bapber blab

Of Healthcare and Hoarders and Herdsmen

2010-03-22T05:12:00.000-07:00

Well, it is an O.B.A.S.G.D.F.A (Official Betty Ann Stout Great Day for America) on account of that beanbag chair full o’ blowin’ butterscotch puddin’ (Rush Limbaugh) said he would leave the country if Health Care Reform passed.

Well, Rush, don’t let the door hitcha where the good Lord splitcha on the way out.

In the meantime, at about the same time health care passed – which appeared to be harder than passin’ a peach pit –on Sunday, a similar wailin’ and carryin’ on sound on comin’ from across the trailer court from trailer association president Bud Fischer’s trailer.

First we thought it was Doyletta, gettin’ into the spirit (and gotten into a bit of ’em) while collectin’ for the “Send a Possum to College Fund.”

Turns out Bud just figured out his blow-up dolls won’t be included in the new government health coverage, and he don’t have the money for the Monkey Grip patch yet to stitch up Miss Macie (his special inflatable friend) from that unfortunate Labor Day bird shot incident.

It appeared, you recall, Dick Cheney or sumbody had driven through the court as all the trailer court members – and those three dryer sheets to the wind (that would be Doyletta’s little ones Aikman and Dakota on – account of they just got into a little of the rum ice cream and some Libby’s fruitcocktini) – anyway , those three duvets plus two dryer sheets to the wind had long gone to bed.

And shots were fired and there Miss Macie hung limp from the crepe myrtle.

And we told him, “Bud, you cain’t be airin’ out Miss Macie tied to that tree ‘cause you knew no good would come of it.’’

Plus, it gets the kids – and Claude T. and E.E. – to wonderin’ out loud in the yard chairs with too many nature questions as to why Latex don’t grow on trees.

“In Biblical times,’’ said E.E., “I wonder, did they make they blow-up dolls out of goats bladders?’’

And with that, comfortin’ Bud Fischer had stopped and Esther ‘n’ me decided it was time to move on from Labor Day and to what to do about the next-door pedophile when he got off his Build-a-Bear shift and came to hand out special-order M&Ms with his work extension number and a picture of Teddy Ruxpin on each side.

Well, while we was movin’ on from when Teddy Ruxpin was a gonna learn how to sing Big Balls in Cowtown for the little ones, the day in March came in 2010, when health care passed.

So anyhow, late Sunday evenin’ we all rush over to Bud Fischer’s trailer – which was painted off white with little dots of red fingernail polish in protest of St. Patrick’s Day green, as he is part Californian (home of pepper jack cheese).

He repaints his trailer a lot to look like cheese, see.

Well, when he moved in here from a stint as a California Clown School student in Stockton (major in confetti cutting with a minor in buckets) he did have an actual woman friend we watched move in with him, and all Claude T. could say was, “Well, happy cows do come from California.’’

So anyhow, since we greeted them the day they moved in, we have mostly only seen the outside of Bud Fischer’s trailer. And the usually cheese-themed outside which he seems to paint for a hobby. Which I guess is OK, exceptin’ the doublewide cheddar log at Christmas didn’t exactly seem to look quite right.

More like, does a trailer shoo shoo in the woods if you ask me.

Well, yesterday, we all go rushin’ in without knockin’, and there he is watchin’ the President on CNN, cradlin’ a Miss Macie flatter than a plasma for possums in his arms – that would be Bud, not Barack.

And cryin’ like he’s just given birth from his bohiney to a goat with a backwards birthmark of Dale Earnhardt’s No. 3 on its head. Except not in a good way like that.

It was about the no insurance for blow-up dolls. At least, of course, as Bud interpreted the bill. Of course this could be how half the US House interpreted the bill as well, though they can afford their blow-ups, so I don’t know why they were all whinin’ like somebody just stole the last fake i.d. at the D.C. Homophobic Hut.

But what we discovered, after never really seein’ anything but the outside of his trailer, except repeated re-paintin’s with representations of various cheeses (but when he used orange Krylon and little wheat paste globs for Black History Month and had a sign out sayin, “Curds for Coloreds,’’ we had to go tell him we knew he meant well, but his gesture might not be taken in the best of intentions.

But anyhow, what we discovered was every manner of shoo shoo imaginable top to bottom in that trailer. There was his paint collections (with obvious future plans for a tribute to tubers with the stacks of parsnip paint chips stuffed in the empty Curtis Mathes frame bein’ just too many) . Blow-up gal pals never inflated, stacks of rejection slips from clown academies.

Oh, there was more.

We counted 33 dog leashes, even the kind from Six Flags with the invisible dogs. He don’t have a dog. I bet 300 o’ them inside of the Pink Thing from Six Flags stick figures, some of which had been gnawed on, 42 packs of them big boxes of crayons with the sharpener on the side, 72 pairs of Hagger slacks, not even autographed by the Hager Brothers. And on it went.

Oh my, Bon Jovi’s butt in a bucket – Bill was a hoarder. You know, like one o’ them people they have on the cable called Hoarders who can’t throw anything away and still have like 100 clips from voting in 1973 on if the rabbit should get his Trix.

Well, it was obvious, no camera crew was comin’ out with a head shrinker to our trailer park to help the poor cul-de-sac job, so, the trailer court planned an intervention and a great big garage sale, with half the proceeds goin’ to Doyletta’s “Send a Possum to College’’ campaign, and half to the Lottie Moon Love Offerin’, seein’ as how Doyletta’s Baptist mamma offered her Crowne Victoria to carry off some of the stuffed ferrets.

Ain’t that somethin’, huh?

Of Teabaggers in the Trailer Court , Possums in Paradise and a Weasel in Austin

2010-03-05T16:43:00.000-08:00

Well, I just heard tell it was Rick Perry’s birthday Thursday.

I hate that, I found out too late to order a cookie bouquet.

Well, maybe there’s still time to send a belated cowpatty party pack.

Speakin’ of ol’ Guvner Gayhair, don’t ask me how or why this happened, but the trailer court was selected to be a polling place this past Tuesday out here in our somewhat unincorporated area of the city.

So, we ran all the feral ferrets out of the clubhouse, and moved the full body scanner from the doorframe of the ladies room (remember the Fraternal Order of the Feral Ferret – the trailer court men’s club – has been a meetin’ there).

I took down Court president Bob Fischer’s “Don’t Tread on Me” poster, as well as the Jan Brady garden flag.

Ever’body got busy, which is good around here, and even Doyletta down the way offered to march her stilettos up to the clubhouse and help us herd the people around.

Ashur du Smelbahd, our nice little Islamic friend at the end of the court, was handing out free hummus and flatbread in the shape of a turban (the men’s club obviously helped him) to anyone who would vote for Farouk Shami.

So, election day came, and there comes Doyletta up to sit with us a-checkin’ folks in, and what is she doin’ but draggin’ a wagon behind her as I try to explain, Doyletta, now I think it is illegal to vote if you are drunk.

“I ain’t drunk – yet,” she says, before announcin’ that she is gonna start writing her to-do list on her palm just like Sarah Palin.

Doyletta, I think drunk at polling place includes an ice cream freezer full of Bacardi in a plastic Playskool wagon.

Well, me an’ Esther and Louise began to get curious as to what Doyletta’s little hand job of a to-do list might have on it, so each time she lifted it up to pick the ballot to hand to someone, or to stick boob back in her bra, we’d try to get a peek – of her hand notes, not her milk jugs.

Finally, Esther sees No. 1 on the list – “Add rum.’’

Now this has never been a task which proved all to difficult for Doyletta, so we are not sure why she felt the need to put it in black Sharpie down the underside of her middle finger.

And as the condensation on her sippy cup of, “just juice,” got worse, ooowee, them ballots she was handin’ out was getting’ more clouded and splotchy than my fellow Texans’ brains when it comes to rememberin’ the goin’s on in the Governor’s Mansion the past 10 years.

After Bud Fischer wrote himself in for judge of something, probably the inflatable slut summit, we had a lull and asked Doyletta to wash her hands.

“But then how will I remember my talkin’ points?” she asks.

By this time Doyletta is about three Snuggies to the wind and wouldn’t even know a toast point if it fell in her drawers.

Someone mentioned the earthquake in Chile had moved the earth off its axis and shortened the days by 1.26 microseconds.

Well, as Claude T. put it, that’s 1.26 less microsecond s in a day for us to hear Sarah Palin and her toast points, which she oughta just keep in her drawers if you ask me.

Louise asked if we had heard what Pat Robertson said was the reason for the Chilean earthquake, and, I am not a makin’ this up, he says the people had made a pact with a chucacabra to get out from some regime.

About this time, Doyletta jumps up and says she’ll be right back.

Well, what was that all about?

“Oh,” said E.E., “Didn’t you know her feral pet possums got the mange and had passed it on?”

Yes, her big hand list and it still takes mention of Pat Robertson and a chucacabra to remember her possum problems.

Turns out she had put the delouser on Little Aikman and Little Dakota and went off and forgot ‘em there in the trailer floor, head full of some mange poultice, throwin’ Best Value Fruit Loops in each other’s hair all mornin’.

At least the possums had gotten in through the dryer vent and was havin’ themselves a good ol’ time there in the floor with the boys and their mange heads full of mange medicine and Fruitios snacks.

Doyletta ran the possums out, which came runnin’ toward the clubhouse, mange and all, and she was chasin’ them, arms flailin’, where we saw the second item on her hand list (Shave.)

We don’t wanna know.

And the third item just said, “No. 2.”

We just don’t wanna know.

We was all hopin’ there would be a runoff for the Republicans Guvner spot on account of how Esther said maybe Kay Bailey and Ravishin’ Rick Rude could just have a double hair match.

Maybe Doyletta could delouse Rick Perry’s hair.

About this time my boy pal Roy finally got back from JoAnne’s with the chintz he promised to make us patriotic bunting out of.

“Roy, I said patriotic.”

“Well, it was on sale, and nothin’ screams pride like paisley,” and he commenced to sayin’ how he could show Rick Perry the teabaggin’ ropes.

Oh, Roy, I think that ship has already sailed up the Earl Grey river.

E.E. said how Ravishin’ Rick Rude was havin’ his Tuesday evenin’ party at the Salt Lick.

And well, the idea of Rick Perry bent over a salt lick made Roy drop his chintz.

Ain’t that somethin’ huh?

Betty Ann's Facebook Follies

2010-02-23T04:18:00.000-08:00

Betty Ann just earned the nekked ice dancers in mafia wars.

Of Ponies and Pompadours: Power Outs and Rick Perry

2010-02-23T03:11:00.000-08:00

Well, seein' as how we are bored as bread in a box a hearin' about Tiger's wood and Kevin Smith's bulbous bohiney, we decided to some cleanup after the long snow power outage which for some reason they were slow to respond to here in our somewhat incorporated area of the city.
Once the Circle K sign blew, we sent Claude T. and E.E. scurryin' across the snow in the culvert to get our extension cord out from behind their dumpster, so as to go unnoticed when the electric people came.
We rounded up the pony from the semi-live Nativity scene and got him in the trailer, herded the feral ferrets from the clubhouse into the shipping container, and Doyletta made the ultimate sacrifice in rollin' five years worth of Soap Opera Digest into logs and buildin' a bonfire by the trailers for light a warmth.
Claude T. added several copies of Guns & Ammo, stoppin' short of the January '95 issue which he had yet to read and he still wanted to get to that piece on, "Musket and Mullet: Matchin' the Calibur to the Coiffure.''
Louise asked if we could burn the Star-Telegram, but Esther allowed as to how they was takin' care of that quick enough on their own.
Assured the Oncor men were not a gonna notice nothin' askew, we then all hid on our respective couches under many blankets and a pony.
So, there was all them burned Soap Opera Digests to sweep up and blankets to fold, and that pony diaper E.E. constructed entirely out of old Buddies bags didn't quite hold, thus a presentin' us with a secondary set of shoo shoo shenanygins. The first set bein' that the toilet had froze up and let's just say the Duraflames on the bonfire wasn't the only logjam in the trailer court.
Speakin' of poop, we heard tell where Deion Sanders has a penthouse (no, not the magazine, though we are not excludin' this) in upper downtown Dallas that has been named one of the top ten fancy real estate places in the country.
Funny, Daddy has a downtown penthouse but his son plays football for Cedar Hill.
Ain't that somethin', huh?
But they had pictures of it on the internets and ever'thing.
Oooowee, this huge bathroom with nothin' but windows open to the sky. Toilet right there where all the birds can see the Neon Deion wee wee.
And up that high, I'm guessin' you could just "go'' right there, though Chopper 5 might be a reportin' a pileup on the mornin' commode, uh, commute.
Just so we don't see no high rise from Mr. Neon a whileJane McGarry is a tryin' to tell us in her own unique sign language about the areial view of snow angels created on the street formerly known as Industrial.
It's like Jane, I b'lieve them snow angels left they're Boone's Farm behind when they got up this mornin'.
It's like Jane, weight them hands down with some of Ellen Goldberg's collars if you have to.
Get a Whack-a-Mole on the set so you'll have somethin' to keep your hands occupied while you report on the man from Ohio who peed on $600 worth of steak at the Walmart.
""Well,'' said Esther, "since Little Dammit has eaten shoes with less string in them than a Wal-Mart steak, I don't see how a little wee wee couldn't but help.
"I just don't see how they herd them cows all the way here from China.''
As you might guess, Esther was salutatorian of the hair doo class.
Esther is now thinkin' of expandin' her horizons by goin' to England to be a live bed warmer for the Holiday Inn chain.
This comin' from a woman who has recently slept under a pony.
Well, after gettin' things cleaned up after like a week, we turned on the TV to see Rick Perry tellin' Kay Bailey he had more experience under his belt. I bet he does.
"You know,'' said Louise, ''I just think he ought to forget this governor business go ahead and come out and run for President.''
Louise, I think he better get elected President first, and then he can come out.
Ain't that somethin', huh?

I'd call it a Super Boil Party

2010-02-12T19:11:00.000-08:00

Well, we is all still cleanin’ up from the Super Bowl here in the trailer court, and Doyletta, seein’ as how she was actually borned in New Orleans, had some of her people out from East Texas.

Well, it was quite mess.

Doyletta created a signature drink she called Saint Taint and another called Saintini (tequila with a licorice stick drank from a Whataburger Cup) and I swear, all her relatives except her sainted mamma in the Crown Victoria with the Lord’s Book on the dashboard smoked like the Little Engine that Thought it Could.

Ceptin this engine was climbin’ Mt. Ararat. – or Sarah Palin’s “Bumpit.”

More like Little Engine that thought it Could – Cough.

Anyhow, I don’t allow no smokin’ in the trailer. Not just that is scares the pony (from the semi-live Nativity) and he thinks the barn is afire, when it is really just Uncle Comedy’s elbow caught fire from droppin’ his ceegar (on his bourbon-soaked hoodie sleeve).

Don’t ask me when Uncle Comedy, who still don’t think they allow women into space, or gays in the Shriners’ parade, started wearin’ hoodies.

OK, so while we watched the game in several trailers, all Doyletta’s family and friends from Louisiana and East Texas who didn’t drink were out makin’ a Drew Breaze of nicotine out in the pristine gravel of our trailer court.

I swear, come Monday to clean up, looked like somebody’d took and AA meeting upside down and shook it.

Well, we are still a cleanin’ up after Super Bowl Sunday here at the trailer court – and believe me you, the women did all the work, except for Bill Fischer, who was kind to take down from his crepe myrtle his Saint Taint Blow-Up dolls he was kind enough to dress in Saints’ colors and hang high and mighty for all of ¼ of a mile to see (the crepe myrtle ain’t a sequoia, or even my mamma’s pampa grass by any means), with their appropriatetly-adorned selves with Saints colors with black fish net hose, black witch hats from Halloween that the registered pedophile next door was kind enough to lend from his “leftovers.”

But to tell you the truth, we just don’t know just where that golden hue came from.

And my mamma, who is still here screeching with about extra ham she found on sale at Tom Thumb, says not to talk about her pampa grass in a public forum such as maybe an etch-a-sketch left out for all to see (mamma don’t do email).

Well, we took a break to watch some TV, where we saw men havin’ trouble could now be rescued on account of for Valentine’s Day, they can go to their, “Walgreen’s Personal Gift Advisor.”

Oh, I would just love to see what the still-hungover-from-Super Bowl Claude T. and E.E. would come back with the help (or not) of their Walgreen’s gift advisor.

Let’s see, a Ped Egg, a Fleet Enema (between the holidays and the Super Bowl, we tend to get a little irregular around here, and I don’t just mean the extra blow-up doll with the Evenrude inflaltin’ her bohiney wavin’ over from Bud Fischer’s crepe myrtle.

But, despite the cold, spring is comin’ on, and what did they do, those forethinkers them, get the nettin’ from the clubhouse they try to keep the ferrets out with.

Yep, they brought us gals not chocolate , but homemade Snuggies made entirely out of mosquito nettin’.

First, Lil’ Dammitt goes to doin’ his best (Pee-casso, the Gold Years) impression, throwin’ his leg in the air all over them and me ‘n’ Louise and Esther ‘n’ Doyletta just stand there wearing them, tryin’ to be nice, as ice forms on our larvae.

It is snowin’ here.

The men did make quite a mess durin’ the Super Bowl, and that was before Bud Fischer attempted to show just how temptin’ it could be for some folk once they see a Dorito drip all that Ro-tel .

(I have no idea).

I am just so glad the pool is filled up with dirt.

Well, after the cig butts gets cleaned up, I have to go put some horse mane n tail conditioner on my hair.

Let’s just say they didn’t just go to Walgreen’s.

FFF, White Sheets and White Men a Jumpin' --or not)

2010-01-30T16:29:00.000-08:00

Well, we heard tell last night on the TV that some man is starting a basketball league, the All-American Basketball Association, that only lets people play if they are white (both parents Caucasian) and can prove they were born in the United States.

Guess the president won’t be throwing out the first ball

This guy said it was to bring the purity and fundamentals of the game back and not have it be like street ball.

In a story, he also made mention of how it must feel for the white basketball players to be around all this trash talkin’ and made mention of gunplay by two black guys in the locker room just a while back.

Yeah, white guys only shoot each other on the deer lease.

He said white guys needed a place to play “without having to worry about someone flipping you off or attacking you or grabbing their crotch.”

Yeah, unless they watch Springsteen at the Super Bowl halftime or something – or any baseball game in general.

Yes, how nice, a whitey sanctuary where no one ever flips anyone off. Yeah, like the North Dallas Tollway, or the visitors’ entry at Cowboys Stadium.

Why I bet they won’t even curse none neither.

Why I haven’t heard a white man curse. Since noon.

But dammit, they have got to get rid of that pony.

Well, the men’s club of the trailer court (Brotherhood of the Fraternal Feral Ferrets) has never gotten their new officers elected, and thank the good Lord they don’t have to pass a health care bill, too, but they heard tell of in Mexico City where 150 ferrets were seized, promptin’ them to start contemplatin’ an official hat.

Well what Claude T., and the likes of ‘em did do was go rummagin’ around at the hotel across the culvert past the Circle K and stumbled upon the Arresturass Motel’s laundry.

(That’s the name we made up for it).

So, the freight container thieves stumbled on a bunch of white sheets from the Arresturass laundry room (you have seen these stains on CSI) and up they began scoopin’.

And since it’s a secret society,they decided they were gonna make head covers.

