Good morning, Bloopnoids! It's a lovely day in the Labiaverse, is it not? Today I'm going to share the $100% true tale of how I taught my male dog-slave (MDS) his place. Because I am a totally real woman and not an 18-inch-tall supernaturally animated lizard doll who wears a wizard hat and eats cheez. Check the batteries on those Hitachi Magic Wands, ladies--it's going to be a long insufferable wall of text!

THE DISRESPECT: So I was sitting in Starby's, doing my usual self-improvement--stuffing my face, taking selfies, and checking my MDS' keylogger. Suddenly, I came across this exchange with this co-worker, hereby known as That Whore (TW).

TW: Thx for loaning me 5 bux 4 lunch! Will hit u back 2morrow.

MDS: NP! Anytime.

Oh Hell no! That is my beta, and those are my beta bux! I stood, saddlebags and FUPA knocking the litter of dead venti mocha frappuccinos everywhere, and bawled a mighty "NOW I AM BECOME SARKEESIAN, SHATTERER OF WORLDS!"

It was time to Own My Shit (OYS), and institute the Five Levels of Dread.

DREAD LEVEL ONE: LIFT!

I lifted the Starby's snack case and upended it over my gaping maw, drowning my narcissistic rage in about 30 pounds of weird muffiny things. Now that I had ballooned up like a tick--as all proper married women do the second the ring goes on--I was ready to move on to Dread Level Two.

DREAD LEVEL TWO: GROOMING The Starbucks erupted in simultaneous applause as I waddled out, cellulite rippling majestically in the spring breeze. I headed to my car to sit for four hours. But I wasn't just doing nothing! Oh, no, I was instituting my MAP. When I came home at 2 am, my MDS quailed, "WigglyCharlie, who braided your legbeard for you? I th-thought that was my job...?"

"Ha ha charade you are," I smirked with Amused Mastery (AM). Then I went into the kitchen and, in a display of alpha leadership, spiked the MDS' Ovaltine with an LD-50 of Rohypnol.

Now that my MDS' LMR had been overcome, it was time to institute Dread Level Three!

DREAD LEVEL THREE: New Sex Moves!

So, as my MDS breathed stertorously and erratically, I set up a series of video cameras. Once they were rolling, I took a dildo shaped like Hillary Clinton's fist and jammed it up MDS' squeakhole unlubed. I could tell he loved it by the way he stopped breathing for a couple of seconds. All men are like that (AMALT)! Then I took the dild out and wiped it on his upper lip, giving him the old Dirty Dworkin. I took pictures of that, too, and posted them on his mom's Facebook wall.

DREAD LEVEL FOUR: Take control of the household finances!

While my MDS was almost aspirating his vomit, I used the passwords I had gotten off the keylogger to break into his company's database and embezzle $100,000% for every dollar he loaned TW. I then transferred the half-million into Buttcoins, which are like Bitcoins only totally untraceable to the IRS because they go in my butt.

DREAD LEVEL FIVE: Fuck all his friends!

I then fired up my Facebooger, Twatter, Instawhore, Snapcunt, and Perineal accounts, and messaged all of MDS' friends and colleagues (including TW) with the following Beast Neg: "You are stupid and your hair is stupid and your face is stupid. Come to my house with a bag of Skittles, a quart of motor oil, and a Scuba mask."

Of course, they all $immediately% broke into applause and came right over, because of my Pussy Pass (PP). The best part about having ridden the Cock Carousel (CC) for so many years is that, not only can you throw a good-sized music festival in my Shame Cave, I've also learned the appropriate musical accompaniment by heart.

And so it was that my MDS finally rose from his drug-induced coma to the tinkling strains of the Calliopenis. "What...what is that noise?" he groaned. "And why do I feel so sick?"

"I am having a cool party with all your friends and you are not invited," I smirked with AM, as a scuba flipper flailed helplessly from between my huge dangling labia before disappearing.

"I think I need to go to the hospital," he groaned.

And that's how I put my BB in his place! AM IDGAF MGTOW RTFM!