New Beginnings

Posted in Uncategorized on February 21, 2014 by the Wicked Bitch

so, i will be forty years old Monday. I hear this bothers most women… my 30th birthday actually bothered me…. but perspectives change when you get terminal illnesses. i am damned proud of every single day of that 40 years and now i am on a mission to make forty more. I feel beautiful.. confident.. aged like fine wine. I love that I now have so much more wisdom than when I was 20… I love the face my body decided would be me as an adult woman. I love my life and my husband and my dogs and my church. Me n God, we are on pretty good speaking terms, too. I am very excited about my birthday party tomorrow night, and looking forward to seeing all of the wonderful  people in my life….. For all the people who despise me, kiss my ass. I’m here and I’m stayin’ here and there’s nothing you can do about it. I won’t go down without a fight… in fact, perhaps I have only just begun.




Posted in Uncategorized on February 4, 2014 by the Wicked Bitch

I just read a stupid article from InStyle magazine on twitter. It involves the ten must have items for a woman’s closet. I agree with basically nothing in the article. Why the hell do I need a ‘statement necklace’ that looks like a logging chain with wooden beads on it? In what world would I ever wear red flats? I own 29 pair of red shoes… None lower than a three inch heel except one pair of Chanel sandals. So, I have decided to write a list of ten things a REAL woman needs in her closet.

1. A good leather jacket.. Not one of those stupid cheap pleather things, either.

2. Jeans that don’t cut off the blood circulation to your vagina when you straddle a motorcycle.

3. A 1911A, 9mm, Lady Smith or whatever weapon you are efficient with. Not efficient with a weapon? Go fix THAT then come back and read some more.

4. A good, sturdy, preferably designer, bag that effectively conceals number three. Your gun needs to be carried in a pocket in your vest or purse where you carry NOTHING else. It’s hard to be badass if you pull out a gun with a pair of panties, one earring, a Tj maxx receipt and a fruit loop hanging off of it.

5. A Louisville Slugger.

6. Fuck me heels that you actually know how to walk in. Practice until you don’t look like a hog on ice.

7. Good foundation garments. Nobody wants to look at your muffin top, moose foot, or pendulous boobs that look like two oranges in a pair of pantyhose with nipples that look like shriveled prunes.

8. Tweezers. It doesn’t matter how beautiful your clothes are. A cluster of pube-like hairs on your face blowing in the wind or a Neanderthal unibrow or a Ron Jeremy pornstache kinda ruins the overall effect.

9. Clothes that FIT. Just because it zips does not mean it fits. You have a mirror.. Utilize it. If YOU can see belly rolls, bunching material and straining seams, so can everyone else.

10. Clothes YOU feel comfortable in. If you don’t have the body for this years crop tops and skinny jeans, don’t wear them. Your style belongs to you and only you.

An Auto Body Experience

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , on January 4, 2014 by the Wicked Bitch



I grew up in my Daddy’s shadow in his body shop. I learned to shape metal the old way, with donkey dick hammers and dollies and mashed fingers, kinda like as an apprentice to my daddy, who apprenticed to his uncle. Some families are doctors, some lawyers… My family is known for fixing cars. Think Marissa Tomei in My Cousin Vinny… I bet one of my family members has worked at damned near every body shop in south arkansas at some time or other. My very earliest memories in life are the cars… I once heard someone make a comment that they put me on the hood of a Road Runner to put me to sleep. If this is true, and I have no reason to doubt it, then even the powder puffed scented infant’s dreams that wafted through my burgeoning soul and escaped on milk scented breath were comforted by the sound of a thudding steady metalic heartbeat of a Dodge Hemi. I DO remember an orange road runner from those earliest years, before my Dad had his own shop and worked for Uncle Tom… The sleek black seats, the tiny road runner emblems.. I would look at them and say, ‘Beep, Beep.’. It would make the windows rattle in Uncle Tom’s office… I remember a red probably mid sixties mustang.. I remember an old VW bug that was covered in so much overspray film I don’t know what color it was. The scent of lacquer thinner primer is my scent of home. I remember watching my Daddy expertly grind away at a dent with a huge grinder, sparks flying all over him and he didnt even flinch… He would then squirt out a huge turd of cold grey bondo and begin squeezing the red hardener in.. His big strong hands would then expertly mix the mound like a chef with a pastry, a modeler with his clay… Then he would slop the wet dripping mess onto a car fender, and almost magically mold it with a little plastic putty knife into an actual part of the car…. I would lay my little girl hands on the bondo and feel it heat up… Not knowing it was a chemical reaction and thinking it was something magical my dad did to make the car well again… Well, I grew into those same skills.. I spent many, many hours barefoot without a paint mask, laying a gleaming coat on car after car after car.. A kaleidoscope of machinery… The rainbow of my youth. I adore cars… I always have and always will…. I’ll write more about what it was like growing up a car girl soon.. I am enjoying these memories .. I can still feel the roaring engines of the ghosts of autos past… I will perhaps share with you a 57 t bird that my daddy painted pearl white on a cold thanksgiving morning… I may whisper in your ear the secrets I thought about as I sat at age 11 or 12 atop a Mack truck and expertly prepared it to be painted… For now, I shall now go and dream big girls dreams of the steering wheels of the past which have guided my soul…

I go out walkin’ after midnight….

Posted in Uncategorized on January 2, 2014 by the Wicked Bitch


tomorrow i am going to duct tape my brother in law to the wall and rip out his toenails with pliers. rusty ones. this afternoon he says “you need anything from town? i say “yes, cigarettes.” about 11:30 i go looking for them to no avail. i call chris and he groggily says “oh i forgot.. ill do it sometimes tomorrow. im going to bed now. goodbye.” WHAT? WTF? i am amped up still like a methhead on steroids from my Benlysta infusion yesterday and done drank about a half pint of jager and smoked pot all day and had bad ass drugs pumped into me yesterday… well. i make it 2 hours and a joint later and i decide fuck it, i’m going to the Day-n-Nite. So, in my Mickey Mouse pajamas and knee high purple boots i gallantly stagger to my Mustang and very carefully and conscientiously get in, start the car, let it warm up, put on my seat belt, adjust the stereo and away i go, carefully zooming through the absolutely deserted streets two blocks to the Day-n-Nite. Well i get there and guess what. there’s a cop there. I lean over and pretend to get my purse and spray perfume in my hand and kinda rub myself.. and waltz up into the store. it’s not just a cop. when you live in a town of approximately 12 people and a coon dog, you are gonna know at least one cop. thankfully the cop i know seems very nice, he is the K9 cop and he has had to come over a couple times with the EMTs when bob had a major diabetic episode. but he is still A COP. There is not one single solitary cop on earth who doesn’t cause my insides to get all fucked up when i have to interact with one. Well. I go into the store in my pjs and of course he wants to talk. “Yes, Bob’s doin fine. he just turned 70..” i’m talkin to a cop, i reek of pot and jager, and there’s pot in my purse. “Oh, yea, I still have my bike.. I don’t ride as much as I used to.” I don’t have on a bra and i am talking to a cop and i have pot in my purse.. and fuck, the gun…. “Yes, I am getting along okay, thank you… yes, my dog is fine… yea.. i see your girl remembers me.. shes barking out the window… no, i didn’t do the dog show this year…” the drug dog is going nuts and i have on no bra and i am talking to a cop and i have pot and a gun in my purse and nobody knows where i am but this cop. “Well thank you, Happy New Year to you too.” I am being HUGGED by a cop with no bra on while his dog foams at the mouth at the effervescence of marijuana that forms a cloud around me and i have pot and a gun in my purse…” Chris is SO going to get it. Soon as my colon ceases to spasm.

stanky ass people

Posted in Uncategorized on December 20, 2013 by the Wicked Bitch

The entire human race is on a steady crusade to completely eradicate the structural subtle nuances that separate us from other living creatures. If you stand and watch a crowd, it becomes a circus of stupidity. Everyone is just too much too much. Young girls no longer dress kinda sexy. Now they have to have their ass cheeks hanging out and no bra and giant hair and more make up than Gene Simmons. Or what used to be the skaters or beatniks or grunge kids, depending how old you are,.. they now look like something out of Rocky Horror Picture Show. Old ladies all have decided to be cougars with fake boobs and turkey necks in leopard print and fuck me heels.. young girls walk around in pajamas and crocs and doodoo ball hair.. We are on a steady downhill plunge toward the total annihilation of any type of class whatsoever. Humans are gross and seem to be much more open with it than usual. I miss the days when big women wore caftans or loose fitting clothing.. I am sick of seeing a muffin top under a baby doll t-shirt over a pair of Miss Mes that are screaming for help, sportng a camel toe where one could park a Buick Skylark. Then there are the bone thin one chewing their jaws and twitching their fingers and looking around suspiciously from hollowed out eyes.. so yea, THAT’S a nice attractive healthy meth pallor you chicks got goin’ on there… Men are walking around looking stanky too. Either their pants are sagging and their baseball caps are shaped stupid or else they look like they haven’t changed their styles since their mom bought their clothes for seventh grade. And when did camouflage become acceptable attire for all public occasions? What is going on with people? Does nobody CARE how they look anymore? Why is mankind as a whole just diving head first into the swineliness of the masses, wallowing about in graceless glee in their slovenly lifestyles?  I would not be surprised if the entire world turns into grotesque neanderthals with iphones. “Who has time for a bath?! I need to finish this level of Angry Birds!” “So what if one could braid my armpit hair… I am kicking ass on Candy Crush!” Wake up and clean up your nasty selves, people. seriously. 

