Tuesday, October 30, 2007


OK, so I've done lots of bullshit Halloween costumes (always, but always inexpensive, too) but I gotta tell ya, the most memorable H-costume/experience I've had was when yours truly went to a party as

That's right, baby, Elvira.

So here are the basic elements of an Elvira costume.

We'll talk the OBVIOUS ONES last.

OK, hair.

Not a problem.

I do know how to back-comb (ladies, remember that nightmare???), it was just challenging back-combing that much long hair on top of the head.

Oh, that reminds me.

I knew a man that didn't want anybody to know he was bald (yeah, right-o) except for a little ring around the sides & back of his head (think a friar tuck thingie), so what did he do? Why, he grew one side of that head ring like down to his fucking man-boobs and back-combed the shit out of it and then arranged it back over his bald head.

Now ask me how I know this.

Seen him in the mall parking lot one day. Very, very windy day. Wind caught that long-ass back-combed side (hair-sprayed like a Mofo, too), and just lifted it up like a hat. That was attached to the other side of his bald head.


OK, where was I?

Oh, yeah, Elvira hair.

So I back-combed a humongous amount of hair (had to turn my back to the mirror cause to back-comb long hair you have to bend over & stretch your arms WAY out) and figured I had done it.

I had Elvira hair.

Turned around & looked in the mirror and went, "Fuck." I lacked oh, about 4 inches to reach Elvira hair height.

Back to back-combing.

Finally, like after 20 minutes of deliberately tangling my hair, success!

Hair sprayed the hell out of that mess, and proceeded to do the war paint.

Lips? That was easy. Just slapped on about 15 coats of thick red lipstick.



What I ended up doing was just smearing black liquid eyeliner over my entire eyelids and drew this thingie almost to my ears and just colored it in. I thought of it as staying inside the lines. Oh, and like 8 coats of mascara, too.

Now to the outfit.

An Elvira outfit is easy as pie.

Elvira skirt? Check. I just slit one side of a long black skirt I owned (and never wore anymore) up to my thigh area and presto, Elvira skirt.

Elvira shirt? Check. Took a black turtleneck, cut off the turtleneck part thingie and then cut that puppy down the front to, well, ah, well, down really low.

Now came the challenge.

How to make normal ta-tas look like Elvira ta-tas.

Now see, here's the deal with Elvira ta-tas.

Yes, they are enormous and one simply cannot fake enormous, but Elvira's boobs are pushed UP so toward the middle of the chest that the cleavage is what, about 1-1/2 ft. or so, yes?

So I bought a pair of these.

Now these pups are like a sticky one-cup (one for each of the twins) thingie that sticks right up & under each girl. They are 100% GUARANTEED to stay in place.

They feel yucky, too. Like you dipped the lower half of your boob in congealed molasses or something.

So anyway, after MUCH trial & error, I finally got those pups properly placed. Stuck up & under each ta-ta.

Looked in the mirror and holy shit!

I had cleavage.

Well, you would too if you bunched up every single ounce you had & pushed 'em to the middle of your chest and then basically sort of glued 'em in place.

Later, at the party.....

So it was a blast being Elvira. Dancing & drinking & just being totally out & out Elvira-trampy.

Fun, fun, fun.

Still later, at the party....

Drink needed a refill. Looked around, didn't see the waiter (yes, it was one of those fancy parties where the hosts actually HIRED waiters), so decided to stagger walk over to the bar. On the way, even though I was drunk tipsy, I felt slightly out of balance.

Looked down.

At my Elvira ta-tas.

Hello, sky-high cleavaged ta-ta.

Where the fuck is your twin?

Ah, there it is, down in its normal position.


Ya'll, I do NOT know how it happened (those fuckers were 100% GUARANTEED to stay in place), but the Lifter-Upper-Cleavage-Maker-Sticky-Cup-Thingie was on my sleeve, between my elbow & my wrist.

Yeah, it was.

I'm pretty sure it winked at me, too.

Stuck like a Mofo.


100% GUARANTEED, baby.

