Toddlers & Tiaras: Let’s Belly Up To The California Tropic Sugar Bar. Hood Rats & Punches & Weaves…Oh My!




Honestly, I have no idea what a Hood Rat is, but on the phone it sounded much bigger than a Field Mouse.






Bitch, you do NOT want me to take my shoes off right here in the Expo lobby.







Srsly, I was ’bout ready to throw this baby on the floor and punch her in the throat, but I knew they’d steal my new Coach bag.






Listen to me. If Daddy can take a bullet in Iraq, I think you can handle two little pink earrings like a Big Girl.





This crazy bitch is about to make me pop off my veneers and crown her upside the head before the judges even show up.






The Hell? So you’re telling me that I sat through the entire Little Mermaid with Hellman’s on my head and now we’re going home?






Shout Out to my girls in Englewood! Look at me, bitches. I’m on the TV!






Let’s just be honest and cut right to the chase.

There’s really nothing in the entire world that I love more than a good Hot Mess.

You heard me.  I said it.  I own it.

Don’t get me wrong.  I really like pizza.  And sushi.  And a nice meaty lobster roll, as long as it’s not all mayonnaise like the ones they try to pass off at the Mall.

But if I can only bring one thing with me inside a bomb shelter to keep me distracted until the above ground radiation dissipates, it’s gonna be someone who’s a Hot Mess.

The hotter, the better.

As luck would have it, Toddlers & Tiaras somehow read my mind and delivered a priceless gift this week, because one half of their back-to-back double header was about as messy as they come.

And I’d like to publicly thank them before we go any further.

It was the California Tropic Sugar & Spice Pageant, hosted by crazy-faced Carol Fleming.  Gumdrops and googly eyes for miles.

I really like her even though she’s one of those women that you would normally go out of your way to avoid if you came across her at a Lady Grace bra clearance rack or the Estée Lauder counter at Macy’s.

As I have previously mentioned, everyone’s first impression of Carol is that she probably wears way too much of that purple Elizabeth Taylor perfume that comes in a big box at Christmas time and probably takes freaking for-EV-er to make her eyebrows look like that.  And that she is clinically insane.

But she’s not.  She’s a riot.  She has spunk and probably knows every piece of dirt on every person who has ever lived in her home town.  But she would never repeat it, of course.  Ladies don’t do that kind of thing.


Except at the salon.  And the grocery store.  And during Girls Nite Out before grabbing the waiter’s a** and then going face down on a table full of piña colada umbrellas.

Mark my words.  It’s the quiet ones.

This week’s pageant was all about the Sugar Buzz.  It was pretty self explanatory, complete with a table full of crowns that looked like they were constructed of rock candy and insulin syringes.  Bring on the sweets.

The first little princess was 3 year old Bailey and her Mom Cora.  And stay-at-home Dad Ron, who spoke when spoken to and proudly owned more aprons than anyone on the Food Network.  Nice guy, just a little too on the YesDear WhateverYouSayDear side.

Bailey was almost too cute.  She was a tomboy who liked to go 4 wheeling with Dad after he had finished all his chores…and gotten permission from Cora, of course.

Can you say Control Freak?

Our second contestant’s mode of transportation was a big hog of a motorcyle, which 4 year old Riley and Dad Ryan excitedly rode through the neighborhood, setting off car alarms and laying patches before heading back inside for arts & crafts.

Dad was a detective (…clearly not undercover since he was about three inches from the camera for the entire show…) and a former Marine.  He was a Man’s Man and I liked him.  He looked like he could be in an action movie or something.

Ryan could probably gut a spy in under 60 seconds, but go figure…he loved sewing.

And pageants.

Don’t Ask.  Don’t BeDazzle.  God Bless America.

The military had taught him his rockstar sewing technique and Mom Sheena (…just like the comic book Jungle Queen…) had somehow convinced Ryan to kick it up another notch with a glue gun and glitter.

I guess if you can take out insurgents with an M14 you can probably stick crystals on a headband without burning the house down.

Riley was cute, but had a nasty habit of spitting.  At you.  On you.  All over.

Unfortunately, since she was only 4 years old, she hadn’t developed the lung capacity required to properly expel all that goo, so most of the loogies never made it past her own chin.  Lots of stringy dingle danglyness.

I’m going to leave the etiquette discussions to the chat rooms, because we have way more important issues to deal with right now.


Ladies and Gentlemen:  Trystian.

2013 Mom of the Year and her 1 year old daughter Kelsie were the final contestants this week.  It’s called saving the best for last, people.

