[Getting to Genoa You All Over Again: Y&R Daily Chat]

Ah, the Hammertoes Period. Adam was in a car accident, Gabriel Bingham died saving him, and then, as one does, Sage had Adam surgically remade into Gabe.The real Gabriel and Sage were actually married, I believe. In a truly improbable twist, Nick was friends with Gabe at boarding school. I’m sorry. I refuse to believe Nick had anyone around him except swirlie, wet Willie and atomic wedgie victims. Sage wasn’t his brother’s leftovers, but Nick did partake of his “friend’s.” Lol, friends with Nick. Very imaginative.

[Getting to Genoa You All Over Again: Y&R Daily Chat]

2 hours ago, Joimiaroxeu said:

Be nice if they asked Chance what he wants instead of passing him around like a tray of appetizers.

Could someone get me an invite to the party where these appetizers are being served? Thanks in advance!

[Getting to Genoa You All Over Again: Y&R Daily Chat]

10 hours ago, lilmarysunshine said:

Adam deserves better than Nick’s leftovers and that horrible storyline where Adam gave the orders to sacrifice their baby did them in as a couple for me

Nick partook of Adam’s leftovers like the second class bilge rat he is. I would go so far as to say the only reason Nick took up with Sally was her status as Adam’s ex.

To be fair, Adam did pursue Sharon, so he’s not averse to leftovers. I’ll always be grateful that Adam has looked upon Phyllis with only disgust.

[Getting to Genoa You All Over Again: Y&R Daily Chat]

As the new year approaches, I am inspired to share my Buttbiscuit column with the fine residents of Genoa City so they, in turn, can share their resolutions for 2024. Basically, I’m lazy AF and will pounce on free content. I resolve to use my column to dispense tougher love and harder truths to those seeking my advice. I’ve been way too soft on you losers.

Victor Newman: I vow to steal a lock of Jagabbott’s hair and a drop of his blood to create a phylactery that will anchor a malign ritual, a dark and dreadful ceremony that will lay the ultimate curse on the Abbott males, k? Kyle’s hair will flatten with such tremendous force that it grows out his ass until the end of time! Yougotthat? I also need to cut down on raw broccoli. My wife makes me sleep in the mausoleum after I eat a big salad. I don’t know if it’s the injured goose noises coming from my back door or the paint peeling off the walls. Youhaveagoodyearnow.

Nikki Newman: I plan to fake drink my enemies under the table. I’ve also realized that I need to show more compassion toward the lesser beings inconveniencing me. It’s not their fault they never danced for an undead patron of the arts.

Claire Grace: I’m going to treat my new parents to a huge gourmet meal. Every day. For a year.

Nick Newman: I’m going to make an Adam mask and pull some shit. LOL! Why didn’t I think of this before?

Lauren Fenmore: My husband and I will make a serious effort to find a new home. Some socialite keeps trying to run a restaurant out of our place.

Heather Stevens: I plan to sign up for acting classes so I can convince Daniel I give a shit about Lily and her daughter. Oh, and I resolve to drape myself all over him whenever he falls asleep.

Summer Newman: I resolve to maneuver my twu love into embarrassing green screen situations until he gives in to destiny! Dad says banging an uncle and two of his nephews is worth 30 points. He started to think about why I asked, but then he had to go poop and forgot. Yay!

Kyle Abbott: I am going to work my ass off to get my foxy lady back. I’ve been pulling my pickle to Peloton commercials and that lady on the treadmill is starting to really do it for me.

Tucker McCall: I’m going to stick my dick in crazy. Why? I’m a man with self destructive tendencies and a zest for adventure.

Abby Newman: This will sound harsh, but I’m going to work on my assertiveness so I can evict this family from my place of business.

Devon Winters: I’m just going to judge other people’s resolutions, thanks.

Danny Romalotti: I’m thinking about embracing my inner skeeze and keeping two women on the hook. I’ve got the swag to pull it off, right? Right? 

Phyllis Summers: Resolution? Resolution? Fuck you! I don’t owe the people of this town a damn thing. Tell you what. Tell. you. what. I resolve to find better social events to attend. Next time just hold your vow renewal near a hot dog cart, you cheap fucks!

Michael Baldwin: I’m going to reevaluate my criteria for friendships.

Nate Hastings: I pledge to never help a Newman again. I won’t swear off sleeping with them, but I’ve been told that’s not particularly helpful anyway.

Mamie Johnson: Whatever resolution I decide on, it will be for my family. Family, family, family. Family.

