Fat Bottom Girl Said What

When my ass talks, people listen.

Archive for the month “April, 2014”

Rainy Day

Phtoto Credit:  oldhousetruelove.net

Phtoto Credit: oldhousetruelove.net

she grabs her book
and an old quilt
and heads for the porch swing

lost in words
her only connection to reality
the smell of the rain
and the cat curled by her side

**As a child I would head for the porch swing when it rained in the summertime.  I would swing, and get lost in whatever book I was consuming at the time.  I love porch swings and wish I had one.  My house lacks a proper porch, and only has a stoop.  You can’t do proper porch sitting on a stoop, said the Kansas girl.

Stupid Criminals in Kansas

I know I shouldn’t draw attention to the stupidity of people in my own state, but I just couldn’t let this one fly by.  I had to say something.

And I’m saying this guy is a dumbass.

Who gets “murder” tattooed on their neck?  This dumbass.  And I will step out on a limb and say that the guy who home inked the shit is a dumbass too.

Now, after being charged with murder–go figure–he, and his lawyer, think Barton County should transport him to a tattoo facility so he can have a cover-up tattoo done.  They’re worried the jury might find the word prejudicial.  No shit.

How about what appears to be a teardrop near his left eye?  I had always thought that signified you’d killed someone?  I looked it up though, and according to Urban Dictionary, it signifies that you’ve been someone’s “bitch” in prison.

Interesting. . . .maybe his home skillet tattoo artist could also see into the future and that’s why he wound up with both of those tattoos in the first place??

I say put a fucking turtleneck on and go face that jury of your peers.  You know what they say, if you can’t do the time, you shouldn’t do the crime.

Makes me want to move so my tax dollars don’t have to feed and house and provide medical care for this dumbass for the rest of his life.



I’m a dumbass, and so is the guy who inked this on my neck.

GREAT BEND, Kan. (AP) — A Kansas man charged with first-degree murder is afraid the tattooed mirror-image letters spelling out the word “murder” across his neck might prejudice a jury, so he is asking for a professional tattoo artist to remove or cover it up.

Prosecutors say they aren’t opposed to Jeffrey Chapman covering his tattoo, but Barton County’s sheriff says he’s against transporting Chapman to a licensed tattoo facility — the only places tattoo artists are allowed to practice under Kansas law.

The Great Bend Tribune reports Chapman’s trial is scheduled to start Monday in the November 2011 killing of Damon Galliart, whose body was found by hunters in a roadside ditch southwest of Great Bend.

Chapman’s attorney says in a motion the tattoo would be extremely prejudicial if seen by a jury.

More Bagpipes

Who needs more cowbell when you’ve got bagpipes?

Who, except AC/DC would think to use bagpipes in a rock song? Well, a few other groups, like Paul McCartney and Wings, Nazareth, and U2, have done it, but none so successfully as AC/DC in their tune “It’s a Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock ‘n Roll)” from the 1975 T.N.T. album. Bon Scott actually learned the bagpipes specifically for this song, and it’s one of my favorites.

This band has sang me through elation, and anger, and heartbreak, and horniness. I wore out more cassettes of Back in Black in my Pioneer tape deck, with the Kraco speakers, than I care to count.

AC/DC is hands-down, one of the all-time best rock bands in the history of EVER, and if you don’t agree with me, well then you can just kiss my fat bottom girl ass.

Speedy healing to you Malcolm Young, and I hope you’re back blowing some shit up with the band real soon.

Now crank it!

Party Cake Party Cake

Photo Credit: 24.media.tumblr.com

Photo Credit: 24.media.tumblr.com


You baked me a fucking cake??  Do I look like I NEED a fucking cake??  Fuck the cake and bring me another Jack and Coke.  And run out and get me another pack of smokes while you’re at it!


**On a side note, I feel miserable and bloated, as a medication has really thrown me for a loop.  I feel like this gal looks.  Happy Fucking Tuesday Fat Bottom Peeps!!

Office Mourning

Yesterday I wore all black to work. My boss wanted to know if someone died. I told him a little piece of me, every day I come to work.

Happy Fucking Friday!!!

Happy Tears

“What the hell are happy tears?” My Man asked.

“Those are tears you cry when you’re happy. Haven’t you ever cried happy tears? Didn’t you cry happy tears when your kids were born?” I asked, knowing how dedicated My Man is to his children, evidenced by the numerous activities he delivers them to weekly, and by his ability not to choke them out when they don’t want to get out of bed in the morning.

