Sorry fellas, but I’m taken… (a video blog book trailer)

When you watch this video, you’re going to fall into one of two camps:

1) You will be a man and find yourself kicking yourself for not having found me before I met and married my husband; or,

2) You will be a woman and find yourself taking notes on how someone can be as glamorous and classy as I.

I’m just kidding, you’re going to think I’m a slovenly hillbilly with zero class and a complete lack of manners. If you do, the point will have been made.

For the record, I never realized this, but belching loudly is actually a really hard thing to do. At least for me.

Are you intrigued enough to watch the video?

Hurry up and watch before I lose my gumption and take it down. I mean the Internet is – like – forever-ever, and this is perhaps the most humiliating public display I have ever made, and on so many levels.

In case you missed the memo, I have another humor book coming out, March 1st. Prepare yourselves with this book trailer…

My Horrible Evening At Pukeplantation


Am I overwhelming you most faithful blog followers with too many posts? This is something like the fourth in two days, I’ve just really had a lot to say these past few days. I promise, I’ll slow down (maybe).

Went to dinner this evening. Just me and Pookies, which meant that it ended up being somewhere kid-friendly. I wasn’t in the mood for Denny’s or Panera Bread, though; and fast food was of course out of the question. So Souplantation it was.

Now I do typically enjoy Souplantation. Typically. We used to live in the heart of Los Angeles and had a really nice one. One that had everything, plus amazing customer service. Their space was bigger than any restaurant I had ever been to. And it was walking distance from our apartment – just awesome.

The Souplantation out here is a far cry from that; although it was still decent up until recently. In the last few months, though, it’s become a little ghetto. Or perhaps more accurately, it’s become proof that the town in which we live is going downhill. More white trash. A lot people running into each other and acting like total pigs. Basically the entire swath of the state of nature, all packed into one tiny restaurant with a 210 person capacity.

Sad to say, today was the last time we will ever go to that Souplantation. By the time you get through our experience, hopefully you will support my decision.

4:45 pm

We cruise into the Souplantation parking lot. It looks like the dinner rush is starting to get there a little early, but then again it shares the parking lot with Ross – dress for less – so maybe it’s just overflow from early high school prom shoppers.

4:50 pm

Finally inside, we are beginning to make our way through the line. A family of four has come in behind us. The husband is holding a baby that looks like it hasn’t been bathed. Ever. The husband begins sneezing. I start to push Pookies a little quicker down the salad bar. I notice the fourth in their group is a teenager. He has blue hair, in a flock of seagulls cut. He has handcuffs hanging from his belt buckle. Maybe he’s just broken out of jail. He starts sneezing too.

5:00 pm

I’ve paid and we’ve found a booth as far away from the rest of the people that are already seated. Kids are screaming and running around. The family of four sit near us shortly afterwards.

5:05 pm

I go to get drinks. The drink bar is in complete view of the table, so I go alone. The kid with the blue flock of seagulls hair cut walks past our table, and it looks like he has said something. I rush back to the table.

5:15 pm

Finishing up the salad and it’s starting to get packed. People are sneezing, coughing, belching, and ripping ass everywhere. The woman sitting at the table next to us actually lifted her ass to blow one – I kid you faithful blog followers not. You know I’m not a fan of ass jokes, this is really happening.

I decide we are not at Souplantation. We are at Pukeplantation. Time to get some Pukeplantation soup.

5:18 pm

I’m waiting at the soup bar to get the chicken and alphabet soup. There is a rather portly man in a hooded sweatshirt and khaki shorts filling four bowls. I assume he is getting them for multiple people. Or that he really likes the soup. In spite of all the belching and burping and blowing and puking and sneezing and snotting, I will admit – that soup is tasty. He is taking forever though, so people are getting in line behind me, and I inch a little closer. He turns around and rips a belch so loud, so ferocious, that I swear I see his lips quiver. Like Barney on The Simpsons. Or worse.

As I’m dishing up the soup, I realize he’s belched a piece of chewed food onto my sweater.