Happy Halloween.


© 2007 HillCountryGal

Note: Stay With Me, Baby :)


© 2007 HillCountryGal

Note: :)

Sunday, October 28, 2007


Today we're gonna talk about the 3 things we want for Christmas.

Yes, the 3 material things we want for Christmas.

And don't give me that PC thing of "I want world peace," either.

Who doesn't.

Well, the neocons and fundies don't, but fuck 'em.

And don't tell me you want a U.S. President who's visionary, majestic, admirable, distinguished, brave, compassionate, brilliant, humane, profound, good-hearted, intellectual, glorious, ingenious, curious, honorable, ethical, credible, dignified, and a peacemaker.


I think I just turned myself on here.

As a matter of fact, I'm pretty sure I did.

Erotica by Hill.

"A U.S. President who's visionary, majestic, admirable, distinguished, brave, compassionate, brilliant, humane, profound, good-hearted, intellectual, glorious, ingenious, curious, honorable, ethical, credible, dignified, and a peacemaker."

*sweating here*

OK, where was I?

Oh, yeah, the 3 material things I want for Christmas.

No. 1

I was over at my son's house a few weeks ago and the grandsons came flying up to hug me and yada yada.

Me: "Kiss. Kiss. Good boys. Now git. Grandma's gonna play your daddy's XBox."


OK, No. 2

No, not her.

Sky-high ta-tas like hers.

Gravity's a bitch, you know.

So here's what I'm thinking.

I DON'T want boob "augmentation." Seen a plastic surgeon do that and let me tell you, it ain't pretty. Closest I ever came to humiliating myself & passing out while covering a story for the paper.

Did you know a sliced open breast looks EXACTLY like that yellow chicken fat stuff on a piece of raw chicken?

Well, it does.


No, what I want is some procedure thingie to just hook 'em & lift 'em.

Something like a guide wire up under the nips and hooked to some carabiners attached to my shoulder blades.


No. 3

Been wanting a diamond nose stud for YEARS.

I'm going for it this year.

I'm calling my doc & getting a script for pain meds, loading up, and going for it.

If you guys don't hear from me for days, well, you'll know I went & did it.

A diamond nose stud.


OK, so now you tell me what 3 things YOU want for Christmas.

And don't lie to me, either.

Truth, baby!

The truth will set you free.


© 2007 HillCountryGal

Note: Since we're talking Christmas here, this is, bar none, my absolute fave Christmas song. "Driving Home For Christmas" - Chris Rea. Yes, I AM obsessed with Chris Rea. So??

Saturday, October 27, 2007


I get distracted easily.

Say it ain't so, you say.

I do.

I suppose it's cause I'm basically a rubber band person.

You know, easily entertained.

OK, so let's talk distractions.

I rarely, and I mean, rarely, use any kind of hair products other than shampoo and conditioner.

I'd rather be drawn & quartered than use hair spray.


occasionally, I do try to spruce up a bit.

So in keeping with the sprucing up thingie, I have a can of hair mousse I keep on the bathroom sink counter along with toothbrush, toothpaste, Irish Spring, and Clinique Foaming face cleanser.

I've had the same can of hair mousse on the bathroom sink counter for 3 years now.

So one day I was getting ready to go somewhere, and decided what the hell, I'm gonna mousse my hair and style it.

So I reached for the mousse, squirted some in my hands, and spread it in my hair.

I then went to blow dry it.

I blow dried it

and blow dried it

and fucking blow dried it.

The longer I blow dried it, the more tangled & stickier it got.

You know what I did, right?

That's right, baby.


in my hair.

Clinique'd hair. You ain't lived till you've had it.

2nd distraction.

I have a wall of hair (on my head) that I normally wear in a ponytail.

It's so hot here in the summer that it's just misery untold to wear long hair down on your neck & back.


Even wearing a ponytail, when I'm out working in the yard in 101 degree heat with 70% humidity, some of that hair escapes out of the ponytail holder and plasters itself to my neck.