So, they took pillow cases to wear over their heads on account of it was a secret society and they didn’t want the women to find out.

So, they cut some eyeholes and sewed arms in the white sheets over at Bud Fischer’s on account of he still has a See-n-Sew.

Well, we have seen the FFF in full dress, and let’s just say they would probably be real welcome at the above-mentioned basketball league.

Then they start to working on something for parades – like wearin’ their uniforms (cuz it’s secret) and practicing in the courtyard of the trailer court learnin’ figure eights and stuff.

Well, they couldn’t afford little cars like the Shriners. So here you have this group of men in sheets and headcovers from the Arresturass laundry room, who have no little cars, but boy howdy, they had improvised.

There was Bud Fischer (he got to lead since he has a ridin’ mower which E.E. argued didn’t have enough torque).

Well, judgin’ from the looks of his blow-up dolls, Bud Fischer’s torque blew out a long time ago.

Let’s just say his Thai-yota gas pedal has accelerated itself plum out.

Anyway, so there is Bud in his ridin’ mower, E.E. and Claude T. pairin’ in a wheelbarrow until E.E.’s load shifted and they had to put his bohiney in the full Coors Light cooler to reduce swelling; Cody, Doyletta’s live-in, with one of his little geehaw’s wagons, bein’ pulled by the almost permanent pony (from the semi-live Nativity Scene); and the rest of ‘em on bikes, trikes, an automated tire swing, all of ‘em out there in sheets with eye holes attemptin’ to do figure eights and a settin’ their sites on the Como Fourth of July Parade. (Arlington wouldn’t have ‘em, and they was a-scared to even ask Ryan Place, despite their promises to donate 150 ferrets to the Junior League).

They was a-workin’ so hard and it just got worse and worse so they extended their trainin’ hours and had to start doin’ it at night, and ‘cause the trailer court ain’t lighted, they had to use torches.

This ain’t Lake Como in Italy, folks. It is Lake Como here. So you can see how all this is a pannin’ out if you have two brain cells left to rub together and burn a…well, never mind.

Then Claude T. comes in after they had all changed and undid their sheets in the clubhouse and said they had been at the Circle K waitin’ for the Sunny Delight truck to unload.

Hello. Do I look like I just stepped off the tard barge in search of hair extensions at Big Lots.

Anyhow, we ladies snuck over to take a peek at the clubhouse after fending off several ferrets, and you should see this place. One area, chairs for the meetings. A craft area (don’t ask), ferret droppings, and they had made themselves a little movie theatre area with real seats from some SOME movie theatre.

Oh, talk about a crack house with cupholders. It is a mess.

In other news, PETA wants the people in Pennsylvania who do the groundhog thing every year to replace Puxatawney Phil with a robot because subjectin’ him to all the cameras and people ever’ year ain’t right.

A robot? Oh pullleeze, what, we celebrate six more weeks of bad weather with a big game of Whack-a-Mole?

BIG CLOUD OF STUPID FARTS OVER U.S.

2010-01-22T17:14:00.000-08:00

Well, all the men were up to somethin’ and there was nothin’ on TV, as Wheel was already hours over, so we had to watch the news.

Louise was over with some pimento cheese and Triscuits and Doyletta made it to the liquor store in time to make her Keystone lime pie.

Me an’ Esther was worn out on account of we were still a-tryin’ to find homes for some of the animals E.E. and Claude T. had mysteriously come up with for the semi-live Nativity scene. This included chickens, one duck and a sign from a Red Goose shoe store.

A goat and a donkey (the one that didn’t get took for meat) can only enjoy one another’s company so long in a hay-filled shipping container before someone nips at more hiney than John Edwards on the campaign tail, er, trail.

So the four of us each took a couch and turned on Channel 5 for the latest in everything you need to know about hailstone sizes and dumbass health stories.

Hmph. “Can your commode really do double duty as a home gym? The secret zen of Go-ga coming up at 10.”

Claude T. thought it was just real funny like he was gonna get some of his football-shaped ice cubes out of the freezer, so they could say, “And hailstones the size of footballs,” but he is savin’ them for the Super Bowl party.

Jane McGarry was just about to take wing like somethin’ from the semi-live Nativity scene. I swear, if she don’t quit flailin’ them arms all over the place, one mornin’ we’re just gonna find her out the in the shipping container with the pony, havin’ flown right out of her earscrews and the studio and ridin’ that anchor’s chair like a big ol’ Roomba across the Trinity.

(I hid the Super Glue after we caught Claude T. and E.E. a-Mapquestin’ for KXAS studios with a full tube in C.T.’s back pocket on account of I know they was gonna try to epoxy both her appendages to the table).

Shoot, from the looks of the KXAS website, they didn’t even know Bobby Bragan had passed away ‘til later in the day, and it took ‘em ‘til around 3 p.m. to finally pull it out as a headline.

This right by somethin’ like, “53% are sad the 7 Eleven on Camp Bowie ran out of corn nuts during the lunch rush Thursday.”

Maybe they’ll know they had a big rumble bumble somewhere below Florida when the telethon comes on.

About this time, Esther, who is bored and was a-playin’ on the computer begins to slappin’ away at them keys like she’s a-diggin’ for night crawlers.

I look over to see her screen to see the headline, “Prostidude starts work in Nevada brothel.”

“Esther, you don’t know who this guy could be, now shut that thing off before I make you look at pictures of Lady Ga Ga.”

Hmph, I b’lieve more like Lady Guy Guy.

“Well,” says Louise, “At least if we’d taped The View, we could have seen them hold up that picture of Scott Brown nekked as a plucked duck.”

“Yeah,’’ says Doyletta, “If this was a woman, I b’lieve her political career would have ended right there on that shiney hiney page.”

And for once, Doyletta made perfect sense, almost as if someone such as Glenn Beck had tearlessly said, “I’m sorry I’m such a drama queen asswipe. “

Our awestruckedness lasted only a moment as we look up to see one of them talkin’ dawgs over at NBC reporting live from McKinney – “Food, Drink and Furniture in one store – Kroger’s new Marketplace.”

Then, after they was done a-readin’ the Kroger press release, they had these actual shoppers.

One said, and I am serious, “Go one place and get what you need, save my gasoline, save driving.”

Another said, “But just the concept of a grocery store and furniture and everything. I thought it was a one stop.”

Hellllloooo? Have you never been to Wal-Mart? Me an E.E. saw a baby in a basket there, too, and I think you can get those at Wal-Mart too, or at least get started on one.

Is the Super Target too fancy for ya? Well let me create a cleanup on Aisle No. 2 in my drawers right now and make you a little more comfortable.

Maybe it’s just me, but how long ago was it the great big cloud full of “stupid” paused over America and farted?

“Oh look,” says Esther, “Burleson is plannin’ its Cinco de Mayo celebration.”

“What are they gonna do, haul in Mexicans from Fort Worth or what?”

About this time, Doyletta gets up to head down to the Slut Hut for a can of fruit cocktail and she glances out the window and just opens her mouth and pronounces, “Oh Myy Gaaawd.”

This was repeated three more times as we each rushed to look out to see what but a frantic Bud Fischer, the trailer park president, runnin’ down the road toward the feral ferret dome (trailer court clubhouse), one of his blowup dolls in each hand, a branch from the crepe myrtle hangin’ from Trixie’s blowed-up bohiney, and he is a-runnin’ like somebody’s chasin’ his girls with an elephant gun.

Well, we all go sneakin’ out of the trailer towards the clubhouse to see what is goin’ on.

(Keep in mind, we hadn’t seen the men in a while).

And, as it turns out, they was havin’ one of their “secret” meetings of the Fraternal Order of the Feral Ferret.

Well, we peeped in and sure enough, there was Claude T. at the podium (five empty 12-packs joined with duct tape), proposing the men cooperate on creatin’ a full body scanner around the ladies room door.

A tape was played of the Fraternal Order’s little band performin’ Big Balls in Cowtown at the Labor Day cookout.

I think the Monkees played their instruments.

Turns out, they’d been votin’ on officers earlier and they had to table that for a while when Bud Fischer had a fit sayin’ how he should be The Head Potentate since he was head of the trailer park and ever’body threw beer cans at him.

So he screams that for your vote, he’d guarantee both his blowup dolls were “available.”

Hence, we saw Bud runnin’ back to the meetin’ with Trixie and Adele tethered to his CIT (Culinary Institute of Terrell) class rings (one for sausage balls with a minor in meringue).

Namon Graham then says, “I’ll just blow that whole podium up,’’ and commenced to hackin’ away at the 12-packs with his boat keys.

Then our little Muslim friend on the corner lot refuses to vote saying this is a “travesty of American justice.”

And he refuses to vote.

“OK, let the record show that Ashur du Smelbad, of lot 9, Ab-du-stains from voting.”

Then Bud says, “We are not a followin’ Roberts Rules of Order.”

Roberts Rules of Order? My bohiney.

This comin’ from the mouth of a man with two blowup dolls wearin’ nothin’ but pasties and a pair of thrift store Underoos in his lap.

More like Perverts Rules of Order if you ask me.

Well, they decided to suspend votin’ for the night without havin’ accomplished a damn thing.

Sounds familiar.

In fact, the only thing they actually agreed on in all that time was a resolution to honor the memory of the passin’ of the founder of Taco Bell, with an addendum that all men of the trailer court would keep their burritos at half mast through the weekend.

Ain’t that somethin’, huh?

BETTY ANN STOUT'S FACEBOOK FOLLIES

2010-01-21T14:16:00.000-08:00

Betty Ann just got a book, "Forum 303:The wonder years,'' in Mafia Wars.

BETTY ANN'S FACEBOOK FOLLIES

2010-01-21T14:12:00.000-08:00

Betty Ann is hunting the scissors.

BETTY ANN'S FACEBOOK FOLLIES

2010-01-21T14:09:00.000-08:00

Betty Ann just got the peach orchard sow in Farm Town.

BETTY ANN BACK IN THE BLOG SADDLE AND RIDIN' HERD OVER THE HOLIDAYS

2010-01-20T17:30:00.000-08:00

Well, it has been a long time since I took my break from the bloggysphere.

Though I did briefly make mention in the annual Christmas letter written by my puppy Lil’ Dammitt, about the live Nativity scene problem with the crocodile and the culvert and Village Creek.

I had no idea those things were native to our area waterways. Neither did the arm on the breathin’ baby Jesus (E.E. attached a pump – just don’t ask – and stuck it under Wise Man No. 1’s flip flops to keep a raisin’ and lowerin’our Lord’s little bankie). And lemme just say Lil’ Dammitt wasn’t too happy when he went to his corner and found his dog Snuggie gone.

As for me, first, you recall, it was the mumps, then they got in my ear and I got dizzy and without the benefit of so much as one box wine spritzer, I managed to fall into the partially livin’ manger scene Claude T. and E.E. managed to construct inside their flipped-over sideways shipping container, though those two oxy-maroons somehow thought getting the visitin’ pedophile next door to play one of the wise men was a good idea.

“Well, we were runnin’ out of men in the trailer court with theatrical experience, B.A.,’’ said Claude T, as he ran off to chase the pig spooked by the sound of Doyletta’s recyclin’ bin emptyin’ like a loose slot at an all-you-can-eat casino.

So, anyhow, as for the concussion, I fell and hit my head, knockin’ off the ear of the cement Mary (We couldn’t find a live virgin in the trailer park).

So anyway, the pedophile got the No. 3 slot as it were, and I was against it.

Though he did always seemed more than happy to run back to the trailer court and suit up, even on his smoke breaks at the Build-A-Bear, if any groups was comin’ through as part of their holiday lights tours.

It was the first time I’d seen a Wise Man in a leopard Snuggie, though he about let the leopard out of the cage when the van from the Mineola First Baptist Boys Choir somehow wandered onto the property.

C.T. and E.E. positioned all this just so, so the Circle K sign across the culvert appeared over the shipping crate as a shining consonant in the east.

Wise men. My bohiney, Wise Men bearing gifts. Gifts? Yeah, more like Underpants, Mold and Liqueur,

I don’t think Lil’ Dammitt really appreciated us givin’ him camel toes using only duct tape and brown felt.

As Claude T. put it, he knew a lot better ways to make camel toes, but he wasn’t too forthcomin’ about just what procedures he might have implemented differently.

Oh, yeah, it was a regular Interlochen, though in Interlochen I doubt if anybody took the donkey for meat.

Then it got awful cold and some of us went inside where Doyletta two trailers down was mixin’ up the monkey blood – that’s neighbor Doyletta’s December, January and February drink experiment, though I ain’t so sure red velvet cake mix and absinthe and vodka with crushed ice isn’t just gonna rigamortize right there in a gray heap in her Dale Earnhardt tumbler.

Hmph. Monkey Blood.

More like monkey tub water if you ask me.

And it would be a shame to lose that tumbler to another tragedy.

Before my breaking-Mary’s-ear concussion had set in real good, we was able to get a Christmas Eve dinner on the table for some family and people from the trailer court.

C.T.’s travelin’ preacher cousin, E.E.’s drunk Uncle Comedy, Doyletta in her stilettos with the little Keebler elf door for slippin’ bottles of airplane liquor into pre-K sporting events.

Oh yeah, this was shapin’ up to be a regular Baldwin family Christmas special.

We ended up with such a crowd that Doyletta offered up her trailer for overflow as I was runnin’ out of couches, which if you recall, is hard to do around here as my Mamma Faye Faye is constantly given me couches, and that loveseat topiary that turned out the be poison ivy is still givin’ C.T. an itch in his get-along.

Well, the preacher said he and his family would go on down to Doyletta’s, as their church van was parked in her yard. So before I could race around the backside by the culvert and head off the pastor of the Temple of the Golden Springs before he made it into the Trailer of Golden, Colorado, it was too late.

They saw Doyletta’s trailer, little Aikman and Dakota runnin’ ‘round nekkid as if it was the day they wash the Huggies, Doyletta’s fiancé gettin’ out some extra plates with one Salem Lite in his mouth and another behind his ear, Doyletta in the middle of changin’ into her holiday halter with the two velcroed cranberries (to suggest a festive sauce, she said), and more liquor bottles than Rick Perry has tea bags.

Well, as I later heard tell of it, pastor’s wife fainted dead away, the little girls ran screamin’ into the bathroom where Doyletta had hid the feral possums for the day, the boys tried to see if the festive sauce halter came with a ladle, and pastor commenced to workin’ the ol’ Devil out of trailer No. 4.

Doyletta runs a screamin’ from the trailer toward me, arms flailin’ like CNN’s just reported Jeff Gordon’s face has been eaten by a ferret holed up in his engine block.

I march her back down to her trailer and dare to ask, “Just what were you thinkin’?” as I’m a herdin’ the pastor’s family out the door – well, except for the two that we’ll need a screwdriver to get out of the bathroom with the possums in the tub.

“Doyletta, just look at this. For pity’s sake, you cain’t use a New Testament for a coaster. And put a sweater on. And throw some water on the pastor’s wife’s face to revive her.” Which she does.

When we finally flushed the tonic water out of pastor’s wife’s eyes, we sent her on her way.

Well, after we didn’t finish the last of the Durkee onion casserole on account of someone thought it would be a good idea to alter the recipe some, since all they had in their trailer was two cans of Bush’s grillin’ beans, and drunk Uncle Comedy realized for about the 300th time in 2009 that, “Did you know the President is a Negro?”

“You know I hear he may go to a sex addiction clinic.”

After that, I went to bed, pulled covers over my head, where me and my Mary concussion stayed for about a week.

They all made me come out to the den to see the ball drop in New York on New Year’s.

Then stay up an extra hour to see iffin they’d drop a lit-up Dale Hansen off the American Airlines Center.

Then again, it’s not hard to find Dale lit up most any time.

Somebody says speakin’ of Dallas, did you know that city is gonna take a THIRD try at naming that road.

I swear, it’s like getting’ a herd of Dalmatians to agree on what they hear.

They said part of the problem was to do with the growing opposition to the name Cesar Chavez.

Well for Heaven’s sakes, FIND ANOTHER MEXICAN.

Can you imagine even tryin’ to order a multi-toppin’ pizza with these people? Hell, they’d have to call Dominoes, solicit them to rename the pizza – and do we name it something Italian, or do we go with a name that reflects the history of the company, like, “dough.”

Fort Worth and Arlington don’t seem to have these kind of problems

Shoot, we renamed Arch Adams to Van Cliburn Way before anybody knew about it.

Although Claude T., goes out of his way to avoid the Van Cliburn Way, on account of he says he just don’t wanna be the Van Cliburn “way.”

Ain’t that somethin’, huh?

B.A., Gameday, and Esther's Poison Hiney

2009-09-21T13:50:00.000-07:00

Well, the day started with the sound of a blow torch in my den.

I am not making this up. At that liquidators place in Garland, where Claude T. and E.E. went to get these plasma TVs, they had a pack of SIX, 62-inch big screens for $1,300.

I don’t know if they expected they could get a weather person to come by and hang from our ceilin’ if they constructed our own DumboTron, but they said they would not be outdone by Jerry Jones.

And the last I saw, they was getting’ some ropes to see if they could hoist up David Finfrock just like Al Roker and do the weather from our little party.

Well, the door to the Airstream is about as wide as – well, let’s just say Bud Fischer was told not to bring his last remainin’ blow-up doll to the game-watchin’ party on account of his last little air-filled friend was from the Friend of Fatback catalog, and I didn’t want to put up a sign out sayin’, “You must be this thin to ride this trailer.”

We always watch the Arlington Police Department internets site through the day where they show who all is in the pokey and what 911 calls are “active,” and, I’m tellin’ you, all I can say is, that Arlington pokey is fuller than Al Roker’s lapband at the Souper Salad this fine Monday mornin’.

While we were a getting’ ready for yesterday’s party, you know, just settin’ out drink supplies (Miller, Vodka) and makin’ game-watchin’ snacks (weenies/crock pot), we began to check the APD’s website (you really must see it – and check the inmate list, too, for friends and family), and low and behold, we had barely got into our daytime drawers Sunday, when up came an “EVENTP’ on Cowboys Way, whatever that means. I dunno, maybe somebody was already peein’ in the parking lot on Cowboys Way.

Anyway, it was like 12:42 p.m.

I can’t even tell you how much shoo shoo was goin’ on Sunday.

Now you have gotta be pretty plowed to get noticed at a football game, I mean unlessin it’s like Trinity Christian vs. Pantego Bible Fellowship, but it seems a few people were able to do just that.

About an hour after the game, there was, I kid you not, a 911 dispatch for public intoxication to a specific Cowboys Stadium suite, another to a specific seat, and another to a specific parking lot, and all manner of calls being dispatched to the parking lots for bein’ drunk, fighting, “offensive/provocative” (I dunno but I have a guess), and then on top of that, some added to their $304 fine by resistin’ arrest or havin’ weeble weed in their drawers (and I don’t mean the souvenir air fern back in the bedside table from 1974).

But then again, you’ve got some thousands people just spendin’ the whole day and night drinkin’ in the parkin’ lot alone, doin’ interviews with Channel 5 and NBC in general, and in general lookin’ like the proverbial debutante at the tequila tasting bee, and they don’t expect that anyone they go up to could be arrested for bein’ drunk?

What’s the APD gonna do, sniff ever’body in the parking lot?

Oh, I’ve got a big picture. This was gonna be like Otis gets a sobriety test.

Duh.