And Heaven.  It’s also called a little slice of Heaven.

I don’t even know where to start, it was so delish.

Let’s just say that for as little as I actually know about pageants (…as a matter of fact, I do hide that secret pretty well, thank you…) I know even less about weaves.

In all honesty, everything I know about getting your hair did comes from Real Housewives marathons on Bravo TV and maybe one or two VH1 smack downs.

And that Flava Flav show where he always looked like he had vaseline on his face.

So it’s not much.  But I do know a bad one when I see one.  And that one was so bad it hurt my feelings.  Lawd have mercy.

Seriously.  Riley’s Dad could have glued that thing on straighter during artillery fire.

For the first 90 seconds or so, Tystian seemed like a pretty nice Mom.  And Kelsie was stupid cute.  It actually kind of looked like Mom was just babysitting one of Will Smith‘s kids she was so cute.  Kelsie had the best fuzzy hair evah and giant eyes that looked like she was on catnip.  So cute.

But then Mom opened her mouth and it all went boughetto.  Without the ‘bou-‘ part.

Did you know that her baby girl wins just by showing up?  Cuz she’s better than everyone else.  Even if Kelsie was some famous 1 year old international celebrity and/or diaper model, Mom would still enter her in local pageants just to rub it in the faces of all the other Moms.  Just to be a beeotch to the haters.

And if there is one thing that Trystian hates, it’s other Moms who talk smack about other Moms’ kids.  That’s a No No in her book.


The book called Slap Yo’ Face, Bitch.  And the long awaited sequel F*** You Up, Bitch.

Because that’s what Trystian would do if any Mom ever tried to diss her daughter.  And that’s what tiny Kelsie already does to other girls at pageants, because that’s how genetics work.  And Mom is fine wid dat.

Seriously.  She said that.

Rewind:  Kelsie’s eyes don’t even both point in the same direction yet, but she already knows how to bitch slap a chick like Maury Povich just gave them DNA results instead of Grand Supreme crowns.

That ain’t right.  And neither was Kelsie eating half a jar of Mayo while Mom smeared the rest of it on her baby girl’s hair like a stylist at the Vidal Sassoon Salon & Deli.  I’m never having a lobster roll again.  I knew that wasn’t a piece of celery string.

Kelsie’s only real competition was a little girl named Tutu who was the Face of California Tropic, because I guess they do things like that nowadays.

While we tried to process all that, Bailey was in a garage or flea market or barn or airplane hanger or something, rehearsing her routine one last time before they all left for the competition.  There were tools and Nascar shirts and a covered boat all stuffed into whatever that building was supposed to be, along with a homemade plywood stage and pageant coach Cambrie Littlefield.

(I’m going to assume that Cambrie was probably the only thing that didn’t get locked up in there overnight each day when the sun went down.  But you never know.)

We love her and she was just as gorg as evah, but she wasn’t wearing her Naughty Girl thigh high boots so I was a little disappointed.

In her defense, she probably didn’t want to risk getting them dirty on the FOUR hour road trip to Las Vegas, since Bailey’s 3 year old bladder required they stop the car every time the odometer clicked a full cycle.


I’m really not even sure if Mom pulled the car over that last time, or just came to a full stop in the middle of a four lane highway to drag out Bailey’s hot pink Porta-Barbie toilet for another round.  Nothing like a little Number 2 on the Number 515 I always say.

Before Cambrie threw herself into oncoming traffic, she and Mom held up one of Snookie‘s old animal print bedspreads to shield Bailey from the paparazzi, not realizing that Trystian was already at the hotel with Kelsie trying to check in without paying her registration fee.

Allegedly, of course.

Some older gent, who thankfully turned out to be Carol’s husband Terry (…otherwise he kinda looked like he should be taking tickets at ComicCon instead of creepin’ a toddler thingamajig…) let Trystian know that she still owed $50 on her bill.  And that’s when the party started.

Trystian said she didn’t owe him nuthin.  He said yes you do.  She said something that got (bleeped) out and stormed down the hall with Kelsie under one arm, dragging another school age kid behind her while that skinny dude with a buzz cut who was always lurking in the background carried all the crap.

And why was he pulling his shirt up and down during all this awesomeness?  Whoa.  Did you see that?  Don’t be flashing your white meat in the hall, Cowboy.  And some sit-ups probably wouldn’t hurt while you’re waiting for your girl to stop swearing around her kids.

As Trystian passed Tutu’s Mom Loreal and a posse of urban suburbans, all hell broke loose.  Right there with the kids in the room.