And the fucker makes a heat rash on my neck.

So I was telling Daughter-in-Law about it and she says, "Me, too. Try some Desitin."


You mean like that baby diaper rash thick white gunky creamy stuff?

Yep. that stuff.

So OK, I bought some Desitin and rubbed some on that heat rash, and voila!

Heat rash was gone in a couple of hours.

The other morning I was really, really sleepy when I had to get up to let the dogs out to do their business.

What the hell, I was up, no going back to sleep, so I stumbled into the bathroom to wash my face & brush my teeth.

And, of course, being distracted (thinking of other things besides the task at hand) AND sleepy,

I brushed my teeth with


The Desitin tube and the toothpaste tube looked virtually identical.

You know, Desitin Diaper Rash Cream doesn't really taste all that bad.

Bitch from hell to get that thick white creamy gunk off your teeth, though.

I had to brush my teeth (with toothpaste) 3 TIMES to get rid of the Desitin.


Distraction No. 3

Gorgeous day, windows rolled down in the car, beebopping into Drippin' to go to the Post Office.

Music blaring, I lit a cig and was jammin' to the music.

Slid into the parking lot, jumped out of the car and headed into

Walked over to my mailbox (inside the Post Office), unlocked it, was reaching in to get the mail when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Spun around to see a Dude standing behind me.

Me: "What?"

Dude: "Ma'am, are you a tad distracted today?"

Me: "What???"

Dude pointed down to the lit

in my hand.

INSIDE the Drippin' Springs Post Office.

Me: "Oh. SHIT!"

I gotta start paying more attention to stuff.

So, what has distracted you lately and what did you do when you were distracted?

Tell me.


© 2007 HillCountryGal

Note: "Wild Horses"


So one day, The OMG Story gods paid me a visit.

A glorious you-have-got-to-be-shitting-me-but thankyoujeesus visit.

I was sitting at my desk in the newsroom reading the *yawn* yearly financial report for the Port Arthur Independent School District when in walked a student and his mama.

I heard them ask the secretary for me by name. She pointed over to me and they walked over to me and said "We've got a story for you."

Me: "Sit down while I get me some coffee."


I just KNEW their "story" was going to be yet another kill-me-I'm-so-bored tale of athletic accomplishments or whatever.

I got my coffee, came back to my desk, sat down facing them on the other side of my desk, and flipped open my reporter's notebook.

Me: "Begin."

Boy Student: "We're in love and want to get married and the School Board is trying to force me to resign as local and national chairman of DECA (Distributive Education Clubs of America)."


Boy Student: "And they want my sponsor, Marty here, to resign her teaching job."

OK, now that got my attention. My full, undivided attention.

Me: "Do tell."

They did.

On a personal note here, let me just say I never missed a beat frantically scribbling my notes, not even when I'd have to stop a sec and pick my jaw up off the floor.

45 minutes later....

I am F-L-Y-I-N-G (running full-tilt) across the newsroom into my editor's office.

Me: "Dub, you are NOT going to believe this."

I tell him the story.

Editor Dub: "Holy shit. Do NOT let them leave before I can find Mike (the photog), you hear me? And get that story written. NOW."


Editor Dub (looking out from his office to THEM): "She must be his first piece."

Student Boy was a senior in high school, honors student, athlete, yada yada who had been offered a full scholarship at the Air Force Academy. Immensely popular, he was first elected President of the local DECA, then elected President of the NATIONAL DECA.

The woman I first thought was his MAMA was a teacher in the PAISD and the local DECA teacher sponsor.

They were "in love."

Had been since the year before, when he was 16 years old, and she was pushing 40.

And the School Board was putting the squeeze on 'em.

Because the School Board did not want the oh-so-dirty-little-secret-scandal to get out.

The oh-so-dirty-little-secret-scandal that was, AT THAT MOMENT, being written by me, looked over by Editor Dub, and placed FRONT & TOP (along with accompanying color photo of the lovebirds) on next day's edition.


And just as an aside here, Boy Student was handsome, too. Oh, and the son of a prominent local pediatrician.