Jack Abbott: I resolve to sandpaper the ceilings so that my son’s bouffant is worn down to a weeffant. I’d also like to be less naive, but I know what show I’m on.

Adam Newman: I’m going to choose me. That’s right. I’m going to be single for a while and concentrate on my career and son and maybe catch up on my reading. I’m not going to beg my hateful family for love anymore, either. Just kidding! I’m going to sex up Sally while she makes everything more complicated than it has to be, and I am going to debase myself before the same family that hid a major life event from me. I hate everything.

[Getting to Genoa You All Over Again: Y&R Daily Chat]

Don’t sell yourself short, Chatty! I bet the Blowhole could use a medical advice columnist, and you clearly have some interesting hands-on experience. One Tough Cookie can take care of the fashion, though rumor has it that Buttbiscuit tolerates no criticism of his, uhhh, style. 

[Getting to Genoa You All Over Again: Y&R Daily Chat]

 

On 12/29/2023 at 1:49 PM, Peppermint said:

.Thank you for your interest in my potential newsletter. Unfortunately for moi, all available column space in our local publication has been pre-empted by a wildly popular advice blogger. His observations and advice are lengthy, but spot on, so I see no chance of publication in my near future.

Buttbiscuit sez: The Genoa City Blowhole has plenty of room for contributions from residents of this fair burg. The only column we’ve rejected is The Banana Hammock, adult-themed advice written by a juvenile. We’re currently seeking a restaurant reviewer (rotate between Crimson Lights, Society and the GCAC), a crime beat reporter and a business journalist to cover all the sexy corporate intrigue simmering behind closed doors. One of our most sought after positions is fashion critic, where you can let your bish flag fly. Are you that bish? Apply today!

[B&B: What's Up Today at Forrester Creations? - Daily Chat]

It’s nice of Thomas to return to form with his thirsty proposal. Has anyone on this show ever heard of just dating or having a fling? I’m super excited to see if and how Ridge and Taylor excuse and try to minimize Thomas’s murdering ass. It’s probably Hope’s fault, somehow.

[B&B: What's Up Today at Forrester Creations? - Daily Chat]

These people need friends to confide in. Never again do I want to hear Thomas trying to clue his sister in to all the sexytimes he and Hope are having. At least Steffy recoiled, I guess, but she is inappropriately invested in her brother’s relationship. If she had managed to browbeat a confession of love out of Hope, Steffy would then turn around and insist to Thomas that was fake because she had to coerce it. Also, what kind of an asshole relentlessly taunts her brother by telling him his bed buddy doesn’t love him. Oh yeah, the kind of asshole who can make me feel sorry for Thomas, who I loathe. That’s some world class assholing right there.

[Getting to Genoa You All Over Again: Y&R Daily Chat]

Dear Buttbiscuit;

You’re my only hope. I feel trapped in a nightmare, running from some unknown horror that is both relentless and elusive. I’ve never bought into the whole ‘cryptid’ craze, despite the credible sightings of a juvenile Sasquatch on Newman property. My stalker finally showed herself, boldly approaching me with an unnatural undulating gait. The creature had a shiny red pelt, bioluminescent blue fangs and vocalized in a strange, breathy cadence. Her tongue must secrete some sort of narcotic agent, because upon being licked, I felt strangely compelled to lock lips with her. Coming to my senses, I quickly realized this humanoid spoke in strange riddles, whispering about melting history and spicy, exotic sex. I managed to calm the creature down, and she disappeared as quickly as she’d pounced. Deep down, I know she’ll be back, lurking in my peripheral vision until the urge to strike overwhelms her. Please help.

Signed;

The Hunted

Dear Hunted;

I contacted Genoa City’s most respected cryptozoology organization, Cryptid Analysts and Writers, Cryptid Association West. Here is what they have to say: The witness has caught the attention of a Phyllisoraptor, one of the Midwest’s most cunning cryptids. Do not make eye contact; she will see that as encouragement. Do not let the phyllisoraptor lure you to a secluded location; what she does to her prey before disposing of their carcass in a lake or concealing it in a rolled carpet for future use is too graphic for a humble small town newspaper. Document every encounter or possible sighting. Don’t be put off by the cryptid hunters’ foreboding prose. I have tangled with the raptor and emerged unscathed. Let’s keep it real, though. She doesn’t secrete any kind of drug; you kissed her because it flattered your has-been ass to have two women chasing you. I hit that because I’m always competing with my brother and thought bagging his wife gave me some kind of victory. I knew what I was doing and so do you. Word of warning! The phyllisoraptor can only successfully produce offspring with mates she’s not married to. Double wrap your microphone if you get the urge to pump up the jams. I laminated my dick at the local library before sticking it in crazy and I’m glad I did.