Inside the stadium, there had been a ruckus when they announced the attendance was 105,121, an NFL record, and people were like turnin’ towards Jerry Jones’ box clappin’ for him and ovatin’ him and it was as if Jerry was some blonde, buck-toothed Castro on a balcony, wavin’, havin’ had his attendance dictator goons force 105,121, people to be there and thank him for the privilege of payin’ $10 for a bucket of popcorn.

Well, back at the trailer party, Doyletta was handin’ out cards for somethin’ called feralfriends.org, and we had no idea if she was a seekin’ help for the ferrets her boys turned loose and turned into 60 in the clubhouse, or the possums that get into her trailer through the vent to the outside when she forgets to put anything but the rum in her homemade rum ice cream, falls into the dryer and pulls the hose thingy out.

And well, as for the TV coverage, we enjoyed it on two of the six 62-inch screens that Claude T. and E.E. brought home from the liquidator place in Garland ($1,300 for all six so I can’t say much, and they do cover a lot of the holes punched by my ex-fiance A-Tool in the Airstream walls).

But when the cheerleaders appeared on six huge screens at once, fillin’ our small den, well, Bud Fischer’s epilepsy kicked in, our Muslim friend at the end of the court said he had to excuse himself even if Ramadan was over, and we shut it down to just two big screens to save anyone any more trauma in case they showed the cage dancers (you had to see ‘em) or John Madden’s head or somethin’.

Doyletta, now three sheets and two beds-in-a-bag to the wind, said, “Well, as long as they get ‘em all back on for Project Runway.”

Well, from the beginnin’ of these festivities in Arlington, announcer Al Michaels kept goin’ on and goin’ on start to finish about what a fabulous, wonderful, fabulous place the stadium was, sayin’ it was the Roman Coliseum of our era and all manner of stuff all game long.

And I told Esther, from the sounds of it he’d better report in over at the Arlington Memorial ER after the game, on account of he’d had somethin’ lastin’ more than four hours, if you know what I mean.

The many couches, including the recent addition of the topiary-esque wicker love seat with the ivy growin’ all over it were holdin’ up well. (Recall, Mamma pawned that one off two days ago – remember, it has to keep its legs potted in dirt?).

Doyletta was holdin’ down the bar – literally, and E.E. was standin’ on the electrical cord seein’ that it didn’t get pulled out from the Circle K from across the culvert and undo the workin’ of the TVs and the blender, with C.T. yellin’ every five minutes, “Now nobody use that blow dryer in the bathroom no matter where you dirty yourself. We don’t have a fuse box, so I don’t know what to do if we blow one.”

I was busy undoin’ the pony keg C.T. and E.E. had tied around Albietross’s neck so he could amble around the room for people to fill their red cups (which sucked my girdle garments right into my original foundation I was so aggervated at them).

Mamma, I hollered, can you water the love seat for me while only Esther is on it?

Well, she walks by to get a pitcher and says, “B.A., you know I think you might have too many couches.’’

Ya think, Mamma?

So I ask her, “Mamma, just where did Margaret get her ‘start’ on that ivy growin’ on the loveseat?”

“Well,” said Mamma, “I think down by that big tree at ol’ lady Daneyhauser’s.”

Mamma, did you not remember ever time I went down there to play, I’d get by that tree and come home lookin’ like fried baloney all over because there was poison sumac mixed in with the English Ivy?

“Oooooh,’’ she says, “I just didn’t think.”

Well, about this time, Esther drops to the floor and commences to scootin’ like a Labrador that’s gotten into some raw turkey, almost pullin’ her shorts off, and scratchin’ her legs to pieces with her Lee Press Ons and pullin’ silk daisies from my gameday arrangement to get down the back of her shirt.

And she looked like fried baloney.

And poor Esther, already so upset for Tony Romo, was just sittin’ there in the floor a itchin’ and cryin’ into her Del Monte-tini, beatin’ the Calamine lotion against the ice cream maker and none would come out.

“ Aaaaaw,” she says, “this is all Jerry Jones’ fault.

“He shouldn’t have taken all that property from all those Mexican families to build that stadium.

“Aaaaww, they’re a-cursing all of us and comin’ to reclaim their property.”

This whole thing was goin’ terribly awry, and I tried to offer some words of comfort with a corn starch poultice.

“Now Esther, it worked out for them in San Antonio – for a while.’’

“Awwww.”

It was time to send someone out for a full bottle of itch lotion and at least get Esther sobered up enough she wasn’t cryin’ so much.

Well, when it was all said and done, we made sure that we had parceled out all the Baptists to chauffer those who should not be a drivin’.

And I had Claude T. be an escort to two trailers down, on account of Doyletta hadn’t brung a designated walker.

Now hear this

2009-09-20T06:03:00.000-07:00

Now hear this. If you read yesterday's tale, you will know we have big doin's afoot.

Stop by here for regular updates from the trailer park game-watchin' party, and the latest news from JonesTown, starting at 5:15 p.m., until we pass out.
Reply to join our pool on "thing most likely to go awry,'' at the Airstream, or the football game.
This is a strictly non-gamblin' pool, and the winner gets a couch.

Off to get the Little Smokies in the crock pot and prepare for the bringin' in of C.T. and E.E.'s own DumboTron.

B.A.'s Cowboys Blowout, New York Buttheads, Blowup Dolls and Now, Where did they Put that Lion Country Safari?

2009-09-19T16:33:00.000-07:00

Well, ever’body was all abuzz – or abuzzed, depending on when they got off shift, as the Today Show did their show from Cowboys Stadium in Arlington Friday.

We saw part, with Al Roker on a crane high above the stadium doin’ the weather in our neck of the woods from the Dumbotron at DimWit Dome, and Matt Lauer touring with Jerry Jones, and taped the rest to watch while we all got the Airstream ready Saturday for the big Cowboys-Gnats, game-watchin’ party on Sunday.

It was just a bunch of us girls you know, sprucin’ up the Airstream for all the company comin’ in, Esther rearrangin’ the many couches Mamma Faye Faye keeps pawnin’ off on us, in case somebody wanted to walk the rectangular couch labyrinth for some spiritual enlightenment durin’ the game.

And she just better not push it, on account of in my hop to a higher power runnin’ from the kitchen to the bathroom, I fell and sprained my thumb.

And by the way, did you know you even need your thumb to wipe up messes and all manner of stuff?

Well, in the middle of all this, Claude T. and E.E. went off over to Garland this mornin’ to some liquidators sale on huge plasma TVs they heard about on Channel 5 last night on account of they wanted somethin’ big for ever’body watchin’ the Cowboys’ game in the Airstream Sunday night.

We have no idea if it will even go through the door, and I will just love to see what those two will come back with.

So it was with great concern I screamed at them as they waved from the drive, dust a-flyin, “Al Roker better not be a hangin’ from it when you get it off the truck.

And don’t you two go ANYWHERE near that stadium, come straight home -- and pick up bread.”

(Recall, they returned from said stadium with a shipping container on their last venture into Arlington, which for some reason every dumbass north of the Red River thinks is in Dallas).

Well, a few hours passed, and we had not heard from them, and we began to worryin’ that maybe they was sneakin’ in the stadium again or tryin’ to steal another shippin’ container on account of they had the flatbed trailer tied to the back of our eight-door- green Checker taxi.

All we wanted was one good fancy TV without Al Roker hangin’ from the corner by his droopy drawers.

So, we call C.T. on his cell, and lo and behold, they are in GRAND PRAIRIE.

“Well, B.A.”, says C.T., like he’s tryin’ to explain how his golf balls ended up in the EggGenie (he don’t play, but uses ‘em for scarin’ the feral ferrets out of the clubhouse), “um, E.E. wanted to run through Lion Country Safari.”

C.T., you tell E.E. that Lion Country Safari went the way of real journalists and clip-on mullets about a few decades ago, and if you two don’t get back here, and away from that football stadium, it’s gonna be more than golf balls that end up poached in my Egg Genie -- and don’t forget the damn bread!”

With that, they hung up, just in time for the phone to ring. Well, it was my Mamma Faye Faye a lettin’ me know my sister Butty Ann (remember, she was breach) was on the way over to help after she and my brother-in-law finished lookin’ for a new trailer, as they was movin’ to Arlington, just like the Cowboys, and were tryin’ to find a place to put it on somewhere midway between the 50-yard line and First Baptist.

“Oh, and by the way…”

Uh oh, here we go, I’m thinkin’ as I plop down on the Seven Geese Getting’ Laid Couch which was now bumped up against the Nine Lords a Leapin couch.

No, Mamma, we cannot have ANOTHER couch in here. This is an Airstream, not an Aaron Rents.

“But it would be so cute,’’ she says. “It’s just a little wicker love seat.

"Margaret gave it to me, and I didn’t want to hurt her feelings – you know she has nice stuff.”

And low and behold, before I was off the phone, which I hung up, she had already previously dispatched my nephew Elgin with his Nanny Suzy’s flatbed, which pulled up with something which could best be described as, “topiary” in nature.

He proceeds to unload a wicker coach as long as a mini-van with ivy growin’ all in it, sayin’ just a minute on account of he had four pots to get still, on account of each of the legs go in the soil.

By the time he had the sphagnum moss in on top of the dirt, I didn’t know if I was gonna squat and fart a ferret, or pass out right there, impaled by the Bowdabra (the tool used to make bows, not my also-named niece).

Elgin said after they picked up my Mamma and Daddy, they would be over after church let out Sunday – and not to worry, they would bring their own Kool-Aid.

Bring Jim Jones while you’re at it.

With Louise still putting bows over the holes I’d covered with Cat Fancy and Family Circle pages (recall, my last fiancé Allen Tooledge – we call him A-Tool -- had a temper and several fist holes had to be covered up before C.T. and me could feel we was livin’ respectably) – well, anyway, with Louise still Bowdabrain’ the holes, the rest of us plopped down on one of many coaches to watch the rest of the recordin’ of Friday’s Today Show.

And to try some of Doyletta’s DelMonte Martini (she just loves fruit cocktail).

We got to see Matt Lauer get to push the button to split the roof open, and we got the see the split in the back of Matt Lauer’s hairline.

Mr. Matt also said something disturbin’, in that if you didn’t open the big glass doors just right, a wind effect could cause the roof to fly off.

Whuh?

Well, that’ll make for a big bowl of chili over at the Pitt Grill.

And as Esther said, “Oh, Lordy, I just hope it don’t land on the Walmart.”

No, Esther, the Walmart across from the billion dollar stadium is one of it’s most impressive features as it even has a water feature when Doyletta drives over to shop with little Aikman and little Dakota.

I’m sure it impressed Jenna Bush Hager, who did her first reportin’ for Today from there.

“Ohhhhwee,” said Louise, who was busy pullin’ the Family Circle recipe pages off the holes in the Airstream, “You mean the Bush twins married the Hager Twins?’’

Get back to work, Louise, the Hager brothers are like three times their age.

Why look, there’s Willard Scott now with his Smuckers go-round, “Jim and John Hager are 100 years young today. They like pickin’ and grinnin’, and were featured in Hee Haw the Dark Years: LuLu, LSD, and Junior’s Drawers.”

“Actually,” says Esther out of the blue, “the Hager brothers are dead, dying age 66 and 67 in Nashville in the last two years.”

And we are sorely amazed.

Then she adds, “I wonder who inherited the stretch slacks empire?”

And with that, I had been far too intellectually stimulated and went down to Doyletta’s to get her to come help clean if she was gonna come drink our beer Sunday, and then across to Bud Fischer’s to tell him to get the damn blowup doll out of the crepe myrtle, as there were some regular Christians comin’ to this party and Trixie in the tree there was just a little too literal in the popo department, despite her tragic bohiney blowout.

When I got back, they said there was an, “Air of excitement around the stadium.”

Yeah, or Al Roker had just gotten into the nachos early.

The we hear tell how some architect critic for the New York Times just totally dissed the stadium, which E.E. had called the ninth wonder of the world, after Jenna Bush’s boobs.

Well, I admit, it does look a little like a brooch of a bloated silverfish on my aunt Gonga’s bazangas, back in the day.

But you know what does he know?

Architect critic? Bet he never played football.

Well, he can just play pin the burr on my butt.

After all, Jerry had to build somethin’ big enough to hold his ego without its head a floppin’ over.

And with that we heard Claude T. and E.E. a pullin’ up, C.T. hollerin’, “Now E.E., just go over to Bud Fischer’s and borrow his blow torch – no, the bigger one, and we can get this puppy in there.

“Oh, and see if he has bread.”

Little Bowdabra, Build a Bow, and Bob's Blowup Doll Shot in Bohiney

2009-09-14T17:24:00.000-07:00

Well it was a day some of us had looked forward to for some time, as my niece Lee, was bringin’ over her new baby, Bowdabra for us all to get a look at.

We’re not sure if she knows she named her baby after that bo- makin’ machine (as seen on TV), but that baby had enough bow on that little head iffin a big wind come up at the trailer court, we’d be lassoin’ little Sister Bertrille off the top of Bud Fischer’s crepe myrtles.

And sure ‘nuff, he still hadn’t taken the last blowup doll down from Labor Day festivities, which did turn tragic later in the night when somebody did a drive by at Bob’s and loaded up Ms. Doll’s blowup bohiney with bird shot.

She still had this big amazed open-mouth look on her face just like the Halloween gorilla on the side of the Six Flags tower had taken a bullet to the go-rilla groin that one year.

We had no need of little Bowdabra getting’ mixed up in those doin’s, so we got her in the trailer where she bawled and squalled on account of Claude T. and E.E. had picked today of all days to begin soderin’ the shipping crate, which may or may not be somewhat stolen, to the aide of the Airstream, so’s we could have an add-on.

So, amidst the bawlin’ Sister Bertrille, and Lucy and Ethyl paper hangers solderin’ the hind end of the Airstream there in the back, Lee showed us a big box of all her bows (though I think she could have done without the sparrow fashioned entirely out of shellacked dog hair -- she’s a pet stylist).

Lee, don’t you think it’s a little early for hot gluin’ that Nativity scene onto that headband – I mean she can’t barely hold her own head up and she’s gonna have the Baby Jesus floppin’ over into her ear canal?

“Oh no" she said, “Hobby Lobby already has them little Styrofoam Cornish game hens, basted in brown laquer an’ ever’thin’, like they’ve just come out of the Thanksgivin’ oven.

“Just garnish with a big cranberry bow.”

And with that, she was off to buy more ribbon, as the child sex offender had just pulled in next door (his shift at Build-a-Bear over early), and I didn’t want him wanderin’ over wantin’ to build his bow anywhere near little Bowdabra.

With the cryin little sister Bow-trille and her mamma gone, E.E. and Claude T. said they were takin’ a break to go to Hooters on account of they heard at noon they was gonna replay Serena Williams hissy fit on the big screen.

I’m gonna have a hissy fit if you two don’t quit takin’ beer breaks ever’ half hour and don’t at least get that hole covered in a tarp by night.

But they wasn’t listenin’, as they blew out the door with me screamin’ behind ‘em.

Serena replay my bohiney. “You know if them shorts get any shorter over there, they’re gonna have to start wearin’ a second hairnet --- and pick up bread.”

“Don’t worry. B.A.,” C.T. hollers, “We’ll be drinkin’ that new Select 55 beer – half the alcohol.”

Great, that means we’ll have to get a second recycling bin, on account of they’ll have to drink twice as many to get toasted.

They actually got back pretty quick – with no bread, a case of Select 55, and a NEW plan – to make the shipping container add-on into one huge recyclin’ bin.

And with that, we all just collapsed on our respective couches.

Well, we just saw an ad that said Walmart was re-doin’ its deli case to kinda be more upscale with somethin’ called Chef’s Creations.

Which should be innerestin’ as I have never seen lasagna made in China

“Well you know,” said, E.E., emergin’ from his slumber on the Nine Lord’s a Leapin’ couch, “I heard tell to where in North Carolina people tend to get more syphilis in when times were hard.”

Well, we just had to stop him right there because obviously he’d been goin’ to the dirty joke site again on the internets -- or drinkin’ with Doyletta.

“Naw, naw,” he says, “the people was a goin’ door to door and offerin’ them $10 Walmart gift cards iffin they would get checked for sexual transmitted diseases.”

That’s nice E.E., who we thought was done with this very special offerin’.

But he lifts his head up one more time to say, “You know I think I got syphilis in a Walmart once, but then again, I went to Big Lots that day, too.”

B.A.'s Facebook Follies

2009-09-11T00:24:00.000-07:00

B.A. just got the Mike Snyder bobblehead in Mafia Wars.
5 mins. ago.

Late Labor Day doin's, NoNuts Fat Free (and Brain Free) Do-Nuts, Doyletta Spills much of her Pie.

2009-09-11T00:12:00.000-07:00

Well, my Labor Day stay-cation is over, about like my hard drive, as you may tell by my postin’ fewer times.

Well, Esther had this big idea that with all these couches my Mamma Faye Faye gave us: We could arrange ‘em so as to get somethin’ more out of ‘em by putting them in something like they do at church and for peace and spiritual enlightenment, they walk this outdoor thing called a labyrinth.

Esther, this is a rectangular Airstream and these couches look more like they came out of a corn maze.

This thing yur talkin’ about is like round --- and a quiet place of solitude for starters.

But Esther got herself busy and made somewhat of a labyrinth out of the couches.

Yes, my spiritual journey will be greatly enhanced on the way from the kitchen to the bathroom, if I don’t trip at the, “Thou shalt have no other ottomans before me,” and have another Great Flood.

These couches were just all over.

But, this was a holiday weekend, so I let it slide and we all hung out at the trailer court all weekend.

Oh, and after watchin’ all this State Fair food on TV, Claude T. and E.E. got ‘em this big idea to come up with a new fat free doughnut and they were sittin’ around comin’ up with some name for ‘em.

“No Nuts,” said C.T., and havin’ a name, they decided to sleep on the recipe a few more days.

Well, C.T. and E.E. had long passed out on their respective couches, and Esther and me had just stayed up ‘til daylight and watched the last of QVC’s 8-inch flameless Cherub Candles (with timer) by David Shindler (which was what I wanted to put in the Airstream window near the holidays) and for Esther, we stayed up until she had a shot at the “hair dryer holder with suction and a permanent mount,” and I suspects she may just have been intrigued by the prospect of a permanent mount.

But anyhow, we hoped we had a few hours to get some sleep before the holiday festivities began in the trailer court.

Anyhow, so Esther took the Lords a Leapin couch, and I opted for the elk with embroidered scenes of Arlington attractions at sunset.
“I bet you have to pay extra to park your ass on that one, B.A.,” said E.E., lifting his head for four seconds off the Geese a Gettin' Laid couch.

Well, we didn’t expect doin’s at the trailer court to start for some hours, but sure ‘nough, as the last of the home shoppin’ was goin’ off, we thought we were good to get at least a few hours.

So, Esther clicked the TV changer just as the don’t drive drunk ads came on where they stop people and they open their car doors or windows and all this beer or tropical punch (only in Utah) comes out all over, and just then, we hear a knock on the Airstream door, and Esther is like, “Oooooh, Betty Ann, it’ll be nothin’ but Miller Lite and a Great Value Fruit Loops product flyin’ out if we open that door.”

Esther, I am sure it is not the po-leece out here in our somewhat unincorporated area –and it’s not like one of those two over there sleepin’ it off was pullin’ us in the Airstream along I35 while we were watchin’ for capodimonte, they was a gettin’ Andy Cappy di Drunke and we got pulled over.