And Marty, his "love" and teacher and sponsor, looked pretty much like a

only pudgier (I'm being nice here) and with dozens, maybe hundreds (don't know exactly, didn't count 'em) of moles (various sizes) on her face & neck.

Anyhoo, after putting the story to bed, I went home.

Now, as is the custom in all newspapers, my editor submitted the story to the Associated Press (AP) and went on about his business.

Next morning.....

I walk into the newsroom.

A newsroom that is utter pandemonium, with print reporters & TV cameras jammed assholes-to-elbows in there.

Editor Dub: "Hill, in my office. NOW."

Me: "What the hell's going on?"

Editor Dub: "AP picked up the story."

Me: "Oh."

Voletta, the newsroom secretary, came stomping in. Voletta was a tall, large Black woman who tolerated me and absolutely hated all white peoples. I once saw her lift Drew Neiman (yes, of the Neiman-Marcus bunch), one of our reporters, OFF the floor (seriously, his feet came OFF the floor) when she bitch-slapped him across the face 'cause he "playfully" bumped her car with his. 30 minutes later, Voletta had 3 dozen red roses delivered to her courtesy of Drew Neiman.

Voletta (holding a HUGE stack of those pink phone note thingies): "Hill, girl, I ain't your personal secretary."

Me: "Yes, Ma'am."

Ya'll, there were phone messages from reporters all over the country, Australia, England, South America, Japan, Canada and several from some new TV person named Oprah. Never had heard of her.


You gotta remember, this all happened BEFORE confessional TV was in vogue, so an overachiever boy student hooked up with his ass-ugly way older female teacher was unheard of.

And this was how I met a


He showed up dripping $$$$.

NE Reporter: "Come write for us."

Me: "Why?"

NE Reporter: "We pay really good."

Me: "How much?"

NE Reporter: "$80,000 a year."

I was making $17,000 a year at the newspaper.

Me: "Fuck."


Me: "What do I have to do for that $80,000 a year?"

NE Reporter: "Move to Florida."

Me: "Shit."

NE Reporter: "Keep your passport on you at all times. Never know when you'll have to hop on a plane on a moment's notice."

Me: "Shit."

NE Reporter: "Do whatever it takes to get the story."

Me: "Tell."

NE Reporter: "Did you read my story about the woman whose parachute didn't open, broke damn near every bone in her body, but she lived to talk about it?"

Me: "No."

NE Reporter: "That was my story. I pretended to be her cousin and snuck into her hospital room. She was in traction, had a tube in her throat, couldn't move, couldn't talk."


NE Reporter: "I asked her what it felt like to realize her chute wasn't gonna open. She grunted. I wrote down "I started praying 'cause I knew I was gonna die." I asked her what she was thinking as she plummeted toward the ground. She moaned. I wrote down "All I could think of was how much I loved my parents and my boyfriend and how I wished I had taken the time to tell them more often how much they meant to me." I asked her was she prepared to die. She made a gurgling sound. I wrote down "As the moment of my certain death was upon me, I made one last wish and that was that my parents and my beloved boyfriend rejoice in my life, not grieve in my death." And that's how I got my interview with her."



Me: "You MADE UP quotes?"

NE Reporter: "Well, yeah, don't you?"

I didn't go to work for The National Enquirer.

I fucking hate Florida.


© 2007 HillCountryGal

Note: "We're All Alone" - Rita Coolidge

Thursday, October 25, 2007


OK, let me just say this before I get started here.

Fuck Blogger.

And his/her Mama.

It's a little after 11 p.m. (still Thursday) and this HO won't let me upload a pix.


I'll try again when I finish writing, and if a pix is here when you read this, then just ignore this top part.

Now that we have that out of the way, let's talk about teachers, shall we?

Why, yes, I do believe we shall.

For some reason, my 10th grade History teacher, Mr. McGuinnis, came to mind earlier today.

Mr. McGuinniss. Ancient as the rocks, boring as a Gregory Lyons.


