Boy Scouts Done Lost They Mind!

We live in a neighborhood – and in said neighborhood we have “The Scouts” – Girls and Boys. Having been a Girl Scout, when fundraising season comes along I certainly don’t mind Smith handing out seven bucks for a box of Caramel Delights – or that he buys enough Thin Mints to keep himself sustained long after the apocalypse – but Boy Scouts?! You guys have lost your badge-loving minds. WHO CHARGES $55 for popcorn?! Are the Boy Scouts run by crazy people? Who’s making this popcorn? One Direction and the 1996 cast of Friends? Listen, this is not Mayflower times. Corn is no longer “the hot new thing on the streets,” so stop charging us like these nuggets are made of gold.

But she taught y'all how to make that shit!

Damn, that’s cold. She taught y’all how to make that shit.

If I had to sustain myself with popcorn, I’d be dead by lunchtime… of boredom. There aren’t even fortunes or magical gems in this stuff. Every year y’all sucker us in by sending those lil cuties around in their tiny neckerchiefs, but y’all won’t get me again. I KNOW HOW TO PRETEND I’M NOT HOME LIKE A CHAMP!

Ding Dong – no one’s home, chumps!

Come back after hurricane season and I will give you my Chef Boyardee cans, but until you guys stop thinking you are selling popcorn to Donald Trump, I ain’t buying. Hmm popcorn or gas for the month – which should I choose? Doi. How’s about I just give you ten dollars, you make some cookies and keep your popcorn for the rich and famous?

Additionally, y’all better start waving back after fundraising season is over or I’m turning the sprinkler settings on randomize. Acting like you don’t know my ass – but bishes gotta offload some kernels and all the sudden it’s like “Oh Hi, Miss Nicole!” Then a month later I wave and y’all act like I’m passing out candy bars and puppies from a van with no windows.

Shut up, you live next door and I baby sat you twice.

Game. Set. Match. I WON’T BE FOOLED AGAIN!

P.S. The winter theme on the tin was lovely.

The Rhinestone Cowboy

In my offline life, among other things, I am a singer. The first band I was hired to front was a country band.

Proof.

I did not know any country music at the time – but I learned quickly and grew to enjoy the genres. The manager of the band and I hit it off and became close friends. With that friendship, I learned all things country. There were rodeos, NASCAR races, George Straight concerts, moonshine, cowboy hats, front porch-pickin, boots… trailers, sexy lady mud flaps – it was country-tastic. On one of our many country-themed adventures, I was asked to accompany Tim (the manager) and his friends to “The Country Corral.” I inquired as to what the heck that even meant.

“What the hell kind of place is that?”

“Ah, it’s great! There’s a dance floor and it’t packed! We like to sit on the side and watch all the lady butts.”

“So, let me get this, you want me… to go to ‘The Corral’… and stand along the side and watch lady butts with you? MMMMmmm… nyew.”

“No, we just do that sometimes, you gotta go!”

So, after a bit of coaxing and bargaining, I agreed to go:

“Well if we get out there and I crack a window and hear banjos, just remember that you did that to your buttholes – not me.”

YEEHAW! (Click to buy these vintage notecards!)

The journey to The Country Corral was composed of 6 people: Myself, Tim, his bff Kevin, and Kevin brought his work friend, Slick. (Slick brought 2 work friends, that we lost at the door and I haven’t seen them since.) I don’t think “Slick” was his real name, but he answered to it and it was all I ever knew. Slick was an odd nickname to me, because “Slick” was a city boy – but by gawd, he was eating this country shit up with a spoon!

We arrived at the crowded door, and eventually made our way towards the bar. On our way, we saw it. The mechanical bull line. This was no country fair mechanical bull – this was a training bull, with a line of actual rodeo cowboys in wait.

“Look at that!” Shouted Slick

“Yeah buddy, I don’t think that’s for you tonight.” Said Tim

We found a table near the band and took a seat. Slick watched that bull all night from our camp. Slick also drank Goldschlager until he was so marble-mouthed, that I heard him introduce himself as “Shit” to some chick.

“They call me Schlitt”

It was about 12:15AM when Slick announced. “Sheyy evurybuday, *hiccups* I’m gonna dew et! I’ma ridin’ that bull!”

Yeah buddy.

Being a little tipsy ourselves, it sounded like a great idea at the time and we enthusiastically accompanied Slick over to the ride line. After a 30 minute wait amid buckles and boots – tennis shoe wearing slick finally got his turn. Slick was wobbly as hell on approach, jittering all over the bounce house-like fall mat floor. Slick eventually mounted the robo beast and the rodeo began. The bull went down, Slick snapped up. The bull went up, Slick slapped down on that shit like a sack of potatoes. Now, let me explain that Slick was wearing tight jeans. I think he thought they looked like cowboy jeans. But they did not have the same quality stitching, because when Slick’s ass smacked down on that bull – he split his jeans clean open. The entire inseam right down to the knee. It was like make shift denim short chaps with matching denim leg warmers. Kevin, Tim and I almost pissed ourselves laughing. Odder even, Slick didn’t know he was riding that bull in his panties until the end of the ride, where he was ultimately tossed head over foot 5 to 10 feet, exactly 4 seconds after the ride began.

Woaaaah, Nelly! (Click to buy this vintage notecard.)

After about 2 minutes of adrenaline detox, Slick noticed his jeans. Slick was pissed. Drunk Kevin and Tim then said, “Hey man! I think we can fix ’em up!” We retreated to the car where Tim whipped out a giant roll of duct tape from the trunk. (I’ve since learned that most boys are traveling with duct tape in their trunk. Duct tape to boys must be like extra shoes to girls.) Tim and Kevin then began to piece the jeans back together with the tape. By the end of it all, we retuned to The Country Corral dance floor with Slick and his new shiny silver jeans.

It’s worth noting that at about 3:45AM we were cutting said jeans off of Slick outside a Waffle House. Lots of beer and booze make permanent duct tape jeans a poor choice in apparel.

“We can stay up late, telling manly stories, then in the morning… I’m makin’ waffles!”