Dear Buttbiscuit;

Awwww yeeeaaaahhh. With my Uncle Bitchcakes out of the way, I’m making mad corporate magic at the family company. My mom has been deploying me on the most crucial missions because I’m her smart, special and handsome boy. My dad is going to be blown away by my mad scheming skillz, unless I decide to kick his azz to the curb and rule over the cosmetics kingdom with my special lady. The world is my oyster. I can’t stop smiling like the charming rogue I am. Wheeeeeeee!

Signed

Handsome, Inc.

Dear Handsome;

The world may be your oyster, but you’re allergic to seafood, remember? Is your uncle truly out of the way, or is he holed up in a safe, comfortable place waiting for you to fuck up so he can ride to the rescue. I bet your uncle will never be taken for granted again once your dad has had time to really appreciate the carnage and catastrophe left in your wake. You’ll never beat your uncle at underhanded deviance, kid, so best not to try. Btw, your perpetual smile is more accurately classified as a smirk and would provoke Gandhi to punch you right in your stupid face. Dipshit.

Dear Buttbiscuit;

Would you come get your nephew? It’s so difficult to watch someone strut around like the ultimate player, knowing you could easily fold them like towel and stuff them into a front loading washing machine with one hand tied behind your back. Has anyone thought to tell him he looks like a toilet brush with his hair like that? I don’t feel like that beehived squish mitten is worth my time, though he keeps pestering me and my longtime partner in crime. I need to focus my game on vengeance against you and Jack and Ashley. Your media bombshell has ruined my relationship with my son and possibly gotten me ejected from my grandson’s life. Yeah, it’s my fault, honestly, and I could have handled things better, but even when my son is serving me truth, he dips it into the sauce of sanctimony. I know he inherited the iron pole Neil used to keep up his ass, but it’s like he’s been looking for an excuse to scold me. You guys gave it to him. I haven’t decided what sort of revenge I’ll rain down on you specifically. I can’t think of a way to make you uglier. Maybe I could deploy a really annoying lady to seduce you and then embarrass you by wearing eye-searing schmatta. Shit, I’m late to that party. Glacade sells a nostril spreader that - never mind. I’ll think of something. Surrender is not an option.

Signed;

Tucker McCall’s Overdrawn Fucks to Give account

Dear Tucker;

Big talk from a man withering under the intense glare of media scrutiny. Don’t you see? I’ve already won. No, I won’t be coming to fetch my nephew. He’s your problem now. Hahahahahaha! That’s what they call the long game, bitch! Do not stare long into his smirking face lest it stare back into you. He’s a carbuncle attached to your partner in crime, so you won’t be able to excise him without making a clean break from her. Dude, he’s so dumb he doesn’t even know who writes this column, but he is housebroken. Maybe. You can possibly try to appeal to Jack’s fatherly feelings, but he’d honestly prefer that asshole Summer be his only child, which tells you all you need to know. I guess I’m sorry about your son acting like he never fucked his blind father’s wife and is a saint, but you cover up a cover up of statutory rape, you get what you get. Btw, I find it interesting that the creeper pop star has no name. What a terrible choice when repeatedly wedging the scandal into every fucking script. Make something up, faceless, creatively bankrupt dillweed who writes our lives. 

[Getting to Genoa You All Over Again: Y&R Daily Chat]

Twas the night before Christmas, and Nikki was soused

Victor Newman was lurking, such a horrid spouse;

The board shorts were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that Nicholas Newman would be there;

Vic’s daughter was restrained all snug in her bed;

While Aunt Jordan dared mess with their heads;

And auntie in her disguise, and Claire in her chair,

Had just set off for for a lone winter's lair,

When out at the bar, Tucker’s dreams were shattered,

Red oozed down the steps to see what was the matter.

Away from the bouffant Audra flew like a flash,

Nate watched old Nikki sneak from her stash.

Tube socks with fruit for the washed up star,

Gave a luster of thirst that couldn’t make him hard,

When what to my wondering eyes did appear,

But Christine Williams and she made Danny leer,

And a little teenager so lively and quick,

She knew in a moment Mom wanted Dad’s wick.

