The New Southern B!+€#

Well, I am appalled. What is with this next generation of petty females? What is happening to our sugar, sweet-tea little girls? Used to be no one felt it appropriate to show stupidity directly.  The hidden intellect of our Southern Gals was beyond approach. The Southern B—- was nothing if not subtle.

We dropped our little Princess off at the University of Texas debate camp for a two-week session in the mechanics of civilized debate. It took less than two hours for the officials to bump my smart and ever so talented Princess to the highest level at the Institute. She has that natural God-given ability to argue the $#!t out of anything. Conflict is as easy as breathing at our house. Most families have those Norman Rockwell dinner conversations, not at our table. You ain’t got 14 valid reasons for your position, then you might as well get up and go pheasant hunting with that crazy a$$ former Vice President. Being number two sucks around here, because we all know what number two means. Evidently the LSU Tigers 2011 Football team sees it differently,  everyone there gets big , gaudy, bejeweled, rings to celebrate. Let, me hear a ROLL TIDE. All said, my Princess knows how to dish it out with the best of them and she can take it. It takes a pretty mean b!+€# to ruffle my little Sweetie. I take great pride in my parenting of a Strong Southern Belle. She knows how to say,”Yes Ma’am” both ways as in, “Why, yes Ma’am, I do thank you for the polite interest in my day,” and the ever so clear, “Yesssss, Ma’am, I meant what I said.”

Which brings me to the d@mn question of the day, what are the Texas Chapter of the B!+c# Moms teaching their daughters? You don’t inslut , oops, sorry insult, people to their face about how they look, especially when they are wearing a nice, cute as hell dress, stunningly tailored, to accentuate their extremely slim figure, if you are 16-year-old with personality disorders and your rear-end weighs more than two-dozen-oil-rigs pumping crude oil at full capacity off the coast of Texas. An Impressive site, indeed.

I saw it coming the day we met Sweetie’s room mate’s parents, when the Dad complained about the parking deck, “Glad, I have a rusty old Ford Taurus cause those big Mercedes GLK 350’s won’t be able to get out.” Yep, he somehow managed to insult the exact vehicle we drove 13 hours through the most unalluring terrain I have ever seen to arrive at this Institute. It is fair-d@mn-game to add at this point, Texas has more than its fair share of shacks and over-abundance of rusty trailers. I gave up counting  junkyards somewhere short of two million by the time we got to Waco. The geezer described all I need to know about his home town of Houston,” where everything is bigger.” His words not mine. That might explain why biggggg-asssss- rears are in his genetics. I know a thing or two about obesity, and that family is the image that scares me when I step on the scale.

Why the heck does it matter that my slim Princess can wear tight-fitting clothes, look beautiful, and not show rolls of fat? Yeah, it amazes me and maybe aggravates me that she can eat more junk food than I ever could, but she looks adorable. She doesn’t need me to say how slim and cute she is, when perfect strangers are jealous, point proved. Rub it in Sweetie,  forget those sorry apples we bought you at Target, eat that big bag of Doritos  right in front of the fat chic and her tub-o-lard friend. It don’t matter to me. Smile and say,” Wanna follow me to the exercise room, I’ll beat you there, too.”  Use the Ann Romney expression with pride,” I hear they have Krispy Kreme donuts for “you people.”  Remind them like Ann does about her family’s tax returns, “I’ve released as much charm as “you people” need to know or gonna get. ”

See you in two weeks , Sweetie. Love , Mom

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