“Ummmm. . . no, because if I did I’d have a vagina,” My Man said.

Interesting, I thought. Is it only the fairer sex who cries happy tears?

I needed to do more research on this subject.

So I posed the same question to a bunch of the guys I work with while sitting around the lunch table yesterday. They all screwed up their faces in the same quizzical way, and cocked their eyebrows at me like I was nuts for even insinuating there might be even a drop of ocular saltwater shed over happiness.

“If I was really happy and I had a tail, I’d wag it. But happy tears? Oh hell no,” said my boss.

“If I had cried “happy tears” when my kids were born, my wife would’ve kicked me out of the room and told me not to come back until I had that shit fixed,” said the operations manager.

“Don’t they make a pill for that?” said another one.

So I’m getting the picture that most guys don’t cry happy tears. I think in general most guys reserve crying for emotions on the opposite side of the spectrum, and only take them out when they really need them—like when they get their dick caught in their zipper, or when the really hot chick they’ve been dying to bone finally agrees to a rut-fest, but not without a condom, and the one they’ve been carrying around in their wallet for just such an occasion is dry and brittle and crumbles in their sweaty hands.

But I’ll tell you what. I’m good with the fact My Man doesn’t cry happy tears. I much prefer a happy slap on the ass from him anyway.

Birthday Presents from the Heart

I think I was 8. The age doesn’t matter.

I ran downstairs, excited at the prospect of my birthday present.

My mom was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, smoking a Marlboro Light. She looked up and saw my grin and excitedly told me Happy Birthday!!

My gift was laying on the table and she told me to open it. I knew it was clothes just by the feel.

I ripped the paper off and unfolded a dream!

They were perfect!! Light blue, brushed denim bell bottoms with embroidered butterflies. They took my breath away. Every last stitch made with love by my mother.

It’s one of my best birthday present memories ever.

And now I have another best birthday present memory to add to it.

It also took my breath away.

My Man wrote me a poem. It’s not his normal style of writing, but he ventured there for me.

It was beautiful, constructed of his feelings in meter, and it made me cry. My Man said it wasn’t supposed to make me cry.

But they were happy tears. They were tears that said My Man knows my heart, and he speaks to my soul.

I think I was almost 45. The age doesn’t matter.

You Say It’s Your Birthday?

It’s my birthday too. So sayeth the Beatles.

I just realized this morning while putting makeup over laugh lines, and skin that’s not so taut anymore, that in about a week, I will be 45.

Throughout the day I contemplated. I didn’t contemplate my entire life up to this point, just this last year. It’s been a doozie.

What did Dickens say? They were the best of times. They were the worst of times. Or something similar. A year of extremes. A study in contrasts. That’s what my 44th year has been.

The worst of times because I found myself in a physically abusive relationship.

The best of times because I decided I was worth more than I thought and I deserved better than being someone’s punching bag.

The worst of times because my son decided he wanted to try living with his dad, after I’d had him with me for his first 12 years.

The best of times because my son returned home to me only a few shorts months after moving in with his dad, albeit with some painful lessons under his belt.

The worst of times because I found myself alone, and quite lonely, and thinking that possibly, I should come to terms with the fact I might spend the rest of my life that way. But, also figuring out that being alone, was better than being beat or emotionally abused.

The best of times because I met a wonderful man. I had sent wishes out to the universe for this man for years. I had hoped in vain for this man for years. But I now believe that it wasn’t until I decided, until I truly believed inside of me, that I deserved better for myself, that the universe sent him. Strange how that works, huh?

Life is yin and yang, and a whole lot of other shit in between. And as I stand poised, ready to slide into my 45th year, do I think it’s going to change? Do I think it’s going to get any easier? No. I’ve learned enough to know that anything worth having doesn’t usually come easy. Plus, I’m kind of one of those girls who has to learn things the hard way. Some lessons it took me 44 years to learn.

I know there are more grey hairs and more wrinkles and tears and frustration in store for me. But there’s also more laughter and love and adventure in store for me too. You need the dark and the light, both sides of the coin, the rain and the sun. You have to have one in order to truly appreciate the other. I’ve figured that out in my 44 years too.

So 45 is only a few days away I told him, and My Man reminded me it’s only a number.

And I in turn reminded myself I have a hot, younger man. 45 can kiss my fat bottom!

Photo Credit: deviantart.com

Photo Credit: deviantart.com

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