Little Britches

It has come to my attention that certain people think I’m a little too big for my britches.


I’ll admit to not giving my badonkadonk enough of a vote while shopping. The Girls are loud and it’s two against one. Then sometimes I forget to turn around in those blinking florescent dressing rooms. Sometimes they’re just too darn small. Sometimes I forget to care.


For instance, if the last three get-ups I’ve strapped on have been bathing suits, it doesn’t really matter what comes next. A) I can’t focus properly because I’m still snow-blind from the Thigh Exposure and b) if it buttons without oxygen deprivation – buy it! 


If I’m having some doubts, I let the price tag be the gauge.


“Oh hell, for $21.99 I can make this work.”


“What? Half off? Surely I can find something orange to match these shoes!!

or my favorite


“OMG! I love this! When I lose 10 pounds it will zip right up!”


I’ve ‘bout $20-dollared myself into the Poor House at TJ Maxx, y’all. I have a closet of cheap orange clothes from 1999 still waiting for that 10# to slough off.


So, yes, usually, my butt is too big for my britches. Oh wait, that’s not what you mean?


It’s the Fudgie thing again, isn’t it? Too hoity-toity? 


Maybe that’s it – you’re threatened by my advanced vocabulary. Words like “hoity-toity” and “badonkadonk?


Well, I’m fiddinda ‘splain a few things to you, idjit.

(probably that sentence, to start…)


If you feel like I’m talking over your head, it’s probably because you’re staring at my ta-tas. Look up.


Perhaps you don’t understand my accent? Do all my words sound like sound like I’m suckin’ on a big ‘ole cherry Popsicle? Dude, I mean it. Look UP!


Do my southern colloquialisms confuse you? Really? Gee, I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s not funny.


Here’s a little secret. (I’ll probably lose my Scarlett Card over sharing this) Sshhhhhhh…




But, you don’t think so. Which makes it twice as funny.


Sugar, I know my sky-high shoes are too slut-puppy.

But, did you notice that you’re wearing birth control on your feet?

No, the new Mephisto sandals are still not cute. Nice try.


Go ahead and cluck at me while I’m lapping up a juicy steak, a loaded baked potato and a fat glass of merlot.

I’m sure your leafy greens, hardy legumes and Tofu Tar Tar are just yum yum yummy.

I will still leave a prettier corpse: young, plump and smiling.

You will need extra embalming fluid and a Beano.


You say, my hair’s too poofy and my butt’s too poochy and my boobs are too poochy AND poofy.

I say, didn’t your mama teach you The Three B’s?

Blowdryer, béarnaise, for Newton’s sake, brassiere!


If I showed up bra-less, in Birkenstocks and hemp pants, sayin’ “soda” and “you guys”, Mama Merlot would fall over in her collard greens.


Newsflash: I’m not from here.

I’m not gonna fake it.

Okay, I am gonna fake it – but not the Yankee part.


You want fudge?

I can slather that with Fluff and graham crackers and southern fry that.

But don’t bite off more than you can chew.


Too big for my britches? Ya think?

Article Comments

3 thoughts on “Little Britches”

  1. Anita,

    I don’t recall who said it but, “If you can’t laugh at yourself, you should not be laughing at anyone else, either.” I think it defines humor. You add some new definitions to humor too, and I love you for it!


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