This is our home, although I’m not sure when E.E. commenced to thinkin’ he lives here.

So I holler to ask who it is, and of course, it is Doyletta, who has already made her signature rum ice cream ---forgettin’ the flour and eggs and cream -- and wonders if her half nekked little boys could come stay with us while she sleeps it off before the party, on account of ol’ lady Falstaff’s sex offender boyfriend was gonna be there soon next door to us.

Oh, Doyletta, his shift at Build-a-Bear won’t be over for hours, and we’ll all be awake and up for this Labor Day party.

“No, Doyletta, I have just found the cool spot in my sheet, we were up watchin’ TV all night, we’ll be up an' out when things get to goin.”

Well, now I am awake, and begin the day’s spiritual journey Esther has created, by leapin’ over the sofa labyrinth to go to the back bathroom, with a quick look out the front window to see what else was goin’ on so early.

Well, sure enough, I guess the registered sex offender had gotten the day off from Build-a-Bear, and he was already at Falstaff’s settin’ up for a booth shaped like a Gummi Capri Sun with a macaroni and cheese awning for the kids who would be a visitin’ ever’one for the holiday.

The night before, Claude T. and E.E., had set up a “safe sparkler” space in the belly of the shipping container, and had put up 'mer'can flags that were flappin’ in the breeze.

And Bud Fischer, our trailer court president, had done his part, by harnessing all of his blow-up dolls to his crepe myrtles, making for a most festive display.

Well, the festivities commenced later in the day, shortly after E.E. woke up wantin’ me to call Pappa John’s to order a Cinnapie.

They didn’t deliver to our somewhat unincorporated area, so I called Doyletta, and said we would help keep little Aikman and little Dakota away from the registered child sex offender’s booth, if she would run up to Pappa John’s and I’d pay her to get six Cinnapies for everyone to eat on for brunch.

About a half hour later, we hear some scream like a black man had just been elected head of the trailer court, we look out, and there is Doyletta, sprawled in those dadgum white spike sandals, in the gravel, lookin’ like the herd clomped past her on their way to the Stockyards, on account of them Cinnapies hit the gravel with Doyletta’s drunk bohiney and Lord, we was gonna need to get the clowns with brooms that come in behind the horses at the Arlington Fourth of July parade.

And let me just say, that the word, ‘pie,’ is an unfortunate choice to put after any flat disc of brown goo that looks like this.

Them cows should have hopped Esther’s labyrinth a little quicker and they might have made it.

Ever’body had their TVs out on their lawns – and you know, they come in better on the gravel –and Cody, Doyletta’s fiancé, was havin’ the kids go round and take bets in a Folgers can on iffin Jerry Lewis was drunk or not.

We were a watchin’ Channel 5 (so named, because they run the same stories for five days in a row) and Claude T. and E.E. were tryin’ to perfect their No Nuts recipe, though we expected that one had been perfected on those two long ago.

Esther said how just the day before, Ellen Goldberg comes on the Channel 5 TV to report on the Oklahoma Sooners playin’ over at DimWit Dome in Arlington, and what good all these events were doin’ Arlington businesses.

And, keeping in mind Oklahoma’s colors are red and white, what does that woman say,

but that those OU fans were, “painting the town maroon.”

Well, we were tryin’ to be in charge of things that day, but we about lost our safety belts and fell out of our bus drivers’ seats, on account of the last thing Sooners probably ever painted maroon was that yappy little dog in College Station.

Well, Doyletta calls again, wonderin’ where her little ones were, because the pedophile had started scrapin’ the Mac ‘n’ Cheese off the roof of his booth and lurin’ in the children with Great Value Sponge Knob Dixie cups, and she was gonna call the police.

Now Doyletta, the police won’t come on account of we are unincorporated.

And the sheriffs won’t come because they’re drunk.

Cody sent the boys out to collect gamblin’ money on iffin Jerry Lewis was shooshoo faced at the telethon this year.

“Oh, OK,” she says, and hangs up.

Well, it all ended as usual, in a can-strewn heap, with Bud Fischer makin’ his annual address to the trailer owners association, and Doyletta throwin’ a shoe and hollerin’, ‘LIAR.’

We just went inside late, lookin’ over at Bud Fischer’s, and he’s only taken one of his little blow-up friends in, and the other has gotten terrible awful tangled with his Don’t Tread On Me flag.

Be right back!

2009-09-08T17:02:00.000-07:00

After two days off and a tragic computer problem, which included my, 'A' fallng off (I know, it does sound like a personal problem), B.A. will be back on the air just as soon as she finishes dyin' her roots.

B.A.'s FACEBOOK FOLLIES

2009-09-05T02:12:00.000-07:00

B.A. is pulling the dog fur out of her hair pick.
5 mins. ago.

B.A. just got the Kraft BBQ sauce in MAFIA WARS.

The socialist regime is worse than we thought -get the pie plates in the treesNOW

2009-09-04T05:13:00.000-07:00

Well, we set the phone to a ringtone to where we would know if Mamma Faye Faye was a callin’.

So every time we hear, the theme from Falcon Crest, we’ll know not to answer for a while, in case she has found another couch for us and we just hurt her feelin’s by not takin’ it.

I can just hear it now, “But it was from Sanger-Harris, it’s nice.”

And poor nephew Elgin, coerced, pullin’ up in his Nanny Suzie’s flatbed with Barbie’s Dream Divan.

Well, it was kinda quiet around the trailer park.

The registered sex offender had come to visit ol’ lady Falstaff next door for their date night, so Doyletta had her two little geehaws rounded up and in her fiancé Cody’s care while she stumbled down to the trailer court’s clubhouse (feral ferret dome) and sit a spell.

The storms were a comin’, part of the overhang was still together, and Doyletta was lettin’ her Lee Press-Ons affix properly before her big interview at the Sak ‘n’ Save (and this was in the cage, not on the floor).

“I have always been good dancer,” she said, and began to ask us about this Obama speech to schoolkids Tuesday.

“Well, Doyletta, without the help of the federal government,” said Esther, “education in this country could have gone downhill faster than E.E. and Claude T. wedged into the front seat of the Mini-Mine Train.”

(They missed the sign a sayin,’ “You may NOT be this wide to ride this ride.”)

It has happened.

But the Plano PTA council president said, “Obama is cutting out the parent,” by showing the speech during school hours.

Now, as if the parent ain’t cut out of the picture the whole time the kid is at school.

Which around here, is usually a good thing, if you know what I mean.

You know, ol’ Bud Fischer showin’ up with his blow-up doll for parents’ day – and he don’t have kids -- and other manner of shoo shoo.

Oh, and you think this is a mess, just think iffin Obama did do some boring stay-in-school speech during regular family viewing hours -- why there would be an outcry heard from the bowels of the ol’ Devil’s house (and I don’t mean Rick Perry’s temporary housing), on account of all them “Proud Parents of a Plano B Honor Roll Student” sticker-wearin’ mammas and daddies would be a howlin’ like somebody just threw the remote in the pool, on account of, they might be a missin’ their America’s Got Talent if they had this speech durin’ parent/child hours.

Obama could impart his “views” on the children with this speech, some of ‘em said?

What do they think he’s a gonna do?

Explain to them where government cheese comes from?

Well, actually, we didn’t learn about that until junior high.

Well, we sure wouldn’t want the federal government messin’ with our schools, as that would be socialist, just like this health care plan.

Naw, we cain’t be a havin’ none of this socialism, like the federal government’s, “Stay-in-School” program.

Why I nearly tossed my “walk-to-school” cookies,’ when I heard about that.

And did you know in 1946, Congress enacted the National School Lunch Act, “as a measure of national security to safeguard the health and well being of the nation’s children?”

Well, I just about dropped my drawers and made Six Flags water when I heard that one.

Oh, and it gets even worse.

Why don’t you just agree with Guvner Gayhair sayin’ the idea for the speech was disturbin’ and that the federal government was trying to, “usurp” (I think it’s like an ICEE) the state and local input?

Well, HELLO, what about the President’s Physical Fitness test every year?

So now I know, it was that dadgum FEDERAL government usurpin’ that humiliated me every year when I couldn’t even make the bottom category of the flex-arm hang.

Did you know, that our evil, socialist federal government was already showin’ its Obama socialist tendencies, when in 1998, Congress expanded the lunch program to include payin’ back for snacks served in certain afterschool programs?

And that those federales’ lunches provided for 30.5 million impressionable children, in, for instance, the 2006-07 school year?

How many syrupy fruit cups and soy burgers must we let them bribe our offspring with before we stop them? Ah, nothin’ says lovin’ like somethin’ from the coven.

But, you know, funny, state’s aren’t forced to take all this.

Sort of reminds me of somethin’ else on the table right now, and I don’t mean the Great Value frosted flakes product and the September edition of Guns ’n’ Ammo back at the trailer.

And, get this, the federal government led by Mister Obama is about to offer 4.3 billion dollars for STATES to lead the way in education reform.

Of course Rick Perry was probably too busy to notice while prancin’ around LaGrave field at a teabaggers thingy, wavin’ the U.S. flag like he’d won the last piece of chintz at the Calico Corners closeout.

That evil socialist government also has plans for some grants for helpin’ the nation’s lowest-performin’ schools.

And with that, Doyletta said she was definitely home schoolin’ little Dakota and little Aikman, so’s she didn’t have to get her water and electric from the back of the Circle K no more.

Why do you know right now, the Department of Education is makin’ plans for continuin’ learnin’ in case of widespread Pig Flu outbreak?

And I told Claude T. he better start warnin’ ever’body he knows with kids now that they better get them foil pie plates out in their trees NOW, before the flu outbreak and the beamin’ of classes in by satellite as HE declares himself, “HEADMASTER OBAMA.”

Oh, but this has been an evil, socialist government in the makin’ long afore now.

Why, Thomas Jefferson first suggested public school, sayin,’ “education should be under the control of government and free from all religious biases and available to all people, irrespective of their status in society.”

George Washington, that fiendish father of our country, agreed.

And Benjamin Franklin suggested the idea for what we now know as those bustlin’, mind-alterin, germ factories – high schools.

I bet he never saw Glee or Ridgemont High.

Hmph, Saved by the Bell? Not if we keep up this socialist school system.

Or what about these things I just read about called the, “Morrill Acts,” of 1890 and 1862, that gave FEDERAL support to STATE universities.

See that’s just the start. Next thing you know, those universities will be clonin’ cats with unused kitten stem cells.

Now the Smith-Hughes Act of 1917 helped create “vocational progress” at like high schools. See, now that’s why so many of my friends make their livin’ soderin’ trailer hitches.

Oh, and on it goes, in 1958, 1963, 1965, doin’ things like gettin’ them to increase the teachin’ of math and sciences in public schools.

Math and Science. See, that’s why our little children don’t just act like apes, they think they CAME from apes.

Look at what the Marxists have done to our little MP3 monsters.

Why it is a book-chewin’ Babylon out there, is what it is.

And in the 60s, they also did stuff like pass acts that paved the way for racial minorities to have equal education opportunities. And that is why you have BLACK president and are madder than a peach orchard badger about it.

See, it is just worse than we thought -- A SOCIALIST NATION ALL ALONG, with the President just takin’ one more opportunity to suck the life out of our little ones Tuesday with his socialist vision -- AND, none of us will be there to put NASCAR plugs in their ears

Oh, yeah, and you know what? By the way, if the federal government asks you to go to war, you gotta.

Ain’t that somethin’, huh?

B.A.'s FACEBOOK FOLLIES

2009-09-03T20:37:00.000-07:00

B.A. just ate a pig in a blanket.
30 mins. ago

B.A. is reading the val-pak on toilet.
5 mins. ago.

B.A. just got the quaint Laura Bush smile in Mafia Wars.
1 hr. ago

Frog Friday and Fire Pits, and Fishin' little Dakota from the Chupacabra Trap

2009-09-03T20:20:00.000-07:00

Well, the day started with news that a marinated toad showed up in some Florida man’s Diet Pepsi can, and they said pink stuff came out that looked like, “pink linguini,” and then some dark goo and was apparently either my friend Debbie’s latest meal as an exchange professor in China or a real big lawsuit.

They said the toad had been gutted and was in the Pepsi can which the man opened while grilling on his outdoor tiki bar.

Not to be confused with Tiki Barber.

All I can say is, when the FDA gets done lookin’ at it, catch a few more on account of we have yet to develop deep-fried toad in a Pepsi can on our State Fair midway.

Well, as usual, we try to keep abreast, as well as a-bottom of things outside the trailer court (other than keepin’ Doyletta soused enough to not notice the lack of little Dakota while E.E. and Claude T. tried to burrow him out from under the shipping crate with snacks at the light hole, scatterin’ candy corn all over creation, but nothin’ doin’).

I swear, they should have never set that chupacabra trap.

Anyway, in our search for news, our friend Mita, who has part in a local publication, informed us of a press release that came across her desk about somethin’ called “Boyzillian,” a new male grooming trend, which reminds me of a vasectomy we had around here a few years ago and I came up with some product off the internets called MagicShave, which was developed for – seriously – the tougher beards of black males.

Well, it turned out to be a lot stronger than expected for the de-doin’s near C.T.’s bratwurst and, uhmmm, it turned out to be just a little rough on Mr. Chicago dog’s sport peppers.

After that, ever’thing that went wrong in that general department was ol’ B.A.’s fault, and I’m hearin’ about “small stream” and this that and the other until I’m finally like, “Yes, C.T., and that’s how the Mississippi starts,’’ and it was off to do some shoppin’ with Louise and Esther.

“Don’t answer the phone if mamma calls,” I said, headed toward the screen door, “we cannot have one more couch in here.”

“What if she has found eggs on sale?” said C.T.

Tell her we are glad she can still produce, and with that, it was off to check out the sale on fire pits at Ace Hardware.

B.A. MUST TWEET to FACEBOOK

2009-09-03T04:20:00.000-07:00

B.A. just got the Burt's Bee's cuticle balm in Mafia Wars.
1 min. ago.

B.A. just wishes for some of those good ol' pancakes at the Forum 303 Monkey Wards.
3 mins. ago.

B.A. just got the kettle drum in Mafia Wars.

More Dadgum Couches and Where have all these Nutjobs come frum

2009-09-03T01:17:00.000-07:00

Well, we was sittin' around the trailer talkin' about what to do on account of Mamma Faye Faye had just called and her friend Margaret had gotten some old furniture from her daughter.
Uh oh, here we go.
"Now B.A., she has nice stuff.''
I'm like mamma, I'm not runnin' Faye Faye's Flop House over here at the Airstream. We do not have room for one more couch.
"Well, I don't have room,'' she says. "I only have room for four couches, even if Daddy moves the commode.''
Mamma, I live in an Airstream trailer which if I ever get my shipping container add on, I am not fillin' it with couches.
"I guess we can just call Mission Metroplex,'' she says, real hurt like.
And hung up.
Well, sure enough, within the hour, ramblin' up came my nephew Elgin, who she had coerced into bringin' this couch over in his Nanny Suzie's flatbed..
"What's it this time, B.A.'' Esther screams from the kitchen.
Oh, just come out here, I tell her.
It is made entirely out of blue jeans and approximately the size of Big Tex's butt.
"Why look,' said Esther, "there's even little reinforced pockets where you can stick the remotes.''
Does it come with extra-large Depends on account of by the time E.E. and Claude T. get done with Big Tex's derrier devan, it'll look more like the men's port-a-potty at the Motor Speedway.
Esther says we should just try it out before they make a mess of it, so we sat down and turned on the news.
Well, I about fell off my button fly when I heard that President Obama was making a speech for schoolkids about the importance of education and it was to be broadcast, so's all the schools could hear it.
Other Presidents have done this, by the way.
WELL, local parents started havin' a fit sayin' Obama should not be makin' direct remarks to schoolchildren.
WHUH?
Some even have said they would keep their kids out of school for a day to avoid being exposed to, "His views.''
Like what views? Stay in school? Go to college? Beehave.
Oh, so they are mad about him talkin' to their kids. They are mad about healthcare.
Yeah, so leave your kid home for a day to watch Young 'n' the Restless on the couch while eating Krispy Kremes with a side of NERDS and mini-Snickers and they'll eventually get a tour of the current healthcare system as well.
And some schools are having the kids have permission slips iffin it's OK to watch the speech to SCHOOLCHILDREN.
What is this? The fifth grade sex film where all the boys learn those things from the machines in the girls restroom aren't just good for exploding in their Hawaiian Punch?
Permission slips.
Shoot, we turned out OK, except for those whose heads have obviously exploded in the Tropical Punch, and we just had to get a permission slip to go to like Reeves' Dairy Farm in case a cow kicked us in the head, or Kevin Stone's mamma felt it neccessary to whop him and Troy Smith upside the beehind with her headscarf.
And Jim Greer, Chairman of the Republican Party in Florida, said the speech would use taxpayer dollars, "to spread President Obama's socialist idiology,'' to the children.
AND HELLO? What is this? HELLO, it's called PUBLIC school.
Just like PUBLIC healthcare. Hmmm, and public school is there for all who want it. And kids have to go if they don't have their own plan (private or home school).
Yeah, don't let 'em see a U.S. President speak on the importance of education.
Leave your 12-year-old at home that day to eat candy corn and see what Dr. Phil has to says about, "More Sex and Less Fighting.''
Or maybe just real sex on Guiding Light, or whatever is on now.
After my rant, which made Esther hungry to get into the candy corn early, I looked up just what the favorite snacks of kids were.
So, I go to WikiAnswers.com, and key in, "most popular candy,'' and what's the first thing I see on the page, for real, is, "What do you need for your pig giving birth?''
So, after hearin' all the news that gave us a FOX migraine (it's a new kind of headache, brought on my narrow-brainedness), we went out to the stoop to look at some old magazines as Doyletta comes clompin' through the gravel in those white high heels, wonderin' iffin we had seen her little Dakota.
I just said last time I saw him, he was havin' a bowl of Sunny Delight and got her mind off subject by reminding her she couldn't wear those white shoes after Labor Day.
"Oh, I had my tubes tied after little Dakota,'' she says, and wanders back to the southeast.
Word just reached the trailer park of an exhibit at the ARMY Women's Museum in Fort Lee, Virginia, dedicated to women who have held pageant crowns during their military service.
It's called Kevlar and Crowns.
Well, our neighbor Doyletta claims she did service to the military and says she has held a few crowns and I'll just leave it at that except to say I expects she has some pretty durable Kevlar.
A survey showed that most tweets fall into the category of pointless babble.
But hell, Doyletta falls into that catgory every day and she don't even know what twitter is.
I had mentioned this to Claude T. the other day, after he tweeted that he hadn't brushed his teeth yet (it was 6 p.m.)

2009-09-02T22:36:00.000-07:00

B.A.'s FACEBOOK FOLLIES.
B.A. is picking the polish off her big toe before Labor Day.
1 minute ago.

B.A. is wonderin' if paper or plastic would keep you more regular.
5 mins. ago.

B.A. just got the October Family Circle and a Swiffer refill in Mafia Wars.