..Walkin’ on the Fightin’ Side of Me

Posted in Uncategorized on December 20, 2013 by the Wicked Bitch

I see the Twatlizard is now posting “bullying” crap all over her page. I don’t give a shit. I am going to stand up for what I think is right. I am not going to stand for con artists or liars to take advantage of people I care about. I refuse to stand idly by while some skanky asshole tells lie on my friends and accusing them of things they didn’t do. I will jump back at you like a rabid pitbull and you better pray to God somebody has a hold on the leash. I didn’t threaten to do anything to her. I offered politely to meet her face to face and handle this like civilized adults… with a cat fight. It’s not my fault this frightened her and she took it as a threat. I would think someone who is supposedly a modern day Annie Oakley riding around strapped to the gills in her trusty RV would welcome the chance to prove her badass self to all her loyal followers. So sorry I made you have to go take some pills funded by donations and cry into the General Twatwaffle’s smelly armpit, ho. Tell me, who is providing Christmas for YOUR kids while you are out playing escaped convict and the warden’s wife with whomever will let you hitch a ride? 

Mr. Assbag Goes to Washington

Posted in Uncategorized on December 20, 2013 by the Wicked Bitch

I have read reports that one in five Americans believe Obama is a Muslim… I am one of them. 

During his much publicized march to the Oval Office, President Barack Obama claimed to be a Christian.The evangelical lobby embraced this new charismatic hopeful with open arms. But at the very same time, on national television, Mr. Obama made the statement that it is his opinion that what’s written in the Bible is obscure and irrelevant for today. SO what is he saying here? He is a Christian who believes the Bible is irrelevant? Yea, that makes about as much sense as most of the other fecal matter that has spewed from his lying puppeteer lips.

He spouted just enough Bible rhetoric to garner the support of the religious right, and got it, while at the same time pretending to be sympathetic to special interest lobby groups. He avoided taking a hard stand on any issue considered to be divisive, but has many times over stated that he stands on Islamic ground. His promise to fundamentally transform America is fastly proving to be accurate, all right. Towards socialism and Islam. The dirty bastard could keep his change as far as I am concerned.

President Obama’s speech to the Congressional Hispanic Caucus on September 15, 2010, is evidence of just how anti-Christian he really is. Any person who has ever studied America’s true history, unmolested by academia and the judiciary, knows that our founding fathers were greatly influenced by Judeo-Christian values. The evidence is undebatable.. this is one nation under God, not one nation under Barrack Obama or Allah. Thomas Jefferson, penned his moral values clearly and distinctly, “We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” This statement has become, throughout American history, the moral standard by which many citizens of the United States have strived to uphold. Our creator it says. My Bible says “In the beginning God created..” The God referenced here is quite plainly God Jehovah… not some trumped up apparition named Allah imagined during postcoital bliss with a six year old Aisha pedophilic stupor of a blind madman named Mohammed. Its so perfectly easy to look at the two books, the Bible and the Quran, side by side and see that the Quran is in fact nothing but a cheap rip off of the real thing.. It is equivalent to the comparison of Dog Patch to Disneyland… a mudhole to the Grand Canyon. How can anyone be so stupid as to believe that these two books say the same thing? To me, this is proof of the breakdown of mental discourse in reference to spirituality and God in our country… THIS is why you are all broke and sick and sad and hungry and watching your government fall apart… because you turned your back on God. Watching Duck Dynasty and posting pictures of Phil on your page does not make you a Christian. Believing in Jesus does. It’s this kind of blind idiocy that has allowed people like that snake in the grass Obama to take over this once great nation.Too many people have their heads up their asses.

The ideal mentioned by Thomas Jefferson are not shared by Obama. In his speech, he quoted this famous historical statement in its entirety, minus a few very important words, saying “That they are endowed by their Creator” to the erupting applause of the predominately Hispanic audience who probably had no idea what he was saying anyway. Every time President Obama opens his mouth, the evidence of his world-view incriminates many statements he has previously made, and wobble headed drooling idiots gush in near orgasmic stupor if he so much as burps. And don;t even get me started on the fake fainting scenes where he rushes to the rescue.

I question his sincerity of the faith he proclaims because he straddles the fence of Christianity and Islam. Either you believe the Bible is the inspired Word of God or you do not. If you really think about the context which he was referring to, that Scripture is irrelevant, his comment is the epitome of ignorance. The passage of scripture he referred to in Romans 1, is a very real and definitive description of what the American culture has become. And this man is heralded by the advocates of change to be their Messiah who knows what is best for you and me, and trudge along behind him like blind slugs because he utters some line from the Bible now and then, conveniently ignoring the fact that he has stated repeatedly that he will stand with the Muslims, and has sent so much of our nations money to Muslim terrorists that we are broke as a welfare mom on the last day of the month. This picture should keep Americans lying awake at night shuddering in fear and revulsion.

What the American people haven’t taken the time to do, then or even now, is find out what this man really stands for. Based upon my research and to the best of my understanding, Mr. Obama adheres to ideals much like that of the Fabian Communitarian socialist agenda, and has strong Muslim beliefs as well. Individuals who adhere to Fabian doctrine plan to implement world socialism incrementally through legislation. They believe individualism has no relevance, and private ownership of business and lands should be relinquished for the good of the state and the welfare of other people. This works in quite nicely with the Muslim agenda to basically take over the earth and make everyone pay taxes to live in their society. We all remember the now famous “Joe the Plumber” question and what Mr. Obama’s response was. He wants to spread the wealth around. How much wealth have YOU received thus far? All I see Americans getting is a shitty healthcare plan forced upon them under threat of a fine labeled as a “tax.” If he is the man you have based your hope of change upon, and if this is the kind of change you actually want, you are exactly what the ruling class has created. A people unaware of the reality that awaits. President Obama is not, nor has he ever been a true Christian. Is he a Muslim? I believe so..We will probably never really know. I honestly don’t think Mr. Obama knows who he truly is. He is a well groomed monkey for the placement in the Oval Office. IF he did at any point possess thoughts and intelligence of his own, long since have those who were his mentors, clouded his reason and this is evidenced by the utter chaos of his and his administrations actions.

The real purpose for Mr. Obama’s placement in the Oval Office by those who are truly in power is being witnessed by the great influx of governmental control over the financial and business industries, and the promotion of every ideal that opposes what the true Christian world-view stands for. Through the control of money through credit and lending, the government will eventually control the people. With leaders like these making decisions affecting every person’s life, it’s very clear why America’s foundation has been ruptured and is sinking faster than the Titanic. Truth has been banished from the scales of justice only to allow lies for the intent of deceiving the masses. There is no such thing as unbiased media and it has nearly reached the point of the propaganda spread in Nazi Germany.. This doesn’t bother anybody, though, as long as they get to see who is visiting Kim Kardashian’s vagina or what Miley is licking today. There has been so much neglect and abuse to the needs of humanity that God’s judgment could very well be to allow His people to be led by men and women with no moral ethics. I believe God has given the American people not only what we want, but also what we deserve.

The Bible commands the Christian to pray for those in authority, and my prayer for Mr. Obama is to come to the saving knowledge of Jesus Christ… right before he jumps off a cliff. His stand alone on politics proves he has no knowledge of the life transforming power of the Gospel.

And to those of you who were, and are, the proponents of his hope and change platform, the fools you were played to be…


Softail Showdown… FLSTN Grudge Match.. Mooglide vs. Deluxe

Posted in Uncategorized on December 17, 2013 by the Wicked Bitch


The 1993 model year was the ONLY time Harley would strictly limit a very low production for any bike. They would call it the “Nostalgia” and give it a “numbered plate” – in this case  2700 units. Now for reasons unknown, but probably the original’s popularity and quick sellout, Harley decided to continue the model line. This created a problem, however, since the original Nostalgia owners believe their bikes to be what they truly are: one year, limited and numbered examples. Harley tried to appease the original owners by changing the name of the 1994 model to “Special” and by dropping the limited-edition numbering. BUT THEY KEPT the model line designation as FLSTN. This thinly-guised continuation of a promised “one-year-only” model should have annoyed all of us owners of the one and only true Nostalgia. Hey, they even kept using the cow-fur seat and bag accents on the 1994s but this time in all-black vs the original brown-and-white: the genesis for the nickname “Moo Glide”(only to drop fur use for 95 and 96 in favor of a 2-tone leather seat with “laser inscribed” H-D logo). For 1994 Silver/Birch White FLSTN Heritage Softail Special, which really had nothing special about it other than the name stolen from the year before. The true Moo-Glide, a Nostalgia, or a numbered limited production bike – all that stuff was only for the 1993 owners. Many still call ANY of the FLSTNs the “Nostalgia” but Harley never did. The 1993 is THE Nostalgia, the 94-96 is the Special, and the newer ones are the Deluxe…all FLSTN but three different animals! The 94-96 production was not numbered, but was limited in the sense that Harley built a certain number of them and not as many as the public wanted. Lastly, the Specials, unlike most other bikes in the lineup, came in only ONE two-tone color choice for each year. 93:Black on White with red pinstriping 94:Silver on White with red pinstriping, 95:Black on Charcoal with plum pinstriping 96:Silver on Dark Green with gold pinstriping. ONLY the 93s were limited to 2,700 units. The others were produced in low numbers, probably more than the original, but certainly around 5,000 for each model year, as Harley tried to cash in on the new model’s popularity. The rareness on the 94-96 bikes depend on how many examples remain today in good condition..This Harley Softail Heritage is a real head turner wherever it goes… the one i own has NEVER entered a show and not won a trophy.  The 1993 Heritage Softail is the ONLY YEAR NUMBERED FOR THE FLSTN MODELS , LIMITED EDITION motorcycle that Harley Davidson ever produced to date. 2000 of these Harleys were originally distributed in the USA and the other 700 were distributed to bikers throughout the rest of the world. It is believed there are less than 1000 of the 1993 Harley Davidson Softail Heritage FLSTN Nostalgia “Moo-Glide” motorcycles left. I own number 1829.She has been through 2 totals, one deer wreck and the largest hail storm in Sturgis history. I have had her 11 years this past Halloween and been to Sturgis on her twice. her name is Irene. She has also been displayed in the Full Throttle Saloon during the first year’s filming of the television show.



