Bitch? Not Butch! Oh, Man I need Glasses! And probably to join AA
My name is Butch. B-U-T-C-H. Let's be clear. That is my name that people call me. I'm proud of that name.
I’m a 38-year-old lumber-mill worker from out in northwest Montana.
Now some of my friends call me by the nickname “Crazy Butch”, which is way better than “8 Finger Butch” which is my other nickname cause as you can guess, I only got 8 fingers left. As my boss at the mill told me, I lose one more finger, they got to let me go, cause I won't be able to keep up with the tree-flow.
That's cool. I now know not to go into work no more if I'm more than what I deem a "six-pack buzz." You know what I'm saying? Frosted Flakes and one Light Beer for breakfast and that's it! I got my nickname Crazy Butch how I compete and often win the weekly "Whiskey Shot Wednesdays" at Garbo's. I was so good I had won 15 weeks in a row.
You'd think 15 weeks in a row would be the record, but no! On the wall, there's a photo of an icon, Sam, from the 1990's. Sam was a 300 lb. gal, with a liver the size of a Toyota, who won WSW 16 weeks in a row, before she died. She choked on half a roasted chicken while driving a big rig.
Well, I'm feeling like this is the week to break the icon's record. Feeling strong. I wanted to get a new hat that could become my lucky hat for week 16 so I could break my record in style and have my photo on the wall. I needed something that really captured the essence.
I thought about what I should look for in a hat. After a second, it was obvious: crazy + butch + hat! I bought the first Crazy Butch hat that popped up on Amazon.
Wednesday night, I ripped open the package and put this hat right on my head. I You might ask, didn't I check myself out in the mirror? No! First of all, I know what I look like. Second of all, I don’t have a mirror in my apartment. I had one, but it got broken when I was pretending to play roller derby with my Doberman, Alice. (May she rest in peace.)
I felt confident going into my first line of whiskey cups. Got rid of the poseurs. Three more to go. Just me and Jack left. Jack Daniels that is. On approaching my final row of shots, lined up and ready for me, everyone in the bar is cheering “Crazy Bitch! Crazy Bitch!”
I didn’t understand why people were still chanting "Bitch!" as I threw up in front of the bathroom. It was only minutes after my victory purge when I was washing my face off that I saw it there in the mirror, plain as day across the front of that otherwise beautiful rhinestoned hat: “Crazy Bitch”. I must be nearsighted or farsighted or some kind of sighted because I coulda swore it were “Crazy Butch.” Maybe if I’d known about this eye issue sooner I’d still have all of my fingers.
I mean, I can be a bitch too, but I prefer to be a butch. You kids might call it transgender now, but I'm old school out here in the forest. I'm butch. And I ain't a cliche'! I dress like a lumberjack because that is what I do for a living.
I tore off that hat and threw it on the ground. My mother raised me to accept myself and always punch first and ask questions later, but to never ever call a woman a "crazy bitch." Not even if she goes crazy at you. She’d say “Donna, you can call a bitch a bitch, but never call a bitch a crazy bitch, because you never know what’s in somebody’s life and maybe crazy for one person is just normal for another person and you’re the one who is crazy to that person, so you should never call nobody a crazy bitch!”
Now my photo's on the wall of Garbo's wearing this Crazy Bitch hat. My shot-slamming glory is tainted. I am very disappointed in the manufacturers of the hat. Why not a Crazy Butch hat?
Using the rating system beloved by Amazons who also eat steak, I give this item hat Zero Bezos out of Five, because, well, you just read what happened.