5:25 pm

I have had about enough of this place. Having totally lost my appetite wiping the stranger’s food off my sweater, I sit and wait quietly. The lady sitting next to us rips another one. Her husband tells stories about “Rod in seasonal” grabbing his ass. He’s wearing a Home Depot polo shirt. I assume he works at the Home Depot in the same shopping complex. I make a mental note never to go this Pukeplantation or that Rip Ass-Grab Butt Depot ever again. I consider running to my car and speeding home to drink heavily and forget about this place.

But the deal with Pukeplantation is that dessert is always a given. Fat free frozen yogurt is a healthy way to dessert anyway. I sprint to the yogurt machine so that we can leave soon.

5:32 pm

There are four exits from this particular Pukeplantation. The one closest to us is in the back of the building and we are parked in the front, but rather than wade our way through the belches and boogers of this rancid state of hillbilly nature, we walk out the back door and just traipse around the entire building to get to my car.

While walking I am informed of what transpired when the blue haired flock of seagulls, jail break walked past our booth while I was getting our drinks. As he walked by, with his handcuffs clanging against his leg, he leaned over and said “hey … your mom’s hot …”

From there we ran to my Jeep.

We will not be returning to that place. Ever. Again. Would you? It concerns me that so many of these experiences are cropping up more and more around my community. Is it just that I’m hanging out in the wrong places? Or is pigslob hillbilly becoming the status quo?

My Trailer Trash Mom Returns

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It isn’t often that you find a sequel that can be called good. Usually they suck – the plot line has gotten old; the characters look way too aged if years have gone by; and, more than anything, some of the flare from the original just isn’t there. Don’t get me wrong – there are a lot of sequels that are just as good (if not better) than their originals. Back to the Future 2 and Die Hard 2 are ones I can think of off the top of my head.

But then there are sequels in real life. Those are rarely ever good. A reoccurring dream replays itself over and over again during the night – usually in the format of a nightmare. Some banking problem never seems to get resolved. And then there is the worst: some drama-ridden hillbilly from your past resurfaces to spew their hillbilly shit all over the place again.

Those of you that have been around for a while remember the saga of my Trailer Trash Mom a few months ago. For those of you that weren’t, here it is in a nutshell: my mother (I call her my Trailer Trash Mom) hasn’t ever been eligible for Mother of the Year, really, but has gotten particularly use-y and trash-y since she married a hillbilly from New Mexico exactly one year ago last Friday. Around Mother’s Day, she volunteered me to cook a big family dinner in honor of my grandmother, which turned into the biggest hillbilly shit brawl before said family dinner that I had ever seen.

Enough about the original, though – let’s move onto the sequel.

Friday of last week I got a phone call from my mother. I don’t usually answer her calls anymore; but this time she called from her hillbilly husband’s trailer line and I didn’t recognize the number. She BS’ed with me for a few minutes before saying that her hillbilly husband was going to tell me all about their anniversary plans to celebrate one year since they eloped to the county courthouse (the witnesses were the checkout ladies from the Goodwill she bought her wedding frock from, I shit you not faithful blog followers).

But when her hillbilly husband came on the phone, he didn’t say a damn word about their anniversary.

“Heather? Listen… are you going to let Alexis go to Colorado with her dad?”

“What? Oh, um yeah – I agreed to it and I really have no reason not to.”

“You know it’s going to be hard to get her back once she’s across state lines.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“I mean if he doesn’t want to come back. Look, I have experience with this! EXPERIENCE!!”

“Okay. Well it’s a little late for this and I think you are being a little paranoid. I’m sorry, I thought you were going to tell me about your anniversary plans.”

“Look, all I’m saying is your mother and I have been talking and we decided we should let you know we’re going to be suing you for grandparent’s rights.”

“Uh huh…”

“What you don’t think we will? When I get to California with your mom in August, I’m stirring up the dirt!! I’LL GET MY GRANDPARENT’S RIGHTS! I WANT VISITATIONS AT MY HOME IN NEW MEXICO – AND NOW! LET THEM THROW ME IN JAIL IF THEY HAVE TO!!!”

“Uh huh…”


“Uh huh… look, if you aren’t going to tell me about your anniversary plans, I really need to get off the phone now. We’re on our way to Chuck E. Cheese.”


And then he hung up.