More rabid than badgers, the Newmans they raved,

And they mumbled, and grunted, and called them all names:

"Fuck Side Part, fuck Abbotts! now Jordan and Tucker!

Fuck Adam! Fuck Abby! Fuck that Jack motherfucker!

To the top of the world! to the top of the list!

We are Newmans and our ass must be kissed!"

As leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, they cheat and lie

So up on their high horse the Newmans they flew

With the sleigh full of sex toys, and batteries too—

And then, in a grumbling, I heard from his lips

My baby, our prancing and pawing threw out my hip.

As I kicked my TV, and was turning it down,

Into the show, Buttbiscuit came with a bound.

He was dressed in a suit, but still looked the fool

And his face was all tarnished with nostrils and drool;

A shit eat grinning had spread across his mug,

And he looked like a pervert giving his sack a tug.

His eyes—how they darkened! his sinuses, how scary!

His cheeks were like apples, his nose like a ferry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a smirk,

And the hair on his head was as black as the murk;

The sound of his fart could rattle your teeth,

And the smoke, it encircled his head like a wreath;

He had a pale face and a concave belly

That was the same color, as Swiss cheese in the deli.

He was smarmy and rude, a true jerk of an elf,

And I said when I saw him, Go fuck yourself;

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head

Soon gave me to know I had an hour to dread;

He spoke many words, but went never to work,

And manspread on the sofa; again like a jerk,

And laying an airplane inside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up his own ass he rose;

He sprang to his feet, to his bro gave a finger,

And away he flew since his farts often linger.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—

“Happy Christmas to all, and to Newmans, eat shite!”

[B&B: What's Up Today at Forrester Creations? - Daily Chat]

Only this show could draw out an extubation like it was the long awaited conclusion to a love triangle or murder mystery. The hospital should have sold tickets to the procedure since audiences are apparently welcomed and encouraged. I really did think when Eric opened his eyes and looked at everyone, he was going to tell them all to go to hell.

Brooke, please put that bible away. It’s just not believable. If Stephanie had that book in her house, it was hollowed out to hold a bottle or a gun.

I don’t normally want to see Liam, but I am so looking forward to seeing him suck defeat through a straw. 

[Getting to Genoa You All Over Again: Y&R Daily Chat]

Dear Buttbiscuit;

My brother has left the family business for what he presumes are greener pastures. I know it’s my fault even though he smarmily pretends it isn’t. He feels like he can’t compete with me, which, to be fair, would require him to scrape up some dignity, integrity and charm. He clearly thinks he’s the cutest thing in shoe leather, strutting up to people like a dual exhaust Pez dispenser, popping out sugary blocks of terrible gambling analogies. My brother hasn’t played a game of chance edgier than bingo, though he did get rolled by a tough gang of biddies outside the legion hall one night. They sent his flat ass home looking like he had rainbow pox after curb daubing him. I guess he’s afraid that chasing the high of fighting Tucker McCall will lead him back to the seedy debauchery of trying to rig the ball machine or desperately printing counterfeit cards in the basement. I digress. How should I celebrate his departure? A tasteful office party to allow employees to share in the joy, or a private family soiree that he’s not invited to?

Signed;

Jack of all Trades

Dear Trades;

Maybe you could celebrate by eating a big bag of shit? I don’t know your brother personally, of course, but a man drawing on a deep well of gambling wisdom isn’t some simple bingo boy. He is clearly an established high roller, making it rain at the poker and blackjack tables of Vegas, Monte Carlo, Atlantic City, Dubai and Sheboygan. At least his son isn’t a dipshit. Yet. Sounds like you have some pretty lofty standards there, standards that even a rising tycoon who has mastered the subtle art of philosophy couldn’t hope to reach. Perhaps you could have simply wished the lad well as he escaped from out under your shadow and to the protective pleats of his mother’s pantsuit. You’re a bad brother who should feel bad.

Dear Buttiscuit;

What a chicken you are, William. Do you wear a coat outside or do you simply ask Mrs. Martinez to sprinkle a box of Shake n’ Bake all over you before leaving the house? I expected you to flee the battlefield before the griddle got too hot under your pancake ass, but to cut and run to mommy? Jack and Ashley drop a massive deuce into my punchbowl, and the biggest dung beetle in town isn’t there to slurp the spillage? You disappoint me. I’m sure you’ve justified your cowardice with steaming brown pearls of wisdom usually found in a pretentious Toyota commercial. Like seriously, people, sell me a fucking car and spare me the mawkish family drama. Back to business! I haven’t forgotten about you, though I doubt I’ll need to lift a finger to effect a personal disaster. Your box of hair nephew has already lost his ticket to a world of unimaginable sexual delights by bumblefucking the double agent thing. Ashley clearly misses me filling her Christmas stocking. I’mma point a Phyllis missile (Phissile?) at Jack and let that wacky dame do whatever crazy shit comes naturally. You all effortlessly played yourselves.

