Tag Archives: Mean Girls

Back to Bidness

Ah, taxes are done and paid and probably wrong, but I don’t care anymore, I just don’t.  Too many maths make Hoody something…something…

Anyhoo, back before Uncle Sam and Step-Daddy Earl Ray got their hands in my pockets, I was actually GIVEN something:

I's Is Kreativ!

That there award comes to me courtesy of the amazing bluzdude, who is being rewarded for his generosity by promotion to the Royal Court as my “Official Mirror Spirit” (you know, as in “mirror, mirror, on the wall…”).  Thanks, hon! Never let it be said that I cannot be bought!

Now, the rules are thusly:  Post the picture, thank the sender, then list seven (YIKES!) interesting facts about myself.  Now, I don’t know that there’s much left I haven’t shared about myself, but I’ll do my best:  Let’s talk about scars, shall we?  Chicks dig scars, right?

  1. I was never in a street gang, but I have in fact been “jumped out.”  For some reason, the twin girls who lived down the street from me growing up decided to celebrate my move from grade school to junior high (they were a little younger) by beating the fuck outta me with baseball bats.  Fortunately for me, they chose ALUMINUM bats, and the recoil time gave me room to run before they’d got more than a couple licks in.  Stupid bitches.  WOODEN bats are the way to go.
  2. No scars from that particular incident, but my lower back is a veritable palette of bad decisions.  First, there was the huge bite mark from my uncle’s miniature Shetland Pony (twice as mean as catshit, that little fucker was).  For some unknown reason, he decided to chase me down one day and bite the fuck outta my back — I sweartaGAWD, it felt like he hit spine!  This is the origin of my theory that miniaturized animals are proportionately meaner than full-sized ones.
  3. Once that healed, I somehow managed to get a Brown Recluse Spider to decide that my bedroom window was an excellent place to have her little spider babies.  Yes, I know we’re not supposed to have them here in Wes’BYGAWD, but believe me, we do.  As you may know, brown recluse venom makes your skin… kinda… melt…. yeah, it’s really gross.  Thank Goddess it was just the babies or my ass might have completely disappeared!
  4. And as a final insult, I had a wireless microphone battery pack pretty well catch fire with me wearing it… causing the finishing touches to, you guessed it, the small of my back.  I don’t need a tramp stamp, I EARNED this shit!
  5. But wait, there’s more:  I had to wear an eyepatch through part of kindergarten because I fell on my fool head and bashed myself in the eye on the edge of my Dear Sweet Grandparents’ (DSM’s folks) coffee table.  There’s still a little dent if you look close.
  6. Same kindergarten, I had a nosebleed so bad they had to cauterize (yes, burn) it shut… resulting in an enormous black booger THAT I WAS NOT ALLOWED TO PICK AT.  Dammit, I wanted to pick it!
  7. The latest really good ones are the ones I got when a horse threw me through a barbed wire fence — it wasn’t her fault, she was in heat and no one had thought to inform me of that — but they’ve almost faded off my shoulder.  I was the most badass girl at church camp after that, though.

So there’s my seven things you may not have known (or wanted to).  This particular award doesn’t come with pass-along directions, so I’m throwing it open to all of y’all:  What’s your best scar/wound story?



Filed under Getchore LEARN on!, I Rule You, La Vida Loca, The Royal Court, Youse Guys

From the Mouths of Babes…

No, not like the chicks on Baywatch, like actual children.  Normally I’m not a fan of children as a species, but the 2 kids at the wedding this weekend were FABULOUS. 

First, they were setting up vials of sand (for this really cool part of the ceremony where the bride and the groom and her daughter and his son all mixed their sand together to symbolize the blending of their lives) and the son asks his soon-to-be stepsister:  “Are we gonna keep the sand afterwards?”  And this little Hoody-in-Training says, “No, we’re gonna give it to some Canadians.”

I like to died.

