Those of you who know me are already aware that I, by birthright, am fluent in bumpkinese. I was much chagrined to discover that many of my co-workers do not share my affinity for the language, (Though Justin does speak one of the Eastern dialects originating in Como, Texas.)
While analyzing the disconnect that my monoglot friends find so irksome, I realized that there are some geographical issues that are getting in the way of our becoming the true cultural "Crock Pot" that I know we can be.
I will demonstrate using a few words and phrases which, while pedestrian out here in the DTJ, continue to baffle and intrigue the non-bumpkinese.
congkreek - An amalgam of sand, cement and aggregate materials used in the construction of buildings in faraway places like Plano, McKinney and Lewisville. It is worth noting that one local resident, for a decade, referred to a popular shopping center in Plano, TX as the "Congkreek Mall." I discovered that she was actually talking about "Collin Creek Mall" and had just never realized that these two words are what language teachers call "false cognates." They sound similar but mean something different. Bumpkinese can be tricky.
ception tank - an elaborate wastewater purification system endemic to the Duct Tape Jungle. The English translation is 'septic tank'
bu-SEP-fer - a kind of conjunctive preposition that is also a contraction. It means "except" or "but." In a typical bumpkinese sentence, it would be used in this way: "Everbuddy kin go busepfer Daddy, cuz he gots kort (court)."
pa-MOO-duh-grass - Bermuda Grass
SUB-toot - An interim or replacement teacher. We didn' do nuthin' up to the skoolhouse yesterdy whatcuz we had us a subtoot.
If you are a recent transplant to the DTJ, I hope that this brief explanation will help you to build bridges of friendship with your neighbors. I will soon post a more complete version of the dictionary. Please understand that it will be a living document, as I am constantly exposed to new and different subsets of this peculiar populus.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Monday, June 15, 2009
Typical Day at the Tax Office
So just like last year, I waited until the last second to renew my car registration. Luckily, any time I go into ’town’ (and especially if I’m with my mother) I have an adventure. Anyway, I’m standing there in one of the many long lines at the tax office because Tom Thumb was out of registration stickers (don’t look at me like that, where ELSE would you go to get your car registration renewed if not a Grocery Megamart...DUH).
I was just standing there, enjoying the crowd smells :=}&$&@ and taking the occasional step or two. When I spied a woman who from the neck up could have only been named Melba Puckett. She was rockin’ that ’Jesus Don’t Want Me to Cut My Hair’...do. You know, the one with the thousand twists in it and the only thing holding the whole mess together (besides 15 pencils) is PRAYER. I’m not baggin’ on religion here. I look like I pray to the God of Bacon. Looks, after all, are deceiving becasue HOLY CRAP...from the neck down she was decked out in a HEEE-UGE red business suit with PLENTY (aproximately 58,745) of sequins. I was as surprised as anyone to find out that Carol Channing had a rummage sale in Plano, Texas, but I guess when you get to be 200 years old, you can do pretty much whatever the hell you want to do.
So I go a few steps further and I spy another woman who, probably for better cell phone reception, was sporting a devastatingly smart pair of earrings, each cleverly fashioned out of an entire wire clothes hanger (I’m not even kidding) and colored with what could only have been a Hobby Lobby "Not Quite Gold" paint pen. At first I pitied her poor earlobes, but then I realized that her thoughtful collarbones were acting as a perch for each of the titanic adornments.
THEN, I finally get to the counter to pay my $53.64 for a f*$&ing sticker, when I am almost blinded by the PURPLE GLITTER LIPSTICK on the clerk. In an effort to understand, in a split second, what I was seeing (I imagine it was like driving along in the car and seeing a donkey on the side of the road wearing pantyhose) I scanned the rest of the face and discovered that it was actually NOT a faux pas of cosmetic application. Rather, it was her attempt to distract my attention from the two fruit-bats that she was using for eyebrows. I am not even playing. They were NOT RIGHT. Not in shape, not in color...AND...they were DRAWN ON HER FACE with what I can only suppose was Marks-A-Lot. Approximately one inch above the bridge of her nose they began, squarely three millimeters apart (which for those of you who don’t know is TOO FREAKING CLOSE TOGETHER). Suddenly, and without warning, they bolt nearly straight up to the middle of her forehead and then gently bend outward before plummeting down, down, down PAST the corners of her eyes. I just stood there, grinning like a jackass eating briars, because it was the only way I could keep from bursting with laughter, my face getting more and more red.
