You Can't Drink All Day If You Don't Start in the Morning
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
From the author of the bestselling classics We're Just Like You, Only Prettier, and Bless Your Heart, Tramp, comes a collection of essays so funny, you'll shoot co'cola out of your nose. Topics include such gems as:
• Why Miss North Carolina is too nice to hate
• How Gwyneth Paltrow wants to improve your pathetic life
• Strapped for cash? Try cat whispering
• Sex every night for a year? How do you wrap that?
• Get yer Wassail on: It's carolin' time
• Airlines serving up one hot mess
• Action figure Jesus
• Why Clay Aiken ain't marrying your glandular daughter
• And much more!
Complete with a treasure trove of Celia's genuine southern recipes, You Can't Drink All Day if You Don't Start in the Morning is sure to appeal to anyone who lives south of something.
escorted off a plane after creating a ruckus on a flight last year. These two little swamp sluts said they were mistreated because they were prettier than the other people on the plane. “I know what you’re thinking. It’s always the same old story. Unattractive people always get all the breaks, and if there’s one segment of our population that’s consistently mistreated and abused, it’s the fabulous-looking eighteen-year-old girl. “Passengers, I’ve dealt with a lot of creeps on the job, but these
eyes. “We didn’t mean to say that you were interested in men like that. We just meant that you’re straight.” She was teary-eyed, so I believed that it was a simple mistake and I had her correct it immediately to read that my special interest was “celebrating the human spirit and bringing all peoples of all nations together.” There. That sounded much better. The Princess then showed me around the site, explaining that I had already been “superpoked” quite a few times. “That’s disgusting,” I
overflowing all over the floor. Let me just shut the water off and grab a few towels! It’s no big deal!” No, wait! That’s not what I said at all. It was more of a “Oopsie @#$%^-ing daisy! This @#$%^-ing toilet is overflowing all over the @#$%^-ing place. Let me just shut the mother@#$%^-ing water off and grab a few @#$%^-ing towels. This is a big @#$%^-ing deal.” Fortunately, my neighbors didn’t report this outburst for a couple of reasons: They have ninety-year-old plumbing themselves and were
Opie Taylor smile for the judges and said through his teeth: “You’re gonna be great.” The rest, as they say, is a blur. I remember nailing the first pivot, forgetting the next two moves we’d choreographed and having Brad pull me closer to whisper me back onto the right count. (“One and two, three and four, five-six . . .”) Through it all, I smiled nonstop because someone had told me that, when in doubt, try to look like you’re having a good time. And then, somehow, two-and-a-half minutes later,
on my chin. I had borrowed three fur jackets to choose from, so I asked Miss North Carolina to tell me which one looked best with my consignment-store steal of an evening gown. “Oh, the white one, definitely the white,” she said. “Are you just saying that or is that a beauty pageant trick like where you tell another contestant they look perfect and really they’ve tucked the back of their dress into their panty hose by accident?” Miss North Carolina looked hurt. Great. The mean old lady had