This is a true mooglide with $27,000 worth of extras. She has been published in four books all over the world. I got her at Chicago Harley Davidson. This is what she looked like factory….



Now.. I been pissed off ever since they came out with that damned black and white Deluxe and it’s even named an FLSTN. This newer version, while a beautiful, perfectly gorgeous bike, takes away from the uniqueness of the Mooglide. It should not have been released in the same paint scheme as the limited edition models. Now EVERY DAMNED TIME I ride or post a picture of facebook, someone says “Is that a Deluxe?” or “Your bike is just like mine,” No.. it isn’t. Mine is an extremely rare antique limited edition with handmade one of a kind pieces. yours are one of thousands upon thousands. This pisses me off ALMOST as much as someone saying their Honda 450 “sounds just like a Harley.” I am usually polite and just say, “no, my bike is the grandmother to yours.” Unless its an asshole of course… then I revel in teaching him a little Harley history.

Here is an article about the new FLSTN. What do ya’ll think? Irene or this new imitation?

But i Didn’t Say Fudge…

Posted in Uncategorized on December 17, 2013 by the Wicked Bitch



I get fussed at a lot about the way I talk. I even get told I am not a Christian. You show me where the Hebrew translated Bible says I can’t say twatwaffle or mutton fuck or i will go to hell and i will be sure to adhere to it. See, I was pretty much BORN with a potty mouth. I been in trouble for dirty words as long as I can remember. When I first started talking, my octogenarian, very southern racist grandmother babysat me. Well. There was also a very nice old black lady who worked at Safeway. As I have said, my family is mostly deaf. my mom did not yet wear hearing aids, she just knew I was handing the groceries in the buggy to the cashier and jabbering in the talk of a small child. When she finally noticed the stricken look on the ladies face and realized what i was saying, it was, ” Here, nigger… Here, nigger… Here, nigger.” I got a spanking.

A short time later, I was once again in Safeway handing the same cashier the groceries, saying things like “This is the peas i eat for supper. These are the Cheerios I eat for breakfast…” I was doing fine until I said, “This is the toilet paper I wipe my ass with.” I got a spanking.

My grandma had a favorite saying.. it was “You make my ass want a dip of snuff.” Well, we were taught to refer to our vaginas as our “moody”… One day my dad was aggravating me about something… i KNEW i wasn’t supposed to say ass, and i KNEW i wasn’t supposed to have anything to do with my Grandmother’s semi secret snuff dipping… so. I said to my Dad, “You make my moody want a drink of water.” I got a spanking when my mom got home.

Right after my sister was born, they posed us on a tree trunk for a picture in matching overalls… i was around four. they told me “hold jayme until we take your picture.” So i did. after the camera flashed I quit holding her and she sorta rolled to the bottom of the tree trunk, right into an ant bed. Well, I got a spanking. Then i tried to explain by saying, “i didn’t MEAN to drop Jayme in the piss ants!”. So i got another spanking.

One day we left church and were going to lunch in town… I was just at the age where I sounded out words on signs. In front of the Mad Butcher someone had rearranged the letters in the middle of the night, I guess, because I sounded out “Let-us FUCK!” on the lighted sign by the road. i got a spanking.

I learned a poem in Kindergarten and came home and told it to my Grandmother… It goes like “I love little pussy, her coat is so warm… and if I don’t hurt her she’ll do me no harm.” I got a spanking.

No wonder my ass is flatter than Miley Cyrus’s voice.




A Soldier’s Christmas

Posted in Uncategorized on December 15, 2013 by the Wicked Bitch


The embers glowed softly, and in their dim light,
I gazed round the room and I cherished the sight.
My wife was asleep, her head on my chest,
my daughter beside me, angelic in rest.

Outside the snow fell, a blanket of white,
Transforming the yard to a winter delight.
The sparkling lights in the tree, I believe,
Completed the magic that was Christmas Eve.

My eyelids were heavy, my breathing was deep,
Secure and surrounded by love I would sleep
in perfect contentment, or so it would seem.
So I slumbered, perhaps I started to dream.

The sound wasn’t loud, and it wasn’t too near,
But I opened my eye when it tickled my ear.
Perhaps just a cough, I didn’t quite know,
Then the sure sound of footsteps outside in the snow.

My soul gave a tremble, I struggled to hear,
and I crept to the door just to see who was near.
Standing out in the cold and the dark of the night,
A lone figure stood, his face weary and tight.

A soldier, I puzzled, some twenty years old
Perhaps a Marine, huddled here in the cold.
Alone in the dark, he looked up and smiled,
Standing watch over me, and my wife and my child.

“What are you doing?” I asked without fear
“Come in this moment, it’s freezing out here!
Put down your pack, brush the snow from your sleeve,
You should be at home on a cold Christmas Eve!”

For barely a moment I saw his eyes shift,
away from the cold and the snow blown in drifts,
to the window that danced with a warm fire’s light
then he sighed and he said “It’s really all right,
I’m out here by choice. I’m here every night”

“Its my duty to stand at the front of the line,
that separates you from the darkest of times.
No one had to ask or beg or implore me,
I’m proud to stand here like my fathers before me.

My Gramps died at ‘Pearl on a day in December,”
then he sighed, “That’s a Christmas ‘Gram always remembers.”
My dad stood his watch in the jungles of ‘Nam
And now it is my turn and so, here I am.

I’ve not seen my own son in more than a while,
But my wife sends me pictures, he’s sure got her smile.
Then he bent and he carefully pulled from his bag,
The red white and blue… an American flag.

“I can live through the cold and the being alone,
Away from my family, my house and my home,
I can stand at my post through the rain and the sleet,
I can sleep in a foxhole with little to eat,
I can carry the weight of killing another
or lay down my life with my sisters and brothers
who stand at the front against any and all,
to insure for all time that this flag will not fall.”

“So go back inside,” he said, “harbor no fright
Your family is waiting and I’ll be all right.”
“But isn’t there something I can do, at the least,
“Give you money,” I asked, “or prepare you a feast?
It seems all too little for all that you’ve done,
For being away from your wife and your son.”

Then his eye welled a tear that held no regret,
“Just tell us you love us, and never forget
To fight for our rights back at home while we’re gone.
To stand your own watch, no matter how long.

For when we come home, either standing or dead,
to know you remember we fought and we bled
is payment enough, and with that we will trust.
That we mattered to you as you mattered to us.”

The poem “A Soldier’s Christmas” was written by Michael Marks and was part of a collection of works drafted on Pearl Harbor Day 2000

The Toe Suck Fairy

Posted in Uncategorized on December 14, 2013 by the Wicked Bitch



The toe Suck Fairy first appeared in North Arkansas when I was in high school down in the Monticello delta. His name is Michael Wyatt. He has fascinated me and terrified me ever since the very first time I heard about him. He reappeared in 1999.. He has been to jail for offering to amputate women’s feet or suck their toes. he even pulled house shoes off an old lady and sucked her toes. You know this creep has a collection of feets somewhere. They keep sending him to jail for a year or so then releasing him back on the unsuspecting feets of Arkansas women with a court order to basically not do it again… yea, that’s worked REALLY well for the last 25 years or so, stupid cops. Well… it just so happens, every time he appears, it’s a little bit closer to where I am. It’s now at the point that he is in the same stores I shop at. He got caught at a tj Maxx and a Petsmart that I frequent… (I don’t even wanna know what was up with the Petsmart.) As you all know, I have a collection of shoes that could fill a warehouse. my dog Honey wears long french manicured nails… We should be prime bait. So. I have decided that instead of being afraid of him, I am gonna HUNT for him. When he isn’t locked up, I wear a perfect manicure and scrumptious expensive heels when I go to that area HOPING to run across him. I have become the toe sucker vigilante. i WANT him to attack me. because I am pretty sure i can stomp his little fetish right out of him. I relish the though of him jumping out from under my Mustang and me just stomping on him with a six inch steel rod stiletto until I get tired of it… mainly in the genital area. My sister is always worried that some old guy is gonna fall at my feet or compliment my shoes and I am gonna attack an innocent victim. The Toe Sucker is currently in jail, again, until July so I am now on break. I have considered writing the cops and offering to come up there and help with his court ordered “therapy.”