‘What the fuck?’ is what I said too. I have met this guy – in person – for a total of 20 minutes, over two years ago when they first started dating. He told me then that he and my mom had been busy for a few weeks “keeping warm if you know what I mean.” A few weeks later my mother asked me if I knew of any types of gondola rides that “allow for private time,” and also if I knew where she could buy some crotchless panties for a woman her age. At that time, I didn’t think things would last too long; but then one day she was “visiting” him in New Mexico and called to say they had eloped. Since then it’s been one hillbilly shittin’ thing after another: trailer dramas, moving dramas, hillbilly-mother-in-law dramas. And I’m sure none of you will forget when my mother showed up at my father’s garage sale to sell some of her own wares, and displayed them on a Poise pantyshields box she dug out of the dumpster behind my grandparent’s assisted living facility.

Fucking crazy, right?

So after a few days of speculation, I realize that there are a couple of possibilities that made this sequel a clear path down the trail to psychosis:

1. They live in a tiny, aluminum trailer in New Mexico. It’s fucking hot in New Mexico. Maybe the air conditioning broke and their brains are now fried.

2. They ran out of crazy pills and thought that rather than pay another copay, jelly beans would be an adequate substitute.

3. One hillbilly brawl ended and now they are looking for another hillbilly brawl, because (quite frankly) brawl and shit is what hillbillies like to do.

All I know is that from now on I’m back to not answering numbers that are unrecognizable.

DIY Swimming Pool

Ay yay yay.

The other day I saw this absolutely absurd set of pictures on Failblog. It intrigued me so that I looked into it a little and found that A LOT of people do this – this, of course, being making themselves a swimming pool for a little r & r out of a tarp and a lot of rope.

No one really seemed to give any instructions for this, though. While it looks easy, I think we need to be very clear on how to embark on a DIY Swimming Pool.

Step One: Get a haircut

This is probably the first and most important step. Get a haircut. But not just any haircut – one that says get me some chitlins. I’m talking a mullet – cut your hair just so that it’s business on top and party in the back. You will not be able to make your tarp pool without this critical step having been done.

Step Two: Light the fire

While you are preparing your tarp pool, you’ll most certainly get hungry and want to cook up the nearest roadkill you can find. Light the fire in one of the metal trash cans sitting around in your front yard – old nuclear waste bins you dug up out off your old property in Nevada will suffice as well. Once things are nice and toasty, get cooking!

Step Three: Engage in sexual congress with your sister, mother, aunt, cousin, or father

It need not matter who, what, where, or whether you are of the same gender. Incest is the best – put your family to the test, right? Once this step is done, we are ready to get that pool going!

Step Four: Head to your local Home Depot and steal a tarp and rope

The rope you use to hold up your pants will not be enough to put together your tarp pool. The good news is that it’s relatively easy to steal things from Home Depot – all you need to do is fit the items neatly into your overalls and rebutton your flannel shirt. Everyone will think you’ve just eaten one too many opossums.

Step Five: Tie your tarp up to the sides of a flimsy or seemingly illogical place

As you see in the photographs above, the best places for putting together your tarp pool are the back of your truck or up along your fence. Keep in mind: the dirtier the better. It’s best to just start off filthy since it’s going to get dirty up in there anyway.

Step Six: Add water and enjoy!!

Might I suggest you only skinny dip? This seems to be the maximum of enjoyment possibilities in your tarp pool. Nothing says ‘fun’ like having your hillbilly balls hanging out all over your algae-infested tarp pool in the back of your truck, while the wind blowing fans your mullet out all around you as your four hundred pound wife drives the two of you to the closest Sizzler for the Sunday Special.

You’re kidding me right? Seriously, humanity … why?


Introducing the Hillbilly Chronicles

What is the deal with people’s obsession with the unfortunate majority of our society that seems to always like their business in the front and the party in the back?  You know who I’m talking about … the overall-wearing, beat-up truck-driving, Coors-drinking, tooth-missing, sister-marrying, I-like-to-post-photographs-of-myself-on-the-toilet-on-the-Internet hillbillies.  Perhaps I’m stereotyping, but then ultimately classifying someone as such is really nothing more than applying stereotypes to a person in the first place.  So yeah, I’m talking about hillbillies.