I laughed all the way to my still-legal car, but suddenly stopped, horrified at my realization that an innocent and unsuspecting drag queen had just been ripped to shreds by and angry mob of Collin County taxpayers, who then wore parts of her as trophies. It can be the only explanation. I am sure that you will see this on the news when the story finally breaks. Stay tuned.
I was just standing there, enjoying the crowd smells :=}&$&@ and taking the occasional step or two. When I spied a woman who from the neck up could have only been named Melba Puckett. She was rockin’ that ’Jesus Don’t Want Me to Cut My Hair’...do. You know, the one with the thousand twists in it and the only thing holding the whole mess together (besides 15 pencils) is PRAYER. I’m not baggin’ on religion here. I look like I pray to the God of Bacon. Looks, after all, are deceiving becasue HOLY CRAP...from the neck down she was decked out in a HEEE-UGE red business suit with PLENTY (aproximately 58,745) of sequins. I was as surprised as anyone to find out that Carol Channing had a rummage sale in Plano, Texas, but I guess when you get to be 200 years old, you can do pretty much whatever the hell you want to do.
So I go a few steps further and I spy another woman who, probably for better cell phone reception, was sporting a devastatingly smart pair of earrings, each cleverly fashioned out of an entire wire clothes hanger (I’m not even kidding) and colored with what could only have been a Hobby Lobby "Not Quite Gold" paint pen. At first I pitied her poor earlobes, but then I realized that her thoughtful collarbones were acting as a perch for each of the titanic adornments.
THEN, I finally get to the counter to pay my $53.64 for a f*$&ing sticker, when I am almost blinded by the PURPLE GLITTER LIPSTICK on the clerk. In an effort to understand, in a split second, what I was seeing (I imagine it was like driving along in the car and seeing a donkey on the side of the road wearing pantyhose) I scanned the rest of the face and discovered that it was actually NOT a faux pas of cosmetic application. Rather, it was her attempt to distract my attention from the two fruit-bats that she was using for eyebrows. I am not even playing. They were NOT RIGHT. Not in shape, not in color...AND...they were DRAWN ON HER FACE with what I can only suppose was Marks-A-Lot. Approximately one inch above the bridge of her nose they began, squarely three millimeters apart (which for those of you who don’t know is TOO FREAKING CLOSE TOGETHER). Suddenly, and without warning, they bolt nearly straight up to the middle of her forehead and then gently bend outward before plummeting down, down, down PAST the corners of her eyes. I just stood there, grinning like a jackass eating briars, because it was the only way I could keep from bursting with laughter, my face getting more and more red.
I laughed all the way to my still-legal car, but suddenly stopped, horrified at my realization that an innocent and unsuspecting drag queen had just been ripped to shreds by and angry mob of Collin County taxpayers, who then wore parts of her as trophies. It can be the only explanation. I am sure that you will see this on the news when the story finally breaks. Stay tuned.
Robotic Drag-Queen Cuckoo-Clock on Wheels
So as luck would have it, I was (thanks to the comedy of errors comprising my morning) in danger of being late for work. I dispensed with the formality of 'looking good' because it is not necessary, considering what I do for a living (and the fact that I am no longer pressured by the task of finding a mate {thank you David}). I dressed, put on my uniform, strapped on my knives, grabbed my iPod and scampered out the door. (those of you who know me should be laughing at the mere Idea of my scampering ANYWHERE)
I climbed into my disturbingly filthy car and fired it up, put on my seat belt, turned my favorite Heather Little song up way too loud and sped down the driveway and down the road. I traveled approximately 2.2 miles when the frigging fuel light came on. Little beads of sweat began to form on my forehead, signifying that I was officially having a bad morning. I make my way to Highway 78 and turn southwestish, get up to about 70mph and just as I pass the "Hardware Store" (which is in quotes because it should be known as "This Pile of Crap Up Underneath All-O-These Here Tarps") I realize that the person in front of me, whose name could only be pronounced PEE-paw, was driving approximately twelve miles an hour in his DATSUN pickup. When I finally was able to see beyond the great black dragon of smoke billowing from the "muffler of yesteryear" I was less than pleased to see exactly 265,348 tractors coming down the oncoming lane, making me unable to pass PEE-paw. Now the veins on my neck are popping out.