Signed;

Tucker McCall Cannot Be Stopped

Dear Tucker;

I got news for you, buddy. Effortlessly playing yourself gets a little more difficult for men after 40. I do enjoy seeing my dingbat nephew fail, so thanks for that. You can toss that Phyllis grenade anywhere you like, but no one can control where the shrapnel lands. Keep your legs closed is all I’m saying. Phyllis’ taste in men has degraded over the years, starting with her backtracking down the evolutionary chart while following a trail of banana peels. Now if my brother was a has been who looked like he’d been bobbing for apples in an inkwell, your plan to weaponize the red scare might have merit. Enjoy convincing the world you’re not a perv enabler!

Dear Buttbiscuit;

Baby baby my baby my sweetheart yougotthat baby sweet baby youhaveanicedaynow k? Baby my sweetheart baby baby - Apologies. Sometimes my record gets stuck, k? It is like the old gramophones I used to waltz to. Enough foolishness! My wife is drinking again, k? And let me tell you this, young man, she is not one of those fun, lovable drunks. She is very, very mean. Machiavelli was tremendously mean-spirited when tanked on wine; he wrote a whole damn book about my methods in a fit of drunken pique! Or how about that asshole Dante? I invite him into my home and he writes a damn expose! Oh yes, you’re an advice columnist. Give me some damn advice!

Signed;

My Home Had Ten Circles You Liar

Dear Circles;

My most meaningful piece of advice would be to please, please stop infantilizing your wife with mumbled terms of endearment. Dude, it is straight fucking awful. I know I’ve received letters from every single person who has heard it, including your wife. Look, all I know is that your family had some harrowing experience which wrecked your wife’s sobriety. Another Newman letter said something about intravenous vodka infusions. I personally would seek some serious medical attention that doesn’t involve Genoa City’s one-room, pop-up hospital instead of plunging back into work and normal life like nothing happened. Of course your wife is a mean drunk - she’s mean as a rattlesnake sober. Merry Christmas, you lump of coal!

Dear Buttbiscuit;

I had to go to the worst Christmas party ever. Oh my god, it was so awkward. Ugh. My mom is so thirsty for my dad and my dad totally doesn’t get it, like at all. I kinda want them back together, but then that seems childish, you know? Then Grandma Phyllis showed up and pinched me hard on the arm every time I called her Grandma Phyllis. I changed her Xbox gamertag to 2bsoxwitlemonz, so ha ha. She was macking on my grandfather, and it was… GROSS. I guess they used to be married, but I’m not seeing it. He’s a cornball and she’s, like, a lizard person. Then my granddad’s ex stopped by with used clothes for him, and my grandma was soooo jealous because she had given him some of her used underwear, which is a weird thing to do. I like vintage stuff, but granny panties? Grandma and the ex acted like dorks all night while granddad just sat around with a poop-consuming grin on his face and told boring stories from ancient history. My aunt was there and she’s just an asshole, so who cares? I heard you were my dad for a while. Would Christmas with your family be better than the busted ass party I got stuck with?

Signed;

Princess Goosey

Dear Princess;

Duh? Anything is better than spending time with Phyllis. Let me guess. You all sat around and made sentimental speeches about family and second chances and home and blah blah blah. I bet nice things were even said to your grandma, who had just spent the past year committing crimes, gaslighting her kids and making them accessories after the fact. That’s not healthy, kid. Grandma is on her 77th chance, and if your dad and aunt weren’t trapped in a dysfunctional, abusive dynamic with her, their lives would be vastly improved. Heed my advice - keep that lunatic at a safe distance lest you fall into the same trap. Now, Christmas with my family would be a much less awkward form of boring. You could have experienced it, but, guess what? Your grandmother ruined that too. Unfortunately the other half of your almost family would have been the Newmans, and they suck harder than my nostrils. Next holiday, keep your cell phone handy to record your family’s hot mess. You would be very surprised at how many clicks a Tiktok of a horny toad washed up pop star fighting off a velociraptor can get. Good luck!

