Here's a big bad Bitchslap for you fashionista's. You're a sick bunch of wanking fucks. I am not fashionable nor do I follow what fashion dictates. Yes, I march to my own drummer pretty much and every gay man cringes when I walk by. My own son, who is a Sgt. with the Fashion Police, has sited me. I was walking to work with a chef coat, hounds tooth pants, my leather motorcycle jacket and my brand new Donna Karin pocketbook(Notice I said pocketbook? Yes, I am that fucking old and I say icebox sometimes, too). I heard screeching tires and a whole fucking jump out squad (if you know anything about cops and their antics, as I do, you know what a jump out squad is), I heard the thump of running and next thing I was up against the wall, you redneck muther, maced and cuffed...by my own son, Lee. He hit me, numerous times with his glitter night club. He beat the fuck outa me and sent me on my way with a citation and a heavy warning to never wear that shit in public again. But he's about 300 miles away and I'm wearing steel toed boots and sweat pants, just to be deviant. I also have, in my hair, one of my favorite keepsakes, from my sabbatical, as I like ot call it; My stint in prison (tired of my prison shit yet? I am.). I made, and was given my most valued gift in prison; hair scrunchies. I have a thick purple one, a gift from a lifer (that means doing a life sentence) my first one, which I just adore. My others were given to me by a chick doing 10 to 20 for killing her boyfriend in a rage. She fucked his ass up with a knife. He'd been beating her on a regular basis but she never reported it and when she snapped, she had no defense.
My sister says no one wears scrunchies, they are out of style...I do!