Bless Your Heart, Tramp: And Other Southern Endearments
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From the wickedly hilarious pen of Southern humorist Celia Rivenbark comes a collection of essays that brings to mind Dave Barry (in high heels) or Jeff Foxworthy (in a prom dress).
Step into the wacky world of "womanless wedding" fund-raisers, in which Bubbas wear boas. Meet two sisters who fight rural boredom by washing Budweiser cans and cutting them into pieces to make clothing. Learn why the word snow sends any right-thinking Southerner careening to the Food Lion for extra loaves of bread and little else.
Humor columnist and slightly crazed belle-by-birth Celia Rivenbark tackles these and other lard-laden subjects in Bless Your Heart, Tramp, a hilarious look at Southern---and just plain human---foibles, up-close and personal.
So pour yourself a glass of sweet tea and curl up on the pie-azza with Bless Your Heart, Tramp.
royalty, after all. I’d spent too long screeching into a tinny speaker while rain poured into my car about how I didn’t want the Rugrats kids’ meal. I wanted the Teletubby kids’ meal and if they didn’t have Tinky Winky, well, Lord have mercy, what’s the point of living anyway? I thought we had the whole thing straight so I drove up as instructed. (At least I think that’s what she said. Actually it sounded like “That will be five dollars and sixty-nine cents. Muffaluffa moongoo.”) I drove up,
the Nobel ceremonies to join me in Milan for the fall show. The only awkward moment came when Chip and I told the Pope we appreciated his offer but we had our hearts set on sitting with Brad and Angelina. You know, dear family, Christmas is such a special time. That is, it would be if I wasn’t bothered by all those phone calls. One day I’m just going to tell Martha Stewart, “Look, I’m happy to help but you’d think just one Christmas Eve, you could not call me whining, “But Myra Sue, when YOU
and Johnny Weaver and Rip Hawk and Swede Hanson, men who stepped into the ring and took care of bidness with a minimum of trash-talking, men who were heroes to the National Guard Armory faithful. And sometimes, when I think about how nobody thinks about the great wrestlers of the past, the ones who played school cafeterias for a hundred bucks a pop, it makes me want to “layeth the smacketh down.” Whatever that means. Who’s Hinckley Gonna Visit? I see where John Hinckley, the guy who tried to
forgive anyone.) I never did get the whole Jodie Foster/Ronald Reagan tie-in. If you’re going to be a psychopath, shouldn’t you focus on one theme? Then again, I guess that’s why they call ’em crazy. This whole thing reminds me of the video we see from time to time in which Charlie Manson says he’s ready to go free. Of course, he’s got what Grandma Clyde would call “the crazy eye,” so he’ll never get out. Oh, and he might want to lose that swastika tattoo between his eyebrows just to show he’s
home and say he missed me. Oops. I guess that’s like revealing the secret handshake. It’s almost endearing, this need to attend a football game far from home and sit in the company of other men who have arranged similar weekends of quasi-debauchery. You recognize these “weekend furlough” types because they don’t just belch. No, they fling their arms wide and belch the tune of “Won’t Get Fooled Again.” My husband and his buddies, his pardners, his homeboys, his posse—the terms get more manly as