyline jackpot of Liam discovering his daughter was his sister, and this is the anticlimactic crap I get? Yawn.
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Dear Buttbiscuit;
Please help me with my sister. She comes blowing into my home like an asshole tornado, pretending that she wants to visit. Nah, dawg. She just wants to run her perpetual motion mouth about her stupid crush. How many times and in how many different ways does a bro need to tell her to keep it in her pants? Holy shit, she thinks everyone in town knows about her unrequited love and obsessively talks about it! Sometimes I look across the counter at her and see a red death’s head viper staring back at me with a CAW CAW on the tip of her tongue. Somehow the conversation meandered into me just asking her wtf she wanted me to say, and she couldn’t even give me a straight fucking answer!
Signed;
The Platonic Sibling
Dear Platonic;
Your sister didn’t exactly hit the genetic lottery with a narcissistic psychopath for a mother and a jurassic jerk-off for a father. You squish two butt cheeks together and guess what? There’s bound to be an asshole in there somewhere. She is congenitally unable to comprehend that the sun doesn’t rise and set on her ass and that the world isn’t her personal audience, waiting on tenterhooks to see if she gets some handsome tail. Know tthat I feel your pain, buddy. I get emails from your sister several times a day, asking me what their squish name should be (I say Chummer). Here’s the simplest solution, just nod at regular intervals and when you see her lips stop moving, recite your grocery list or practice a second language. Your sister, like her mother, doesn’t give one dimpled fuck about the words coming out of your mouth - she only cares that you’re reacting to her. Let the rambling wash over you like a golden shower. It’s pretty much the same thing.
Dear Buttbiscuit;
I am currently receiving care at a psychiatric hospital after a harrowing, traumatizing incident. You might think the nightmare was over and the healing could begin, but you’d be wrong. Every so often, I awaken to find a mop next to my bed. It… it talks to me. I know I’m damaged, but I don’t hallucinate. Could this be something paranormal? It’s always eerie to see the mop leaning against the wall, but it does give off a somewhat warm, comforting aura. I don’t want to be the patient who cried wolf, as I’ve already alerted the staff here to a pale, cadaverous man floating around. Turns out that was my father!
Signed;
The Haunting of Claire Grace
Dear Haunting;
What you have experienced has happened to both me and my children. Waking up past midnight, eyes bleary with sleep, I would look into the shadowy corners of the room and see a mop gliding in on a moonlit path. I even fancied that I could smell a wisp of Mr. Clean in the still night air. My son and daughter began to lose sleep as they spent their evenings huddled under their covers, lest they catch a glimpse of the enchanted mop. I quickly contacted Professional Observers Of Paranormality, and, well, much to my embarrassment, the spooky Swiffer turned out to be my wife. The mop is your mom. If you spot a joy sponge, that’s your grandma. If a bat gets into your room, find a real mop and beat the guano out of that motherfucker. Trust me.
Dear Buttbiscuit;
Today I tried to show kindness and empathy to my boss, who summarily dismissed me in her typically haughty manner. She hinted that some tragedy had befallen her family, but they were “handling it.” Sure. I’m doing all the work while the nepotistic ninnies in charge run off at the drop of a hat. Speaking of hats, going down in flames trying to take over Jabot with my fedora fucking boy toy has to be better than trying to connect with my boss’ humanity.
Signed;
Demotivated
Dear Demotivated;
You naive fool. Humanity cannot exist where Newmanity has taken root. You could almost give your boss a pass for being a jerk due to tragic events IF she wasn’t also a raging butthole when things are going swimmingly. The family you work for handles all their problems the same way they create a lot of them: blunt force entitlement and revolting self righteousness. Forget about taking over Jabot, though. Blah blah blah my father’s legacy blah blah. You’d be better off opening a roadside stand with your boyfriend and letting kids guess how tall his hair is for a buck. Don’t worry - it would still be more rewarding than waiting for one of the Newmans to fire you on a whim.
Dear Buttbiscuit;
What do you do when a really big idiot wants to be your mentor?
Signed;
Nephew of an Idiot
Dear Nephew;
Maybe the idiot in this situation is the guy who has yet to figure out my identity? Is this like a genetic thing? Let me tell you something, bub. Don’t go crying to your mentor when you need real talk about how to deflect a lovestruck asshole panting after you or the best way to manspread halfway around the primo table in the break room. Dick.
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Boy, Ridge and Taylor raised themselves a couple of real dinks, didn’t they?
So first we get scenes of Poppy and Bill on a date, then we have scenes of Luna & RJ talking about her lack of a father. I feel like the show is trying to hint at something… but what? This kind of sophisticated writing is just too subtle for me.
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Getting to Genoa You All Over Again: Y&R Daily Chat
in The Young And The Restless
· Edited by NinjaPenguins
First, Society will burn down, forcing Abby to take an executive job at Chancellor Winters. The one room hospital will be torched when Nick lights his own farts next to a nearby dumpster, sending Elena to Jabot to work on a new line of skin care products. I think most everyone else works at one of GC’s powerhouse companies.
Did you know? The Athletic Club has one room, and renters must adhere to a strict occupancy schedule or pay a penalty. Renters are not permitted to have any personal effects on display that would indicate actual residency. It’s a real hard ass club, yo.
Edited to add: Kemper, you killed me daid using the fire emoji reaction. I can’t stop laughing, plus I had to add my own.