Finally PEE-paw, moved the f&$* over so I could get on with my commute. I was caught by every traffic light from Farmersville to Sachse (yes, they are REAL towns) and finally got on the tollway. I push my Mustang up to about 80-something to rid myself of the last of PEE-paw's dragon and approached the first toll-plaza. In front of me was a VISION...to be sure. Imagine the love-child of Flo (from Mel's Diner) and Ed Asner. Yes...she was sitting at the 'coins-only' collection doohickey, cigarette (I'm guessing a Virginia Slim menthol) stuck between her lips and Gigantic plastic sunglasses (seriously they could have doubled as radio telescopes). The icing on the cake was the hair. Only some of it could fit out the window of her Caprice Classic (which was my two favorite colours: Primer and Scrape-Down) The hair, at least the visible portion, was the color of dried apricots.
FloAsner (sounds like a pharmaceutical) was throwing coins, one after another into the little receptacle. Her head would disappear and re-appear and each time, the car would lurch forward only to be stopped by a quick stomp of the breaks. Faster and faster her head and hand darted out of the window, each time moving her farther and farther from her 'target'. She looked like a Robotic Drag Queen Cuckoo Clock on Wheels, who happened to be fending off a (completely stationary) monster whose thirst for Cuckoo blood could only be slaked by a continuous stream of pennies. Finally, poor FloAsner ran out of change and then other things started to come out the window, wrappers, little bits of paper, a bottle cap. (It's kind of like running out of bullets and then throwing the gun, I guess).
Finally she gives up and, suddenly possessed by Dannica Patrick, PEALS out in what I guess was an attempt to outrun the camera. Apparently, the $3.21 in pennies and "stuff I found in the floorboard" was not enough to satisfy the North Texas Transit Authority Monster of Death.
Fortunately, I had four quarters and was laughing so hard that I didn't even care that I was 14 minutes late for work.
I climbed into my disturbingly filthy car and fired it up, put on my seat belt, turned my favorite Heather Little song up way too loud and sped down the driveway and down the road. I traveled approximately 2.2 miles when the frigging fuel light came on. Little beads of sweat began to form on my forehead, signifying that I was officially having a bad morning. I make my way to Highway 78 and turn southwestish, get up to about 70mph and just as I pass the "Hardware Store" (which is in quotes because it should be known as "This Pile of Crap Up Underneath All-O-These Here Tarps") I realize that the person in front of me, whose name could only be pronounced PEE-paw, was driving approximately twelve miles an hour in his DATSUN pickup. When I finally was able to see beyond the great black dragon of smoke billowing from the "muffler of yesteryear" I was less than pleased to see exactly 265,348 tractors coming down the oncoming lane, making me unable to pass PEE-paw. Now the veins on my neck are popping out.
Finally PEE-paw, moved the f&$* over so I could get on with my commute. I was caught by every traffic light from Farmersville to Sachse (yes, they are REAL towns) and finally got on the tollway. I push my Mustang up to about 80-something to rid myself of the last of PEE-paw's dragon and approached the first toll-plaza. In front of me was a VISION...to be sure. Imagine the love-child of Flo (from Mel's Diner) and Ed Asner. Yes...she was sitting at the 'coins-only' collection doohickey, cigarette (I'm guessing a Virginia Slim menthol) stuck between her lips and Gigantic plastic sunglasses (seriously they could have doubled as radio telescopes). The icing on the cake was the hair. Only some of it could fit out the window of her Caprice Classic (which was my two favorite colours: Primer and Scrape-Down) The hair, at least the visible portion, was the color of dried apricots.
FloAsner (sounds like a pharmaceutical) was throwing coins, one after another into the little receptacle. Her head would disappear and re-appear and each time, the car would lurch forward only to be stopped by a quick stomp of the breaks. Faster and faster her head and hand darted out of the window, each time moving her farther and farther from her 'target'. She looked like a Robotic Drag Queen Cuckoo Clock on Wheels, who happened to be fending off a (completely stationary) monster whose thirst for Cuckoo blood could only be slaked by a continuous stream of pennies. Finally, poor FloAsner ran out of change and then other things started to come out the window, wrappers, little bits of paper, a bottle cap. (It's kind of like running out of bullets and then throwing the gun, I guess).
Finally she gives up and, suddenly possessed by Dannica Patrick, PEALS out in what I guess was an attempt to outrun the camera. Apparently, the $3.21 in pennies and "stuff I found in the floorboard" was not enough to satisfy the North Texas Transit Authority Monster of Death.
