Crazy Bitch Chronicles Vol. One


In my life as a comedy writer, I probably observe people and things much closer than the average Jane.    Writers do this as a rule, but comedy writers tend to look for “the thing” that’s going to make the subject of their humor piece  stand out.  

I find myself doing this all the time.  I’m not judging, mind you;  gee, how can I?  I’m flawed as hell.   I know I have physical limits and frankly, knowing that I’m decidedly not a beauty is in fact, that which enhances my overall loveliness. 

By God. 

Very often, the subjects of my visual case studies are some of the craziest bitches known to man.   You’ve the ones I’m talking about.   You know….”her”.    She’s the one that isn’t quite put together all that well, yet she thinks she defines “timeless hotness”, which she emphatically,  does not.    Still, something about her is wrong;  something is askew.  

She’s the one who’s obviously pushing 47,  but insists on wearing a  tummy shirt–one that would have an in-shape, 20-year-old second guessing her fashion choice.   And the shirt is short enough to allow a significant protrusion of paunch to poke through AND it shows  stretch marks from her first and third pregnancies.   Her gut looks like an aerial view of a relief map of Appalachia. 

She’s the one with  deep blue eye shadow that looks a lot like pool cue chalk.   She colors her hair herself and her roots are so dark, only Alex Haley can appreciate them.

She’s also got that one dead canine tooth.  It’s a dingy gray and remains set back further than the rest of her teeth.    It’s as though that tooth is very, very shy. Your eye gravitates right to it the minute she opens her mouth.   You try not to be obvious, so you avert your eyes.. only to find yourself focusing on the  huge vaccination scar on her arm that’s the size of something IHOP would serve.

Her voice?  Raspy as hell– like an unholy union between Rose Marie and Suzanne Pleshette and oh, what the hell, let’s include  Bea Arthur for $200, Alex. 

She smokes too much;  still wears mauve colored plastic Candies stiletto heals in Winter and way too much bad jewelry–24 k gold plated crap that flakes off on her fake, uneven tan.     

She knows all the words to every White Snake song ever recorded and when she feels pretentions, she plays the air cello with classical music.  She thinks Dog the Bounty Hunter  is kind of cute, in a feral way and she drives an eight year old dented Ford Focus built during the first Clinton administration (it’s turquoise with gray masking tape holding the left back brake light intact).  

This age inappropriate tummy shirt she wears is also rather low cut and when she bends over to rummage through her plumb colored naugahyde purse to retrieve matches,  you notice her large boobs are almost folded into  her bra.

You know, like your socks in your sock drawer.   You wonder if breasts are supposed to have elbow joints?????? 

A little later on:     Crazy Bitch Chronicles Vol. Two:  what this broad’s  bedroom looks and smells like.

HINT:   Baloney burp and ass



  1. A well written narrative is capable of bringing an image into clear focus. And well, if it’s all the same with you, could you help me purge that image from my mind? Gaaaaa!!!

    I wonder, will you treat us to the same observational aptitude about the men such a crazy bitch tends to attract and date?

  2. I would think her bedroom would smell like cheap perfume and cigarette smoke and a musky scent of the latest man.

  3. LOL great one LK!
    here is one to wonder what the hell this person is thinking LOL
    Priceless pic i took whilst traveling around the museums on free day


  4. I was expecting you to say that she was also a frequent caller to S&P.


    No, my little Monkey Fuzzy Fig, but the miscreant she dated certainly was.


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