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Oh, we may look normal but the depths of our twisted humor is the stuff that earns restraining orders and lifetime bans from the PTA.

***UPDATE: Feel free to keep reading but if you want to cut to the chase and not beat around the bush (huh…huh…bush), then go to Smashwords or Amazon to get all 170 pages of Puddin’ deliciousness for just a $1.99. Endless laughs for less than a Big Red and bag of hot fries.

No good ever comes of drinking wine with my best friend. Ok, maybe “good” isn’t the right word. Nothing normal ever comes from drinking wine with my best friend. We’ve been friends for 30 years and our warped sense of humor floats between us like some type of secret twin language. We laugh until we cry or come close to wetting ourselves (depends on how much wine we’ve had on that last part). These conversations always alienate everyone around us, but sometimes they also create something special. One of these conversations happened recently, and I couldn’t let our drunken creation slip down the drain.

It was a warped conversation that centered around a donkey (truth), but I won’t bore you with the details.  I’ll just say that the donkey somehow lead us to Fifty Shades of Grey. I’m also not going to bore you with my thoughts on that book. I’ll only say that while I’m glad to see a self-pub girl laughing all the way to the bank, I’m horribly frightened by how many women consider this “good” literature. The phenomenon tells me two things: Thousands of women are WAY, W.A.Y. undersexed (thank you honey for not letting me slip into that category), and women obviously haven’t been exposed to much in the way of great literature. (If you want to read a hilarious review that gets FSOG spot-on, go here.)

But I’m not here to bash the book making millions. I’m not here to give you a brilliantly written version of erotica either. Nope. I’m here to jump on the bandwagon. I’m here to whore myself out to the masses. If they want lots of sex and don’t care about the art of writing, well, who am I to deny them? In fact, I’m filling a gap. This wine-induced creation is for all the folks who just can’t grasp fancy mega-billionaires. This is for the rest of us. This is blue-collar Shades of Grey. Redneck Shades of Grey, even. This is…

“Brilliant. Seductive and real. Sling Blade meets 50 Shades of Grey.”            –Lurlene Clump, Turkey Gulch Community College student newspaper, The Gobbler

“Curtis Brown is the hottest thing since grandma’s jalapeno tater salad. Bring on the mustard!!”              –Crystal Carter, Tractor Chicks magazine

“Who knew that duck waders and motor oil could be so hot? Curtis Brown, that’s who.”              –Chet Lucas, DVM, Tennessee Journal of Bovine Medicine

“The soccer moms have their porn and now we got ours. Hallelujah!”               –Shirley Pete, 4H Moms Newsletter

**This is an adult piece (RATED R) with adult language-nuf said. ***My wordpress theme eats indentations like they’re waffles. Not my fault. I tried. *** I was born in Tennessee, raised in Arkansas, and now live in Texas. This gives me a free pass for pokin’ fun at country folks with stereotypes. So don’t get your knickers in a knot, just laugh.