Here’s the deal:  every day I check on my blog stats and included in the daily WordPress report is a list of things people searched for that brought them to my blog.  I think I have blogged about “hillbilly” topics twice, maybe three times at most.  And yet, the most popular search terms on a day-in, day-out basis are relative to hillbillies, rednecks, trailer trash, white trash, and the like.  Shockingly, the most popular hillbilly-related searches are tied at “hillbilly shit” and “hillbilly marries sister.”  It is unprecedented how many times people search those exact terms, thus I have to ask:  what is the obsession with hillbillies?

Is it because nine out of ten hillbillies have a haircut that both (a) was out of style in the early 80s, and (b) is known to look horrible, and yet still worn.  I’m talking, of course, about the mullet.  There really is no way you can do a mullet right.  I can’t even understand, really, why so many people still have them.  And sometimes they just look so awful you have to just wonder:  do these people think they’re being funny?  Take this kid for example.  Is it possible that when this kid got his hair cut he actually was being serious?  Look at him!  It doesn’t even make sense!  On the very top it’s buzzed but then in the very front he has partial bangs.  In the back he has the ultimate of mullet parties going on, and the sides have some shaved design.  A shaved design?  Does this kid not have parents?  The whole mullet thing in itself is an anomaly, so I can see why hillbillies would fascinate people.  This can’t be the sole reason for such popularity that hillbillies carry, though, for if it were then people would have been searching “mullet” rather than “hillbilly.”  The mullet may be a big part of it, but it certainly isn’t the crux of it all.

How about the outlandish things that hillbillies do, like marry their sisters and post photographs online of themselves on the toilet – is it that?  You even start to type “hillbilly” into Google Image search and by the “…bi…” you’ve got photo after photo of those people sitting on the toilet popping up on your screen.  It doesn’t end there – they’ve even begun taking videos of themselves on the can and posting them on Youtube, and seem to be on a search to find the most bizarre places possible that they can plant said can for use.  As I said, the one that shows up frequently in the search terms on my blog site statistics is “hillbilly marries sister.”  There are even interesting variations that show up:  “toothless hillbilly marries sister;” “hillbilly marries pregnant sister;” and even “hillbilly marries sister with shotgun in hand and overalls falling down.”  While it’s possible that the outlandish behaviors of the trashier members of our community is the cause of such unprecedented popularity on my blog, I’m pretty sure that this alone isn’t the driving force behind the obsession either.  I think the proof for that lies in the other most prevalent search term that leads people to my blog “hillbilly shit.”

It’s gotta’ be the hillbilly shit.  I know I’ve dropped the s-bomb enough times on this post to ensure I never make it on WordPress’s Freshly Pressed, but it’s important to dissect this oft-searched term in finding the truth behind the Hillbilly Chronicles.  The search term “hillbilly shit” has shown up enough times on my site statistics that either there is one person out there so obsessed with my blog that (after realizing the term would result in my site), they keep typing it in for the sake of finding my blog; or, much more likely, a lot of people truly hold an air of “I’m better than that hillbilly shit.”  I think it’s the latter.  I think that people are so obsessed with hillbilly culture because they think of themselves as better than it.  Have you ever searched online for the definitions or pictures of something for the sole purpose of justifying that you are not, in fact, it?  That’s what the proponents of the “hillbilly shit” search are doing.  And why wouldn’t they think they are better when 9 out of 10 are walking around with ridiculous hairdos; and many more act in ways that leave one thinking what was that guy thinking?!  Whether it is from truth or not, hillbillies are associated with everything our society doesn’t want:  unemployment, welfare, teenage pregnancy, incest, unattractiveness, drunk driving, and Wal-mart.  Now while it is most certainly unfair to peg all hillbillies as (in most cases) degenerates to society (and believe you me, I know a lot of hillbillies that are not, and yet still are unambiguously hillbillies), it should then come as no surprise that people search in an effort to remind themselves of what they are not.

