So, I guess you’ve all heard that I, The Bourbonista, am now in charge of this website. And, I’m proud to admit that I've already had complaints mounted, sensibilities offended, and nearly got my alter ego, Donna, banned from a group that literally accepts all women. Brava for me. But, I’ve got a little problem. I’ve realized that with control comes responsibility…and, I hate responsibility. Incidentally, so does Frank. So, in a nutsack, we’re going to need help. We need someone to make sure we eat a vegetable once a month. Someone to tuck us in and sing, “Blister in the Sun“ by the Violent Femmes until we fall asleep. Someone to bail us out of jail. We need a nanny.
Using the employment requirements for Mary Poppins' The Perfect Nanny as inspiration, I’ve prepared a “Help Needed” ad of my own.
Wanted: A Nanny for Two Rambunctious Adults
If you want this choice position,
Have a daring disposition.
Sense of humor, open-mind.
Mix drinks, all kind.
You must be bright, you must be breezy
Not easily startled, or made queasy.
Drive us around, make us snacks .
Fend off grizzly bear attacks.
Never be boring or cruel.
Never judge us for acting a fool.
Love us like uncles and aunts,
Never ask where we lost our pants.
If you’ll not to try to cramp our style,
We won’t give you reason not to smile,
We won’t cut your lines,
So, you can’t brake,
Put poison in your tea,
Or drown you in the lake.
Solve our woes.
Bourbonista and Frank Rose
I, Donna Ison, must bid you adieu. Not because I don’t want to blog to you anymore, but because this website is no longer my property. It now belongs to Drucilla Darkwater, known to many of you as The Bourbonista.
For years, Drucilla and I have been able to coexist in the same body with me primarily running the show. Though, there have been those times when my bourbon-fueled alter-ego reared her rowdy head and I just had to watch in horror. Like the 2014 Fish Fry and Cornhole Tournament when she threw a full-blown-toddler-temper-tantrum because there were no more hush puppies and then hid in the woods for two hours. Or Thanksgiving of 2016 when she kicked a frozen turkey through the Aldi screaming, “Fuck Thanksgiving” at the top of her lungs. Or when she was asked by an evangelical Republican if she believed in killing babies, and she answered, “I don’t know. How we killing ‘em? Shooting them out of cannons or something fun?”
But the final straw was yesterday. When on the most sacred of all days in Kentucky, Derby Day, she refused to wear a traditional hat and insisted on a ridiculous turban. Then, once at the party, she ran around drinking out of this gargantuan flask; commandeered the dance floor and clogged; announced to the crowd, “You are not my tribe;” and then came home and passed out in the dog’s bed.
Keeping her in check has gotten harder and harder. Since November, we’ve been in a battle of wits and wills on who is better suited to thrive and survive in this new world order. I want to take up meditation, she wants to take up moonshining. I want to go vegetarian, she wants to go on an expedition to find Bigfoot. I want to organize women to work together for positive change, she wants to organize an army of killer sock monkeys. I want to take up watercolors painting, she wants to take a driftwood club and beat Judge Judy with it. You get the point.
So…we’ve come to an agreement. She gets the blog. She gets her own Facebook page. She’s even starting a YouTube channel. And every now and then, I’ll even give her total control of this body and let her take it out on the town and wreak the kind of havoc that only she can. In order to keep the public safe, I’ll make sure she’s easy to spot, so you can stay out of her way. If you see her in a caftan and turban carrying a bourbon--run--run away. You’ve been warned.
Of course, she’ll disappear the next morning and leave me to nurse the hellish hangover, drag the corpses off the battlefield, and make amends to all those who were insulted and injured. But, that’s a risk I’m willing to take.
I know some of you might find it offensive and rudely timed that I have declared a self-diagnosed case of dissociative personality disorder right as Mental Health Awareness Month kicks off, and I apologize if it seems distasteful. However, this was Drucilla’s doing and she doesn’t give a damn what you think. Complain to The Bourbonista if you want, but you’d probably have better luck teaching a honey badger to “give kisses.”
If you have no regard for decorum and decency, you can continue to read this blog. You can also follow The Bourbonista on Facebook, HERE. And, soon you’ll be able to watch her on “Bedtime with the Bourbonista” But, I wouldn’t recommend it—cause bitch is crazy.
So, with deep gratitude, I say good-bye and good luck.
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