Today, I reread a column from the old days. Let me be honest, it was fucking hilarious. I’m a funny bitch, what can I say?
Let’s take a look at some of the early 1-800-FUCKBOY jive and have a laugh. Sometimes, I get it so absolutely fucking accurate it’s nearly scary.
Ask A Bitchface, 2020
I love to call a Fuckboy out in their normal daily Fuckboy transactions. It makes me feel like I really throw a kink into their plans, and we ain’t talking the ballgag type.
So imagine my absolute delight when I discovered my very own homegirl, on the absolute brink of idiocy, nearly hoodwinked by one of these Bozos.
Um, Bitch, no.
Why is it 100% acceptable for men to specify that golddiggers aren’t getting into their wallets, vehicles, and homes, but when I say it, I’m suddenly a Bitchface?
Well, firstly, I’m not suddenly a Bitchface, I started off the fucking day that way. Secondly, ladies, the next one of you that tells me that your boyfriend is driving all the damned gas out of your car all day while you’re at work, I’m coming to your house and smacking you, because clearly you’re fucking hysterical.
Stop it.
If he doesn’t have his own car to drive all the gas out of all day, his ass has nowhere he needs to be that requires your car and your gas. If he doesn’t have a job to be at all damned day, where in the actual fuck does he need to go? Ladies, where is your sense of ownership over your shit?
Girl, that is your car that you had to pay 12% interest on because of that damned credit card you maxed out on shoes way too often. You did that. He showed up after the payments were made and slid right off into the driver’s seat like he did something. Uh-uh punkin, he needs to get his ass to the jobsite and start stacking them paychecks, just like you did.
My favorite though, is the slack-ass Fuckboy that moves right up into his girls’ house, usually where her babies reside, and kicks his dusty ass feet up onto her coffee table, after turning the TV from Nickelodeon in the middle of the babies TV show.
*cue the sound of the record scratching*.
What the fuck?
Look, I won’t claim to know that much about making it work. But, bitch, I’m the certified Queen of seeing exactly how a Fuckboy operates firsthand. If you doubt me, I can provide you with 3 business AND 3 personal references that can verify my in-depth knowledge of Fuckboy Operations.
I not only wrote the 1-800-Fuckboy guide, I had it edited and dropped it off to the publishing house.
My credentials are solid, girl.
OK, I get it. We all want to have someone at the end of the day. I mean, no, not me, but let’s be serious, I’m a Bitchface. I understand that lonely when you don’t want to be lonely, that’s lonely. That still is no excuse for allowing yourself to become a personal checking account and revolving door to a flophouse for a Fuckboy. It’s disgusting. You don’t know where that Fuckboy has been, and he will drag his dirty ass right off into your house like that.
That. Is. Gross.
Look, punkin, if you tell him he can’t drive your car, and he doesn’t call you again, congratulations! You just saved yourself the headache of a Fuckboy affiliation. Same goes for your house, your money, and anything else they see that you have and decide they want to swindle out of you. If you don’t pony it up and they don’t contact you again, baby, you just won the lottery in terms of Fuckboy eradication.
Go on, girl, give yourself a round of applause.
If you don’t know, I have been there and done this exact Fuckboy aversion tactic, complete with the round of applause, because if I doubt your intentions, I’m not going to do the “what if”. I’m going to force your hand.
Now, I’m like a Fuckboy bloodhound, if they hit the county line I can smell them when the wind changes course. I just start walking around making sure my valuables are properly stored, and my car keys are on the hook, because those sneaky assholes will go for everything you have if they think you’ve been affected by their slick talk.
They’ll tell you anything you want to hear, then follow it up with everything you want to hear. I don’t know how they know what to say, because it’s like Fuckboy magic. That’s not the point. I don’t care if the Fuckboy gods themselves whispered into his ear, you need to remember that what he says is worth the lint in my front pocket. Possibly less if I was drying anything angora.
If his words sound like platinum, but all that’s in his pocket is copper, cut his ass loose. Please don’t make me come here for your hysterics again, girl.
I haven't even read this yet, but your cover image made me laugh out loud! 🤣
I, the Right and Proper Asswhole, has your theme song for this..
https://youtu.be/9E5QNrG7b8A
Lord love Ms. Ruth Brown!