Keepin’ It Uncontrollably Sassy Since 1977

So busy.  Too busy, in fact, to even talk mad shit about trash reality shows.  I’m sure most of you aren’t disappointed with that.  I can feel your judgey little eyes every time I talk about Gary and Amber.

Disclaimer:  I’m about to get cussy.  Some of you may want to exit page right.

Anyway, I want to bring to light a horrible travesty still going on in America, and it’s not the fact that Dr. Laura is still alive- despite the fact she looks like a shriveled up bitch.  Is she like 106 now?  She has obviously made some kind of deal with Satan.

I digress.

Today, I want to bring to the soap box- women’s country western attire.  Why are we still doing this?  Why?  It’s not flattering, attractive, or productive.  It’s ugly.  So unless you are on your way to 2-step, ride a bull, race around a barrel, or rope some shit, GO home and change NOW.  
 
Please tell me, I’m not the only one who wants to jam a screw driver in my eyes after seeing these jeans.  Yuk.  Just yuk.  I know you are thinking “to each their own.”  No.  Not to each their own when you make this kind of fashion choice.  It’s not the early 90s, we know better. 

You need a front view.  Don’t you? 

Wanna see it in khaki?  You should know it shouldn’t be a clothing option when it looks like shit on the mannequin.  It’s a sad state of affairs when cottage cheese legs are present on the mannequin (inner thigh area).


What prompted my little hatefest?  I encountered a woman wearing this atrocity over the weekend.  AND her attitude was equally as intolerable as her fashion values.   We’ll just call her Bitchface.

I should back up a tad.  So you aren’t totally lost in my rant.

The boys and I were in my niece’s wedding (Congrats to Sissybear), last Saturday.  So the kids and I headed to the church (before Tim) to finish dressing in our fancy clothes.  Well dammitalltohell, if my vehicle doesn’t break down. Right. In. The Middle. of the street.  So Tim came and, with the help of a few Good Samaritans, we pushed my humongous truck into a parking lot.  The citizens of the Pool of Glen were not cooperating.  It was almost like someone was paying them to get in the fucking way to make the feat 20 times harder than needed, and 30 time longer than necessary.  So we wouldn’t be late for the wedding, we made a decision to park the vehicle at a closed business and come back.    So surely.  Surely.  It would be fine.

Wedding was nice.  Thanks for asking.  

After the wedding, we stopped.  AND low and behold, a horribly dressed woman hopped out of a dirty truck and thought she’s going to go off on me.  Oh, Sweetheart, don’t let these perfectly manicured toes fool you-- sometimes I’m a bitch just for fun.  Give me a reason to be one, and you have just made my day.

She must not have gotten that memo.

I gave her the benefit of the doubt (or was at first stunned by her horrible personal appearance).  I mean, I did park my vehicle there without permission for a couple of hours, and it may have blocked some very important, closed on Saturday business.  BUT I was there now.

Me in my beautiful strapless, yellow bridesmaid dress, “I am so sorry.  I broke down on the way to my niece’s wedding, but we are here now.  I had no intentions of leaving it.  I just didn’t want to be late for her wedding.  I was in it.  AND I’ll get it out of your parking lot now.”

“I’m towin’ it,” said she in her light acid wash denim Rockies jeans.  Scowling horribly (an activity which was hard to pinpoint for the 80s style bangs she was rockin’ covered/distracted the forehead area).  Then she said about 3 other things that at that point I didn’t hear.  I wasn’t listening to what she was saying, as much as how she was saying it.  Like a fucking bitch.  A bitch who thought, “Look at Miss Priss Pants.  I can say whatever I want to her.  I’ll probably make her cry.”

Unfortunately for Bitchface. I’m not that kind of Priss Pants, nor do I possess even one passive-aggressive bone in my body.  They don’t call me Princess at work because I’m sweet and bluebirds light on my shoulders.  They call me Princess, because they suspect I bathe in the blood of virgins the second Tuesday after the solstice.  Ruth.  Less.

Me with a smile still on my face (the look that my oldest son says is really scary because although I’m smiling—my eyes are not),  “No. You’re not.  You’re not fucking towing anything.  I’m here now.  AAAAND so now the goddamn truck is coming with me. Alright?. ”

Bitchface, with a blatant smile of satisfaction: “Tow truck's here.”

Me,“AAAAND he better stay the fuck away from my truck.  I’ll tell him for you if needed.”

Tim comes up behind me as a tow truck enters the parking lot. “What’s going on?”

Me turning my back on Bitchface with a clear dismissal, “This ugly fucking bitch thinks she’s going to tow my truck, which is not going to fucking happen. Not without someone getting fucking slapped.  So let’s at least push the truck out of here so we can work on it.  I’m not leaving it here for five more seconds.  Um… she’s an ugly bitch with an emphasis on bitch!”

My husband hears me talk shit so often, I think he just tunes me out when I’m in a tirade.  He dissects the pertinent information, and just acts like I didn't call someone an ugly bitch.

Her tune quickly changed when she saw Tim was neither surprised or apologetic for my increasingly mean and vocal rant.  She said, “Do you need help moving it?”

I slowly turned in my beautiful kitten heels.  “DON’T touch.  My fucking. Truck.” Then I turned back to my husband, “Ugly fucking c*&$@.”

Oh, yes I did.  I said the c-word.

As I began the task at hand, I started in about acid wash and the need for its removal from this planet, loud enough so she could hear it.

Please understand, Funnybunnies, when I’m this mad, I cannot and should not be reasoned with.  AND I will not stop talking shit until I’m (A) Punched or (B) Not mad anymore.  Your choices are to fight me or ignoring me.  Whilst pushing my heavy beast of truck, I verbally shanked everything from Bitchface’s hair to her dirty ass Ropers.  LOUDLY.  She finally walked backed to the skanky vehicle she’d cometh.

Lesson Boys & Girls:  If you can’t run with the real bitches, keep your ass in your dirty truck. Don’t start with an attitude, if it’s something you have a hard time maintaining.  Never mistake my (at first) sing-song voice and customer service smile for someone who actually gives a damn about your feelings in the end.  I’m nice, because I was taught manners, but they fade really fucking fast when inappropriately tested.  If you are a mean and nasty person, I may be the one who sends you home to cry on your dirty pillow.  Her hair looked greasy.

Although she tested my temper, I would still love to give this woman a desperately needed makeover.  It will forever be a burning question in my mind… do they still sell acid washed Rockies, or has she just never parted?