Fifty Shades of Puddin’ by Ash Robbins Chapter 1

I scrunch my face up and glare at my ankle monitor. I’m pissed off like nobody’s business. I’m mad at myself for gettin’ in so much trouble. I’m mad at the security guard at Walmart for catching me. I’m mad at the friggin’ judge. And I’m real damn mad that I have to go on a job interview that I didn’t want because of my roommate, Kandy Kane.
For some reason Kandy had to land two job interviews on the exact same day and she decided to take the one working at the office of the lumber yard instead of the one running the office at the trailer park we live in. She said she couldn’t pass up the lumber yard interview because working there would be like swimming in a river of potential husbands.
“Carpenters can always afford a double wide,” she’d explained. “And if I was to snag me a foreman…Ooo, girl, that’s big time money. That’s an above ground pool and a Marshall’s credit card money.”
She’s in the kitchen now looking at her hooters in the reflection of the toaster. She broke out her good Sears bra and it does make them look like ripe cantaloupes floating on her chest. Her hair is freshly blonde. The box of Clairol is sitting in the waste basket beside me. I’m even hating that wastebasket, but Kandy doesn’t hate anything right now or ever because she doesn’t have to. She’s always been the prettiest girl at the tractor pull and she knows it. I know she’ll get this new glamour job and forget about me, her mousy, jail-bird of a best friend.
“Didn’t this just work out perfect, Ambrosia?” Kandy asks in her giddy, I-just-scored-some-free-smokes-voice. “I mean, the judge ordered you to get a job close and this is as close as it gets. You can walk to work.”
“Yeah,” I answer, rolling my eyes. I don’t want to seem ungrateful because she was the only person who would take me in when I got out, but she’s still prettier than me and that still pisses me off.
“I’ll be making good money and I’ll even help you buy some work clothes while you get on your feet,” she says smiling over her shoulder at me.
Skank. I put on a fake smile. “Don’t forget your red lipstick,” I say. She looks better in pink.
“You need to finish getting dressed, Ambrosia. You’ll be late for your interview and Mr. Brown is too important to be kept waiting.”
Before Kandy had snatched up her interview at Dale’s Lumber she’d managed to get an interview for running the office at Brown’s Enchanted Meadows trailer park after the regular secretary’s gout got too bad to work. The trailer park is owned by the one and only Curtis Brown. I didn’t know Curtis Brown from Charlie Brown, but I’d listened to Kandy go on and on about how he was a “Mr. Somebody” because he not only owns the trailer park, he also owns the tow truck company next to it, the washateria down the street, and 3 snow cone stands. He is the Donald Trump of Hog Hollow, Tennessee.
“Well, I’m off.” Kandy turns and gives me a big hug. “Now you go show that Mr. Brown why you were already doing pre-algebra in the tenth grade and I’ll go show Dale why I got 4th runner up in the Miss Elk pageant two years in a row.” She pushes up her boobs, wiggles her size 2 hips and struts out the door in her Mexican espa-zilla shoes. She’s perfect and I’m not.
I try one more time to pull my lace-trimmed leggings over my monitor. It looks like I have a big, square cancer growing under my pants. Screw it. I get up and go to the bathroom to look in the mirror. Kandy had insisted on doing my hair the night before too. It’s Peg Bundy red, and I have to admit, better than the orange-blonde with 3 inches of brown roots I’d had from my two months in the pokey. I’m wearing blue mascara to match my eyes and bronzer to cover my freckles. I put on some bubble gum flavored lip gloss, tuck my bra straps under my tank top, and head out the door.