Chupacabras, Real Bras, and that dadgum shipping container

2009-09-02T22:26:00.000-07:00

Well, in Texas and in Oklahoma, they say they have found a chupacabra, the :Mexican Bigfoot, which translated means basically, 'goatsucker.'
So that means the chupacabra is from Texas, and I think he was a livin' in Austin until his house burned down.
But, this has created much shoo shoo around the trailer park, as Claude T. and E.E. have made a huge stolen/or not shipping container into a large chupacabra trap out here in our somewhat unincorporated area of the city.
Well you have not lived until you have seen two men using the pulley system we rigged up to get Claude T. over all the couches in the Airstream when his back goes out, until you have seen them trying to hoist this very heavy, insulated metal box, and perch it on a duraflame log, with a bag of Cheetos, Lunchables, and one of my good Wal-Mart acrylic Christmas ware bowls (with the little turkeys and crepe myrtles on 'em) full of Sunny Delight there for bait.
Well, how they arrived at the goatsucker's menu options, I cannot know, but I do know that those Christmas dishes have to be worth somethin' on account of they must have meant holly instead of crepe myrtle.
And here I didn't even know they had crepe myrtles in China.
Which reminds me, my friend Debbie on the professor exchange program between Arizona and China, just taught her first college sophomore English II class in Shenyang yesterday, and bein' a school teacher and college professor all her life, well, she about blew a hole in her drawers ---but not after politely eatin' the jellyfish that was the main course when she got there, but after the first day of school, and these college kids come in, all with right textbooks, all sit down and begin reading out loud at different paces.
Shoot, the year I was a substitute taught readin' all year, I was lucky if I came in and the boys were readin' the viagra ads out loud, and nobody was passin' the 'X' around like the pastel mints at a 1972 Baptist bake sale.
(I was at them bake sales, so I do remember reachin' up to get the complimentary mints for lookin' at the preacher's praline pie).
Well, me an' Esther and Louise was sittin' around on the 10 Geese Gettin' Laid couch lookin' at somethin on TV, where this body shaper swears if you wear it, you will get a "high school fine butt.'
This was gonna be worse than the time E.E. and Claude T. crashed the JC Penney bra fitting clinic on the day we girls went a few years back, and recall Louise got some kind of memory bra, which appeared to have just a little touch of the early dementia.
Anyhow, we kept this body shaper image to ourselves because well, if the boys found out there was some kind of clinic or Tupper-bare house party for these things, oh it would end up worse than the ol' tallyban threatenin' to cut off the fingers of anyone who voted in the recent Afghan election and Esther said that was ridiculous and sure wouldn't happen here.
But you know I did think I saw Rick Perry slinkin' around with some pinkin' shears in his pocket the other day. Or maybe he was just glad to see George Bush.
So, there we was, just enjoyin' ourselves, a talkin', Louise reportin' on the news of the day because she still reads a newspaper and tells us she is gonna join somethin' she'd read called the, "Afterbirthers,'' who want to see Obama's placenta.
Before we could tell her that was a joke, we heard the most awful crashin' and carryin' on outside.
The Duraflame had give way, the pully broke, and apparently lured by the cache of Sunny Delight, little Dakota, one of Doyletta's little half nekked geehaws, had been trapped inside the shipping crate as the first potential chupacabra catch in the trailer court.
Oh, this was gonna be worse than the time Esther, ever the crafter, got her bikini Nair mixed up with her glass etching cream.

FACEBOOK FOLLIES WITH BETTY ANN

2009-09-02T01:19:00.001-07:00

B.A. just got the freesia-scented candle in Mafis Wars. Ooooweee.

BAPBER ANN'S FACEBOOK FOLLIES

2009-09-01T22:24:00.000-07:00

B.A. has just finished pickin' the weavils out of C.T.'s Great Value raisin bran product for breakfast.
5 mins. ago.

B.A. just folded the toilet tissue to pretend she is at a LaQuinta.
30 mins. ago.

of catalogs and elk cooties

2009-09-01T21:35:00.000-07:00

Well, just sittin’ here wonderin’ how Big Brother has managed to stay on the air for 11 series with Esther (recall she is stayin’ with us a while on one of our many couches donated by Mamma Faye Faye). Anyhow, with Esther wonderin’ iffin’ they don’t need some more couches for the house on that show, as E.E. kinda put the damper on the Seven Swans a Swimmin’ couch when he spilled his nacho cheese powder all over the now orange swans a sinkin’.

And we tell him, just use the water from the bathroom or the kitchen – whichever is easiest to get to from what couch you’re on.

But E.E. said on account of C.T. had installed a small microwave on the edge of the Nine Lords a Leapin’ couch, it was easier to just get a red plastic cup from the bathroom and mix the water and powder right in the main room.

Esther, who did win the cornbread cookin’ contest at the Texas State Fair some years ago now (and all the old ladies nearly pelted her with their penicillium pompadours) gets pretty disgusted with some of E.E. and Claude T.’s cookin’ doin’s.

Anyhow, over on the 10 Geese a Layin’ couch Esther had out the Lakeside Collection catalog and was all excited on account of she had found Bumpits (as seen on TV – and Sarah Palin), for $6.95.

And while she was trying to figure out iffin’ to get her Bumpit the color of her roots or her hair, the cookin’ queen herself spills 2-percent milk all over the 10 Geese a Layin’ couch which is now more like the 10 Geese a Getting’ Laid couch.

Anyway, after we get Esther and her couch cleaned up, she goes back to readin’ the Lakeside Catalog, which is more like the Village Creekside Catalog if you ask me, but she found some lovely pajamas she pointed out for my little nieces (like Birdie Ann Stout, at right), “Look B.A., it says they are licensed, so I bet that means they are flame retards.’’

What?

The only thing we had flamin’ in the house at the moment was our friend Roy and his friend Gary, who had come to try to make some décor sense out of this couch sitchiation.

I looked at the catalog pajamas which looked more like a Duraflame ad if you ask me, on account of I thought I saw multiple Minnie Mouses waving U.S. flags and Mickey Mouses holding roman candles right next to the “Made in China” tag.

“Yeah, Esther, I wanna get my little nieces little incendiary jammies of American cartoons a burnin’ the flag.”

The she seesTrisha Yearwood’s Georgia Cooking in an Oklahoma Kitchen, prompting E.E. to ponder how you just can’t find good fried nutria anymore.

About this time Mamma calls, and the lady across the street was a getting’ new furniture. Now Mamma, I tell Faye Faye, as it is now, just to get from the kitchen to the bathroom, we have had to arrange a pulley system just to get Claude T., with his back problems, over the crushed velvet semi-circles couch and to the potty quick enough at halftime, and we do not have enough room in the Airstream for another couch.

“Well, B.A., she has nice stuff, and I don’t have any room, and I am givin’ you first choice over Butty Ann, and this one – well, you just don’t seek needlepointed elk every day with Arlington skyline representations ’spersed in.”

Oh, good Lord, and up came my nephew Elgin, drivin’ it up on the flatbed, sending Roy the Toy Boy and his good friend Gary into a flamin’ fizz, as they had just found the right chintz to go over the window by the 10 Geese Havin’ Gotten Laid couch.

Somebody turns the TV on while they help Elgin get the needlepoint of elk and Six Flags oil derrick at sunset, and there is that awful Standard Insurance woman with the sucked up face and blonde hair -- well, let’s just say if she has any more work done on her face, she won’t be a needin’ any bikini waxin’s no more.

Then another ad for Southwest Airlines sayin’, “Bags Fly Free.”

Roy the Toy Boy was in the other room and comes a rushin’ in to get to the phone to make him and his friend Gary’s reservations.

“No, Roy, it’s BAGS fly free. You heard wrong.” Ain’t that something, huh?

2009-08-29T05:50:00.000-07:00

B.A.'s Facebook Follies

B.A. just got a loofah sponge in Mafia Wars.

Can anybody help me find the Suave conditioner?

B.A.'s Facebook Follies

2009-08-29T05:10:00.000-07:00

B.A. is: getting makeup on for making eggs.

1 hr. ago.

BA is: on toilet reading Penney's flier.

30 mins. ago.

Congealing Doyletta's Peaches

2009-08-28T22:08:00.001-07:00

Well, we heard tell of the doins at the zoo in London, where there was like three she-grillas and not one man.
The report out of London said this French go-rilla measured in with 20-stones.
Now I said I ain't never heard of no man with 20 stones, except when Bud Fischer, the head of the trailer park association, stood up to those people at the Circle K we borrow electricity from and told 'em their lights were too bright and interferin' with his wives' ability to bear him a son.
(Now we never knew ol' Bud had anywife/wives, but he has a damn fine tea party every Saturday evenin' with two blow up dolls and a black and white leopard he won at the State Fair sprayin' water into a clowns' mouth, which, come to think of it, looked an awful like the ladies at his tea party, sans wigs).
Hmmph, it's kinda startin' to make sense when one of his "wives,' disappeared after he introduced cutlery at Saturday supper.
Well, anyhow, they told the gorilla gals that this man-rilla was a comin' to live with them and gave them his picture. One of 'em stuck it on a tree and stared at it.
Another apparently pleasured her primates and then ATE the picture.
Which I have known of Doyletta to do when she has tried to read a newspaper.
Speak of the devil, me an' Esther hear the tap tap tap of them Lee Press Ons at the screen door.
"Go way, Doyletta, I still have the mumps contagion.''
She walks on in anyhow on account of she says she hasn't gotten to sit on the latest used couch Mamma Faye Faye dumped on us -- let's just say it's next to the seven swans a swimmin' couch and we just call it the eight lord's a leapin sofa, and from the looks of it, more than a few lords have done some leapin' on there.
(Claude T. created a padded hubcap to go over the worst stain --I just don't have his gift with a Sew-Perfect).
Anyhow, Doyletta, who has seen more than her share of Lord's a leapin', went straight for the kitchen, and that's when we knew either the Circle K was out of goldfish or, North Central Texas and strictly better parts of Louisiana and Arkansas had run out of rum.
Over the ice box Doyletta, and she sits down to tell us about how she's got this new recipe made with Krispy Kreme doughnuts and cling peaches.
Esther interrupts, expectin' we're about the hear the next big thing out of the gallopin' guh-whore-met's mouth, and asks if any of us had heard about this big suit against Rent-A-Center
for usin' bad business practices.
Like they say no credit or bad credit and a 100-percent satiisfaction deal (which if you read the frog fur print, you have to be dissatisfied in like your first week --- well hell, I didn't know until the first week and a half some of my ex-fiances was past their born-on date).
"Well'', said Esther, "It said here, that the suit says employees was a goin to peoples' places who were just like a day late and beatin' the doors in, cursin', demandin' money and tellin' the little kids mamma and daddy were goin' to jail.'
(Sounds like a typical Saturday mornin' down at Doyletta's if you ask me, but I had to reserve comment for the moment).
And here Magic Johnson says on those ads, Rent-A-Center will give you the credit you deserve.
And can you believe someone like Magic Johnson is in with them, says Esther.
"Oooooew,'' said Doyletta, "don't he have that disease?
"Oooooh, I sure wouldn't sit on any of Rent-A-Center's toilet seats, even if I did have a three-month contract.''
Doyletta, you don't get it from ---oh never mind, you buy 'em sofas around here and they eat the covers.
Well, in other news, Rio Vista which already has liquor stores, is goin' to vote for the seventh time among its 770 people on iffin' they kin have liquor or not.
Claude T. just hopes if they close all the liquor stores in Rio Vista, they might have some kind of a clash for clunkers deal where they could take their empties and trade them for something with a little less mileage --- like an UNOPENED tall boy.
Oh, the recipe Doyletta had was for like this cobbler made with 24 Krispy Kreme doughnuts and two cans of peaches in heavy syrup and condensed milk and four shots of rum and us girls set to work on it.
You soak it and then bake it like an hour until the "center is well-congealed.'' Well, seein' as how Doyletta had appointed herself taste tester, we didn't have to use a toothpick, as her center appeared pretty-well congealed already.

Facebook of the day from B.A.: B.A. Stout is getting ready to eat a Jack-in-the-Box taco. mmmm.
1 hr. ago

B.A. Stout is getting ready to read the Finger Hut catalog on toilet.
30 mins. ago.

Big as a microwave and full of fragrant meat

2009-08-27T21:15:00.001-07:00

Well, there was a boulder slide at Yellowstone today at the Royal Arches thingy, promptin' the evacuation of part of a lodge, and, get this, the park service person described some of the boulders as not as big as "medicine balls, or "Kay Bailey's bohiney,'' but actually said some of the boulders were as big as, "microwave ovens.''
Microwave ovens?
Well, I just can't wait 'til the next hailstorm, I can just hear David Finfrock, "Well, we have some Fry-Baby-sized hail in the Lake Lewisville area, and in this band were you can see just a little rotation out toward Aledo, our weather watchers have reported in some spots, hailstones the size of springform pans.''
Ain't that somethin', huh?
Well, as you can probably guess, it bein' $10 parking and open-to-the-public night, E.E. and Claude T. were headed straight to Arlington to take another go at the Cowboys Stadium.
In the middle of all this, word comes out of a highly-respected tabloid which Esther write notes on her extra coupons every time she's in the grocery store line so she can take the notes back to read in Tom Thumb's bathroom.
(And they do have nice potties which we have often been apt to drive down to from our somewhat unincorporated area of town, just so's we don't have to go where men have been).
Well, anyhow, word comes out of this tab-roid (I'm practicin' my Chinese is all), that Jessica Simpson has gotten a witch to put a hex on the Dallas Cowboys' season.
Hmph, from the looks of that picture they showed with it, both of Jessica's hexes was about to fall out of their cauldron if you ask me.
Well, I saw on the news all these sweaty people who looked to have had missed out on The Biggest Loser tryouts and had made Arlington their second stop of the day, CiCi's bein' the first in the Big A, then, after they got that sneeze guard dislodged from the woman's pie hole, the thunderin' herd went amblin' on over to the Silver and Blue game.
They showed the camera angle from the inside with all these people just pressed against the glass lookin' like a Who concert -- hmmph, more like a concert for Whats -- and they are practically fallin' to get in.
It wasn't so much like a cascade of tumblin' microwave ovens, but try more like the double-wide Hotpoint with the moo-cow microchip in the door.
I mean it looked like somebody took the Golden Corral preview line upside down and shook it.
Stoves in muscle shirts fallin' over their little dorm fridges in diapers to get in to see that scrimmage.
Well, of course, what happens, but Roy Williams falls and hurt his shoulder or somethin'.
I guess somebody as big as the Swans a Swimmin' s divan fell on him, although E.E. said that might be time for them to head home, as it was a real dumb idea to see who could throw a slice of lime farthest into the field of play.

Well, them Chinese still won't let my friend Debbie's blog work from Shenyang, so we have no idea what's a goin' on.
All I know is she is in her apartment, has food, and has to walk up seven stories to get to it (no elevator), certainly assurin' us than even if her shens didn't hurt, her yang is spent.
For now, we still have Bill Clinton on speed dial, and are suggestin' maybe the government would be more receptive to her Google, if she showed them some of her "fragrant meat.''
They say it tastes just like possum.

Bapber Ann Stout is a wonderin' why SMU has such as problem with Bud Light a makin' a beer can in their school colors, seein' as how Bud's colors are SMU school colors.

Hide the Miller, the Pastor's a Comin' and the Millers's a Chillin' and -- dadgum, was that a Bud Kennedy I saw in the whack-a-mole machine?

2009-08-26T20:11:00.000-07:00

Well, anyhow, with me still not 'sposed to really be a goin' out 'n' about as my mumps seems almost gone, but then I'm 'sposed to be contageous for six-nine days, the
preacher was a comin'.
So's I had E.E. and Claude T. put a tarp on their Miller collection (recall they are saving it up in the freight container on account of the price of that and Budweiser goin' up in the fall).
Well, we hired my Baptist nephew already to do away with all the lower-priced Miller, which is what Elgin did, but this was unknown to C.T. and E.E., but it kept 'em busy for a while.
So, Esther, who is also part Whiskeypalian, stayed in the house with me that mornin', 'cause the pastor was a comin' with in-home Lord's Supper due to my mumps, and oh Lord, we did not want them walkin' in in the middle asking if they could supersize that.
Anyhow, we was just sittin' there with both of us on the seven swans a swimming couch with a laptop between us lookin' at the Star-Telegram's online redesign thingy. And you know, it didn't look too bad at all, much better, in fact, 'cept there was the one matter of this picture of Bud Kennedy's mascot, uh, I mean, mugshot.
I know Buddy and don't mean this bad, but talk about looks like squat and shat a ferret.
Except it appeared Bud was in the process of doin' so.
"No, no, no," Esther said, "I think he looks more like that groundhog from hell that went all over the internets.
Naw, I think he looks like Doyletta's little geehaws had been down at the ferret dome (former trailer court clubhousee where Doyletta let her kids have ferrets that are now procreating like the Octo-mammals) and it looks like little Dakota and Little Aikman had been stuffin' chicken fried steak into the ferrets' snoots, and then the ferrets asked for some cream pie.
"No, B.A.,'' said Esther, a puttin' her flip flops on, "lemme go down to Doyletta's and we'll get one of her feral possums and scare it real bad.
"Now where's that Newy Scruggs' pop-out poster?''
So, off she goes, trying to recreate what just looks like Buddy ate too much cheese and didn't take the Benefiber that mornin'.
Let's just say, Bud better try again, and Esther was off shufflin' through the gravel toward Doyletta's.
And he better try again before he end up interviewin' somebody on that bigscreen at Cowboys' Stadium, as Jim Reeves' nose hair has already shown up in a post-game interview.
At least Paul McCartney had the sense to say no Jerry Tron, lest people think they'd discovered a whole new chain of Lakes on Mars --in HD.
Well, we finally heard from my friend Debbie who went off of the professor exchange between Arizona and Shenyang, China.
Well, as you know, we had put Bill Clinton on speed dial ---and we still have him there just in case.
But Debbie has turned up in Shenyang usin' only email, on account of apparently her big blog she had a goin' for the six-month adventure, does not fly with the Chinese guvernment.
Now imagine that, they'll eat a poodle but won't allow Google.
She said she went out a grocery shoppin' for the first time, and I just told her to watch out for that fragrant meat.
Well, about this time, E.E., and Claude T., who had supposed to been hidin' their lower-priced Miller, come a-runnin' in like the Arlington PD had a DNA match from last week on account of they didn't know we had no faith in them to hide the gazillion cans of Miller in the freight container before the pastor got there, and we had my oldest nephew Elgin to do it for us.
Well, apparently, they had an alternate site, on account of they thought someone had stolen all that beer, or, worse yet, that new sea creature in Florida they are calling the Muck Monster, and they somehow they decide the Muck Monster has made it all the way up our little culvert leadin' to Village Creek and decided to have himself a few hundred beers.
Before noon in Florida.
Esther and I just rolled our eyes.
Oh no the Muck Monster saw the pastor comin' -- and you're mucked.

