Posts tagged ‘Wal-Mart’

January 9, 2011

Dear Chevelle: A Weekly Advice Column

This iz me, right after my weddin y'all

My name is Chevelle Danniels. I am a 33 year old single mother of 7 kids: 14, 10, 8 , 4 year old triplets, and my 17 munth old. I was born in Grady, AR and moved to Dumas, AR, to live with my triplets daddy and for more oppurtoonity. I work hard to do for my kids. I am a checker for Wal-mart during the day and a PT bartender in the evenings.  I enjoy watching Wheel of Fortoone and readin Cosmo magazines. I enjoy my bowling legue and trivial nights at the American Legion, which is also where I do my bartending. I can bake better than anybodies grandma. I am an ex smoker and current drinker, Workin hard wit the Lord and AA on that one.  I married my senyor year of highskool and that didn’t work out so well so I’ve been looking for my Prince Charmin every cents. If you are him then  don’t you be afraid to buy me no drink ;)

Until then Our Lord and Savior will do.  I am a Christian but I don’t judge. Jesus Christ is the only perfect being so write in with any quesitons, heathens.  I have real solootons for real delimmus.

Y’all can write 2 me with this here in4mayshun:

Chevelle Danniels
117 Walton Way
Trayler # 13
Dumas, AR 71639

or Emale me at:

January 1, 2011

Men Of Infamy: Mr. Way-Too-Much-Lighter-Fluid Firestarter

by WOO

In this post, we give props and respect due to you, Mr. Way-Too-Much-Lighter-Fluid Firestarter. A prime argument against natural selection, that’s what you are. Armed with three cans of lighter fluid and an “America: Fuck Yeah!” lighter, you’re off to get this bonfire party started. Starter logs? Those are for pussies! Rolled-up newspaper? That’s Boy-Scout shit.

All you need, Captain Conflagration, is a bundle of those logs from the gas station, three empty beer-case boxes, that broken kitchen chair and the particle board and stickers that made up what used to be your entertainment center purchased from Wal-Mart.

You, Knight Of The Flame, marinate the wood in lighter fluid as if it were a New York Strip steak. Two bottles of lighter fluid should do; you’ll need the third for a random Hiroshima reenactment.

You lower your No Fear baseball cap to protect your freshly-grown-back eyebrows, and you strike the lighter. Away it goes, Professor Inferno, a massive fireball reaching 40 feet into the air, nearly setting alight the neighbor’s white oak. You smile brightly at your triumph, our Prince Of The Pyre. Added bonus: All the fuzzies were singed off of your Flannel Shirt.

Baron Of Brimstone, your duty is completed. We give you praise oh He Of Hellfire, for you are a man. A man’s man.

December 17, 2010

Buddah’s Holiday Tips


#8--Just add milk and 5 more maids.

1. Yuletide does not fight to get out stains as well as regular Tide.

2. You will never win a game of Strip Dreidel with a Jewish chick.

3. Never punch an elf before all the toys are made.

4. This year’s fruitcake will be made from the remains of Bea Arthur.

5. Now we don our gay apparel, which is fine IF YOU’RE GAY!

6. I said “Mall Santa,” not “Maul Santa!” Bad doggy!

7. If there are really sugar plums dancing in your head, you may want to schedule an appointment with your therapist.

#10--Reindeer sausage, reindeer brats, braised reindeer, reindeer on a stick, reindeer kabobs...

8. Eight maids a’milking sounds dirty, but I can live with it.

9. Damned! Wal-Mart is out of frankincense and myrrh again!

10. Reindeer sausage is NOT the other white meat.

11. This holiday season, please give to Charity. She is my favorite dancer at the strip club.

12. Yes, Hallmark Channel, I would love to see another sappy Christmas movie starring Mary Steenburgen.

13. Eggnog without a little rum is kinda like Hitler without a little mustache.

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December 10, 2010

Miser in Mexico, Pt. 1


“I want to tell you about Jesus Christ,” says the smiling Mexican giving me a lift to my hotel.

Fuck. I’m almost to the Fiesta Americana Cozumel Dive Resort, a pina colada and a nap. Last thing I need right now is a speech about the Lord.

I smile. “Oh yeah! Jesus! I know all about him.”

“You go to church every Sunday?” Ramon persists.

“Of course,” I replied. “Every Sunday.”

The ride ends. I hop out.

“Jesus loves you!” Ramon calls after me.

“I know!” I yell back, hurrying away from the little red beater that’d saved me a six-dollar cab fare.

Of course Jesus loves me. Jesus would applaud me pissing off the powerful Cozumel taxi-cab union by thumbing, jogging, walking, and panting my way to and from the Fiesta. He’d nod in admiration at how I bitched at Orbitz long enough to get them to throw in an “all-inclusive package” that makes kobi tuna salad, mahi mahi, filet mignon and agua purificada a series of delicacies for which I pay nada. He’d smirk at my rebuff of the street-side vendors calling out “Hey buddy” and hawking fake Cuban cigars as I make a bee-line for Cozumel’s version of Wal-Mart, where 100 percent-agave Mezcal is a paltry $17 a fifth.

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