I'm sorry. Delirious Tired here.

Anyhoo, Mr. McGuiniss is/was my most memorable teacher.

No, he wasn't the best or the worst, just the most memorable.

So let me give you some background here.

When I was in the 9th & 10th grade, I went to school in this little hamlet in North Texas called Melissa. Yep, Melissa was her name.

Melissa Independent School District consisted of Grades K-10 in the same building.

When one got to the 11th grade, one rode the school bus into either McKinney or Anna to finish high school.

Now there were 18 of us in the 10th grade, ranging in age from 15-20.

Yes, there were four guys in class that were either 19 or 20 years old (having failed 4th & 6th grades a couple of times. Each). These dudes didn't have fuzz on their face, they had FULL BLOWN mustaches/scruffy beards.

Which was actually advantageous when our school played other schools in the district in basketball, 'cause hey, we had MEN on our team. They had boys.

Where was I? Oh yeah, Mr. McGuiness.

So Mr. McGuiness' class was a total clusterfuck.

He would stand in front of his teacher podium thingie and drone on & on & on about, well, who knew, 'cause NOBODY listened to him. Not only did nobody listen to him, but most of the students turned their desks around with their BACKS to him and carried on their personal/private conversations. One couple, boy/girl, continuously made out in the back of classroom. Spitballs flew overhead, somebody had a transistor radio playing, and one girl danced. No, not to the music playing on the transistor radio, to the music only she could hear. In her head.

Such was the atmosphere in Mr. McGuinesses' 10th grade History class.

One day, a new boy checked into school.

His name was Gary.

Within 10 minutes of the start of 10th grade History class, Gary would achieve Melissa Independent School District immortality.

That's right.

Mr. McGuiness went Bug.Fuck.Crazy and started choking Gary, on Gary's FIRST DAY AT OUR SCHOOL.

Gary, having probably come from a normal school with standard teachers and/or students, was actually sitting in class, HIS FIRST DAY AT OUR SCHOOL, facing Mr. McGuiness and seemingly, trying to pay attention to him, too.

I saw it coming.

A spitball, way from the back of the classroom, making a beeline for Mr. McGuiness.

Landed right smack dab in the middle of his forehead.

Stuck there, too.

That's when Mr. McGuiness lunged at Gary, the new kid ON HIS FIRST DAY AT OUR SCHOOL who was sitting on the front row facing Mr. McGuiness and actually listening to him, wrapped his hands around Gary's neck and started choking the bejeesus outta him.

Remember the 4 MEN in the class?

Thankgawd they failed 4th & 6th grade. Twice.

'Cause it took all 4 of them to pry Mr. McGuiness' fingers off from around Gary's neck.

And escort Mr. McGuiness to the Principal's office.

After his face turned from blue/red back to normal (beige-ish), Gary drank his first beer (he said it was his first) somebody had handed to him there in class. Which was a true gesture of peer acceptance as the beer in the lunch box was intended as a snack during Study Hall.

The next day, the Principal came into our History class and told us Mr. McGuiness had had a nervous breakdown.

You don't say.

We never saw Mr. McGuiness again but Gary had achieved legend status in our school.

I don't know what Gary sounded like before The Choking, but afterwards, Rod Stewart-ish. Raspy-like, you know?


So. Who was your most memorable teacher? And why?

Tell me.


© 2007 HillCountryGal

Note: "At This Moment" - Billy Vera

Wednesday, October 24, 2007


So this couple in Montgomery, 'Bama, Adrian & Tiffany McKinnon, went away on vacation for a week.

When they got back home and walked in their house, they were stunned to find it had been thoroughly jacked.

Not only had their valuables been carted off, but the thief had been a veritable pig about the stuff he didn't steal.

The thief had emptied cabinets & drawers of EVERYTHING. Just emptied 'em right there on the floor. Piles & piles of stuff.

What had once been a nice home with nice stuff, now had become a nice home with the good stuff gone and the rest, well, like this.

Distraught, Adrian sent Tiffany over to her sister's while he continued surveying the mess.