House Dresses, Huggies and Beer Insulatin'

2009-08-25T20:26:00.000-07:00

Well, it's been a day at the trailer park, first, Esther and I turn on the TV and there seems to be nothin' on -- even on premium cable, (which we get just like they do at the Circle K in addition to water and electricity -- hmmm), when what to our wonderin' eyes should appear, but a movie by the ex of my second ex Allen Tooledge (recall, we call him A-Tool).
She fancied herself a movie writer.
She also gave me Little Dammit and we think Little Dammit wrote most of her scripts, which explains the lack of dialogue.
We go outside to shed any thoughts of A-Tool, lettin' them burn off like unlanced boils on the butt of humanity.
Wait, I said we were going to get away from any thoughts of A-Tool, and there is that ol' neighbor we call Falstaff with the September Vogue (which is like 500 pages) in her hand
and is like throwin' out all her old housedresses at the curb on account of she is turnin' over a new fashion leaf (she better look for possums under that leaf first if you ask me on account of those house dresses look like she could be hidin' the cast of Glee: the Trailer Park Version under there).
So Claude T. and E.E. wander over and have a look at the pile and all of the sudden Claude O.T.T. (Claude Omar Tentmakers Thomas) gets this big idea we could make them into tents to sell at Trader's Village.
"And look,' said E.E., the flaps are already built in,'' and off the two went with they hands full of Falstaff's nasty old housedresses figurin' on how to market sweat stains as a repellant.
Well, in other stuff, things got awful busy awful quick around the trailer park this mornin' when the news came down that Miller and Budweiser will be upping their beer prices this fall.
Well, and I just shut my eyes right then prayin' for the patience to get through this on account of I knew what was coming next.
Of course, E.E. is already outside usin' whatever insulatin' material he can find to line the inside of that shippin' container they stole over at the DimWit Dome opening in Arlington, and by the time I get out there, I realized my former reading and craftin' room was slowly bein' lined with old Igloos and Swingers they found at the dumping grounds at the end of the culvert by the creek.
Though I have my doubts about the viability of used Huggies as an insulator for six months worth of beer (five years for most households), but when I heard muffled talkin' about shavin' strays, well, I just commenced to gettin' my stuff together to do some shoppin' just as they sit down in front of the trailer park's only big screen.
No good ever comes of those two and the ability to open a Miller tab before 10 a.m. And sure enough, they get to goin' on about iffin they should raise or lower Jerry's big screen, which will just lead to a quicker reenactment off E.E.'s waning days as the fourth-string punter for the Poly Parrots, and I'll come home and he'll have been puntin' into the big screen, just like he was over at Jerry World.
And Claude T. comes in just goin' on and on about these beer prices, walkin' from one room to the next just saying this that or the other, like some twitterer from hell until I just am no longer listening, you know, like to the point of, "This is B.A. Stout, and I am eating Hawaiian Pancakes with a two-for-one coupon at IHOP.''

Of Poopin, PoPo, and Build -a-Bare

2009-08-24T18:36:00.000-07:00

Well, Little Dammitt has gone three whole days without poopin' in the trailer, which is more than I can say for Doyletta's little human geehaws, and Little Dammit don't wear a diaper either.
I take that back, little Dakota and Little Aikman, do wear diapers maybe a day a week when the hosed-down Huggies finish dryin' on the phone line.
Or when their Mamaw comes in from Floydada, which just happened to be this mornin.
She pulls up in her Crowne Victoria, lumberin' out with a Bible in one hand and two Build-a-Bears in the other, lookin' like nothin' that could have spawned the Doublewide Ditz that is Doyletta.
So, Doyletta asks us to take their picture with these precious Build-a-Bears of Baby Jesus, and Lazarus.
"Ooooooh, look, four generations,'' says Doyletta.
Doyletta, that's three. Your boys count as one.
"But there's two of them.''
Well, we get 'em over by the steps to the trailer (keepin' in mind I am still supposed to be on mump quarantine, but I guess Doyletta stays pretty well pickled enough that the swine flu with snout still attached could not make its way past her little immune snatcher).
Well, camera phone out, I take their picture, and of course, Doyletta has to put her hand on her hip and hike her leg on the stairs like a bull mastiff at the Jett's Petting Zoo 4H Puppy Pen.
"Oooooh, B.A., now can you get those pitchers out on the internets so's Mamaw can send 'em to her friends back home at the African Violet Club.''
Yeah, yeah, and I go wanderin' back down to the Airstream where Esther is stayin' with us for a little while, even though she has a place near in town in a somewhat unincorporated area, but seein' as how I had the mumps, and electricity, Esther was on one of our five couches for a while.
(Recall, Mamma Faye Faye takes every couch ever offered to her and gives it to us, so it's like take your pick - partridges, pear trees, seven swans a swimming, or five golden crushed velvet semi-circles).
So I show Esther the pitcher I am about to post on the computer and she is like, wait, "Oh, no, B.A., Doyletta hoisted that leg just a little too high in that flouncy Flashdance skirt, and I don't think you better send this 'four generation,' pitcher off to Mamaw's African Violet Club, unlessin' you want 'em to think a terrible cattipellar infestation is a goin' on a few miles down the highway.''
And sure enough, there it was, Mamaw in a red pantsuit with arms crossed over the Good Book, little Dakota and Aikman actually wearin' diapers, and their Mexican Six Flags sombreros, holdin' their little Baptist Build-a-Bears and Doyletta, nothing but what crop hadn't yet been harvested by Nair and Schick Mach III.
"Well, Esther,'' I wondered, "Maybe we can pixel that part out.''
"B.A.,'' she says about to puke in her pancakes, "They ain't enough pixels in all of po po land to undo that.''
Well, so we sorta used our limited computer knowledge to drag over a lovely picture of a daffodil and a bunny from a free e-Easter card and stick it over Doylettea's briar patch as if to be a happy greeting for Mamaw's friends down the highway.
"Well,'' said Esther, "you know the human body requires more pixels to cover...'
That's enough, Esther, you need to quit reading to tops of your Diet Snapple bottles.
Well, so we stop for a while, to watch the goin's on with the Mamaw visit down at the Slut Hut.
And of all things, Doyletta leaves Mamaw with us while she goes to trade in her Golf in the last hours of Cash for Clunkers.
Boy Howdy, she comes a runnin' in with a wad of cash, all excited on account of she couldn't believe how much she got for her "clunker,'' at about the same time the phone rings, sayin' she'd left Little Dakota in the backseat.
"Well,'' she says,' I thought I got too much.''

Butty Ann's Dry Birthday, Cody's Wet Hose, and Faded Glory Holes

2009-08-23T19:41:00.000-07:00

Well, our bunch was gettin’ ready to host a little birthday party for my sister, just us and her family, and it seemed like everything was fine, the Craigmont and Fanta were chilled, the cupcakes were out of the boxes, and Esther and I just kicked back for a while up by the ferret dome, formerly known as a clubhouse.

E.E. came by all in a snit on account of he has been to a Rick Perry rally thingy and showed us the tape of Guvner Gayhair sayin’, “Texas will have Fair taxes.”

Well, harsh my mellow with a broken bat up the bohiney.

Fair taxes? That just ain’t right.

And I told Esther if they was a-gonna be Fair taxes, I’d just stay home and fry my Twinkies right here in the trailer. And Big Tex Gayhair can just kiss my bohiney.

Esther decided there was far too much shenanigans goin’ around the trailer park, and we should be less concentrated on Fanta-ritas and more on St. Maria and use one of them shipping crates for a little chapel for Sunday services or a mass (Esther is a Whiskypalian).

Well, a nice idea Esther, but do you really think a metal box is a good place to worship?

“HYUNDAI of the Good Shepherd?”

Changin’ subjects, you know, Esther, Spain just performed its first face transplant?

“Well,” said Esther, 'we just better hope Doyletta don’t come over durin’ Butty Ann’s party, and perform the day’s first faceplant.'

But sure enough, while Doyletta’s boytoy Cody was out doin’ the big Sunday Huggies recyclin’, hangin’ those nasty things on the phone wire to dry, just talkin’ to himself, lookin’ at the sky with the water runnin’ all over, sayin’, “I sure hope we don’t get rain today,” Doyletta came a staggerin’ down in some white spike heels and a white halter shorts set, sayin’ she thought she smelled Fanta-ritas.

(Doyletta could hire herself out as a service Beagle for the concerned parents of teenagers).

About this time, Butty Ann (remember, she come out breach) came drivin’ up in her minivan with the “Second Baptist ‘Church Parking only, all others will be Baptized,” bumper sticker on it with all her family locked in the back.

They had already been to Golden Corral after church, so’s all we needed was ice cream, cake, and candles and soft drinks.

‘Well, good thing I made some extra Fanta-ritas,’ said Claude T., on account it looked like a load clowns pilin’ out of a Pacer at the Pantego Petting Zoo Circus, that brood was so big.

“You what?”

“Me ‘n’ the boys took a break from workin’ on the shippin’ containers and made…

“Uh, oh.”

Uh, oh what?

“We had some extra time, so uhmmmm, so we mixed up a pitcher of Sierra Mist, Craigmont grape and tequila.”

C.T., you know if they were any more Baptist they’d live in the wilderness and with locusts and wild honey in their hair. And here ya’ll have used all my soft drinks as mixers.

“Oh, shoo shoo,” said C.T. “You better go pour it in mayonnaise jars and hide it in the shipping crate or something.”

And you and E.E. better get your bohinies over to the Circle K and get me some more cokes -- and take the shortcut cross the culvert.

So I tried to get the pitchers of alcohol hidden in the big ol’ shippin’ crate and washin’ my hands in Febreze to get the smell off and give my sister a decent little party with only a few people havin’ to sit on cable spools, but it seemed all was a workin’ against me.

By this time, Doyletta (way into her usual batch of Sunday rum ice cream without the eggs and flour) was in the midst of ever’body and had commenced to flirtin’ with my oldest nephew.

“Ooooh, are them new jeans?” she asks Elgin.

He politely answers, “Yes’m.”

“Nice,” she slurs, “Faded Glory de-stressed jeans with the Glory Holes already in ’em.”

At which point Claude T. about squat and shat a ferret.

And off goes Doyletta, spike heels pickin’ grass out of the gravel like a regular Garden Weasel.

Tax free, shippin' box housin' and Esther's damm jeans

2009-08-22T21:26:00.000-07:00

Well, Esther says she wanted her some of them “distressed weekend” jeans from Old Navy and was headed over there on account of back-to-school tax-break weekend, and E.E. said he’d seen some of that stuff on sale and looked more like wind-break weekend if you ask him, on account of by the holes in them jeans, it was more distressed than Doyletta after she found the sno-cone machine on the same day the Goody Goody had their Jose Cuervo on sale.

Ah, but this was nothin’ compared to what awaited Esther as she and her new clothes for back-to-gruel (she’s a substitute cafeteria lady) got back to the trailer park to show off her finds.

OK, so if you’ll recall, Claude T. ’n’ E.E. came back from tryin’ to crash the Cowboys game with a shippin’ crate, on account of Claude T. has done considerable research in the making them big ol’ metal shipping containers into housin’.

Of course while others who have studied on this have come up with some small but decent affordable housing for people who need a place to live (C.T. might find himself in the latter group is he don’t watch on account of he may find his hind end on the front end of an unfortunate incident at the weldin’ room with the ferrets at the former trailer court clubhouse).

You never know when those two get to goin’. Ruminatin’, planning, havin’ adult refreshments.

Fanta-ritas never add up to no good around here.

Well, seein’ as how we live in a fairly unincorporated area of town, I was OK, with Claude T. a doin’ an add-on to the Airstream with a shippin’ crate, as no one was likely to complain, and I had seen some of his smallscale practice handiwork with a Habitrail, tinfoil and a Charlie’s Chips can.

And I just know that feral possum really enjoyed a place for a break from Malibu Doyletta’s Dream Trailer

Well, I am determined that if this thing is gonna go on, then I want an add-on to the Airstream for my own doin’s, and C.T. and E.E. pretty much want their own little finished-out male entertainment center inside a HANJIN crate that’s been shipped to places where Andrew Zimmern wouldn’t even eat on that Travel Channel Louise just insists on watchin’ ever’ time she’s over on account of she thinks it would enhance our artistic horizons if we knew how to eat a live, fried scorpion.

Thank you, Louise.

We can probably do that at Doyletta’s when she gets too toddied to make supper, plugs in the FryDaddy, and the members of her kitchen posse start fallin’ in from under the cabinets.

Well, with all these suggestions and these empty shipping crates just laying off the sides of railroad yards and rivers and such, (and I never should have alerted them to that last fact), they decided to get some buddies together and hunt us down some housing options.

But when I saw a map of the wetlands off the lower Mississipi shippin’ lanes, I put my houseshoe down and said if they was gonna get any more of these crates, they would find abandoned ones by railyards and rivers and stuff around here and not start any world travels.

But Louise wouldn’t hush and decides they need at least two more shipping crates on account of we need to get us some culture in this trailer park and with two we could make us an outdoor show stage. Like if we steal Doyletta’s stairs, which she always misses anyhow, we stack two of them carts atop one another and we could do West Side Story here in our somewhat unincorporated area of the city.

“Or maybe, somethin’ for the kids,” she says, “I always loved Freddy the Frog, Henrietta Hippo and them.”

Oh, great, I can see it now, Sally Struthers, Ruta Lee, and George Hamilton as Charlie the Owl in our own reprisal of New Zoo Review.

After sending the boys off to their shippin’ crate to ruminate, we settled down to watch the news.

Well, we see the banks will own much of Six Flags whenever they emerge from bankruptcy.

Hmph. I can just see it now --

Judge Roy’s Bankruptcy Court, the Overdraft Flume, the Mini-Money Train, The Golden Parachute ride, Oil Depletion Allowance Derrick, Runaway Inflation Train.

And last we looked, they was tryin’ to unload the antique cars in the Cash for Clunkers program, and them Caddo War Canoe Indians that used to come out on that canoe with arrows pointed atcha, they at least had some sense and up and paddled off to Oklahoma to open a casino.

Claude T. said, “Just build a big ol' wall around the Mexico section,to keep all the Mexicans in.”

But as E.E. put it, “Don’t go confusin’ the tortilla curtain and the employee burrito, or Esther and B.A. will have it eat down in a day.

“So much for national security.”

Oh and the train around the park’s been sold to Amtrak. Maybe it’ll get to the station or maybe it won’t.

“Hold it, Hold it…. OK, now go ride the Sticker Shock Wave.”

Oh Lord, the Shipping Crate Add On Arrives

2009-08-20T18:21:00.000-07:00

Esther and me went to bed last night not havin' heard hide nor hair of Claude T. and E.E., who, as if you will recall, were tryin' to crash either the Ballpark or the Cowboys stadium.

Esther checked the Arlington police crime site (excellent site when yur a-huntin' family or friends or ex-husbands) and we didn't see their names on there, though she did think she saw a fire alarm pull going off at both places within and hour of one another.

(The boys were desperate).

Well, Day Gazillion of the mumps, and one part of my face has gone down, so now I only look like a blow-up Kool-Aide pitcher with a gague 6 knittin' needle plunged into my handle side.
However, I have rubbed my runny nose so, I look like the alcoholic Santa at the 1974 indoor Sanger-Harris Christmas parade.

I think they just tell you to stay at home 6-9 days after symptms go away just so's everyone will think it's only vodka.

Anyhow, we did not see either of their names on the list of Otty Cribbs guests. And we didn't hear from them.

But there was a pattern to the way we weren't hearing from them.

Well, when they turned up, they said they had just found somethin' to bring home and was a waitin' 'til the crowds left so as to avoid suspicsion and end up in Otty Cribbs -- though E.E. says the toast in the mornin' is pretty good, though in need of a little amuse bouche.

Amuse my bouche. Hmph, they pull into the trailer park with a shipping container tied to the top of the eight-door-green-Checker taxi, oh, just a-silently slinkin' in as if they were one of of Doyletta's boy toy Cody's pet pythons after sneakin' out after a slither over to the Cat Show at Will Rogers.

(Though if you ask me, after the other night's pole dance she provided, we get a cat show every few night's here. And fact, I can tell you, she is Persian, is up for a groomin', and blonde ain't the haircolor the Lord give her).

Anyway, they sneak in with a huge shipping container tied to the top of the Checker.

Well, we expect they had spent the night in the shipping container, but while sleepin' off their impendin' incarceration, Claude T. began to talk about how he saw you could have a shippin' container made into a small home or an add-on.

C.T. has been studyin' up and just knows he's ready to engineer us an add-on for the Airstream what with his experience from workin' in make-ready down at Chief Auto and he is workin' on his online weldin 'degree at present. "Baby, don't you wont a pool table?"

Well, there goes my craft room and readin' area.
"But," says E.E., "we could get a pool table and use it for guests for a real formal eatin' area. Remember the pot passers on..."

Never mind.

Pizza, Pudge and Paul -and my Mumps

2009-08-19T21:28:00.000-07:00

Well, Esther was gonna stay and watch TV with me and my mumps, wantin’ no part of what E.E. and Claude T was plannin’ out in the trailer court clubhouse – actually, now it’s the trailer park ferret condo after a couple of Doyletta’s escaped and started bein’ fruitful in there.

The day starts on a fine note with a missive from our fine neighbor who we call Falstaff –Falstaff who was dating an Irish Traveler -- and his family, until they found out her trailer was only worth $400.

And now her new “man friend,” is – I am not making this up – a registered sex offender, the kind that hangs out at Chuck-E-Cheese in a raincoat.. We looked him up on the Internets and everything. No wonder there’s candy wrappers strewn all around her trailer.

She leaves this note for us inside a gallon Ziplock: You better rake your gravel on account of it is ruinin’ the looks of my yard.

Yard, my white, white round-o’-Gouda ass.

Bet she had to Febreze her purple housedress just so we didn’t detect her scent and know she was a comin’.

This is the woman who beats up on the side of the Airstream with a piece of chokeweed,to try and get little Dammitt to bark and then tapes it and calls animal control so they can hear little Dammitt barkin’.

Meanwhile, out in the clubhouse, E.E. and Claude are debatin’ whether to drink by the empty pool or sneak over to Channel 5 dressed as exterminators and Superglue Jane McGarry’s palms to the desk when they get ’em this big plan to workin’ to where they will sneak in free to both Pudge’s re-debut with the Rangers, Paul McCartney over at the Cowboys digs, and park at CiCi’s so they can have all the free crummy pizza and crappy desserts they can eat.

(Yeah, don’t I miss the pre-mumps date nights?)

So, it was just me an’ Esther at our trailer on account of she has had the mumps already and thinks she can be Nurse Esther for me.

So, the Pizza, Pudge and Paul Express was packing to leave for the Big A (and we didn’t dare ask about some of the contents they was stickin’ in the green eight-door Checker taxi, but when I saw the blowtorch from Sam’s, the Fudgsicles and a stack of accidentally taken Furr’s napkins, Esther and me settled in after I hollered out the screen door, “C.T., how are you gonna afford tickets,” and he hollers back, “Well, we’ll just climb the back of the billboards in the outfield wall.”

C.T. obviously showin’ the last time he had been Turnpike Stadium.
So, I crawl into my Snuggie, and me and Esther start watchin’ the news and see Venus and Serena own part of the Miami Dolphins.Now and we begin to wonderin’ iffin maybe we could go in and buy like part of the Grand Prairie WartHogs baseball team.

But upon further investigatin’ on the Internets, we realized we could only afford a cup, and I don’t mean a souvenir one.

They suggested we come back and try to buy part of a hot dawg, but that would have cut into Esther’s root-job budget.

Yeah, and then we see about Michael Irvin’ on Dancin’ with the Stars. Huh, more like dancin’ with Stardust if you ask me.

So then Guvner Gayhair was on, and they was askin’ him about Kay Bailey’s campaign and he said something like, “Oh, she’s runnin’?’’

Hah, it’s more like TWO she’s a-running on the Republican side if you ask me.

Oh, and then they was on there talkin’ poorly of Michelle Obama wearin’ shorts to the Grand Canyon.

