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 Wilma Chronicals

I have a fairly regular interaction with “Wilma.” She’s crude, she’s crass and by gawd this bitch loves her some pie. She’s part of my extended family so there’s really no getting rid of her. Not that I’d want to anyways– it’s like I’m sitting on a gold mine of stories with this one! She ruins almost everything. Yet still, I almost look forward to her showing up because I know she’s gonna be popping the crazy pills, and I’m going to get to giggle like a little bish at all of the fallout surrounding her antics.

My first experience with Wilma was when she tried to steamroll me with her boobies during a holiday showdown. I was doing the dishes to help out after dinner and she felt I was getting too much positive recognition from onlookers. So, she came into the kitchen and told me to “Move! I’m gonna do this now!”  Then, whilst I was up to my elbows in bubbles and gravy boats, she began to slowly push on me by using only her giagantor uni-booby. It was like I was being squished in slow-motion by two elongated beach balls. (I imagine it’s what it would feel like for a little person to be tea-bagged by a giant.) She eventually got distracted by a roaming cookie tray and left. Keep in mind, that was my FIRST experience with her. I didn’t know her, I hadn’t been formally introduced, nothing. Odd, yes – but I knew I’d found solid gold.

Then there’s the pie. By gawd, the pie! There have been several incidents involving dessert and Wilma. Mostly pies. For instance, she once volunteered to bring a pie to a party, but she ate a piece of it in the car en transport. She just busted in the front door, laid the pie (sans piece) out and played dumb.

Q: “Who ate a piece?”

Wilma: “Huh?”

Q: “…of the pie, there’s a piece missing.”

Wilma: “Oh yeah, I forgot… I… had a small slice with my Wendy’s. My blood sugar was low from the drive.” (She’s not diabetic and the ride from the purchase of said pie to party was about an hour.)

Just a few weeks prior, she ate the inside bottom of someone’s birthday cake- and put it back in the fridge, like a mother-effing ninja dessert assassin or something. I only know this because I saw her shuffling it in the fridge, fork in hand. I assumed she was up to something – but only put two and two together later when they cut into the cake and it was hollow inside.

Who ate the pie?

What pie?

Most recently she showed up to a cookout with the whole ass of her pants missing – and never batted an eye. Seriously, she just owned that shit. I mean, what the eff could happen in your life, that you’d blow out the whole ass of your jeans and not think to mention it to anyone or change your pants? It was like she was wearing make-shift denim chaps. Bless her heart.

Anyhoo, I could go on forever about her – and I will, but it will be in another post.