Fortunately, I had four quarters and was laughing so hard that I didn't even care that I was 14 minutes late for work.
The Pain, the Pisser and the Potted Plant
Wednesday, September 17th, 2008
So in the bathroom (you know, the one with all the gravity) there's this potted plant. (A 'sanseveira' for those of you who are into the whole plant thing.) Anyway, so I go into the john for a piss and everything starts out just fine. Rockin' my ""drunken, hairy ,ballerina" pose so that I don't piss on the wall. Just like before, grabbed my crutches and everything went fine at first, but then I feel something sneaking its way into the back of my shorts. I grabbed my pants, and pulled them up higher (I guess this was protective instinct) and when I did, I felt a....tug...from behind.....???.....It appears that I had enclosed one of the potted plant's leaves in my undies and was in the process of dragging it like a great, filthy, terra cotta-armoured tail, through the bathroom.
Thankfully, I realized what was about to transpire before I actually made a horrific mess of the place. I reached back, yanked the offending blade out of my ass (ok, it was near my ass) and began straightening my clothes. As I pulled my shirttail out of my underwear, my hand came forward and knocked my right crutch out from under my arm. Springing into action like a decrepit super hero (I'm thinking 'The Hobbler') I reach out to the table and grab the top of it, sending the formerly offending and now unsuspecting houseplant hurdling into the bathtub. When the dirt finally settled I was thankful of two things.
1. I was upright at the end of it all
2. At least it's a garden tub
So in the bathroom (you know, the one with all the gravity) there's this potted plant. (A 'sanseveira' for those of you who are into the whole plant thing.) Anyway, so I go into the john for a piss and everything starts out just fine. Rockin' my ""drunken, hairy ,ballerina" pose so that I don't piss on the wall. Just like before, grabbed my crutches and everything went fine at first, but then I feel something sneaking its way into the back of my shorts. I grabbed my pants, and pulled them up higher (I guess this was protective instinct) and when I did, I felt a....tug...from behind.....???.....It appears that I had enclosed one of the potted plant's leaves in my undies and was in the process of dragging it like a great, filthy, terra cotta-armoured tail, through the bathroom.
Thankfully, I realized what was about to transpire before I actually made a horrific mess of the place. I reached back, yanked the offending blade out of my ass (ok, it was near my ass) and began straightening my clothes. As I pulled my shirttail out of my underwear, my hand came forward and knocked my right crutch out from under my arm. Springing into action like a decrepit super hero (I'm thinking 'The Hobbler') I reach out to the table and grab the top of it, sending the formerly offending and now unsuspecting houseplant hurdling into the bathtub. When the dirt finally settled I was thankful of two things.
1. I was upright at the end of it all
2. At least it's a garden tub
The Pain and the Pisser
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
 | So I had to take a piss for the thousandth time today. (Drinking copious amounts of water to get pills down, etc) I had been prostrate for some time, so I sat up on the side of the bed, grabbed my crutches, stood up and half-ambled the fourteen feet to the john "with my good leg." (For those of you who know of my love of language, that phrase is now my favorite adverbial.) Everything was going along just fine. I leaned my crutches on the wall on either side of the john and, standing on one leg while using one hand on the windowsill for balance, managed to urinate. For those of you who don't really know what I look like and would like to picture it, just imagine the bastard child of Mikhail Baryshnikov and Larry the Cable Guy practicing for the Nutcracker Having successfully urinated in the proper place without pissing down my leg or on my clothes, and feeling uber-triumphant mostly because of these *SWEET* pain meds, I grabbed my crutches, turned toward the bed and then proceeded to perform the MOTHER OF ALL FALLS. Not just any fall, OHHH NOOO. This was a fall to remember. Right crutch flew forward, left crutch leaned backward along with my good leg, pinning both very successfully between the cabinet and the toilet. Not wanting to tear out my incisions and/or screw up my newly attached heelbone, I chose to keep THAT foot in the air and surrender to gravity. For those of you who are interested in Physics, there is a preponderance of gravity in the master bathroom. I know this because it pulled my ass down on top of the toilet seat, bounced it onto the edge of the tub, pulled me backward into the tub, clanking my head on the wall and then on the edge of the tub. As my back and shoulders came to rest down by the drain, I looked up toward the ceiling to survey my bandaged foot, but was blinded by a volley