Yeah, let me go hike the Grand Canyon in my slacks, like all these women on the CSIs showin’ up at crime scenes in white slacks and Jimmy Choo heels to look through some body pulled out of the Everglades with a liver long-gone in a gators belly.

Hell, I gotta wear my cargo shorts in this heat just to get past the abandoned swimmin’ pool and not attract the attention of Falstaff’s housedress.

I guess we could just sneak in and steal her Febreze.

As of now, we have not heard from E.E. and Claude T., who also left the trailer court wearing uniforms from Lion Country Safari they got at the ThriftTown.

And if I hear anything about stealin’ that midget from two doors down and puttin’ a Make a Wish T-shirt on him to sneak into the Paul and Pudge show or something – well, Esther is checkin’ the Arlington crime blotter now.

Trailer Court doin's: Of Pudge, Parties, and the ill-fated Pole Dance

2009-08-18T18:45:00.000-07:00

Well, the whole trailer park, at least those who know their bohinal entry from a hole in the ground, was all a tweet over the big party Claude T. 'n' E.E. and some other guys had planned for that evenin'.

I dunno if they just wanted an excuse to try out E.E.'s new uppity homemade grill made entirely out of used Valspar cans or what.

"I find the spring mint to be particularly appealing,'' said Louise, while wonderin' why her face was turning numb.

"Hmmm,'' said our uppity food expert, "I sense a bit of Listerine, no turpentine, on the front of the palate.

"Well, kinda the back, too.''

But this all came about on account of me bringin' this column back, and a bunch of big sportin' events, what with the Rangers ahead in the wild card race (this promptin' Louise to say, "Oh, isn't that nice, are they workin' on greetin' cards to give 'em somethin' to do while they were sittin' 'round watchin' the World Serious on TV), but anyhow, with the Rangers still in the hunt for somethin' besides a pitcher, the fact that Pudge is comin' back, AND Brett Favre is just gonna give Packers fans fits, showing up in MinnieMousesota, and I don't mean that as that Thor goofball that runs up and down the sideline at the Vikings games.

Anyhow, we gathered as much of my old sports bunch as possible, even sending out an invite to Norm Hitzges, my little taking Polish sausage ball.

So we ladies were forced to stay together in the Airstream with the dogs, watchin' TV waitin' for the surprise.

Of course we then had to figure out what it was when Esther hears some ad -- and I am not a-makin' this up, they were goin' on on some commercial about, get the best seat in the house, and thought maybe they was givin' away the best seat in the house, which turned out not to be Paul McCartney tickets, of which there appear to be more of than Jerry Jones has doo-doo wipes (he has to go to Sam's), and it said go to constipationrelief.com.

Turns out it was something called Oxy-Powder that is a , "slow-release of mono-atomic oxygen,'' which sound a little different than the Oxy stuff Billy Mays was a usin'. In fact, when Claude T. uses the Airstream potty, there ain't nothin' slow-release about it.

Why you know he once saved us from black bears while campin' at Yellowstone, with just one fast release in front of the tent.

Of course we had to sleep in the car that night.

The caribou seemed to like it, though.

Well, time finally come for us to come to he party, and most of the trailer park and the ol' gang was there, celebratin' or a bemoanin' the fact Pudge was a Ranger again and Brett Favre, once a Packer, was a Viking now.

Then, Claude T. and E.E. are so proud, and they unveil the sign they had been a workin' on all day.

"Welcome Pudge Packers.''

And with that, of course, here comes Doyletta, lookin' like the heel from the Silver Slipper in Vegas, a stumblin' through the gravel, and lookin' for Norm, my Little Polish Sausage Ball to do him a lap dance, but instead, said she was there to entertain with pole dances like women on YouTube, and proceeds to climb his backside after gettin' her heel caught in his belt.
(And we did not want to know what the over-under on this event was gonna be, and sure enough, as she is makin' her ascent, she slides off Norm's bald head, and face plants it right in the gravel.

Then she stumbles up, scraped face and all and says she'd like to do her first real pole dance of the night. "Now where's my pole?"

Claude the said he'd go on a night time run for one, on account of he hadn't had a nocturnal mission in a long time.

Doylette then commences to lookin' around for a pole to dance on.

Well, I just whispered to Esther, "go get us one of them old phone poles out back."

Let's just say Doyletta's gonna be picking splinters out of her receiver for some time.

More Mumps, A Day off, Nekked Doorbell ringers

2009-08-17T16:56:00.000-07:00

Well, I hate to say it, but these mumps have me lower than one of Kelly Clarkson's fat rolls, and I have just ignored all the doin's in the trailer park and the world beyond the bobwire gate (C.T. is handy with a blow torch) and I am just gonna take my little chipmunk cheeks and crawl back under the covers.
So I hope ya'll won't mind ifin I just take one day off and don't post any of my doin's, but ask you to please come back tomorrow.
Esther is makin' up a white sangria to bring over as she swears it was her mamma's cure all when they got sick when they was kids.
That would explain a lot.
And fortunately, Doyletta is safely in her trailer, just a waiting for that man that goes around ringin' doorbells nekked.

Mumps, chocolate lumps and hairstyle humps

2009-08-16T19:45:00.000-07:00

Well, as I mentioned yesterday, I have the mumps, but apparently no one thinks this creates the least bit of discomfort, so first, it was Claude T. a-beggin' me to clip his hair on account of if I turn him loose, he'll drive all the way to town to go to the C Clips, and I won't elaborate on the meanin' of that "C,'' but it ain't Cake Doughnuts. All I'll say is that he may be able to afford the haircut, but not the lap shampoos.

So, it was bad enough it's the Lord's Day, and I am trying to stay awake just long enough to see how the Rangers came out.

Then Doyletta comes bangin' on the door like some little kid tryin' to sell peanut M&Ms.
She wonders if she can have a ride to the Price is Right tryouts in Dallas and if I have the latest Big Lots ad so;s she can can study up on prices.

"Doyletta, I don't know when they are, and I have the mumps.''

"Ooooweee,'' she said, "Homecoming already?''

No, Doyletta, dadgummit, not "mums." How many time do I gotta tell people? I am sick. I have adult mumps.

About then her feral possums run by with little Dakota and little Aikman chasin' them in nothin' but their Six Flags sombreros -- Huggies wash day on Sunday, remember?

So Claude T. feels sorry for me and and thought he'd do somethin' nice for once and fix dinner. So pretty soon, the Franklin Mint cowbell on a string rings (the trailer didn't come with a doorbell, but fortunately, Claude T. had a half semester at DeVry and was able to rig us a first class doorbell, you know, somethin' we could hear even when the Cowboys was on and half the trailer court drops in for a visit on account of C.T. did manage to get us a fine TV with his Hurricane Katrina money).

Anyhow, the cowbell rings and who is it but the Domino's man.

And I'm like thinkin' Domino's?

Did you not hear I was 'sposed to be a bland diet?

What part of "bland" don't you understand?

Claude T. 's idea of bland is switchin' from Coor to Coors Light for a week before he has to get his annual bloodwork done.

"Well here, B.A., I ordered you a dessert, too,'' and proceeds to lay out this thing from Domino's called a chocolate lava cake.

Hmmph, it looked more like a bovine bowel movement. And after travelin' to our door next to hot pizza, it looked even more like the aforementioned after Bessie got herself into some bad grass out in her grazin' process.

Well, at least we had a welcome-to-the-trailer-park gift to leave our new neighbor Squeaky, who Doyletta says is a hoot once you get past the swastika carved into her forehead.

The Mumps and Doggie WeeWee hit the Airstream, as Doyletta hits the Bottle

2009-08-15T20:07:00.000-07:00

Well, the fancy new doublewide that moved in next door remains a mystery today, but more on that later.

Esther called while I was lookin’ for the new-neighbor binoculars, and I broke the news that I had mumps.

And she thought I said “mums” and got all excited, “OOOOwee, is it Homecoming already?”

“We gonna do silk or plastic this year?”

No, Esther, I have the mumps.”

“Oh, B.A., you know that can ruin your testicles. Oh, B.A., where did you get the mumps?”

Well, let me see…

You know, maybe it was Karen Keck, who sat by me in fifth-grade social studies.

I don’t know, Esther, where does any adult get the mumps?

From the feral possums at Doyletta’s?

“And Esther, the testicles part only applies to the male members of the species.”

Speakin’ of male members, Claude T., who has never had the mumps, has dipped his boys in Clorox ,and wrapped ’em up in Saran Wrap as an added precaution.

“Oh, C.T.,” said Esther, “you could be worse off than that Houston man the other day who stole a pet shop turtle by stuffing it in his pants.”

This, from a woman who has stuffed airplane bottles of rum in various places just to get in some liquor with her Coke at a Trimble Tech playoff game, and who has recently elaborated around the empty swimmin’ pool on how, “You know when your boobs start to illegal immigratin’ toward yur navel, there’s a lot more you can hide up in there.”

Yeah, but instead of throwin’ water bottles out for the little immigrants, Esther throws out the bra and decides to make a servi-bar out of her ta tas

Well, anyhow, havin’ the mumps and then to make things worse, other than the new mystery doublewide next door, one of these three little Airstream kings and queen (that does not include me and Claude T.), one of them -- we think it was Molly the Trolley because Albietross is too polite and little Dammit was out of the room -- well one of ’em wee-weed up a water hazard at Augusta where my hiney goes on the bed, while I was up wee-weein’ myself.

So, it was a rigamarole with puttin’ towels down, and finally my house dress so I could go back to sleep.

And I know I’ve had plenty of practice with this between my first fiancé Beau and the late WoWo Bip, but it never seems to come natural.

So, to be nice, Claude T. went down to Big Lots to get us a whole new comforter and some new 100 -count sheets (he said he wasn’t gonna spare anything for his mump-riddled fiancé).

Well, what does he come back with? A queen-size Hello Kitty set.

“Well, it was the cheapest.’’

And I just said he better come up with some beddin’ better than that if he ever wants to say hello to my kitty again.

Well, meanwhile, the new trailer remains a mystery and I am too sick to do property investigation.

Ah, but leave it to Doyletta, the trailer court Mr. Monk. She made some attempts at checkin’, but was more interested in a new elixir she discovered.

Doyletta, who has just discovered the mojito and is plantin’ an herb garden to have some at the ready when the mojito mood strikes.

But I went down to look at it, and there was rosemary, thyme, chives, and I’m like, “Doyletta, uhm, it’s mint you put in a mojito.”

And of course, she just says that’s alright, I got some TicTacs here.

(This from a woman who ALWAYS has to carry TicTacs).

Hmm. The last time my first ex planted an herb garden, he had to spend six month in the pokey.

She ended up down at the new trailer a beatin’ on the door, goin’, “Squeaky, Squeaky, you come out from there, you are required to show up to the neighborhood association potluck.”

We have no idea.

Anyhow, no answer, she stumbles back to her trailer and we see she is out washin’ little Dakota and little Aikman down in the hose with Dawn extra-grease-cutting formula, and I swear, it was like she had two little Exxon Valdez otters, and as Claude T. put it, “I’ve seen otters that keep their little winkies covered more than those two little geehaws.”

Bapber Ann and Friends Ruminate under the Stars

2009-08-14T21:33:00.000-07:00

Albietross and little Dammitt were in the in the middle of the floor pleasuring themselves and ignoring the fact that there were five adult humans sitting around them, tryin’ to guess the final vowel in “D_SNEY WORLD, a place, on Wheel.

And it was, you know, one of them nights where nobody knew what they wanted for dinner on a Friday evenin’:

Chik-fil-A, Whataburger, or get dressed up, splurge and go to Golden Corral.

Well, after a while we’d all seen enough of the skills of the canine tongue and enough of Esther marvelin’, wonderin’ how maybe humans could do that. And more than enough of Claude T. actually tryin’ it.

So, at the risk of Doyletta stumblin’ into our Coors Light clutch, we moved the lawn chairs out into the middle of the trailer court by the empty swimming pool where Doyletta throws her empties.

Anyhow, E.E. goes over to try and start the Kia, because we had all finally decided on sendin’ him through the Wendy’s for some of them fake chicken wings.

Well, when we heard, “Damn alternator,” and a door slam, we knew it was gonna be Circle K Slushees which we ladies would have to spice up with rum, and some sandwiches, for which there was no spicin’ work for us to do. It was pretty much more hopeless on that front than a literacy conference at a town hall meetin’.

Well, as we see Doyletta stumblin’ out of her trailer, we just keep a talkin’, and hoping she thinks the plastic Santa in the trailer court office that stays all lit up all year long – pretty much like Doyletta – is real, and and she’ll just go over and have a long talk with Mr. Claus about all she wants is some fresh Huggies and a fanny pack with a beer bladder.

Well, Kay Bailey Hutcheson is gonna be announcing her run for governor AGAIN,and again and a again and again here in the next week or so.

She is scheduled for the Cowgirl Hall of Fame here for one of her stops, and Claude T. was wonderin’ if guy cows could make announcements there, too.

And she don’t like Cash for Clunkers, and she didn’t vote for Judge Sotomayor.

Hmmph.

Well, now don’t be too hard on her for that last one on account of she probably just got her confused with her old off-the-books housekeeper and felt she was too close to the situation.

“Well,” I am told was overheard at a campaign rally, “she never could grasp the concept of the Swiffer.” And apparently, neither can Claude T.

And then, I find out Rick Perry went all the way to Israel to get an award for being a “Defender of Jerusalem,” due to Texas’ trade ties to Israel.

Well, that just makes us want to break out the 10-gallon yarmulkes for that champion of Israel.

Yes, our little genius gay-haired diplomat. Probably went around askin’ ever’body where he could find him a ham sandwich or some pork ribs.

In other matters of international importance, Esther heard tell of a guy in Arizona who was sentenced to 300 hours of community service and a year of probation for throwing bottles of water down to leave for illegal immigrants.

Well, we didn’t understand what the problem was, on account of that’s the only way Doyletta finds her way back to her trailer was, by followin’ the water bottles laced with vodka she drops as she goes.

And, right here in Fort Worth, Squeaky Fromme was let out of prison today.

And, as E.E. put it, maybe the Eagles will sign her.

On the other hand, I am startin’ to wonder who owns that new TravelQueen Deluxe that pulled in next to the Airstream this morning’. ...

2009-08-13T21:48:00.000-07:00

Well, ever’body gathered at our place at the trailer court (on account of Mamma Faye Faye keeps re-givin’ us used couches that people give her because they got new ones). Hence, we are the couch trailer, and we usually turn off all the lights but the TV, and the little battery-powered under cabinet-light over the blender, so’s Doyletta don’t see much light on and assumes she can’t come a knockin’ at the door, wonderin’ where the party is and sayin’ she can bring somethin’ if we give her liquor).

Well, one day she brought us a feather, another, a boo-quet of fresh-from-her-flower-boxes silk yellow roses.

Until she brings four seats to DimWit stadium, I don’t want that woman in my trailer, as Claude T. is still recoverin’ from his possum bite.

So, me, E.E., Claude T., Esther and Louise are just a hangin’ out talkin’ and watchin’ the television and stuff.

Well, this group has no shortage of commentary.

Even our Aussie Shep/Great Hyrenees mix Albietross has opinions.

Well, first up, “Cheney Uncloaks His Frustration with Bush.’’

Well, as Esther said, maybe he should get a new Bush.

And, as we hear it, in budget cuts, Fort Worth closing like all its pools.

Well for pity’s sake, pools are good, they keep people cool. They give kids a place to go in the summer, which gives ’em somethin’ to do instead of makin’ mischief.

Well, the city’s gonna have to pay more money to pay all these cops they gotta hire with all the money they save to catch all the kids into no good because they ain’t no pools.

And I have gotten numerous statements over my comments on the new car seat law.

But seriously -- 4-foot-9?

Does Rick Perry have to get a separate car seat for his hair?

And since Claude T. has already used all this month’s welfare check, I’m a havin’ to use Cheet-o dust for my foundation powder.

Don’t worry, it just looks like I overdid the self-tanner.

Dribblin' with Rick Pitino and sittin' back with my men at the trailer court

2009-08-12T20:09:00.000-07:00

Well my friend Debbie, as you’ll recall, was scheduled to go to China as part of a professor exchange program in typhoon-riddled China.

Well, we know she left Tucson for LA, but after that it gets kinds funny, because from then it was ’sposed to be LA to Beijing and Beijing to Shenyang, her final spot for the next six months.

But we haven’t heard hide nor hair of her for days on her blog ner nothin’ and are starting to think we better put Bill Clinton on speed dial.

So I just don’t know what with all the typhoons and earthquakes and all manner of shoo shoo goin’ on.

Oh, well, I just hope she brought her waders.

Well, on the home front here, things have been slow here at the trailer park as E.E. has been devotin’ most of his time to his new video project (remember, asking people on the street things they should know, like, “WHERE was the Gettysburg address delivered?’’

So far to that question, our man on the street in Mineral Wells has gotten the answers (A) To the White House, (B) By FedEx, (C) By cesarean.

And on it went.

“What is the Presidential order of succession” and he gets all manner of answers such as, “Rick Perry, “Five Smaller States,’ and “Mexico.’’

We told E.E., he might wanna move up to a little higher neck-o-the-woods street, so he is heading over to Weatherford.

I swear it’s almost as embarrassing as this Rick Pitino shoo.

In case you don’t know, he is the very successful college basketball coach at Louisville, and well he is in all manner of sexual and money-extortin’ mess and more.

READERS NOTE: All references to the term, “did it,’’ do not refer to hitting it from the top of the key, but a bouncing bag o’ balls.

Well, supposedly, Mr. Pitino and this ol’ gal went to the equipment manager’s house and did it there with him like upstairs.

And they did it in a dining spot in Louisville.

(And Claude T. just has to add, “You know they sure have a lot of drownin’s out on that lake, but I guess the food at the marina must be better than I thought).

I read a review of the place, fanciest place in Louisville I’m told, called Porcini and one person said they went at 7 and the place was buzzing.

Well, I guess it was the night of the “do it at the table’’ and they had been to the equipment managers house already.

Yep, her dumbphone was set to “vibrate,’’ alright.

And they was takin’ plenty of free throws.

As E.E. said, well, with him, it might be more like dribbling these days.

Well, in other news, a Muslim woman in France was banned from the pool because she was wearin’ a burquini, citin’ that it was unhygienic.

But Claude T. said he’d been with plenty of unhygienic burquinis and came out of it only needin’ a shot.

Well, we haven’t seen that many pictures , but E.E. is still letting out details of his trip to the Seren-Spaghetti.

Well, he says he was at the pool at the lodge (well, let me get a mental picture of E.E. in swim trunks), and an elephant just walks up straight beside the pool like Grand Prairie Country Safari, and just looks at E.E.

Well, we wondered, after seein’ E.E. in swim trunks, thought it was her long-lost mate.

We just hoped she didn’t put her trunk in his trunks lookin’ for back calf support.

Maybe he should have worn a burkquini.

We’re still lookin’ forward to seeing the picture of all of this, showin’ a big ol’ nasty-lookin’ thing with big ears and gray skin. And the elephant, too.

Well, we was back at the Airstream and I decided to watch the news while E.E. and Claude T. was out front waiting for the Perseids meteor shower, which sounds more like an antacid to me, and arguing’ about iffin a Vienna sausage should be called a meat stick or a Vienna sausage when it isn’t in the authentic blue can.

If they didn’t quiet down, someody’s meat stick was gonna be in the can, that for sure.