Then a little later, he asked her if she had bought her dress (I’m assuming because his tux was rented, so he thought her outfit might be as well) and she said, “No, I stole it.  I went to David’s Bridal and I stole it.”  That boy’s gonna have to sharpen up right smart to keep up with her!

But he DID turn out to be an AMAZING dancer — how can an I’d say 8 or 9 year old kid know the Worm AND all the moves from “Thriller?”  I was alive when those came out, and I sure as hell can’t do ’em!  And it’s a case of never could do it, not a case of being too old and decrepit, so don’tchoo bitches even start.



Filed under Chuckweasel, He's the DJ I'm the Rapper, La Vida Loca

Reason Not to Spawn #3,987

Um, yeah, so I think we can all agree I’m probably not what you’d call “parenting material.”  I’m fine with kids in small doses, especially those which I can give back to their rightful owners parents when they start to tick me off.  But my OWN?  That I’d have to KEEP?  Ummmm, might not be good for anyone.

Case in point:  As we are wont to do, Chuckweasel and I were watching “True Life,” and this episode was about kids who have bad acne and what they’re trying to do about it.  Chuckweasel, being a decent human being more often than I am, actually felt sorry for the little snowflakes… but not me.

I spent the whole episode hollering “Stop touching your face!  Get your HAIR cut!  Dammit, I said STOP TOUCHING YOUR FACE!  That’s too much makeup!  Use a sponge for that foundation!  STOP TOUCHING YOUR GODDAMN FACE!”

So I now believe, “Toddlers and Tiaras” notwithstanding, that all girls should be forced to take the Barbizon modeling class before they’re allowed to start wearing makeup.  Then they’ll learn how to do it RIGHT!  And the posture and manners can’t hurt either.  You could adapt the class for boys to teach them to WASH THEY FUNKY SELVES, not have bangs that come down to their chin, and PULL THEIR DAMN PANTS UP!  I swear, the boy on the acne show said he had no friends because of his pimples… but he was walking around with the dyed-black Shaggy hairdo in his face, several of those weird bull-at-the-county-fair nose and lip piercings, wearing nothing but big ol’ baggy black pants with grommets and shit, and PLATFORM BOOTS AND EYELINER!  Plus every shirt he owned had Marilyn Manson on it.  Son, your pimples are THE LEAST of your concerns!

One of the other girls had her face lasered off (literally, the doctor said “You may smell some vaporized skin.”)… and then she was SURPRISED when she looked like George Hamilton after he fell asleep in his lawn chair!  But the best part… the BEST part… is she went for a MODELING interview while she was all Revenge-of-the-Mummy looking with shit peeling off her face!  And then she’s pissed she didn’t get it??? WHAT???

This may be the reason Dear Sweet Mama, Cousin Hep and I are considering forming a co-op to adopt a Chinese baby — so we could pass it around when we got sick of its shit.


Filed under Adventures with Dear Sweet Mama, I'm Confused, La Vida Loca, My Secret Shame(s), Weep for Humanity, White Man's Medicine

The Way Forward

 Friends, it should come as no surprise to you that I have spent my entire life fucking with people.  I mean, I try to accomplish at least 15 acts of dickery before I go to bed each night (I bump it up to 18 on Sundays, because I figure the people who are sucking up to God don’t pull their own weight in dickery on Sundays).  But now, I must admit… my shit may be played out, yo.

Allow me to explain:  It does me no good to be surly and antisocial and make nasty faces at people IF THEY’RE ALL DOING IT, TOO!  But thanks to the accidental ingestion of way more caffiene than I’m used to and the subsequent trip to the WalMart… I have found the new path to dickery.  My children, I give you:  inexplicable pleasantness.