Oh.  Hell.  No.  Somebody did not just call her “Bitch.”

Boom!  Screaming.  Yelling.  Git Out My Face, Bitch.  Who you callin’ Bitch?  You’re a Bitch.  You’re Hood Rat.  No, you’re a Hood Rat.  You Nasty.

Oprah even showed up.  You’re a Bitch!  You’re a Bitch!  Everyone’s a Bitch!

Carol got in the middle of it all, looking like that junior high English teacher who always tries to unsuccessfully break up a youtube fight between sistahs in the parking lot.  Then Trystian got all up in Carol’s grill, threatening to poke her in the eye and punch her in the face while little Kelsie sucked on a pacifier and swung around upside down like she was on the high speed Yo Mama Ride at Six Flags.

Literally.  Off.  The.  Hook.

And I’ve watched it about 100 times already.  So I know.


After everyone, including the concierge and one housekeeper who should have taken the elevator all called each other Englewood Hood Rats, Trystian headed outside to call the Hood Rat cops (…because I’m pretty sure they have a special Hood Rat division just for Hood Rat glitz pageants…) and had yet another meltdown.

Carol is lucky I had my kids with me!  I woulda (bleeped) her (bleepin’ bleep) right into the (bleepin’) ground.

Bleep Bleep Bleep Nice Role Model Bleep Bleep Bleep.

Loreal got one of the last zings in by describing to hotel security how bad Trystian’s weave was on a scale of Nasty to Nasty.

Bottom line, Trystian was no longer welcome at the competition after a positively delightful speakerphone conversation with Carol, during which we found out that Mrs. Fleming not only has expensive new veneers but also the most whacked out fingernails ever seen on cable television.  WTF were those things?

Terry finally booted Trystian out of the building after she was stupid enough to show up on competition day, which resulted in Hood Rat Meltdown #97 while that skinny kid just stood there holding a Tupperware container full of cupcake dresses, fake lollipops and his clipped manhood.

Let’s be real.  It doesn’t even matter what happened at the actual pageant.

Bailey’s Mom went all Control Freak and Cambrie almost went all Trystian on her a**.

Riley’s music got all messed up at some point and she ended up standing around long enough for me to go get a soda in the kitchen.

Back home in the (…alleged, again…) ‘hood, Trystian threw an empty mayo jar straight into the television screen when Tutu won Photogenic Supreme and that skinny dude worked on one of those Help Me signs that kidnap victims hold up in the window after everyone goes to sleep.

And dat’s pretty much how it all went down in the ‘hood this time, bitches.

Be sure to sign my online petition for TLC to create a new show where Trystian just goes hotel to hotel beating up Pageant Moms every week and the winner gets a new weave.

Like a cage fight makeover show.  Or something.

Gimme a break.  It’s a work in progress.

Don’t be such a…you know.


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6 Responses to “Toddlers & Tiaras: Let’s Belly Up To The California Tropic Sugar Bar. Hood Rats & Punches & Weaves…Oh My!”

  1. Sandy Bailey Says:

    Primo Prose, DTC; ’bout time you earned your $1.25. ph, Slacker 😉 Definitely, worth the wait.

    Lobster roll or gheri curl, face it, mayo is nasty.

    Carol is the poor girls’ real housewife, and Terry is her Slade.

    I was a middle school English teacher with a 28 year term; that image is right on.

    (This essay was so fine, I forgive you for not mentioning the scene where RoboChild Maddie broke perfection training and slapped her baby sister for hugging her in Dance Moms last week; but, oh, yeah, that’s for Tuesdays).

    I’m off to Mass to thank God and you (in that order) for making this a great Sunday! 😀

  2. Wendy Dickey Says:

    Every week I say your articles just CAN’T get any better…And every week you prove me wrong!! <3

  3. DanThat'sCool! Says:

    What can I say? Hood Rats bring out my creative side. I’m kinda gangstah like that.

  4. Alycia Says:

    That was awesome! And that “skinny dude” is the one who picked the fight in the first place…her husband/ babies’ daddy, that’s why he was lifting his shirt. Real classy.

  5. Ryan Says:

    Your blog is hilarious. Thank you for your kind words. Ryan. (Riley’s spy gutting be-dazzling, action movie star dad)

  6. Sabrina Says:

    I have never choked in laughter before. Until now. ROFLMBO!!! I can never ever eat mayonnaise EVER AGAIN!!!
    Train Wreck Trystian, sigh, what can I say? You deserve the “Parent most likely to drive your child to patricide/suicide/dudeliftingshirticide” award.

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