peeking through the windows of my soul…

Posted in Uncategorized on December 14, 2013 by the Wicked Bitch

To heights one may never dream of, I strive to ascend… but tripping the surly bonds of earth on laughter silvered wings has such dire consequences, for alas when I fall, its not a stumble, but a drastic crashing of life and limb into the depths of bitter surliness that leaves me heartsore and weary. I am a conglomerate of idiotic and idyllic idiosyncrasies, patched together like an ancient quilt, barely held together by feeble stitches in time of a long begotten hand. My vernacular is a ghost of yesteryear. My physique, I revel in it in all my narcissistic glory… Yea, I vomit my guts out and kill myself at the gym to look the way I do.. This coupled with the emancipation of disease gives me a much longed for appearance.. by strangers, who have no comprehensible understanding of the price I pay for my long lithe body.. They can’t see the death that is ever present within my eyes, my skin color. I MUST flaunt my beauty now because I do not have long to do so. I feel the wings of my lupus butterfly tightening around me all the time, wrapping me in a golden chain of misunderstood torture, slowly choking the life out of me.. a gilded dungeon in a private palace erected in my mind. As one explores the cavernous spaces of my ponderous mental dwelling, One may encounter a room of the highest end fashion, a steady and serious expedition to stay abreast of the latest in couture. in another room, one may find Willie Nelson and the lingering aroma of marijuana whispering through in skunky sweet bliss, a bittersweet conglomeration of a honky tonk angel’s memories and wicked sweet delta nights. Yet another chamber unveils America in her former glory.. the stars and stripes of yesteryear that flew over Normandy, not the floundering fucktards we call our government these days… within this room I fight a ceaseless tireless battle to save a country who couldn’t care less if I live or die.. whose very citizens spit upon my efforts to save their very way of life.  IF we wander on, we find another room is a vast library.. and endless collection of unprecedented eclectic literary bounty never before imagined, both read and  imagined and written upon my very soul, branded within my memories… there is a room of stilettos and fishnets and low lamps and breath ratcheting in the dance as old as time, the conjecture of one’s most private sanctuaries by, strangely enough, poking parts of one’s body into another person’s.. Here, in this delightfully carnal abyss, men bury themselves in the wet heat into which they delve as deep as their manhood allows, and their thoughts are lost to skitter down their spines and gather in a throbbing heartbeat within their testicles in anticipation of a volcanic eruption of wet, sticky, spurting proportions. A woman will impale herself upon the velvet iron rod and squirm until she can feel the rhythm of the womb, the throbbing, aching accumulation of spasms that leave her breathless on a floating cloud as he grunts and moans and thrusts his way to oblivion inside her very cavern of secrets and secretions while she daydreams of a wedding ring or a new designer bag or picking up her kids from school in an hour because her husband is at work. There is also a dark and scary cavern, perhaps beneath the stairwell that I trudge forth, ever upwards, day by day, like Sisyphus and his ceaseless moving of a rock up a mountain.. for no more futile exertion on earth exists than fighting the same almost unbearable battle with yourself, day after day after endless fucking day. Within this cavern, I store my fears of “What if this my last Christmas?”.. I store the tears of pain and the gnashing of teeth and growling in agony when tortured by the demons of ceaseless suffering. Yes, sometimes I go to this room to bathe in the salty warm tears of my sorrowful solitude, so carefully entrapped within the hidden cavern behind lock and mental key… There is a room of art and color and beauty.. I want to write every word, paint every surface on earth, drive every highway, ride every harley, hear every song, read every book and smell every fresh wind that breathes upon my world. This is a room of hope.. It is where most people like to imagine I spend most my time… a skylit fresh beautiful space within which i can conquer or create anything on earth. There is a sanctuary which is filled with the love and gifts of God… sanctified by my belief.. concreted with my knowledge.. bathed in the blood that dripped from Jesus’s dying hand upon a cross. I will fight to the death to defend this innermost safe room of my soul, and it is where i retreat to when the world holds too much ugly even for me. Sometimes my world seems vast and endless.. sometimes its a cramped cell that I long to break free from and flee into the freedom of never thinking again. An overactive mind is not a blessing.. it is a curse, a treacherous entity that teases and taunts the intellect of the adept at the most inopportune moments. And so onward I go, chasing highways in an endless rambling incoherence of what exactly it is that I seek to find written between the lines of the road and searching for the answers to the fathomless secrets of life in the swirling smoke of one more cigarette at 3 a.m.


What Happens in Vegas….

Posted in Uncategorized on December 11, 2013 by the Wicked Bitch


Libby and I, on our road trip this summer, spent a night in the Stratosphere in Vegas. We had driven hard to get there, and while we were amped up with excitement at seeing the strip, exhaustion creeped in as we dragged our way into the massive casino. The property’s signature attraction is the 1,149 ft Stratosphere Tower, the tallest freestanding observation tower in the United States, and the second tallest in the Western Hemisphere, surpassed only by the CN Tower in Toronto, Ontario. The hotel is a separate building with 24 stories, 2,427 rooms and an 80,000 sq ft casino. It is also the tallest structure in Las Vegas. Needless to say, it felt like we had traversed this entire property by the time we made it to our rooms. I made a comment to Libby about how there was no safety chain on the door as we stashed our bags and sprawled on the giant beds, and broke out our pot boxes and various paraphernalia. We had gotten comfortable and lit up bowls of ganja when a maid just WALKED IN. I mean no knock, no nothing. She looks right over the pot and says, “Just doin’ a room check.” She looked between our beds, in the bathroom and then left. Libby and I stared at each other in horror and shock. I finally stammered, “but, what if we had been fuckin’?” I mean, we DON’T, but what if we did? Isn’t that what people DO in hotel rooms? (I was to find out later she was doing a hooker check on our room… Do people really reserve rooms with credit cards from Arkansas to go to Vegas and be a hooker? I guess there’s better odds?) This creeped us out so we decided to get outta the room and go find food. We didn’t have to go far to do that… there was a huge buffet right there, so we decided to just eat that. Libby decided to try to eat everything on the buffet.. I didn’t go quite the far but I did have a magnificent meal. We went back to our room and Libby crashed for a couple hours, and then we decided to go exploring and to gamble $20 each for the hell of it. Well. Have I mentioned Libby attracts weird people? I turn to a waitress to ask for a bloody mary. I turn around, and there is this Native American person. I am going to refer to himself as an Indian from here on out, because that is how he introduced himself to us… as an Indian Mormon Shaman Witch… He was also drunker than a boiled owl. Well, he had suddenly appeared and seemed to be sniffing Libby. When he turned around and his head slowly cranked backwards on his neck to peer up at me, he stammers, “God, you are big.” I reply, “That’s cuz I am a man.” he scrambled away amongst Libby’s snickering… for abut five minutes… then he came back! He says “Its okay if you have a penis because I have one too!” I say, “Well, you might as well go play with yours, cuz you damned sure can’t play with mine.” He replied, Where are you from.” I said, “Arkansas, I’m on my way home for my sex change operation.” I mean, I pulled out the whole arsenal. NOTHING deterred this wild Indian. He tried to touch my hair and was met with a rude comment and threat of bodily harm… This made him tell me he had been growing his hair for three years and he kinda flicked his head and flipped his hair out to the side like he was Farrah Faucet… and it was so greasy it STUCK there. Libby and I kept sneaking away. We would think we had escaped and suddenly his head would pop out from around a machine and sniff Libby. We ran away from him several times… By the time he got brave enough to reach out to TOUCH her, I had had enough. I grabbed him by his shirt collar and read him a riot act… I don’t remember what all I said, but apparently it finally got the point across. Well, Libby and I, we then decide to go upstairs and check out the rides… we WANTED to jump off the tower.. but they weren’t doing it due to high winds. The other rides looked stupid, so we just peered out at the spectacular Vegas night from the highest point in this jewel of the desert. From this high up, you couldn’t see the hookers and the old men asking for dollar bills at the front door or hear the incessant dinging of the slots. It was a spectacular sight, the endless lights glittering like diamonds in the center of the black nothingness of desert, and a beautiful memory with my friend.


When we left the top of the Stratosphere, we found that there is no button to push to get an elevator. You have to just wait for it to show up. So we waited…. and waited… and waited some more. and then some more people showed up and they are standing around waiting too. I had squatted down by the elevator and when the bell FINALLY dinged that signaled the approaching car, I stood up quickly in my long strapless sundress.. which was hung under my wedges… which resulted in pulling my dress down around my waist and flashing everybody waiting to get on the elevator. Oh well, Libby was the only person there who I knew and she has seen em before anyway. I’m glad that what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.. and that none of those people had a cellphone handy.

Could it be a Faded Rose from Days Gone By….

Posted in Uncategorized on December 11, 2013 by the Wicked Bitch

Could it be a Faded Rose from Days Gone By....

I exist in an era into which i was not born. I think women should wear fishnets and hats and gloves as often as possible. I want to watch Christmas in Conneticut and The Bells of St. Mary’s during this season. I don’t think little girls should dance on stages in their drawers. I think Kim Kardashian could learn a thing or two from Marilyn Monroe and Jane Mansfield. I also have a viewpoint of America and all the good and bad of it from that time period. I can’t look at Obama’s face without wishing for a time when he would be a bellboy somewhere and some white man who had some sense in his head was running this country. I prefer lead sleds to the shoebox ugly ass cars of today. I listen to Dean Martin sing Let it Snow and Bing Crosby sing I’ll be home for Christmas. I miss a time that I never knew… but i know that my country was in a better shape than it is now. I know there was an abundance of patriotism.. I know men still worked to make a paycheck and women still canned vegetables and made their own clothes. I would happily hand over my cellphone and my laptop to live in the days when this country was a sleeping giant instead of a cowardly lion.

Infusion, Tears, and Other Things

Posted in Uncategorized on December 4, 2013 by the Wicked Bitch

i got my infusion today. i wrote a blog during my infusion but lost it somehow.. i was talking about how i have today completed two years of Benlysta, and this month completes 10 years of life threatening lupus. right now.. my toes are red with reynaud’s syndrome. someone has to help me up and down and i am staggering around like a drunk. there is pain i could never begin to explain in my legs and head and hips and hands. A couple hours ago, i got a text from my friend, Debbie. She is in the diagnosing stage of autoimmune disorders… I am pretty sure she has lupus… real often its very difficult for doctor’s to diagnose. Well, Debbie texted me and she is having a night that I have lived many times over. Her entire body is screaming in tension and pain.. she couldn’t sleep, alcohol wouldn’t drown the pain.. nothing would knock her out. I made Bob pick me up and put me in my car. I drove the two blocks to her house and Debbie’s husband Rich met me and got me out of my car, looking like a frazzled new daddy in a hospital waiting room. Debbie was on her porch, which is much like my shed. She was nearly pulling the arms off the chair in her pain… her beautiful face was streaked and puffy from a day’s worth of tears and her hands clasped in a death grip of trying to take what her body was doing to her. She was incomprehensible to me, babbling through her tears, but I sensed what she was saying… I been there before. Rich didn’t look much better, his face an open book of fear and concern. He is a fixer type person, like me.. i could feel the fury in his hands and his stare at not being able to help her. He isn’t mad at Debbie, but she probably feels like he is. No, he is mad at her disease. I had him take her to bed and I just crawled in bed with her and held her, and whispered prayers in her ear… rubbed her legs, rubbed her back, rubbed her head, I sang to her, and told her secrets. i let her rant while i rubbed the tension from her body. I could feel Rich checking on us through the doorway of the darkened room but I didn’t acknowledge him for fear of breaking the spell I attempted to cast on my friend. I made her laugh softly, I told her funny things and listened to her, told her not to think of doctors and things that upset her… think past the pain. Eventually I felt her body release some of it’s tightness at the same time my body was screaming at my awkward position beside her…. It felt like her pain slowly eased into me as she calmed down. She seemed to be relaxed at last. For a long moment she lay staring in my eyes. I could smell the saltiness of her skin and the pretty scent of her shampoo. She sort of rubbed my back the way I was rubbing hers. We both know that one day, one of us will lose the fight before the other one does. I thought of this at that moment. I think she was almost asleep when I left and i pray she rests tonight. The tears streaking Rich’s face made my heart constrict. I told him this is normal… I have these days, too. I just hide them. Perhaps its a mistake in me doing so… I probably should publicize the helplessness, the ceaseless pain sometimes.. That way people like Rich and Debbie don’t get frightened and antsy and in the shape they are in tonight due to Lupus. I hate this disease, i truly do. Debbie kept saying through her tears “nobody understands.” And she’s right…  if you haven’t lived it, you can’t understand. Only someone else with the exact same thing knows what you mean when you say “my legs and feet won’t stop moving” or “my hair hurts my head”… I am, once again, thankful for my pain… because it helps me to understand and maybe offer a little comfort. I pray Debbie gets a true diagnosis and they start her on a path of pain relief soon, because watching your friend live through the same pain you do sucks. I wish I COULD just magically take her pain into my body… Just because I know I can take it and I would rather hurt more than see her tears which sear into my soul and burn like acid. I had rather hurt fifty time as much, even die, and know that nobody else has to live through what I do… especially someone I love.