When you pass someone on the street, smile and give them a bright, cheery “Good morning!” or what have you.  IT WILL COMPLETELY FUCK THEM UP.  They’ll stammer out some vague reply and scurry away.  And when some douche blocks the EN-tire aisle deciding on a salad dressing, then gives you the fake “Oh, sorry,” as they grudgingly scoot their cart to one side… just say “No, you’re fine,” in your perkiest deranged cheerleader voice and bop along.  They’ll come to the store prepared next time, dammit. 

I can also recommend using words that are way too advanced for your situation.  For example, I forgot to get Sprites, but they had some near the front — so I grabbed a pack and snuck into an empty register backwards — you know, up instead of down.  And when the clerk girl, whose back was turned, apologized for not seeing me right away, I said, “That’s quite all right, I got here in an unorthodox manner!”  She was bum-fuzzled.  I may have also used a British accent, which is also great for fucking with people.  Unless you already ARE British, then they’re not gonna notice.  Then I suggest the accent from the Monty Python sketch where the tourist “weel not buy thees tobacconist, eet ees scretched.”  Kinda like Balki from that horrible show.

So, Hoody’s Hooligans, our mission is clear:  We must continue to fuck with people… by being irrationally kind for no reason.  How else will they ever realize THEY’RE the douchebags? 

Also, sometimes it makes people think you’re dangerously insane, which keeps them the fuck away from you.  BONUS!


Filed under GENIUS!, I Rule You, Jesus and Pals, Just Call Me Beavis, La Vida Loca

You Can Pick Your Nose…

or whatever that saying is… I generally stop listening to any conversation that involves boogers.  Anyhoo, we all know it — The Saga That Is the Family Vacation.  Allow me to set out our cast of characters:

HoodyHoo:  Our intrepid heroine

Dear Sweet Mama:  Best supporting actress as long as she plays her cards right

Dear Sweet Mama’s Concubine:  Unfortunately raised by wolves (i.e., above the Mason-Dixon line), she is guaranteed to piss off at least one of us G.R.I.T.S. (Girls Raised in the South) through simple cultural misunderstanding.  Examples:  Tarzan, Jodie Foster as “Nell,” Mowgli the Jungle Boy.

East Coast Aunt:  As opposed to West Coast Aunt, who lives in Oregon, ECA lives in Charlotte along with her husband, my cousin and his wife, and the cousins’ 2 kids.  This is generally considered proof that she is dangerously insane.

East Coast Aunt’s Backup:  ECA’s best friend who travels everywhere with her… probably because she is in charge of the tranquilizer darts.

Cousin’s Wife:  She is either the smartest person I know, having convinced ECA to take over a majority of her childcare duties… or she’s on A LOT of Xanax.

Tiny Second Cousin (C2) :  6-years-old and raised in the longstanding Hoo Family tradition that children should be treated like small adults until they prove otherwise (and terribly spoiled by ECA, as grandmothers are wont to do), all one can really say is… she runnin’ this bitch.

Detailed incident reports to follow… but for now, a brief plot synopsis:

Hoody annoys the Concubine, the Concubine annoys East Coast Aunt (usually by not showing proper worshipful attitude toward Tiny Second Cousin) and C2 annoys EVERYBODY, generally by being six years old.  Hoody finds this hilarious, because C2 is not Hoody’s actual responsibility, so the cycle resumes again by Hoody annoying the Concubine in the hopes of deflecting her attention onto ECA by way of C2.

Now, some ground rules in case you ever find yourself tricked into invited on one of these excursions:

1.  Always volunteer to take out the trash.  This guarantees you will be able to get away from the drama AT LEAST once a day.  If you go with me, you can be my assistant and we can bitch about everyone else.

2.  Start drinking beer (or weak liquor) no later than 11:30am.  You’re not after drunk here, you’re looking for a steady intake that will allow you to view the madness from a comfrtable fuzziness.

