According to the 2010 Census and just the general frame of reference, Orange county is home to the FOB. You got it. FOB. In case you late bloomers didn't know, there is an abundance to FOBs in this geographic area. According to the Urban Dictionary, a valid source, an FOB is what you call a Fuckin' Old Broad…. scientific fact. Give way!! They are all around you.
FOB's can generally be classified as old broads, in their mid to late fifties and beyond, who propose old Republican values while knowing nothing about the new age generation, innovative thinking, or the ability to get along with just about ANYONE. They most likely live right next to you, telling you to turn down the music because she can't hear herself talking to her seven cats; wears clothes from the seventies like they're still edgy and avant-garde; or possibly pouring herself two Scotches because she's convinced someone is accompanying her in a night of debaucherous diatribe. Those are just the voices-in-her-head-isms. As the wind blows through the air, it screams Ambiennnnnnnnnn………..
Weight gain can gage from 20 - ? pounds overweight.. or perhaps she is one of those skinny broads, frail like Skeletor, and tells you those were the good old days. Not the kind of broad who likes it when you play Kanasta with her, but berates you for cheating at cards, that's right, she thinks she caught you, but we forgot…she's partially blind, deaf, and outright retarded.
Accommodating you are; you order her some food.
"We love you lady, but we don't even know you, and stop drooling pizza sauce all over your face. Your seven cats are starting to pounce our face." An innocent bystander interjects the feline predator from the pepperoni debacle.
Poor Guy in the Middle says, "She's wearing fishnet tights like she's still part of the Roaring 20's, but sadly, the only thing that fishnet is gonna catch might be a few small prawn from shore, not a husband. Maybe we can use her tights as a hammock to catch her when her plastered face falls over on her broken heel while dribbling tomato sauce all over her lower lip. It ain't lipstick, honey." She's drooling now.
Classic Case Study #4657#%$%^&….. they are your neighbors, your wives, your mothers, and your best friend's boyfriend's rebounds from a second marriage. They're still living the wet dream from the 70's. Classic cooters, eh hem, cougars. You see them talking to your boyfriend next door.
She starts off saying, "Son, would you like to put your hand in my purse and grab a piece of hard candy?" This bitch is looser than the levies of New Orleans, and it's 9am. Tell her booze time isn't at least till noon, give her three glasses of wine, slap her in the face and then tell her to pass the fuck out.
"4:00pm Nap Time. We'll play Bridge later, then find the rest of her teeth in an Enamel Egg Hunt. Here, have some Alka Seltzer."
She says her daughter would be jealous of her if she ever came across a dapper young man as yourself. Dapper? Once again, slap her.
"Night night, sweetie. We'll play tomorrow."
You tuck her sheet in between her tomato-sauced face with a mouth gaping open from the dentures removed; use her fishnets as a blanket to clothe her and keep her warm; throw some cards at her for good luck, and peace out of that mother.
As she minority vomits on herself, you thank yourself for your gene pool.
Word of advice: Don't ever live in Orange County.