That may be the more pejorative way to look at it:  finding the bad in people, rather than the sheer possibility of fun that can come of just looking at pictures of mullets and reading about another incestuous shot-gun wedding.  Whatever it may be, hillbillies are a popular topic, one this blogger cannot ignore.  As it normally goes when you sell your soul for the sake of ratings, I cannot deny the readers what they want.  All-things-hillbilly can now be found under their own tab on my Homepage:  The Hillbilly Chronicles.  Check back frequently for updates, old posts, and all the mullets and overalls you can handle.

Why hillbillies annoy me

I read, recently, that it is considered uncouth to refer to someone as “white trash.”  Granted, saying something like “you are such white trash” probably isn’t exactly polite, sometimes it is warranted.  Reportedly, “white trash” is just not the way you are to brand someone that has the characteristics of, well … white trash.  Other words like “hillbilly” and “trailer trash” are considered preferable in the Mountain William World, so now we have yet another group that is going to change the preference of their designation year after year, after year.  It isn’t bad enough that we have to keep up with the secretaries of the world changing their designated job title to “administrator” or “administrative professional;” or with the teacher’s aids changing to “paraeducators,” now even the gun-toting, sister-marrying, Walmart-shopping, toothless-wonders of the world are getting politically correct.

That’s not the only reason hillbillies annoy me, though.

Hillbillies annoy me because all they talk about is their bowels.

As much as I enjoy hearing someone talk about their bowels ad nauseum (literally), and as wonderful as that one year was when I went to Thanksgiving dinner with an old boyfriend and his grandfather did the “pull my finger” joke at the table six times, it just really annoys me that hillbillies have to involve human fecal matter in everything they do.  Life does exist outside the toilet.

(As a side, the fact that this photo exists, along with a cadre of similar Youtube videos, is disturbing and beyond the threshold of annoying.)

Hillbillies annoy me because they really do all have “Joe” or “Sue” for a middle name.

I can’t even seem to figure this out.  Along with the “Bobby”s and “Tommy”s of the Mountain William World, it seems that all of them have “Joe” or “Sue” for a middle name.  I dated a guy back when I first moved to California who tried so hard to distance himself from his hillbilly family; and yet, inevitably a wedding or anniversary reigned in all the “Tiffany Sue”s and “Billy Joe”s the family had to offer.

Hillbillies annoy me because they seem to have to make perverted comments about everything.

I’m all for the occasional joke about “rolling in the hay” or “if this van’s a rockin'” but hillbillies take it to a whole new level.  For one, I have never been to the zoo and not seen a pair of hillbillies standing by watching turtles making it, snickering and talking about the size of the man-turtle’s manhood.  Even that would be tolerable once in a while, if only hillbillies didn’t always take it to another level altogether.  My mother happens to be dating a full-blown hillbilly (he lives in a trailer), and every time I see him he makes it a point of mentioning just how much they get nasty.  And his perversions show up in every, single thing he talks about – when they took a trip to visit Area 51, he gabbed on and on afterwards about how cool it would be to see aliens do it.  Or how about the hillbillies that put the “5 dollar footlong” shirt on their kids?

Hillbillies annoy me because they talk all kinds of shit and then either lie about it, or act affronted when it comes back to bite them on the ass.

Seriously, this really annoys me.  A hillbilly probably spends 75% of their waking time talking shit about other people, particularly other non-hillbillies that “think they’re better than us.”  Instead of “Joe” or “Sue,” “Drama” should be the real, universal middle name of the hillbilly.  Now, again, I do my own share of smack-talking (don’t lie to yourself, you do too), but when I’m called out for it I don’t lie, act like it’s an affront to my personal character, or use it as a way to talk even more shit.  Not the hillbillies, though.

There are a lot of other reasons why hillbillies annoy me.  The overalls, the shirt-less trips to Wal-mart, the lack of teeth and basic dental hygiene – it all reeks to me (in some cases, figuratively; in most cases, literally).  But what really irks me is this notion that I am now to be politically correct in reference to one of the most unpolitically correct group of people in this country, on this planet for that matter.  “White trash” is no longer kosher?  How about we put on some regular clothes and stop making passes at our cousins, and then we can talk about who deserves political correctness.

There’s a reason for the law against you marrying your sister, Bubba Joe … ’cause you’re white trash!