of projectiles that were formerly festooned on the table next to the tub and on the edge of the tub. Shaving gel, shampoo, loufah, backbrush, soap, conditioner. It was like slam-dancing with Sally Beauty Supply. Then I heard a heavy sliding sound and two small crashes. Apparently in my earnest yet altogether futile attempt to break my fall, I grabbed the lid off of the toilet tank and sent it sliding down the wall, relieving it of the two African Bowls that have adorned it for months and months (for no apparent reason). I must say that if you have to be trapped under rubble, this is the most pleasant smelling way to go about it. I must caution you also that it is tremendously noisy, so if any of you have caregivers who are even a little dodgy on the heart, I wholeheartedly advise you to skip it. Thankfully, David is always there to lend a hand or, in this case, a backhoe, to get me out of whatever mess I'm in. I'll try to be more careful. |
Quantum Quesadilla
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
| So for lunch today I ate half of a chicken quesadilla. Why half, you ask? Well, it is because I was afraid to go on. This really pisses me off. Why? Because quesadillas are supposed to be SAFE for EVERYONE. When I bite into one, I know what I am getting: chicken, cheese, spice, tortilla, onion and peppers. When I luxuriate in the cafe for 30 blissful minutes, savoring every morsel, I should not have to worry about being assaulted. My ability to eat in peace has been shattered forever. Everything was going along just fine. Had my 'Dilla, my coffee (the elixir of life) and a napkin (because I am refined and my pants were already dirty enough). I take a bite and the thrilling familiarity rushes over me. Then another bite...I am remembering why I am alive......and THEN (please insert screeching automobile tires/brakes here) A CUCUMBER....in one of the 2 places where a cucumber should never go.....I spit out the offending cucurbit into my only napkin and continue bravely and cautiously with my afternoon meal. Bites three and four are without incident and then, just as my confidence had returned......a GRAPE! (OK, half a grape, but a grape nonetheless). I put down the remainder of my lunch next to the pitiful remains of my napkin, angrily drank my coffee and plotted the death of the person who decided to use "floor sweepins" instead of chicken. From now on, I'll timidly approach the quesadilla as though it is a land mine covered in scrap metal. Each time I make my purchase, it will feel like the green mile. I will warily eye my surroundings just like I do at our hillbilly family reunions in Oklahoma, when they (Once AGAIN) elect me to be the "Lawn Dart Catcher." There should be no surprises in Quesadilla-Land, dammit! |
I'm the Jane Goodall of Dairy Queen
Little did I know that when I popped into the DQ at 9:30 pm with my husband, I would have an anthropologically enlightening experience.
The male entered first. He was huge - almost bear-like in appearance. (Ar first, I must admit he was the love child Rosie O'Donnell and one or more of the Oak Ridge Boys.) He had a regal quality about him. Judging by his clothing (and the fact that we were in Farmersville) he must have been a regional dignitary or some other person of importance. He was wearing a mostly-white, cotton v-necked T-shirt, expertly festooned with tiny portions of what I can only assume was his afternoon meal. I suspect the fabric was something of high quality, such as "Fruit of the Loom." His lower half was equally stunning, having an equestrian feel. On his lowerhalf were loosely hung olive drab and kelly green, plaid, flannel pajama bottoms with the aforementioned shirt tucked neatly inside. These were pegged inward sharply just below the knee by what I thought, at first, were riding boots. Further observation confirmed that they were in fact what the locals call "Mud Boots." This was further clarified not only by the preponderance of elderly earth clinging to nearly every surface, but also by the single word "Caterpillar" embossed on the back of the heel. He was a SPECIMEN to be sure.
I was already reeling from the experience of observing such a specimen in its native habitat, and did not even dare to dream of seeing the female of the species. Then, to my astonishment, she appeared!!! She was even more than I ever dreamt she would be, so I decided to give her a name. I called her Tiffany Lurlene Pickens. She nearly defies description, but try to picture a supremely man-scaped version of Ed Asner in glittery flip-flops, dragonlady fingernails and scrunchied ponytail all akimbo, sticking out the back of a grimy John Deere ballcap. She dazzled me by rocking her "John Deere meets Juicy Couture" look. Black toenails were nearly eclipsed by the glitter of her sequined flip-flops (she obviously shopped at Porter Waggoner's estate sale). From the generous smear of mud on her left calf, I can only assume that the male marked her as his property using one of his boots. Obviously, she was a "keeper."