As he turned to go into the sun room, he ran smack dab into a stranger.

Wearing Adrian's

on his thieving head.

Adrian grabbed his gun and pointed it at Stylin' Thief and made him sit on the floor while he decided what to do.

His solution?

Make the thief CLEAN UP THE MESS HE MADE while they were waiting for the police to arrive.


When said police got to the house, Stylin' Thief BITCHED to the police about being forced to CLEAN UP THE MESS HE MADE.


Sorry, folks, but if I had caught a thief wearing MY COWBOY HAT after he not only robbed me but had the AUDACITY to make a MESS out of MY CLEAN HOUSE, I would have popped his knees with my revolver AFTER he finished cleaning.

Drippin' Springs Sheriff's Department: "Ms. Hill, asshole thief there said you deliberately shot him in the knees."

Me: "Sheriff, he was wearing MY COWBOY HAT."


Me: "Gun accidentally discharged."

Drippin' Springs Sheriff's Department: "Happens sometimes with that particular make and model. You have yourself a nice day now, Ma'am, you hear?"




© 2007 HillCountryGal

Note: "Walking in a Hurricane." :)


Today is Class Project day.

We're gonna do something my old journalism (Hi, Mr. McCarroll, RIP and don't worry about the PR flacks that call themselves journos, the truth will waste 'em eventually) professor used to have us do just for shits 'n giggles, as he called it.

Alright, here's what we do.

I'm gonna start this tale by writing one incomplete paragraph.

YOU are then going to write the NEXT paragraph in the comments section.

That's right, YOU.

EVERYBODY that stops by here today is gonna add a paragraph.

Then we will repeat the process.

You will not believe how this story will end.

Let's go where the wild things grow, Hill-style.


Let's rock.

Oh, and be sure to put YOUR paragraph in parenthesis so we'll know you're STORYTELLING, not just BULLSHITTING, as usual.


OK, let's get it on.

Lake Travis at sunset, courtesy of Asshole Hubby No. 2

"It was a dark and stormy night The alarm clock went off way too early this morning. Eyes shut tight, I reached over and punched that bitch. No use. I'm awake now. Even though my suitcase is locked & loaded, I have to hurry. As usual, I've waited until the last possible moment to...."

Your turn.


© 2007 HillCountryGal

Note: Let's do some Lang this a.m., shall we? Yes, we shall.

Tuesday, October 23, 2007


So one Saturday morning I was sleeping late.

It was the ONLY time I could sleep until 8 a.m. as opposed to having to wake my ass up at 5 a.m. every single day of the week, and let me tell you, those extra hours were absolutely sacred to me.

I was hardcore about it, too. There better be one really, really good reason to wake me up early on Saturday.

One really, really good reason.

Saturday morning. 7 a.m.

Kids (both of 'em): "Mama, Mama, get up, Skip's taking out the trash...."

Me (eyes closed): "Get. Out. Of. Here. Now."

Sondi (10 years old): "Mama, get up. Skips' taking out the trash dressed in woman clothes."

Joe (6 years old): "She ain't lying, Mama."

Me (eyes still closed): "Git your asses out of my bedroom! I'm still sleeping."

Sondi: "Mama, we SWEAR Skip's taking out the trash dressed in woman clothes."

Joe: "Swear, Mama."

Me (eyes still closed): "Oh gawd! I'm gonna whip your asses for waking me up AND for lying to me."

Kids (both of 'em): "We ain't lying, Mama."


So I crawled out of bed, headed down the hallway (eyes still partially closed), kids trailing behind me.

Me: "You know both of you are gonna git your asses whipped for lying, don't you?"

Kids (both of 'em): "Mama, look out the window."


I walked over to the kitchen window, pulled back the curtain, and


Skip was hauling his trash to the dumpster decked out in full



There he was, my manly manly neighbor Skip, who ALWAYS had a 5 o'clock shadow, decked out, HEAD TO TOE, in a Billie Jean King outfit. Tennis shirt. Tennis skirt. Tennis shoes. Tennis socks (with those little white puffy balls on the back). Tennis racket slung over one shoulder. Dark curly wig. Big glasses. Trash bags in both hands with another draped on his other shoulder like a fucking purse.