Bad Writers Make My Eyeball Hurt

Posted in Uncategorized on December 3, 2013 by the Wicked Bitch

I wrote briefly the other day about bad writers. This apparently went unseen by my intended audience as there are still shitful blogs popping up. I know that I can’t sing, so I don’t sit around recording myself belting out Delta Dawn and then pouncing on unsuspecting people with it by posting “please listen to me sing”. People need to learn their limits and to stick with what they ARE good at. I know I am a literary snob. I own it. I have earned that right. I have proven my ability to manipulate the English language into anything I choose it to be. This was not done in the amount of time it takes to make a blog page. This was done over years of hard work and reading and trying. I do have a gift of words just overflowing from my mind.. to the point that it is almost a curse. Knowing me doesn’t make you a good writer, however. Writing is not a venereal disease. It’s a talent. Some of you people do not have it. You are embarrassing yourselves by posting this drivel you call writing out in public. seriously. Go back to playing Candy Crush. And what’s worse, some of them ask me directly… did you read my blog? Did you like it? What am I supposed to say to that crap? Am I supposed to say “oh yes, it’s lovely” like you do when someone shows you a baby that looks like Chewbacca then says “Isn’t she cute?” To me you are the equivalent of someone trying to feed a 78 cent pot pie to a five star chef. That’s what I think of your work. So there.

Tomorrow is another day….

Posted in Uncategorized on December 3, 2013 by the Wicked Bitch

Tomorrow is another day....

So, tomorrow is my Benlysta infusion for lupus. It is it probably gonna kick my ass… they also shoot me full of steroids, so I may very well sit up all night and write or radio or who knows what… I never am quite sure WHAT will go on after I get it. I just wanted to let you all know in case I am missing for some reason for a few days, i haven’t given up my blog again. I am just going through my treatment. I have two this month… the next one is on New Year’s Eve. I been threatening to wear an evening gown to that one.. I still might.

yea, i know, i’m a bitch.

Posted in Uncategorized on November 30, 2013 by the Wicked Bitch

Someone told me today that I need to watch my language on my blog because I am a Christian. Well, they can kiss my entire lily white ass. When someone gives me a list of words out of a Bible with a reference to what words I will go to hell for saying, I promise to strictly adhere to it. Otherwise, deal with it. Don’t read it. I don’t give a big flying rat’s ass. It’s your loss, not mine if you choose to allow your prude jackassery to deprive yourself of my work, well tough titty for you… How dare you assume you have the authority to dictate what i do and do not say. I have also noticed some people who have started new blogs since I became active on mine once again. Some of you really should go back to whatever you were doing before you started trying to write because I assure you that you had to have been better at whatever that was. I understand writing is therapeutic…it’s an outlet for emotion, a canvas upon which to paint your rage, a bottomless well into which to pour your pain… unfortunately, I am afraid you people I am talking about have no clue what I just said. I am talking about a forced paragraph of someone struggling for SOMETHING to say and puking out four or five sentences of some vapidly stupid, atrociously spelled, grammatically butchered crap. You don’t HAVE to write if it’s that’s much of an effort… or if you truly like to write but you are truly that bad at it, buy a diary for God’s sake… If it don’t look good, don’t put it on the front porch. A bad writer with a public blog is the equivalent of 397 pound woman in a string bikini. As far as trying to correct my language, it’s not going to work. ever. I say what I think and you see what I say. My mind doesn’t really give a fuck if you approve of it’s language. I’m not a wilting little violet… I’m a biker, I’m a wrench, I’m a warrior in a fight to save my country… I speak the language of my people. If you wanna read sweet little sugar coated bullshit instead of my harsh words that make your thoughts quiver and your mind bleed,  I can provide you with a link to some of those shitty blogs some of my friends have started. Image

Kanye is a Douchebag

Posted in Uncategorized on November 30, 2013 by the Wicked Bitch



I am linking a story that Perez Hilton wrote about Kanye West. Where do I even start with this moronic assbag?

My FIRST issue is going to be, he has announced Kim Kardashian to be the Marilyn Monroe of our time.. Seriously, you mutton fuck? Let’s see.. Marilyn married Joe Dimaggio. Kim has entertained the equivalent at least of one NBA team and A Night at the Apollo in her vagina, and now settled for a has been, piece of shit, illiterate, Dennis Rodman of music rapper who is likely cornholing Miley Cyrus every chance he gets. Marilyn is a beautiful American icon. Kim is a nasty skanky, what? Armenian or some shit? who has an idiotic reality show. Marilyn was one of the most beautiful women of all time… Kim is about three Big Macs and squirting out another kid or two from being Honey Booboo’s mama in better clothes. The entire world falls at Marilyn’s feet fifty years after her death. The Hollywood walk of fame laughed in your face at Kim getting a star. Yea, that’s the same. The similarities are astounding. 




Next, he has made the stupidest comments about books that I have ever heard in my life. What the hell is he even talking about, with “some people be so wordy.” He admits he hates books.. so why publish one, dickhead? THIS person has a book deal…. His book is about, quoted from Perez Hilton:

“So, what can you expect to find in his book? Plenty of what he calls “Kanye-isms” which reveal his “optimistic philosophy” on life, such as “Life is 5% what happens and 95% how you react!” With another page that reads, “I hate the word hate!”

Adding, “My favorite one is ‘Get used to being used.’ I feel like to misuse, overuse or abuse someone is negative. To use is necessary and if you can’t be used, then you are useless.”

- See more at:

This is possibly one of the most idiotic dimwitted pieces of shit God ever ran a gut through. This person’s book with this moronic, regurgitation inducing drivel of a yard ape trying to sound like Buddah will make the New York Times best sellers list. Why? Why do people listen to and read what a person says who admits he is, probably illiterate. This makes me want to vomit up a taco salad and some Elmer’s glue that I ate in third grade. How the fuck does he think someone can be a novelist and not be wordy? Why would somebody pay money to read what he has to say when if you asked him if he knew who Beowulfe is he would guess a new breed of pitbull. This fucker probably thinks Oscar Wilde is some old jazz musician and Jane Austen is that lady who played Dr. Quinn. 


THIS is what he thinks writing a book is about…


West is now the recent co-author of Thank You And You’re Welcome. Though don’t expect a long read. The book features only 52 pages, some of them blank and others just have a few words on them. He reveals that “This is a collection of thought and theories.” Just when I thought Fifty Shades of Shit and Sons of Fagarchy was as low as the arts could sink. Fuck. These idiots named their kid North West. They probably are envisioning a future line of cheap chinese made shoes and purses called “North by North West.” I take that back… this fool wouldn’t even get that.

 THIS quote makes my ass want a dip of snuff…. “He says, “Sometimes people write novels and they just be so wordy and so self-absorbed.”

Seriously did this man just say self absorbed? He is worse than Paris Hilton on her period. He’s the biggest attention seeking, coat tail riding, media whore on God’s green earth. And talk about drama queen? He cries more than a t.v. evangelist who just got a ten thousand dollar pledge.


Turkey Day…

Posted in Uncategorized on November 27, 2013 by the Wicked Bitch

Turkey Day...

My niece, Becca, and I have been preparing for our Thanksgiving meal.. and while she and I are preparing a veritable feast with four pies and bread pudding and turkey, dressing and all the fixings, its really just for my sister’s family, bob and myself. I have done my share of those huge 20-30 people Thanksgiving dinners… They don’t usually look like those two boys arguing over a crescent roll on the commercials when you get that many family members in one spot. The reality of the matter is most huge gatherings will include: an under or over cooked bird, or runny dressing, or forgotten rolls, or burnt pies, or somebody gets drunk and takes off their pants, or someone cries, or gets accused of having an affair or or gets punched or announces their fourteen year old daughter is pregnant… the men aren’t grandly carving a bird… they are burping and drinking beer and watching football. the women are in the kitchen arguing over who put too much sage in the dressing… ALL families may not have gatherings like this… I admit I come from quite a cast of characters. But somehow I believe these Bumpus hound hair pulling teeth gnashing some got insulted and someone got pissed off type gatherings of red solo cups and loud arguments and at least one door slamming is actually probably more indicative of the true tradition than those cheesy hallmark moments on t.v.