 

[Getting to Genoa You All Over Again: Y&R Daily Chat]

Fuckin’ storm blew out the internet yesterday, so I’m sneaking some sweet, sweet work wifi. Does anyone know if Billy Abbott sneezed anywhere on the east coast yesterday? He does have that severe allergy to modesty.

[B&B: What's Up Today at Forrester Creations? - Daily Chat]

What the FUCK is Steffy wearing? She looks like the human embodiment of a mullet.

You know, Ridge did the right thing by trying to honor Eric’s wishes, but he’s such an arrogant asshole about it that he’s completely unsympathetic . We’ll never know if Eric would have chosen the experimental treatment because Finn never got to present it as an option. Even knowing that Ridge is expressing his worry that he betrayed his dad’s wishes, he still comes across as a dick who just wanted to be done with the old man. I know that’s not how the writers mean for it to look, but it’s hitting me that way. I suppose he’s going to double down on dickishness by promoting RJ way over his head. 

Finn and Bridget looked like they were playing live action Operation with Eric in those flashbacks. I kept waiting for them to get zapped.

[B&B: What's Up Today at Forrester Creations? - Daily Chat]

1 hour ago, Anna Yolei said:

NGL, Finn getting the ten foot W of saving Eric and killing Steam for good is the biggest reason why I'm pulling for Eric to make it through

This is the dream. This, and Ridge being put out when Eric wants to keep the top job. If both Liam and Ridge have to eat shit, all the better.

[Getting to Genoa You All Over Again: Y&R Daily Chat]

Dear Buttbiscuit;

I don’t like hurting people’s feelings, so perhaps you can help me find a gentle, kind solution to my problem. I’ve started noticing that everywhere I go, there’s an asshole underfoot. At first it was mildly amusing. Now? It’s annoying AF. I recently left the field of law enforcement, but I don’t think I’m ready to turn in my taser. This particular asshole just never shuts up, her gums flapping like a Hungry Hungry Hippo trying to get that marble. She basically wears the same outfit every day, just in different colors. It’s a choice, I guess. Then there’s the incessant giggling, playing with the hair… I have a vague suspicion that I’m the victim of asshole flirting. Now I’m stuck taking this dumb bunny to a concert like I’m chaperoning the obnoxious little sister I never wanted. Ugh. While I’m seeing the lurking shadow of two puckered butt cheeks everywhere, I’m trying to wrap my head around my impending corporate career. I don’t know anything about business, but that’s never stopped my Uncle Billy. Please advise.

Signed;

Touched by an Asshole

Dear Touched;

Whoa whoa whoa! No need for your handsome successful uncle to be catching strays there, buddy. I’ve got some bad news for you about your asshole dilemma. Pun intended, she’ll be on you like stink on shit until she subjects you to the most vanilla, uninspired sex imaginable. Do NOT tell the asshole you care for her like a sister; word on the street is that she’ll be twice as turned on. You can’t count on her ex sniffing around again either, because he’s bedding down in the big leagues now with a smart, accomplished smokeshow who didn’t need to trade in on a last name. The ex is still a twerp, but I gotta grudgingly praise his game. You know what isn’t a game? Public safety. The corporate arena will chew up your Dudley Do-Right azz and spit it back out. Meanwhile, the streets of Genoa City will descend into mild, bland anarchy without our only cop. Like, dude, how do you quit your dream position before the nameplate for your desk is done being engraved? I wouldn’t hire a flight risk like you (plus I have a policy of not hiring anyone better looking than me). (Me too! - Jack Abbott) I haven’t been very helpful, have I? Ah well, not every play can result in a touchdown. Merry fucking Christmas!

[Getting to Genoa You All Over Again: Y&R Daily Chat]

Dear Buttbiscuit;

Please help me restore my unconditional loyalty to and worshipful adoration for my father. My whole world has been upended; I’ve discovered that my parents might be sociopaths. It’s possible that my firstborn child survived her premature arrival and was spirited away by a deranged and vicious fashion designer from Oakdale, to be honed into a weapon of vengeance against my family. They talk about this potential grandchild as if… as if she’s Adam! They don’t seem to be able to imagine a child being repeatedly told by her only authority figure that her parents rejected her as inferior. This child was steeped in resentment and bile against my family from the day she was born through her most vulnerable and impressionable years. My ex and I hired her the best lawyer in town on her word that she’d take a DNA test, and my father acted as if I’d kicked him in the jimmies. I guess it’s pretty dumb to not get the DNA test prior to her release, but that’s just GC justice for you. Even my real brother is being a prehistoric prick about this, and my maybe daughter isn’t even the one who carved his moob like a roast. I can make allowances for my mother; she was given an IV(odka) full of booze AND she’s being sent snippets of Edgar Allan Poe’s work via text. I remember being an angsty college student in freshman English composition and thinking I was deep as hell sticking a few lines of Poe’s prose and poetry into every assignment. Like who are you trying to impress, lady? Anyways, please guide me back to a proper view of my father.