Sondi: "Told you."

Joe: "Me, too."


Sondi: "Mama, does Skip play tennis?"

Joe: "Mama, does he?"


Sondi: "Skip said Hi when he walked by. I said Hi back."

Joe: "I said Hi."


Sondi: "Mama..."

Me: "I need coffee. Now. Lots of it."

Sondi: "Mama, can I take tennis lessons?"

Joe: "Me, too, Mama. Can I play tennis? I don't have to wear woman clothes, do I?"

Me: "Ohgawd, hush UP. You guys want to go to the park?"

Kids (both of 'em): "YEA!!! The park. Yes, Mama!"

Me: "Then git your asses in the car. Let's go."

Now I have to 'fess up something here, folks.

I swear I'm NOT lying.

I was 30 YEARS OLD and had NO IDEA what a cross-dresser was.

Never seen one before. Well, I might have, but I didn't know they were cross-dressing.


Skip, his wife and their kid (who I'm pretty sure was fathered by Ronald McDonald - bright orange hair, big-ass feet) had been my neighbors for 3 years. Three utterly uneventful years.

Then one Saturday morning, for whatever reason, Skip decided to come out while TAKING THE GARBAGE OUT.

So a pattern developed. When Skip was gonna do his thing puttering around his yard in his various outfits (which, BTW, were all, with the exception of Billie Jean, old, frumpy women clothes), he always backed his truck into his driveway, as opposed to pulling it in front first, like he normally did.

Weeks passed.....

Saturday morning. 7 a.m.

Kids (both of 'em): "Mama, Mama, get up. Somebody's knocking on the door."

Me: "Shit!"

Kids (both of 'em): "We ain't lying, Mama. Get up."


So I stumbled down the hallway, kids trailing behind me, walked up to the front door, opened it, and there was

Yes, with a FUCKING PRICE TAG dangling from the flowery straw hat.

On Skip's head.

Me: "How-DEE!"

Minnie Skip: "We're moving. Just stopped by to say Bye."

And with that, he spun around on his Hee Haw shoes and PHFFT! He was gone.

Kids (both of 'em): "Mama, where's Skip moving to?"

Me: "Kornfield Kounty. Hey, you guys want to go to the park?"

Kids (both of 'em): "YEA!!! The park. Yes, Mama!"

Me: "Then git your asses in the car. Let's go."

Pickin' and Grinnin'


© 2007 HillCountryGal

Note: More Santana. YEA! Now git your asses in the car and let's go!

Sunday, October 21, 2007



Yea! It's Monday.

Time for

The Adventures of Stupid Criminals.

So up in Akron these 2 dudes decided they really, really wanted $10 worth of candy.

Problem was, they were short $10.

Ah-ha. Problem solved.

They would rob a convenience store of $10 worth of candy.

That's like, what, about 10 candy bars, yes?

Anyway, they immediately encountered their first obstacle.

The weapon.

So I imagined what that conversation must have been like.

Dude #1: "You got a gun?"

Dude #2: "Nope."

Dude #1: "Knife?"

Dude #2: "Nope."

Dude #1: "Baseball bat?"

Dude #2: "Nope.

Dude #1: "Tire iron?"

Dude #2: "Negative."

Dude #1: "Killer fists?"

Dude #2: "Nope."

Dude #1: Snowball?"

Dude #2: "HELL yeah."

Which brings up something else, too.

How much of an out-n-out *pussy* do you have to be to be robbed at snowball-point?

Hell, if I had been the robbed clerk, I do believe I would have chewed off both my hands at the wrist to prevent my ass from dialing 911 to report that I gave it up because I got hit with a SNOWBALL.

Stay frosty, baby.


© 2007 HillCountryGal

Note: "Into the Night" - Chad Kroeger/Santana