The Main Reason I Don’t Have a Gun

If I had a gun, when some drunk jackass stumbled up to my table and started talking shit about how dare I eat in public, I would shoot him.  And I’d feel no remorse and I’d be on death row, unless, on the off-chance I actually got twelve fat people on my jury.

They’d probably ask for clarification: “Did he really come up to your table and just start in ‘Dang, girl, look at you eating.’?”

And I would say, “Yes.”

And they would say, “Not guilty.”

Seriously, I have two comments about this.

One being how much it kills me whenever doctors and other folks go on about fat folks as if we don’t get that we’re fat.  Please, name me one other state of being where total strangers feel free to walk up to you in public and “correct” your behavior.  Sorry, world, apparently I am so hideously gross that my mere presense in a bar ruins the bar experience for others.

Two being how dude looked like a troll.  Seriously, “John,” you need to take a long hard look in the mirror before you criticize anyone else’s appearance.

That is all.

Edited to Add:  Brittney’s take.  Maybe it wasn’t about me being fat.  Maybe he was just a jackass.  Good thing I don’t have a gun.


Again, advise me, y’all.  “Auntie.”  When people call me “Auntie,” or “Auntie B.,” especially if they’re talking smack about me in general, is that supposed to be more insulting?  More condescending?  I have a lot of aunts, but I’ve never wanted to talk down to them, so I have no idea how it’s done.

This just keeps coming up in reference to the recent unpleasantries and I  don’t quite get what the implication is supposed to be.

Theater, Theatre, Whichever

I have to come up with a couple of sentences about my play and a couple of sentences about me for the folks doing publicity for it up in that old East Coast city.

I’m completely stuck.  Hence the reason I’m turning to you.

For the bio, I’m thinking:

B. lives in Nashville with her dog.  She is the proprietor of the blog, Tiny Cat Pants.  This is her first play (so, if you must boo, please do so softly).

For the description of the play, though, damn I have no idea.   Maybe something like:

On the eve of her Grand Ole Opry debut, up-and-coming country music singer Lucetta Flood finds she must choose between following her dreams and following her heart.

Ha, god, no, that sounds like something you’d find on the back of a romance novel.  But is Lucetta not the perfect country and western name?  I ask you, does that rock or what?  And I’m happy to be able to give her Dan Flood’s last name, because I know that will give the Shill a laugh.

The reporter in the piece is named Tracy Keene.  I originally named her after newscoma, but I didn’t know if she’d find that weird, so I thesaurusized her last name and came up with that instead.

I could go with something like:

Two hot chicks–one of whom is wearing nothing but a white slip–make out in the middle of my play.  How bad can it be?

Okay, no.

Roger Abramson, If I’d Not Been Recently Forcibly Converted to Radical Feminism, I Would Kiss You

Roger Abramson is a genius.  Y’all, if I could write such a pitch perfect title to my entries, this blog would be unstoppable.

The Weather Goes from Preachin’ to Meddlin’

Do y’all know that joke?

A new pastor stands up in front of his church to preach his first sermon and he starts out a little shaky at first, talking about how people need to do right by each other, but a little old lady in the back shouts, “Preach it, Reverend!” and he starts to feel a little more confident so he starts talking about how folks need to quit with the drinking and the dancing and she’s all like “Preach it, Reverend!” and then he starts railing against all the fornicating and the running around and the little old lady turns to her neighbor and says, “Well, now he’s just meddlin’.”

Ha, I love it.

An Open Letter to Nashville Developers

Dear Nashville Developers Developing My Neighborhood:

First, god damn, the guys working on the place closest to my house have some nice shoulders.  Would you consider it stalking if I sat there with my camera phone and snapped pictures for the enjoyment of my male-oriented readers?  Worse, would the guys assume I was part of some effort to go all 287(g) on them?  More importantly, are we at the point where I can use “287(g)” like that?  I mean, please, if Brad Nowell can go all 1-8-7 on a motherfucking cop, certainly folks could be afraid of someone going all 287(g) on them.  I’m using it.

Second, as much as you’re trying to sell folks on the idea that this neighborhood is the type of place folks spend $250,000-600,000 to live in while sharing walls with their neighbors, we’re really not quite there yet.  Tweaked out hobos still run across the top of the train in nothing but their tighty-whities.  Some adorable girl most folks secretly want to spend their whole day cuddled up next while exploring the exquisite curve of her breast walks around the neighborhood with a pitbull.  Once a half-raw beer can chicken flew out of this neighborhood and onto the interstate in a last ditch attempt at freedom.  And the neighbor lady who feeds all the stray cats has a kid that wanders around the neighborhood randomly karate-chopping at invisible foes.

I’m just saying, this is still, at best, a “colorful” neighborhood.  So, if you purchase a house with the intent of tearing it down to put up more of your half a million dollar townhomes no one seems to be lining up to live in, don’t just put up some “No Trespassing” signs.

Tear the fucker down.

We all heard about the drug-addled homeless kids living in the empty houses on Long until someone made y’all deal with that mess and we’d rather not have that problem on this side of the interstate.


Aunt B.