My Sister is the Clark Griswald of Thanksgiving

Posted in Uncategorized on November 26, 2013 by the Wicked Bitch

My sister has some sort of spectacle of a thing happen to her every freaking Thanksgiving. Without fail. One year she called me in a tizzy cuz someone had done something BAD to her turkey. It took me several moments to realize what she was upset about. i gently explained to her that was the turkey’s NECK up in there, and that there hadn’t been a bad accident at the turkey factory. twice she has baked her wedding ring into the dressing. one year, my dad gave her the ingredients to make his famous baked beans.. but he left out one thing… he didn’t tell her to STIR the beans. so the brown sugar-mustard caramelized stuff that occurred probably couldn’t have been removed from the pot with an Ak-47 and a backhoe. This is her latest occurrence during the holidays. The other day i saw her post a status about “there was a lint explosion on my shirt!” well, since she had started a new job as the clerk at the hotel, I figured she had taken a load of towels out of the dryer. No.

She calls me just now and tells me about the “lint.” My husband gave her a ride to work because I was in Pine Bluff at the hospital with my dad… he had my fuzzy white lapdog honey in the truck with him… When Jayme goes in to work, she notices weird white fuzz all over her beautiful black lace blouse. So, she tells her boss that she needs a second to go to the restroom because my dog got some fuzz on her. she picked the strange white fluff off the front of her shirt, her right shoulder, down her arm… she even found large clumps of it in her hair. She spent the rest of her shift trying to inconspicuously remove the minuscule white balls from all over herself. When she got home, she pulled her hair brush out of her big ol Betsy Johnson bag…. and found a Kotex had been punctured by the hairbrush and exploded to atomic proportions all over her and her purse on her first day of work like she had been caught in a snowstorm. sigh.

Welcome to the Hotel California.. Pat Leahy, Part 1

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on November 25, 2013 by the Wicked Bitch

 I sprawled out in the motel bed and lit a Cuban cigar. I filled my pipe with Jack Frost, which seemed like a fine way to start the day, while Libby bustled around the room poking in various bags, preparing the intricate two hour morning beauty constitutional that I know as well as my own twenty minute one.. from her steamy ritualistic bath to applying various portions and potions and other Bare Mineral things from the pots and jars and brushes in her big , brown leather make up box. I stretched my joints and thought about our day as I absentmindedly stared at another Law and Order and searched for my lighter on the wildly colored bedspread then blew smoke from my fifth morning camel toward the motel ceiling. We were going to visit my Facebook buddy, Pat, in Long Beach. Pat is the proprietor of High Gear machines and a very enthusiastic supporter of herbal endeavors. He is pretty much the court jester of our little Facebook bully club. Jj was gonna stay behind and get caught up on everything around the house for Cecily’s return from France. I still haven’t made my mind up if this was a good thing or not.

‘Hey, Marcia…’we are goin’ to a bike shop today… I brought two Harley tanks so you’d have something to wear… Leave them fuckin’ Muslim clothes here.’

She opened the bathroom door, releasing a cloud of luxurious scented steam to mingle with the skunky dank cloud i was creating. ‘Go find it..Lemme see if I can find my jeans. We’ll slut it up today!’

I got up and dug out the two crystal studded Harley-Davidson shirts while she came out for a towel and her jeans in nothing but her panties and stopped to inspect her facelift scars in the mirror, still strangely at odds with her youthful breasts below… Have I mentioned they took off her fucking ears? I threw the shirt at her and plopped back down on my bed with my phone to see if Jj was up and about yet. We made a coffee date so I could pick up my jacket from the night before, then I checked on Bob and caught up on texts and phone calls until Libby emerged from her steam bath pulling and stretching at my top with a towel around her head. I rolled my eyes at her and went in for a quick shower while she worked her intricate magic with her Kat Von Dee make-up once again. I twisted my riotous mess of purple and red curls atop my head, grumbling that I had carelessly tied it up wet in a messy ponytail the night before and fell asleep… I stepped in the ice cold shower to wake myself up as I briskly bathed, then turned the water to full heat and let it run down my back and hips to loosen the sore muscles of not enough sleep. I stepped outta the shower and into my tank and Miss Mes.

When I emerged from my very own steam cloud, Libby looked stunning. Her hair was messy soft around her face, and in clothes that actually fit she was a knockout. In the ten minutes it took me to add a few curls to my hot mess of hair and paint on enough make-up to pass for the Amy White that Pat expected, Libby had went through several transformations. First, she tied a long scarf around and around her head like a turban. Then she put a different scarf around her head and tied the long one around her neck. Then she put on a long black Jesus dress lookin’ thing over it all. Then she took all that off and added.. You guessed it.. The Army fatigue Columbo Muslim jacket and one of them damned fishing hats. And Toms. Again. With my beautiful Harley shirt. Hell, I tried.

After our usual scavenger hunt for cigarettes, pipes, lighters, purses, car keys, room keys, lighters again, and Biker Gnome, Libby loaded her pockets with cream n sugar in the Motel office while i admired the beautiful California day. I grabbed my pewter Paris Hiltons out of the trunk and we hopped in my car headed over to Jj’s for real coffee. Sounds like the beginning of a nice normal day, right? Right? Wrong. Oh, so very, very wrong.


We hung out with Jj for an hour or two, laughing and gossiping, trying to cajole him into going to Pat’s with us. But, since Cecily’s flight was due in the next day, he opted out, so Libby and I headed for Long Beach. It was a beautiful day and the traffic wasn’t awful. We followed my GPS to a nice little neighborhood and saw nothing that looked remotely like it should be the dwelling of a biker who has never left the 60’s, so we turned around and went looking again…  We had directions from Pat to turn at the Mexican restaurant… well, he didn’t tell us that every building in Long Beach basically looks like a Mexican restaurant. So, we had to do a turn around or two… thank goodness for those nifty little U-turn signs California has. When we got back to the street where we had initially been lead to by my GPS, there he was, waving his arms wildly at the end of the street. We parked, and I got out to meet Pat Leahy for the first time. He was much bigger than I expected him to be, dwarfing me even in my 6 inch Paris Hiltons. He was a combination of a cast member of Duck Dynasty, Kramer, Daffy Duck and Mongo from Blazing Saddles. He squeezed the breath outta me then Libby, then kinda yelled “Ya’ll come on in!” I would soon learn this half yelling-half laughter twang is his normal way of speaking.

 We made our way through a deceptively normal looking entrance into a place that I am going to make an attempt to describe… again. It was a hippie compound, encampment sort of place, with small buildings or ramshackle tents or shops kinda strewn everywhere. My mind went into gearhead overload and I can’t possibly begin to give you in detail what I saw, because I saw every fucking thing automotive or motorcycle ever built piled on about a half an acre. There were tools of an exploded Snap On factory proportion… You followed a makeshift walkway of sorts through the maze of various buildings and erected rooms… Peeking inside them you would see fantastic hot rods and Harley engines, or parts, or someone peeking back at you… His shop areas were immaculate. Nothing else was. Libby and I picked along gingerly behind Pat with a growling furry dog of some undetermined lineage. sometimes it was around a mudhole or across a concrete block or a swaying piece of plywood. I was watching where I placed my beautiful shoes and Libby was holding her coat tightly against her sides so as not to brush across the anything, everything, bikes, parts, cars, signs, appliances heaps through which we were traversing. I held my breath and made a wide berth around a large black plastic bag that held quite obviously something that once walked now dead and decaying, hopefully a deer or large dog…. I didn’t see a pale blue hand fall out amongst the maggots and flies, at any rate. We suddenly came upon a house, with a treehouse type room built on the top. A blonde head with a mouth doing the telling chew-clench symphony of a methhead, appeared out of the room from above and welcomed us. Pat informs us that this is his friend, Jewels. You don’t get to Pat’s bird nest of a home from the front of the building at all… oh noooooooooo. You have to go around to the side where you find…. The Stairs of Death.

I have, my entire life, had a deathly, unholy fear of stairs and escalators. And here, I HAVE to go up what appeared to be the steps built by a ten year old to his treehouse…. In 1948. In heels. Very high heels. Someone had been so kind as to make sure that at least one of the two rotted planks that made up each step of the rickety death trap to Pat’s house was nailed down, so. After my heel went through the bottom step and Pat chuckled “Hehehehehe…. Got me some glitter offa that purty shoe to keep!” I felt carefully with the stacked toe of my shoe and gently carried my 170 pound crippled up ass one step after another up the ninety eleventy steps to Pat’s house. And, holy sheep shit. You just THOUGHT the stairs were something.

The entrance to this psychedelic sewer of a place was a sight in and of itself… To the left, there is a beautifully maintained greenhouse full of the prettiest marijuana plants I have ever seen. There is an amassing of plastic tarps, rickety chairs and other things one might would expect to find on a porch… of Grizzly Adams on acid. Around about this time, Rick the pinstriper showed up. Rick had a dingy Tom Petty kinda look going on, not counting the apparent absence of teeth which made it impossible to understand a word he said. By this point, I need to pee a little, so I ask Rick where is the bathroom. I THINK he said “huhuhuhhhh I dunno, I just hang it over the porch.” I am not positive of this however, but I wasn’t gonna hang it over the porch at any rate, so I decided to hold it. The building itself, as far as I could see, had no actual doors or windows. It DID have places where they should be, however. A ginormous pit bull appeared and humped my leg a little, and I was glad he didn’t hump Libby because he may have knocked her off the porch, which, I guess, was technically a roof. Pat DID have curtains of a sort; you know those big flags you see people selling at rallies and fairs with stuff like “Southern by the grace of God” printed on a rebel flag? Well, there was a various assortment of those covering the window holes… never let it be said Pat is uncivil. Beside the door hole, There is a porch light, and a bunch of little mice painted in rows, like Zeros on the nose of the red Baron’s plane… I asked about it. Pat told me,  “This here is a tally  how many fuckin’ rats have been shot in this here fuckin’ room to date! HAHAHAHAHA! YA’LL COME ON IN!” So, Jewels chewing her jaw, Libby and I, Pat and Rick the pinstriper entered what shall from here til the end of the earth be known as the den of debauchery, the epicenter of insanity, the nexus of Pat’s universe, to the scent of marijuana and the tune of Sweet Home Alabama and Pat yelling “TURN IT UP!”