Signed;

Poe No!

Dear No!;

A proper view? You had no problem feeling justified in your anger when your pop unceremoniously booted you out of the big chair so he could gaslight you and dunk on the one guy genuinely trying to help him. You and your siblings ate that bowel movement buffet and went running back to the chef for more, so I assumed there was nothing that could pry you idiots out the old man’s log flume. I wouldn’t let your mom off the hook so easily; she lapped up her maybe granddaughter’s flattery like a cat with a Crisco can and let her supermassive ego override her common sense. Not that she deserves to have her sobriety wrecked; no one deserves that. Sober or not, your mother is a self-important snob and is as lacking in empathy as you imagine. Apologies if I sound harsh, but I’ve got Tucker McCall all up in my noseholes treating my family like it’s a dysfunctional cult, and the Newmans are right there. Hello? I am actually sympathetic to your mother; being tormented by a faux intellectual who owns the Reader’s Digest complete works of Poe, abridged, is no joke. That level of cringe could drive anyone to drink. Btw, your potential daughter could do a lot worse than Adam as a role model.

Dear Buttbiscuit;

OMG, Nick Newman is soooo dreamy. He’s rich, built like a shit brickhouse, handsome, smooth as salad dressing and just overflowing with pure, romantic love. Why can’t my bestie see that? She actually let this prize catch walk away so she could explore her feelings for Genoa City’s worst driver and biggest scumbag. I need to fix this somehow, but Nick and my bestie don’t seem to have their hearts in it. Help a cupid out here, dumbass!

Signed;

Love’s Fiery Arrow

Dear Arrow;

Come get your wife, Kevin Fisher. I’d ask Esther to fetch her, but I just ain’t up to that today. Let me clear up your misconceptions about town moped Nicholas Newman. He’s rich because he’s a nepoboon, he’s built like a port-a-potty and he’s smooth like a tetanus laden bed of nails. He’s full of pure something, alright, but it’s not romantic love. I mean, the guy bought his own hand flowers once. I used to feel the same as you about your bestie’s bed buddy, and for the same reason, but I’ve really made strides in mastering my anger. Really look deeply into his piercing eyes without a gun in your hand, and I think you’ll melt. Look into Nick’s too, and you’ll see a billboard with DUH written in neon lights across the surface. Put your bow and arrows away, Cupid. I think you accidentally hit Phyllis in the ass while she was stalking one of her earliest victims. Good luck and back off!

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11 hours ago, RuntheTable said:

it is hard to root against them. 

I find it effortless, almost like it’s an involuntary bodily function.

With the Eric situation, I can feel compassion and sympathy for Donna, Brooke, Thorne, RJ, Bridget, Zende, even Steffy. I just don’t give a tinker’s damn about Ridge. He radiates absolutely nothing to connect with. When he was telling that story about being lost in the woods as a child, it was with all the warmth of a middle manager reading HR policies aloud. Come on, man. Give us something.

[Getting to Genoa You All Over Again: Y&R Daily Chat]

Dear Buttbiscuit;

I hope you are not currently enjoying how the mighty Newmans have fallen. I’ve seen you make any number of classless remarks about my family in your pedestrian little column, and I simply cannot brook any further mean spirited attacks from the likes of you. I have two problems that should be easy to solve, even for someone of your low breeding. My husband has bestowed an utterly atrocious pet name on me. It gives my soul piss shivers to hear him mumble it. My second dilemma is that alcohol is displayed prominently in my home, and I have recently had my sobriety challenged. Granted, it is my responsibility to refrain, but a little common courtesy goes a long way. Please provide solutions to these problems forthwith, peasant.