So, I turned the Channel 5 news on, waiting to watch them call Freddie Mac Bernie Mac among a gazillion other things they might be apt to do on any given night, and turned it up real loud so they would have to hear it out in front of the trailer.

And why Claude T. thought bean bag chairs would make the gravel feel better, I Don’t know.

Can’t wait to see ‘em try and stand up in a few hours, huh, it’ll look like two pigs fightin’ under a blanket.

So, I am on the nice soft sofa with all the partridges on it (a family hairloom) and ooowee, they was goin’ on about watchin ‘ the news and ooowee they was a goin’ on about “Grandpa Gropes Minnie Mouse at Magic Kingdom.’’

And I don’t see what’s so wrong with that as we are certain mamma Faye Faye groped Mini_Me in Albertson’s fish department.

But she claims she was just a givin’ him a boost to see the orange roughy special.

In other news some Fort Worth pediatrican is bein’ sued for “masturbating’’ in the open of his pediatric office, his nurse reported.

Well, I guess that’s what you call bein’ caught, “red-handed.’’

BA, Your Loyal Public Servant and Advisor

2009-08-11T21:24:00.000-07:00

Before I get into today’s public service messages, I know you are all a wonderin’ what the aftermath of Sunday’s little white trash circus down at Doyletta’s and Cody’s trailer.

(Recall Doyletta made rum ice cream and left out everything except the rum and vanilla, which she slurped up and passed out as three possums entered her home through the hole for the dryer vent and began to fightin’ and tearin’ up the place and Claude T. got bit).

Well, Doyletta’s hangover must be better because she was out in the front yard picking the grass out of her gravel. Her dexterity has improved as well as she was able to do this while holding a martini glass full of Miller Lite in one hand and using her cigarette hand to pluck the grass.

And all this in shorts displayin’ enough white hiney to cause folks as far as Handley and Pantego even to think some kind of strange lunar event was a takin’ place.

A blindin’ eclipse that woman’s hiney is.

Like we thought we were gonna have to get a piece of notebook paper and poke a hole in the middle with a no. 2 pencil just to look down that way if them is gonna be her gardenin’ apparel for the summer

So, our little Bohinies, Butts and Beyond shopper has sobered up enough to drink again, but little Dakota and Aikman are still runnin’ ’round the front yard nekked, their little pepes just flyin’ around like the pepe tilt-a-whirl on the pepe Midway.

I can just see it now, Big Tex suffering lockjaw after he’s forced to say, “Howdy folks, and now appearing on the Little Huggies Main Stage, fresh off their appearance on the Midway, Dakota and Aikman, in their salute to Teenie Weenies, sponsored by Van de Kamps.”

A PUBLIC SERVICE NOTICE

Well, it is my understandin’ that there are a whole bunch of new state laws going into effect, and I thought my readers should know about ’em.

While I wish I could report that they had outlawed blow-drying by elected officials, I can tell you that all children 8 or under or under 4-foot-9, must be in a child safety seat.

Four-foot-nine? Hell, at that rate, I wouldn’t have been out of a car seat until I was in junior high.

Also, while dogfighting is already illegal, they went one further and said it was now illegal to own or possess dog-fighting equipment.

Well, there goes Doyletta’s sex life.

But that’s an embarrassin’ topic, like the time I saw Tweety jump off the Six Flags float in the Arlington Fourth of July Parade and take a leak in an alley by the apartments by the Baptist Student Union and the UTA student union building, as I was walking past to try and see if there was anything good coming up from the other block.

And you know they have emergency wee wee zippers, but Tweety Bird was frolickin’ in a golden stream.

Well, Louise, who goes to the potty more than a Labrador puppy on account of as E.E. has always said, when the rapture comes, they’ll be a big roll of toilet paper unfoldin’ behind her hiney as she makes the big ascent, said maybe everyone should have a secret zipper like Tweety.

But don’t tell C.T. that, or he’ll spend this month’s welfare check buyin’ zippers and rummagin’ through the Goodwill box for Doyletta’s old stretch pants. He’s always tryin’ to find the next big thing.

He ain’t gonna find it in his pants, though.

So, I’d advise you all to watch out, as E.E. and Claude T. have cooked up a scheme worse than the time the two of them decided to rent a booth at the state fair and sell deep fried nutria on a stick.

E.E. is a wantin’ to start doin’ somethin’ on the internets where he goes up like Jay Leno and asks people basic questions and then they look stupid because they don’t even know you don’t boil the water before you wash your purse dog.

OK, so they was practicin’ here at the Airstream, and E.E. wants to ask C.T. questions before they go to downtown Mineral Wells to do a trial run, as they are sure this will go viral on YouTube as soon as it is posted.

Viral? Yeah, you’ll have people pukin’ into… never mind.

OK, so E.E. goes up to Claude T. , and using a thing the found in my nightstand for a fake mic ---serves ’em right for all the buzzin’ on the video, and asks, “What do you call a woman’s spa foot job?’’

C.T. immediately ansers, “pedicure.’’

Which startled me so, I almost succumbed and went to Doyletta’s for a Miller Lite mojito.

Then E.E. says, as part of this interview, which they are filming, “what do you call it when a lady gets her nails done?’’

Well, I was not there, and C.T. responded, “A hand job?’’

Well, it was all over YouTube before I even got home.

Anyhow if you’re downtown, don’t talk to him.

That is the ending of this public service announcement.

BE WARY OF ANY COWBOYS DOIN’S

Well, the Arlington Cowboys have started a new line of stuff tied to bar b q.

It is Cowboys’ charcoal briquettes that “burn hotter, longer, and more evenly than other charcoals.’’

And Cowboy paper towels and bbq sauce and like cornbread mix, and bbq utensils and stuff – tongs, forks.

(I think Jerry and Tweety needy to meet up in an alley by the Iranian apartments by UTA and have themselves a nice pee to work all this out).

Then, Dallas Cowboy meat – more likely to make you choke in the month of December.

All I can say is, they better start sellin’ Cowboys pitchforks and Cowboys torches for long about December when ever-body is runnin’ Wade Phillips and Mr. Romo out of town.

E.E. gets his bouche amused

2009-08-10T21:42:00.000-07:00

Claude T. is over in Dallas tryin’ to crash the Wilkinson Center back-to-school shoe giveaway for children of the working poor, insistin’ he could say he was a senior – a senior what? You gonna show ’em an AARP card?
So, with E.E. being back from his safari in the Seren-spaghetti desert, a few of us got together to hear his tales of going two weeks without a McCafe. (Mondays are free mocha day and Esther and me stood across by the museums and watched him go through the McDrive-thru three times early one Monday, each time reachin’ into the backseat when he got near the orderin’ place to change his “disguise” so they’d give him another mocha).
And as Esther said, she hardly thought spendin’ half of every Monday morning in a Carol Channing wig, an Elmer Fudd hat, and one of his mamma Leona’s old headscarves tucked into his collar so they can’t see all the mocha McCafe already spilled on his shirt as he goes past the pay window, is hardly worth it as he was only gonna spill half the entire contents drivin’ while smashin’ beer cans flown out from under the seat for recyclin’ with his non-drivin’ foot.
Plus, we felt the need to drown our sorrows with Esther’s new Tecate Sangria kit
On account of hearing Brooks and Dunn was callin’ it quits, and thought hearing E.E.’s tales might lift us up a little higher than a lizard’s belly.
So, we gathered.
Well, after we hear all about his wife Lyndah runnin’ screamin’ from the cabin in the middle of the night on account of she forgot E.E. had had him some Tanzanian stew of spicy braised cabbage and habanero peppers and that wasn’t a water buffalo havin’ a town hall meetin’ or a breakin’ down the door, but E.E., breakin’ an F-5 wind.
After wondrin’ why E.E. went all the way to Tanzania and didn’t bring back any Tanzanite jewelry like seen on that JTV shopping network, as Esther has been needin’ somethin’ for her Womens Auxiliary of the Toastmasters Mixer, we began to hear about all manner of elephants and zebras and every manner of zoo shoo shoo.
Well, then E.E tells us about their layover on the way back, in Amsterdam, where my friends Roy and Steve got ‘Married,’ and Mark and Rick vacation every other year, I immediately start wonderin’ where they went to dinner and stuff.
In other words, I don’t have a problem with Amsterdam, but E.E., might not even know what he was walkin’ into.
Well, first he starts braggin’ about all the nice places they walked through in Amsterdam, like hotels and pretty restaurants and the tourist center.
Now, he should have gotten a clue when he got off the bus, and saw the visitors center.
And you just check the internets on all this stuff, ‘cause Esther and me did, everything you about to hear and all the places you about to hear about is real.
The visitors center is called Pink Point, and there is a thing right by it called the, “Homomonument.’’
I have checked this and I am not making this up.
OK, E.E. talks about how they was at this place to eat on the layover and some guy came up to him at this fancy place they was at and took up with him, “real friendly,’’ and E.E. just says the man asked where he was from and the guy actually said, “Fort Worth, that’s where they had that bar raid.’’
E.E. is so pleased the man knows where Fort Worth is (via Rainbow Lounge raid). So they take up to talkin’.
(We think he was invitin’ E.E. over THE rainbow).
We will leave that there for a minute.
Anyhow, he commences to his tellin’ how nice this super-fancy place they ate.
He tells how the first thing they got was a salmon caviar amuse bouche.
And Louise, ever the smarter of all of us as she made it through the equivalent of three semesters of internet schoolin’ with the University of Phoenix added that actually amuse bouche is French for mouth amuser.
Esther said how E.E. may not know it, but they were apparently trying to amuse his bouche.
Well it was amuse biatch at this time as Esther and me nearly laughed so hard we wee-weed in our stretch-waist acid washed capris.
And he tells us about this nice place called the Hotel Roode Leeuw which I think is pronounced “Ruta Lee.’’
Then he tells us about the different hotels, going on about the Hotel Golden Bear and Esther said she wondered what color the showers were.
And then they went to something called the Queen’s Head, and of course, E.E., ever the naïve-attay-ass, was spectin’ to see a bust of Queen Elizabeth, as if this is Madam Tussaud’s. More like madam with two shows.
And boy howdy, the folks were friendly, he said.
(And you can look on the internets – these places are real and E.E. didn’t make aaanything up).
Well, we spect when E.E. kept ordering beer after beer, they may have misunderstood and it sounded like somethin’ else he was orderin’, which sound like somethin’ they might have more of than the Barnett shale has gas.
Wait, that is E.E.
But he probably ordered so many beers they finally thought they would oblige him
So they meet up with this ol’ boy, and that’s how they met up with this man.
And it’s like E.E., didn’t you think the red light district was just a little pink. But he is so excited this guy knows something that has happened in Fort Worth, just latches on to this guy.

WELL ANYHOW

Well, when Claude T came home I said I wanted to tell him about Amsterdam. He sits there lookin’ at me like I’m tellin’ him ooh, Esther’s new boyfriend got her a rhinestone chain that says sexy, and I can’t figure out why he doesn’t think any of this is interesting.’
Oh, Amsterdam, he says in all seriousness. I thought you said “hamsterdance”
Well, I guess there could be plenty of that too.

Steppin' Out with Bapber Ann Stout

2009-08-09T13:40:00.000-07:00

Well, in a minute, I will give you the social portion of this column which happened later in the day after we stole my Mamma Faye Faye's Arlington water bill to crash the party for the citizens of Arlington over at DimWit Dome, C.T. not even havin' enough sense to take off his Burleson Elks "First in Your Heart, Last in District,'' gimme cap which he won't even bend the bill on.

Anyhow...

Well, as you know, during my hianus from your lives, I acquired a second, 'fiance,'' Allen Tooledge (A-Tool), but what you don't know is the Airstream trailer (don't get excited, it's about as cool retro as 50-year-old diaper poo my mamma scooped out of my elder sibling Butty Ann (she was breach), anyway, as about as cool as 50-year-old Butty Ann poo) and I got the Airstream in the deevorce.

A-Tool had quite a temper and thus there are quite a few holes in the walls.

But, until Claude T., and me, can settle on a more proper home, we are in the trailer court with the Airstream

And now it's missin' a few aluminum panels on account of Claude T. keeps pullin' 'em off tryin' to make a solar-powered hot dog stand so he can sell hot dogs on the side of the highway like them girls in bikinis in Florida.

(And I saw him rootin' around for his 30-year-old Speedo, so you know what's a comin').

All I can say he just better hope he don't grill the wrong weenie.

So we wake up on the Lord's Day in the Airstream (which I have tried to improve with a woman's touch by sticking pictures from Redbook and Cat Fancy over the holes) and we commence to hearin' the biggest commotion outside.

We thought the people from the Circle K finally found the extension cord runnin' from the Airstream to the plug behind their dumpster. Not bein' a brain trust over there, the clerk told me they'd found this cord out back but gave up followin' when it hit the drainage ditch and figured it must be somethin' the city was doin', after charging me $3 for a six pack and a liter of Sunkist with corn nuts.
Well, it appears to be about three lots down at Doyletta Gordon's trailer, which is no surprise as Doyletta usually don't feel the floor in the mornin' 'til her head hits it.
Well, seein' as how we didn't see the cameras from COPS down the way, we figured we better go on down and do a welfare check.
Doyletta's literally half-deaf man friend Cody is out on the lawn and doesn't hear a thing as he is in his usual Sunday mornin' ritual of hosin' down the Huggies and hangin' 'em on the phone wire to dry to live another week.
(Let's say by the looks of them recycled dirty disposable diapers, they are a very green household).
And of course bein' Huggies day, little Dakota and his brother Aikman were runnin' around the front yard in nothin' on but some Six Flags sombreros throwin' gravel at one another.
Cody waves and says like the little heathen had just won the Rotary Award that little Dakota was movin' up to Huggies Movers in a few months when the ones on the line wore out, as Claude T. says it looks like there had been enough movin' already from the looks of them on the line.
Well, we get in the trailer and to what to our wonderin' eyes should appear but three possums in the middle of the living room floor. Apparently there was a marsupial town meetin' goin' on 'cause they had knocked over all the lamps, tore the couch, was tearin' apart each other and the shag and we was just waitin' for the Republican raccoon plant to amble in and stir up the pot which apparently hadn't been stirred enough.
C.T. gets the broom and goes to battin' at them and I make up a pitcher of lemon Crystal light and throws it into the pile as I figured the citrus would burn their eyes.
It didn't.
Then one lunges at Claude T. and bites his hand and all I can picture is them out-of-network dr. bills a comin' before C.T., madder than Glen Beck at a Michelle Obama shoe review, just commences to throwin' them out the trailer door right toward little Dakota and Aikman who start hollerin', "puppies, puppies.'
Well, drunk mamma Santa had not brought puppies for an early Christmas, but when I went to huntin' the pitcher for the lemonade, I saw what the problem was and why there was no Doyletta in sight.
She had apparently pulled the dryer out to use the plug for the ice cream maker, as rum ice cream is often her Sunday mornin' treat for the family, and the dryer vent thingy came off and I guess, attracted by the sound of the Saved by the Bell re-run comin' from the unattended TV, the possums crawled in through this hole.
And, explainin' Doyletta's absence was the ice cream maker, rock salt and ice and ever'thing in it, havin' already been run, and it appeared by the empty bowl on the cabinet licked clean, Doyletta had had a few toddies before this weeks rum ice venture and had forgot the eggs and milk, but remembered the rum and vanilla.
"Well, I thought it was kinda runny,'' she said, when we finally rousted the little Bacardi popsicle from her slumber.
So, with Claude T.'s possum bite bleedin', and Dakota and Aikman chasin' the possums under the trailer until their sombreros got caught on the unskirted part, we depart, with Cody turnin' round from his Huggies recyclin' duties long enough to have the hose water hit us and say, "What the hell?''
And I'm tellin' you, I have a good mind to go tell that brain trust at the Circle K where that hose hooked up to their back spigot is runnin' to.

Well, after we got back from the ER and $600 later, we went to have us some Chinese food Claude T., said he'd like him some of that Quid Pro Quo.

IN OTHER ABOUT TOWN DOIN'S

Well, in the middle of ever'thing we managed to sneak in a trip to DimWit's Dome in Arlington. But you had to prove you lived in Arlington and the lady I called said sayin, "Well, I HAVE lived in Arlington,''said that would not count, so we headed over to borrow my Mamma Faye Faye's water bill and driver's license (I had to throw some coal black color on my hair and tease it to match and look like I was real pissed at the DPS man takin' my picture, so's I would look like my mamma's drivers license).

Well, sure enough they waved us in as if we were among the fine citizens of Arlington, and once inside, well, we was mighty impressed to be among this group and Claude T. kept tellin' ever'body we was from, "Outerlochen,'' and sayin' how ooowee, wouldn't a big screen version of Stroker Ace look good up there on that big screen TV and sayin' how he hadn't had this much fun since the last time he went noodling.And to his credit, that catfish was as big as a barstool for midgets.

Mr. Possum Pain began to get the whiny hiney and started askin' around wonderin' where the whore day vores was and I finally just said, "Here, I have a bag of gd Fritos in my purse.''

But he was not to be satisfied.

"Fritos make your breath smell like dirty socks.''

And with that, I whisked him back out to the parking lot and headed back toward possum alley thinkin' how funny it was that my high school class had a reunion last night out at Possum Lodge, for real.

And my friend LGG wasn't even there to pass out with one leg in Weatherford and the other in Pantego with her miniskirt rolled up to her waist and a hole in the, uh, middle of her pantyhose, like she did back at the 10-year, 'cause we'd sure like to know if that lovely mane of red hair was still holdin' up on all fronts.

bapber ann stout speaks out

2009-08-08T13:03:00.000-07:00

Just wonderdin' today how the folks at KXAS are still even fake smiling after the news all reporters would now do all their own promotion, marketing, etc, for their individual stuff.
Guess this has somethin' to do with the fact they let go of the whole marketing department.

Surprised no newsroom posts lookin' worse than a fake Republican at a health care melee.

My friend E.E. has been in Tanzania on a birthday safari for one of his wife's friends. (He married way up). And so far, he has seen some lions kill and eat a zebra and a wilder-beast, whutever that is.

Funny, them lions don't use helicopters ner nothin' to kill ever'thing they want.

My old friend and teacher Debbie from Arizona is leavin' for China tomorrow for a six-month professor trade which she was able to accept last October because her mild-mannered retired Baptist preacher husband was screamin' at the World Serious while she was makin' up her mind about this.

So far she is leavin' tomorrow without even bein' able to say "Where's the potty?''

And speakin' of potties, she blogged pictures of her apartment that person from the Chinese university sent her. Why you know the potty and the kitchen are like right next to each other, in the living room? And you just shower standing in the open floor and there is like this drain and a hose.
Just open that bathroom door, and, well, you can shimmie in the shower for all your guests to see.

My buddy Esther says well, if she's short on dinner entertainment...

Nothin' like a little po po with your kung pao.

I think I'd just learn to say Pecking Duck real quick and duck two ways when them choppin' scimitars start flying in them diners we saw on the Olympics.

My buddy Claude T. wonders if Katie Couric did any shower dances in China. I think he needs to wander over to Tanzania and learn how to say, "I'm part zebra,'' in the middle of the Seren-spaghetti Desert.

Well, my Daddy Leon got his cheers in cheers and jeers today. Though I don't know how he could find it as thin as the Star-Telegram is these days.

Anyhow, he was glad for all the people who stopped to helped when the coke addict collapsed in front of his mailbox.

Well, as we say around here, "The postman always drinks twice.''