I Kissed a Girl and I Didn’t Like It

Posted in Uncategorized on November 23, 2013 by the Wicked Bitch

I Kissed a Girl and I Didn't Like It

The men in our lives don’t worry overly much when Libby and I set out on a hair brained scheme, regardless of where we are heading. They know we take care of each other. Whether we have to fight our way out of a situation or run for our lives, they know we can handle ourselves. We are delta girls. Usually all I have to do is pretend Libby is my ol lady. Quite often when Libby and I travel, this is a cover that we use.. because no matter how politically correct the world pretends to be, if you want to be left alone, pretend to be a carpet muncher. I don’t have a problem with lesbians, or someone thinking I am one. My step daughter is married to a woman and I love them both to death. I just never ate pussy or anything. There was this one chick years ago, I met her about the same time I met ol Bo… 14 years ago or something…Hardcore rough biker chick, belonged to this old crippled biker.. Her name was Spider. She was probly 35 or 40, I was in my mid twenties. She was a little bitty thing, her tits were small and hard, you could see the muscles in her stomach. She was tan and fit and wore blonde dreadlocks.. Had a husky whiskey voice like liquid gravel and honey. I didnt really even like her but i wanted to fuck her and she wanted to fuck me from the minute i met her. I don’t know why I was attracted to this woman, I just was. We hugged too long, kissed a second too long when we said goodbye, you know? I only saw her a couple times a year at rallies.. Our friendship seemed to be borne of a sexual desperation. We were inseparable when we were in the same place. She would ride on the back of my sportster with her legs around my waist and I would remember the feel of the heat of her pussy in leather pants in the small of my back for weeks. This went on for several years. While I lived with Bo, he went somewhere with Horace during the Crawdad Festival.. It was dark and late and Spider had done a line of speed and we both had drank a lot.. I was wearing this long denim dress made like overalls with no shirt or bra. We went in her camper to pee and it was pitch black and we were giggling and them she undid the strap on my dress and touched my nipple and I touched hers. It was strange, such a soft hand on mine, and her tiny hard nipple between my fingers. She smelled like chocolate and pot and whiskey. I woulda ate her pussy.. I woulda fucked her right there. Someone started up a bike, and, just like that, we stopped what we were doing. I wasn’t even sure how her lips wound up on mine, her hands on my body in the first place. When we walked out of the camper she says, “I wish this guy I know was here.. He woulda paid good money to see that!” I was disgusted that I almost fucked a whore. Oh well, drinking one beer does not make you an alcoholic, and Spider cured me of all tendencies to fuck a female, at least up to this point in my life. I am pretty sure I am old enough now to say with assurance that it was but a fling, a test, an experiment. These days I tend to adhere to a strict “You can’t lick it if you can’t stick it” policy. But I DID think about it… once upon a sordid time.

My Expiration Date.. part one.. Highways and High Heels

Posted in Uncategorized on November 22, 2013 by the Wicked Bitch


I’m writing this year in my life because I know that my body grows weaker. I have decided to blog it this time because, simply, I do not have a publisher. This entails the tenth year of a life sentence I was given due to advanced stages of lupus. A doctor in a free clinic told me I would be lucky if i had ten years… Almost ten years ago. I intend to surpass that and see my fortieth birthday. I do, however feel the wings of the butterfly encompassing my soul. I feel my angels drawing nearer no matter how hard I try to run from them. Yes, I am still a brick wall… but I feel my foundation cracking a little. I am still a Mack truck… I feel my engine slowing down. I feel the new pain that radiates in my chest. I feel the new awareness of my kidneys throbbing as I close my eyes to sleep. I sense my mind slipping into stages I cannot recall. I may now incriminate myself… I may now alienate myself. This will, eventually, become a book. This book may be nicer, more spiritual than the last one… Or it may be much, much worse. The closer one draws to demise, the less it matters what anyone thinks of what you have or have not done.  There are probably dozens, hundreds of books haunting the recesses of my soul, begging to be written… characters that visit my dreams and live within my head… but i do not write them. I do not know what to do with them once they are on paper. Somehow I can only truly write one character… Myself.  I, as always, suffer from the opposite of writer’s block. My words rush forward  and scramble to be heard, riotous mutinies of avowals pushing forth to weep from my soul and vomit from my mind as soiled memories. I want to tell everything and nothing… I do not know where to begin one story and finish another one, such is the clutter of thought in my head. This may be the last book that leaves my mind… I may write a dozen more.  But. I am going to sit down and open a vein. I have actually been preparing myself to do so for about a year. And by God, what a year it has been.  If you choose to swim in the bleeding trenches of a year in my life that is an eternity and that is an instant, a year that most entire lifetimes could never even dream to emulate, then read on, my friend or foe. Join me upon my endeavors. Be warned that you will now be revealed the true inner workings of my mind; you will lie awake at night thinking of my depravity and you will want to hug me because you will fall in love with me and want me to live forever. You will feel my hatred. You will cry my tears. Your battlefields will never be green again after the war my thoughts will put you through. You will shirk from my fury and cheer my victories and feel disgust at my racism and be blown away by my spirituality and devotion to God. You just thought I mind fucked you with the first book.

You’ve been warned.

Part One… Highways and High Heels

Amy Irene White

Which One is Thelma and Which One is Louise?

“Wanna go to California?”         

“Don’t you know what happens when two redheaded bitches from Arkansas pile in a blue Ford car and head West?”

Libby knew when she called she would talk me into going. She always talks me into doin’ insane shit. She did not know it was something that had haunted the recesses of my mind for the better part of three or four years… almost ever since I got that email from Bill Hayes that informed me that he had sent a copy of my book to a friend of his named Jj Solari.  As a contributor to biker rags, I had of course heard the stories about Jj… He was one of the legendary greats who wrote the copy that helped Easyriders rule the biker world for a decade or two. He’s a virtual god amongst biker writers. I remember thinkin’, “Wow, HE is reading me?” I decided to search him on Facebook. What the fuck, right? I had no idea when I clicked that friend request button what an important change in my life it would conjure forth. It took us about five seconds to become inseparable allies on the internet, and not much longer than that to start toying with the urge to cross 1,600 miles to meet face to face. I listened to Libby go through her whole spill… reminding me of everything from “You missed the Medical Marijuana Convention in Washington!” to “It’s my birthday” to “It’s been forever since we went anywhere” to “I promised my Mama” to “You gotta go because I didn’t shoot you when you fucked my brother.” After she wound herself down, I told her I would get Bob to put new tires on my Mustang, and we would make her Medical Marijuana conference if we could also visit the Jayster. It’s always these spur of the moment decisions that suddenly alter one’s life more irrevocably than any planned venture. I had no way of knowing just how sweetly fate was weaving a neat tapestry of everything. In my mind, I was taking the trip to find the end to a book I been trying to write. Instead, I found the beginning of another one.

Libby and I go back a long way… and somehow everything we do together turns into epically ridiculous situations of Lucy and Ethel proportions. We met about fifteen years ago or so. I met her when she touched up the ink in my first tattoo, back when she was apprenticing for her license as a tattoo artist. We have fought and stayed mad at each other for years at a stretch, but somehow we always gravitate back together. Both of our major fights have been caused not by us but by the men who we happened to be involved with at the time. Libby and I could live in a one room house together and never have a cross word… if not for the eclectic group of people we are both constantly surrounded with, of course. On the surface, one would wonder how on earth we are friends. Libby is a perpetual mother, from her own children to her grandchildren to even her brother’s children… everyone she meets is taken under her wing; and once there, it’s not a haven left lightly. I, on the other hand, possess very few maternal qualities. I am much too narcissistic to dwell overly much on doting on others. While I do love my son and simply adore my niece and my stepdaughter, they are all very aware that I exist very much inside my own world.

“Wanna go to California?”         

I call Libby a cougar, which she denies… however, she IS twelve years my senior, and her men are usually younger than me.  She LOOKS younger than me and has a laugh that sounds like every cigarette she ever smoked and every tear she ever cried. I am a perpetual kitten, always choosing men twice my age (for instance, my extremely tolerant 69 year old husband, Bob). Both of our endeavors get a bit more difficult as we age, of course… Libby has to work to keep up her gorgeous timeless face while I have to deal with the hazards of colonoscopies and heart attacks and mortality. She is maybe five foot one standing on her tip toes… In my ever constant heels I usually stand around 6’4 or so. Libby may weigh 120 lbs. soaking wet… I look like a Green Bay Packer in drag… it’s not unusual for me to lift her in the air and swing her about like a little girl. Libby wears big floppy trench coats and Coach fishing hats and Toms and Uggs and other deceptively casual pieces. She is very polished and metro, with a penchant for clothes that hide her. Her wardrobe is a vast collection of beiges and greys and browns. I have waist length purple and red hair and dress somewhere between Betty Page and Paris Hilton and Stevie Nicks… the only constant to my endless wardrobe are my ever present stacked spiked heels, even when I ride my bike. Someone asked me awhile back how many shoes I own… I replied, “I have no idea, but I just bought two more pair.”

I ride an antique Heritage Softtail Nostalgia. I’ve had her for eleven years. She has so much chrome and bling that my mechanic, Rodney, refers to her as the “Tijuana Taxi”… the rest of the world knows her as Irene. I have never entered a show I didn’t bring home a trophy, and I’ve ridden her all over the country… an old biker legend with another one in the saddle; we are both show and go. Libby recently bought a black denim Street Bob, black powder coat and stripped down sleek, a slip of a woman in designer cowboy boots on a powerhouse of modern horsepower. I named her bike Beulah after stories about an old negress prostitute who used to live in Mcghee, and whose job was to pop the top on all the young boys coming of age, way back in the day… Libby insists her bike is named after the church song. We are not bothered by our differences. We are secure in them, and revel in our own little world that no one else can understand. It doesn’t matter, because we know who we are, fuck ups, flaws and fails… and we are both okay with that. We are both the kind of women who carry tampons in our purses… not for menstrual reasons since we’ve both had the babies removed from our playpens… but because they are handy in the case of gunshot wounds.

