White Trash Diva

I come from a long line of poor white trash. My dad's family grew up in the Ozark Mountains of Missouri, living in beat-up trailers on farms full of rocks back in the holler. I can't hear Ozark Mountain Jubilee without wanting to take a road trip home on Route 66, through those twisty red roads covered with flint and oak leaves, embellished with black-eyed susans and orange dust.

So trust me when I say that I have a high level of tolerance for rednecks. In many ways, as a girl who grew up shoveling manure and riding in rodeos, I am one, still, and it doesn't lay very far underneath my corporate persona (such as it is). Anyone who knows me in real life (Calamity, for instance), can affirm this. I'm not that ladylike, and I'd just as soon be leaping off a platform at the local spring with the teenage boys as sitting here in my office in a dress. Or, being shot at, that's always good, too.

So, I didn't expect today's blogger to get on my last damn nerve, but she did. First off, let me say that ANYONE who refers to herself as a princess, queen, or diva should have been killed at birth. Nothing good ever comes of these kinds of women, and I almost always hate them without exception. And, when you tell me in your ugly, blurry header that "all I know how to do is bitch," I want to rassle you down and rip your titties and tiara off.

That's never a good start, is it? You know an ass reaming is fixing to follow, just like Arkansas boys follow a herd of sheep, mooning after a hot date.

Item 1: The redneck corporate persona wears thin for me, darlin. I call bullshit. You're just trying too damn hard. It's too shallow, there isn't enough depth to your posts. I don't buy that the person you put on your blog is the real you. I don't get why a grown woman would feel a need to prove how much she drinks and smokes and swears, and how that person is the REAL her. Is it so you can show you haven't sold your soul to the company man? Mostly, I think you're lost, searching for an identity, and glomming on to whatever comes easiest. You aren't willing to put it out there and post anything of substance and meaning, so you rely on the tired old "you might be a redneck" bullshit. Dammit. Can I get a fucking amen on how sick I am of that particular persona?

Item 2: I hate your template. Your header image is ugly, I can't read the font, and I loathe your tagline. I hate how many goddamn graphics you have on your blog. I hate it that you have your post labels directly under your post titles, which is fucking confusing as hell. Move that shit down to the bottom of your post, like any sane person. I hate your cluttered sidebar. Clean that shit up. Follow the advice here. Look at some of our well-reviewed blogs. You can find them here.

Item 3: Unless you're posting pictures of a ram's ginormous testicals, lay the fuck off. I'm setting a strict limit of 1 picture per post for you. You aren't a 12-year-old on myspace. I'm assuming you've had a computer for a while now. Grow up.

Item 4: I hate your content. I hate the fact that you don't put your writing into actual paragraphs.

Don't ever say this about your kids again:

Another bad habit is that I love to torment the children. They are really turds and since they don’t do what they are supposed to, I feel it my duty to make them as miserable as possible.

Not to sound like a tight ass, but your children aren't turds. If they are, the blame lays squarely on your doorstep. Being a parent is a privilege. People who down-talk their families piss me off. It's low class.

Also, don't reference your darling grandpa immediately following a paragraph about pole dancing.

Stop fucking bragging about being a drunk bitch. That went out of style when you were 21. At our age (near 40), it makes you look retarded.

Listen, I'm the girl who once made out with my cousin after a funeral (his dad's). I get redneck. Do you get how despicable your content is when I'm calling you low class?

In short, in a half hour of reading, I could not find a single goddamn post of yours that didn't piss me off in some way. I wouldn't read your blog again if you paid me to serve as CFO. In short, your blog makes me want to find new and different places to punch a bitch. I've done uterus, ovaries, and kidneys to death, so maybe I'll start with your appendix and then swing a bag of quarters at your thighs.

Grow up, sweetie. Your blog lacks any goddamn semblance of class, depth, talent, or any other thing that would interest me.

I rate you:



You're not even a good train wreck.