Signed;

Maybe the Dingoes Ate His Baby

Dear Dingo;

Well, since you asked so nicely… I have long experience with unflattering nicknames and have deployed numerous tactics in response. Skinless Unbreaded Chicken Strip, The Human Leaf Blower, Booger Bank, Assless Chap, Flat Bastard… you take my point. I recommend giving the offender a taste of their own medicine, addressing them by a ridiculous pet name. Repeatedly call your husband something dumb and annoying like, I don’t know, yogurt dick. Be sure to say it in the most cloying way possible until he achieves enlightenment. Mockery is a very effective tool to deploy against tools. Of course, enlightenment may be impossible for the type of person who would leave large bottles of liquor on display in the home they share with an alcoholic spouse. That is the kind of problem that can only be solved by not getting romantically involved with sociopaths. Use some of that Newman fuck you money to hire a poor who can hide the booze.  PS: Was your family out of town? Notice the big welcome home bash Genoa City threw you guys? No? Take a hint, lady.

Dear Buttbiscuit;

Me Nick! Me big mad! My bro rolled up on me today demanding to know just where the fuck his ‘family’ had been for a week. You could play tennis with the balls on that guy. Then, the girl we’ve been fighting over smashes into me and aggravates the ol’ war wound, probably on purpose. I kept my manly game face on and told that scruffy butt muffin to mind his own bidness. He’s gonna look so stupid when news of my heroic deeds spreads. See, I’ll share this with you because you got that swagger like me. I was in Oregon (it really is a state!), freeing the fam from a bloodthirsty tribe of amazons (not the website!) when I was hit by a poison arrow from the queen. Despite the venom in my stud blood, I staggered forward and met the leader in one on one combat, besting her easily until she pulled a shiv out of her bra and cut me a tit slit. Thanks to my heroics, the Newman family is safe and I’ve got a sexy scar for chicks to dig. I’m already in talks to produce an action film based on my thrilling rescue. A Hollywood playa just called me this morning, in fact. Perhaps you’ve heard of Mr. Heywood Jablome, director, media mogul and star maker? My bro is going to be so jealous! Put some respect on my name.

Signed;

Pick a Hemsworth Brother to Play Me

Dear Pick;

You think we all don’t know you got your nip clipped by a crazed senior citizen you were trying to put in a figure four leg lock? Dude, Victoria called me this morning to check on the kids. You know, you can catch more flies with banana pudding than with vinegar. Not telling your brother about the family’s trauma is nothing to smirk about, especially when he gazes deeply into your eyes with penetrating sincerity. Have you guys even told Abby or Summer about your little jaunt to Oregon? Abby is definitely suppressing her Newmanity, which is 100% understandable, but your asshole daughter swans about like she’s an honorary Abbott. Congratulations on your big movie deal!. You certainly didn’t get pranked by Adam, who needed to put a clothespin on his nad to stifle the giggling. I mean, I only know that - look, I wasn’t hiding under his bed, okay? Anyone who says I was is a dirty liar. Where was I? Oh yeah. I wrote my response to you while dropping a deuce in Society’s luxurious restroom, so consider that respect being put on your name. Good luck!

 

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22 hours ago, CharlizeCat said:

In any case, I miss him. I guess I was one of the only few viewers who liked RM

I thought I was one of the few to not find him attractive. 😆My mom and aunts thought he was the bees knees. I could be persuaded to miss him after experiencing Ridge today. Woof.

Steffy, take that ridiculous thing out of your hair.

[Getting to Genoa You All Over Again: Y&R Daily Chat]

Remember when Nikki and Victor gave Victoria a pet baboon for company? And it grew up and learned to talk? At least he’s still around!

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1 hour ago, SweePea59 said:

Man, I miss Ronnn Mosss.

I can’t honestly say that I will ever miss the Moss man and his unappealing head of hair, but at least his bad acting made me genuinely laugh out loud. TK’s Ridge has leaned into the arrogant, cold, smug, self righteous, imperious prick thing wayyyyy too far. I so hope Eric survives and Ridge has to eat shit when he won’t relinquish the CEO chair. 

[B&B: What's Up Today at Forrester Creations? - Daily Chat]

I missed yesterday’s episode taking the dog to the groomer (don’t worry, I made an appointment for Ridge before I left). Eric found out he didn’t win the fashion challenge?

44 minutes ago, SweePea59 said:

Then Eric collapses like hold-on-Elizabeth-I'm-coming and no one has the good sense to call 911

I’m still irritated that Donna didn’t finish calling 911 the other day when he collapsed. 

[Getting to Genoa You All Over Again: Y&R Daily Chat]

1 hour ago, lilmarysunshine said:

*sigh* Adam deserves better than the woman who fucked his brother for the past year. 

 

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.

[Getting to Genoa You All Over Again: Y&R Daily Chat]

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!