3.  Kick in the hard liquor just before or during dinner.  It’s about to get worse.

4.  Your cousin’s wife for some reason becomes your responsibility when he is not present.  She wants onion dip and chocolate sauce, and you will get these for her despite the fact that she trapped you into sharing a room with ECA’s Backup who snores like a lumberjack.  Refrain from gluing the legholes in Cousin’s Wife’s underwear together… you’re bigger than that, Hoody.

5.  Being sweet to Tiny Second Cousin costs you nothing… but pays big dividends when you’re the only one who can get her to do what she’s told.

BONUS:  The beer-before-liquor rule?  Is BULLSHIT.

BONUS BONUS:  When you finally do snap (and you will), remember:  Yelling does no good unless you say your piece and WALK AWAY.  If you stay there, the yell-ee is guaranteed to say something ELSE that will force you to yell some more.

More to come, same Batshit Time, same Batshit Channel!


Filed under Adventures with Dear Sweet Mama, Just Call Me Beavis, La Vida Loca, On the Road Again, WTF???

Now That You Mention It

Until some responsible person and/or government agency blocks my DVR from recording “True Life,” I’m just going to continue my downward spiral into terrible-person-hood.  The Weasel and I were watching the one about the girls who have that Body Dysmorphic Disorder — you know, where you think you’re horribly ugly but you’re not?  And I started by feeling sorry for them… but they were just… so… ANNOYING.

So I started talking to the TV (like ya do — and you wonder why Chuckweasel is selectively deaf) and telling these girls in no uncertain terms that what they THOUGHT was wrong with them was the LEAST of their worries.  Like, one of them thought she had an ugly chin, but really the whole problem was that she held her mouth in that weird underbite pouty way that some girls for some reason think is sexy… kinda like what The Zell  does with her squinky eyes, only she’s doing it with her mouth.  Plus she had one of those high-pitched whiny voices and she ended every sentence with an upward inflection?  Like it was a question?  And I hate that?  So, a boob job won’t help with none of that, stupid.

The other one was entirely too rich and entitled and she tortured her poor mama and her brother with her drama, then MADE HER BOYFRIEND BUY HER A NOSE JOB!  Bit of advice:  If you’ve pissed and moaned enough that your significant other will buy you MAJOR SURGERY just so you’ll shut the fuck up, your nose is not the issue.  Your MOUTH is.

Plus the fact that she wore one of those stick-em gems in the middle of her forehead like an Indian woman — to, and I quote, “distract people from looking at her face.”  Since when does sticking a shiny something to something keep people from looking at that thing?  You are an idiot.


Filed under I'm Confused, La Vida Loca, Random Thoughts, Uncategorized, Weep for Humanity

At Least I Tried

I have discovered something that may come as a shock to y’all… I… am a terrible, terrible person.

I know, I know, you’re all aflutter : “Oh, no, not Hoody!  How can this be?  She is sweetness and light and graciousness incarnate!”  Yeah, not so much.

See, The Weasel and I were watching some show about this girl who was hanging out in the Hamptons for the summer with her rich friend (who of course could get them invited to all the good parties), and the not-rich girl got all up in the rich girl’s face for saying mean shit behind people’s back.  I ask you, Hoody’s Hooligans:  WHY THE HELL ELSE WOULD YOU GO TO A PARTY???

Here are some of the rich girl’s gems:

“Too short, too tight, too fat.”

“I’m actually embarrassed.” (for a sad so-called “rapper” trying to break it down)

“So… much… PAISLEY.”

I LOVE THIS GIRL!  Ask Chuckweasel or Dear Sweet Mama — this is what I do.  If there is a thing to be mocked, rest assured, I will mock it.  I see it as my sacred duty:  If you don’t have something nice to say about somebody, come sit by me. 

Plus, the rich girl routinely got bartenders to give her the ENTIRE BOTTLE instead of just a glass of the free champagne… and she summed up her philosophy with my three favorite words: “I don’t care.”

Which is rich Yankee girl speak for “Fuck all y’all, where’s my purse?”


Filed under I Rule You, La Vida Loca