Libby and I were raised very differently… Her mother was a schoolteacher, and Libby was raised as the child of old southern family charm and Masonic ideals and debutante values. She wore white gloves and went to high tea, and managed quite an accomplishment by being allowed to dirt track race motorcycles when she was a preteen. I grew up a tomboy with white trash cousins, playin’ under the hoods of the cars in my Daddy’s body shop. Libby was raised with progressive beliefs in parenting and high class values. I was raised strict Southern Baptist, where going to a high school dance was treated with the severity the equivalent of asking permission to attend a drunken orgy. Somehow our two very varied backgrounds melded into similar constitutions and a tried and true companionship.

Trying to write all the things she and I have been through is like trying to name the sands of the sea… and nearly as infinite. We have been there through births and deaths and tears and oh so much laughter. She was sitting beside me when I got perhaps the most life changing news of my life… when I was diagnosed with lupus. When Libby’s beautiful niece decided to take her life, my number is one of the first Libby called. I have watched her young children grow into beautiful adults with children who look like tiny versions of themselves. We’ve been through weddings and divorces, cops and robbers, bankruptcy and high cotton, life itself a thousand times over. Our relationship is unique in that, as a general rule, I think women are a big fat pain in the ass. With the exception of my sister and a select few others, women suck big green hairy donkey balls about ninety percent of the time. They are petty, they are two faced, and they sit around for hours at a time eating bakery cake and going “awe” in mass over Tupperware, and even worse, baby diapers and breast pumps, all along feeling this huge superiority over men because they possess the ability to produce another human being. I myself find nothing exceptionally fascinating about squeezing something the size of a watermelon out of a hole the size of a lemon, but that’s just my opinion. I find women preposterous, because they depict themselves as these mystical creatures when in fact most of them haven’t the sense to pour piss out of a boot if the instructions were on the bottom. Women spend way too much time worrying about things like theme dinners, juicing diets and Cosmo magazine, or over each other because they are too fat, too skinny, too rich, too poor, too quiet or too loud. I’ve listened to a gaggle of them dissect for hours the complex workings of a man’s mind that makes them not want to have a conversation about relationships or romance the equivalent of the theory of relativity immediately after procreation. Why would you wanna talk about “where are we heading?” after getting your rocks off? How do they expect a man to even answer that? We are heading to sleep or to the kitchen for a bologna and onion sandwich because we worked up an appetite? Women are infuriating. If there was only three women on earth, two of them would get together to talk about the other one.

This isn’t saying Libby and I aren’t normal women in the strictest sense of the word…. We gossip and primp and shop. We both bake and quilt and can vegetables, which in my opinion, makes us a little BETTER than a lot of women who exist these days; the arts of knowing how to sew your own clothes or cook something that didn’t come out of a box are sadly dying away at a rapid pace.  Even in our deep south a certain core that was once born and bred in every belle is curiously absent… I watch young girls and wonder why no one ever taught them to put their napkins in their laps or how to walk in high heel shoes, and my uterus convulses at the likelihood of other missing pieces in their educations as southern women. Sometimes I wonder if this is a sign that I am reaching old age, as I shudder inwardly at young girls tottering around in heels like a hog on ice, wearing too much make up and too little clothing. When did it become en vogue to look like a white trash hooker?

“Wanna go to California?”        



More Reviews for Wicked Bitch by Amy Irene White

Posted in cars, motorcycles, biker, bikers, harley davidson, biker author, action, adventure, amy irene white, biker author, biker journalist, celebrity interviews, easyriders, in the wind, biker, v-twin, wicke with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 28, 2009 by the Wicked Bitch

Amy White at Red Room

I Take Alot of Pride in What I Am…..

Posted in cars, motorcycles, biker, bikers, harley davidson, biker author, action, adventure, amy irene white, biker author, biker journalist, celebrity interviews, easyriders, in the wind, biker, v-twin, wicke with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 7, 2009 by the Wicked Bitch

“i take alot of pride in what i am…”

i exist between satin sheets and swim whiskey rivers. i am lookin for adventure and whatever comes my way. she told me not to smoke it but I did, and it took me far away. i soar on silver wings and hang out with honky tonk heroes like me. i’ve sold my diamond rings to buy boots and faded jeans, and i went back to the wild side of life. i was once an ordinary girl with ordinary dreams. i rule a smoky kingdom. i have tied a red bandana around my auburn hair, been busted flat in baton rouge, and got runned over by a damned old train. i have taken the midnight train to Memphis, only God knows why.. i have walked into a restaurant strung out from the road and i have seen a husband driven to drinkin’ in a hot rod Lincoln. i have been known to visit fist city, and i stand barefooted in my own front yard quite frequently as well. i’ve heard that train a’coming as it rolls around the bend, and i park my big ol hog out on the lawn. i enjoy takin’ my ol harley on a three day cruise, drivin’ my chevy on the levee, wanting to go where everybody knows my name, driftin’ down the dusty dixie road, rollin down the road in some cold blue steel, and workin’ ten hours on a john deere tractor. i adore goin’ downtown in the middle of the night, sportin short dresss wearing spike heeled shoes, smokin’ lucky strikes and wearin’ nylons too. i was raised crusin’ in daddy’s pick up truck, doin’ things with my hands that most men can’t, and i like being the young thing beside him that understands. i have one more silver dollar. i have built an emerald city from grains of sand. he has touched my cheek before he left me. there ain’t no kinda cure for my disease. a man of low esteem has stood by my side, and you never met a motherfucker quite like me. i can make folks feel what i feel inside, and i know its a long, hard ride.

If only I Could…

Posted in Uncategorized on February 11, 2014 by the Wicked Bitch

My service dog Honey is dying. Not right now, not tonight. Since the summer, I have felt the telltale wet rattle of congestive heart failure in her soft beautiful chest. I am just weeping like a child trying to write this. I went to tell Bob goodnight and hugged my dogs and heard the wheeze that is one step closer to her death.. She lost her mate last spring, and it broke her spirit. She mostly lays around on a pillow these days. She has been my ears, my honey, my bear, my baby for about 6 years. She sleeps on a pillow beside my head. Even though I have my beautiful coon dog, I am dying inside at the thought of goin to bed and reaching up to put my hand on her warm pink belly and it won’t be there. No more will I have anything but a memory of tickling her tiny white feet or asking her what does a Harley say and hearing her make a ‘wrooo’ noise. I know that neither a westie or a daschaund have huge life spans… This is her lot in life the same as the brilliant moth whose beautiful flaming glory only lives one day… But it feels like losing a child… I’m devastated at the thought of never catching her fuzzy wiggly body in my arms when I walk through the door. I am bawling that cocodog won’t understand why she lost the dog who has been her adopted mama. I am sobbing at the loss of a true creature who loves me unconditionally. Why does she have to have a disease that I know someday I will sit in our vet’s office and hold her tiny body as her life slips away?

‘I came home unexpectedly
And caught her cryin’ needlesly
In the middle of the day
And it was in the early Spring
When flowers bloom and Robins sing
She went away..
And Honey I miss you
And I’m being good
And I’d love to be with you
If only I could…
One day while I was not at home
While she was there and all alone
The angels came..
Now all I have is memories
Of Honey and I wake up nights
And call her name
Now my life’s an empty stage
Where Honey lived and Honey played..’- Bobby Goldsboro


A Sample of my Red & Gold Designer Shoes for Women

Posted in Uncategorized on January 27, 2014 by the Wicked Bitch

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” title=”A Sample of my Red & Gold Designer Shoes for Women”>A Sample of my Red & Gold Designer Shoes for Women

I am designing these shoes to make it easier for club ol ladies to find the right shoes for special occasions.. Ever had to search for yellow shoes for a wedding? Ever get tired of EVERYBODY has the same stuff? Well, here is the answer. Designer, high quality shoes at reasonable prices, handmade for you so that you are one of a kind…

Highways & High Heels…

Posted in Uncategorized on January 26, 2014 by the Wicked Bitch

So, I decided to design shoes. Not just any ol cheap shoes either.. real handmade italian silk and pony hair type shoes. I also decided to make many styles available in various club colors for Biker Chicks to have more to choose from in the way of designer gear that still shows club support… I have also decided to name many of my designs after women that I admire or look up to. We shall see where this road shall take us…


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Shovel Ready Jobs

Posted in Uncategorized on January 25, 2014 by the Wicked Bitch

Shovel Ready Jobs

She also was born on American soil.

From Colorado we found…….

Posted in Uncategorized on January 14, 2014 by the Wicked Bitch

the Wicked Bitch:

hell yea, keep on truckin joe!!!!!!!!!!!!

Originally posted on crosscountrycookinwithpapajoe:


From someone that can Legally  use this food.

They challenged me to post it.

Well I figure if it’s legal somewhere.

I’m not eating my horse

Now let me get legal!!

I do not encourage or endorse this practice.

If you try this and can’t handle it …

Take the rap.

Don’t blame others, or me.

And DAMN sure don’t eat ,

Before operating anything.


Don’t even walk if ya don’t  have too.


May take up to a hour

for medical effects to work.

what you need
1 pkg. (4 oz.) BAKER’S Unsweetened Chocolate
3/4 cup butter
2-1/2 cups sugar, divided
divided 1/4 cup plus 2 Tbsp. orange-flavored liqueur or orange juice,
divided 5 eggs,
divided 1-1/4 cups flour,
divided 1 pkg. (8 oz.) PHILADELPHIA Cream Cheese, softened
1/2 cup almonds slivers
PREHEAT oven to…

View original 871 more words


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