“I fuckin’ love your crazy pilgrim ass.”
ALLLLLLLLLLLLLLL THE STARZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!
There’s nothing like sexytimes on the back of a hog! (Just ask Mitchell BWAHAHAHAHA!)
If you want to hear about this book and just why I loved it . . . . . well, I can’t guaranty I’ll ever get around to ‘splaining myself. I promise I’ll try. But first let’s talk about how I earned my invitation to yet another Mother of the Year Award Banquet. On Saturday my youngest was playing baseball in Timbuktu (which I am petitioning should not actually be located in the African nation of Mali, but rather do a name-swap with the place I was at in Kansas because “Timbuktu” is the only fitting name to call a place in the middle of fucking nowhere that you are forced to spend an entire day at watching young children suck at a sport you spend all of your dollars on). Anyway, games were scheduled at 9 and 11 and since we were traveling to Timbuktu we got the added joy of waking up when it was STILL GODDAMN NIGHTTIME outside in order to get there. We also knew if we didn’t win both games (which was 100% guaranteed), we would need to be back at the fields at 4:30.
After going 1-1 (yay team, you weren’t the biggest losers!), we needed to kill some time and feed our family of Joe Pescis. Off we went to establishment #1, which, although recommended to my husband by a co-worker had a combo of (a) long line, (b) overpriced food and (c) TWO waitresses. Now, we weren’t in a rush, but after already spending hours out in the sun I would have liked to know my water would be refilled before I perished from dehydration.
So off we went to establishment #2 which Yelp guaranteed would (a) have little to no wait, (b) cheap food and (c) more than one server. What it failed to mention was that about halfway through our meal the Sons of Anarchy would arrive for a pitstop during one of their charity motorcycle rides. I’m here to tell you these WERE NOT the types of bikers I was raised around (*cough mullets and beer bellies cough*). It was like a herd of unicorns walked in. They all rode super tricked out Harleys that had custom work like this . . . .
With t-shirts that said really appropriate things for my young child to see such as "Get Fucked Cocksucker" and "Loud Pipes Get Pussy" (<<<< See? Mother of the Year). And the final feller through the door????? Well . . . . . .
Which had me saying . . . .
(Oh, and his old lady looked like . . . .
So the splooshzone was for real and serious.)
It also led to my husband immediately turning to me with a real shit-eating grin on his face and his eyebrows raised in a silent question. My response? "I think I’ve read this book before."
As soon as we gone home from our marathon day at the ballfields I instantly took to GR in order to figure out what kind of
In case you aren’t aware, this series features not only mortorbikers with question marky types of morals but also GIRLS RESCUED FROM A RELIGIOUS CULT!!!! It is the most over-the-top thing I’ve ever read and I snorted it right up like good ol’ Pam Poovey . . . .
I wanted to make all of the sexuals with Ky – not only for his 10-inch wang, but also for his way with words when forced to babysit crazyass Lilah . . . .
“Hell, bitch, I got the long hair and beard and women worship at my feet. Maybe I’m the fucking second coming.”
Hehehehe. He had me second coming alright!
I don’t expect anyone else (aside from Val since she’s a filthy whore just like me) to love this (or probably even like it). It is my #1 guilty pleasure, though, and since Mother’s Day is right around the corner one of you should lend me the next one so I can get splooshy with the total psycho known as Flame. Somebody hook a momma up. I need more cowbell!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!