She oozed confidence. This was evidenced by the (gulp) lavendar terry cloth UBER-short shorts and matching (brace yourself) halter top with a big, white "#8" on it. To say she was a fashion daredevil was an understatement. She was the Evil Kinevel of fashion. I would imagine that, as a woman, one would have to have absolutely no fear in order to wear a brassiere that is four sizes too small. I surmized that, like her mate's heavily adorned T-shirt, this served to show dominance and superiority, as the undergarment (which could only have been crafted of adamantium) affected the illusion that Tiffs had four breasts rather than the usual two. I will have to confer with one of my colleagues, a specialist in proto-human anatomy, to discover if any of our distant ancestors had "fore-bosoms."
Tiffs has a mane of black hair with blonde roots grown out about an inch and a half. This completed her "I'm an inverted Madonna" look.
The female of this particular hominid species LOVES personal adornments, and is very obviously a predator, for her fingertips sported Pepto-pink, raptor-like claws approximately two and a half inches long. These, I am sure, are multi-functional, as she repeatedly used them to scratch her netherparts in what I can only guess was a show of dominance. Fascinating!
Then, as quickly as they came, the pair collected their Belt Busters and Oreo Blizzards and vanished into the night somewhere along highway 380.
The male entered first. He was huge - almost bear-like in appearance. (Ar first, I must admit he was the love child Rosie O'Donnell and one or more of the Oak Ridge Boys.) He had a regal quality about him. Judging by his clothing (and the fact that we were in Farmersville) he must have been a regional dignitary or some other person of importance. He was wearing a mostly-white, cotton v-necked T-shirt, expertly festooned with tiny portions of what I can only assume was his afternoon meal. I suspect the fabric was something of high quality, such as "Fruit of the Loom." His lower half was equally stunning, having an equestrian feel. On his lowerhalf were loosely hung olive drab and kelly green, plaid, flannel pajama bottoms with the aforementioned shirt tucked neatly inside. These were pegged inward sharply just below the knee by what I thought, at first, were riding boots. Further observation confirmed that they were in fact what the locals call "Mud Boots." This was further clarified not only by the preponderance of elderly earth clinging to nearly every surface, but also by the single word "Caterpillar" embossed on the back of the heel. He was a SPECIMEN to be sure.
I was already reeling from the experience of observing such a specimen in its native habitat, and did not even dare to dream of seeing the female of the species. Then, to my astonishment, she appeared!!! She was even more than I ever dreamt she would be, so I decided to give her a name. I called her Tiffany Lurlene Pickens. She nearly defies description, but try to picture a supremely man-scaped version of Ed Asner in glittery flip-flops, dragonlady fingernails and scrunchied ponytail all akimbo, sticking out the back of a grimy John Deere ballcap. She dazzled me by rocking her "John Deere meets Juicy Couture" look. Black toenails were nearly eclipsed by the glitter of her sequined flip-flops (she obviously shopped at Porter Waggoner's estate sale). From the generous smear of mud on her left calf, I can only assume that the male marked her as his property using one of his boots. Obviously, she was a "keeper."
She oozed confidence. This was evidenced by the (gulp) lavendar terry cloth UBER-short shorts and matching (brace yourself) halter top with a big, white "#8" on it. To say she was a fashion daredevil was an understatement. She was the Evil Kinevel of fashion. I would imagine that, as a woman, one would have to have absolutely no fear in order to wear a brassiere that is four sizes too small. I surmized that, like her mate's heavily adorned T-shirt, this served to show dominance and superiority, as the undergarment (which could only have been crafted of adamantium) affected the illusion that Tiffs had four breasts rather than the usual two. I will have to confer with one of my colleagues, a specialist in proto-human anatomy, to discover if any of our distant ancestors had "fore-bosoms."
Tiffs has a mane of black hair with blonde roots grown out about an inch and a half. This completed her "I'm an inverted Madonna" look.
The female of this particular hominid species LOVES personal adornments, and is very obviously a predator, for her fingertips sported Pepto-pink, raptor-like claws approximately two and a half inches long. These, I am sure, are multi-functional, as she repeatedly used them to scratch her netherparts in what I can only guess was a show of dominance. Fascinating!
Then, as quickly as they came, the pair collected their Belt Busters and Oreo Blizzards and vanished into the night somewhere along highway 380.
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