The office is only a few rows over from our place. It’s been raining off and on so the ground is squishy. I try to stay on the gravel since I’m wearing Kandy’s cheetah print flats. I push my hands into the pockets of the jacket I also borrowed from her. It’s a navy blazer she’d bought off her cousin who’d worn it when she’d worked at the car rental store at the Jackson airport. Her name is still stitched on the front but we covered it with a flower brooch. This is as fancy as I’m getting for a job I don’t want.
I turn the corner and spy the office. It’s a trailer almost as big as ours but painted pale yellow with a small wooden porch built on the front with a single folding lawn chair sitting on it. Some plastic flowers are stuffed in flower pots and wind chimes hang next to the silent bug zapper. A wooden sign hangs above the door that just says “office”, and a mail slot is by the door with another little sign reading “rent.”
Before I get to the steps the door opens and a woman steps out. She’s blonde and I figure by the way she’s dressed, just interviewed for the job. Her bright pink suit jacket and short skirt match and she’s wearing a baby pink lace camisole underneath. Her black bra peeks out and matches her black heels and her zebra-striped purse. She has her hair pulled up in a ponytail with a perfect bump. The pink lipstick she’s wearing matches her suit and her hoop earrings almost touch her shoulders. Damn her professionalism. There is no way I can compete with her. I’m out of my league.
Don’t puss-out, I tell myself. I don’t want to let Kandy down. She’s an annoyingly perfect bitch but she is still my best friend. The blonde prisses past me with a smirk and I give her the look I learned from some of the black girls in jail that says “I’ll shank you.” She hurries to her fancy Kia and gets inside. I stomp up the stairs and open the door. Inside is another blonde. What’s with the blondes? I suddenly feel like I’m at an Aryan Brotherhood meeting with my cousins.
This new blonde looks up from the single desk in the room. She’s older than the last one. Her tan is dark like she’s spent a long weekend at the lake and her nails are acrylic with fancy designs painted on them by some of the Korean-ese folks at the nail place in town. She has more pink ice jewelry on than I’ve ever seen and her velour track suit says “Juicy” across her massive tatas. Everything about her screams money and I wonder why she’s here.
“May I help you?” she asks before leaning back in her chair and taking a sip of coffee out of her mug that says “I went to Tunica, Bitch.”
“Uh, I’m here for the 3 0’clock interview. I’m Ambrosia Wood,” I answer. “I’m taking Kandy Kane’s spot.”
The woman looks at a clipboard laying on the desk, running her shiny nails down the lines and stopping. She nods. “Yep, that name’s on here. What was your name again?”
“Ambrosia. Ambrosia Wood.”
“Did you fill out the application?” She doesn’t look very impressed with me.
“Yes. It’s right here. I pull the folded piece of paper out of my pocket and hand it to her. She looks pissed off as she unfolds it. She reminds me of the female guards at the jail; always acting better than the rest of us. I take a seat in one of the chairs while she reads over it. The office is very clean. The curtains are pale blue with ruffles and the floor is green and white checkered linoleum. The desk, with its shiny oak veneer, looks like it came straight out of an Office Max. There are several art prints on the walls. Some are ducks and deer, but there’s also one that looks just like one of those Thomas Kinkades I’ve seen painted on plates on the home shopping show.

Miss Thinks-She’s-Paris-Hilton looks up at me and then presses a button on a little plastic box sitting on the desk. “Curtis, I got Ambrosia Wood here for the 3 o’clock.” She waits a second before a deep voice comes back through a lot of static.
“Well, send her back, Cloreene.”
Cloreene? Wasn’t that something rich folks put in their fish tanks or something? She hands my paper back to me and points to the other end of the trailer past the kitchen. There’s a single closed door at the end.
“Well, don’t keep him waiting,” she growls.
I hurry back towards the door but take time to admire the shiny veneer on the cabinets and counters in the kitchen. This place is spic-n-span. Somebody runs a tight ship. I get to the door and knock. There’s no answer. I wonder if I’m in the right place but the only other door goes to the bathroom. I go ahead and open the door, but when I enter I rack my elbow hard against the door jamb.
“God-damn-donkey-cock-sucker-asshole!!” I scream, grabbing my elbow and closing my eyes in pain.
Oh…screw a badger. I’m so embarrassed. Me and my dirty mouth. I’ve never been able to control it when I hurt myself. Two hands are on my arms and I open my eyes to look. Good God. In the name of all things moist and meaty, somebody tell me this isn’t Curtis Brown.
“Ambrosia?” he questions, touching my injured elbow with big, hairy hands. “I’m Curtis Brown. That looks like it smarts.”
I nod, unable to get words out. He’s tall, and young, and hot. Like Satan’s jock strap HOT! He’s got curly dark hair that’s shorter on top but goes past his collar in the back. He’s wearing a nice, new pair of jeans with a plaid shirt tucked into them. His belt is brown leather with a small leather pocketknife holder hanging off one side and a pager on the other. I glance down and see he’s wearing ostrich skin boots with crosses embroidered on the toes. He is money.
“Would you like to sit?” he asks and I nod. He puts his hand on my lower back to lead me to the green leather couch and it’s like a tiny fireworks show shoots down my spine and into my pants. What just happened? Was it the Slim Jims I had for breakfast?

This office is just as clean and tidy as the last one with the same green and white linoleum. But this desk is bigger and has a dark veneer. Behind it is a display of three different deer heads, each with an enormous rack. The only other thing hanging on the wall is over the couch. It’s another painting like the one in the first office.
“Thomas Kinkade,” I state before sitting down.
“Yes, it sure is,” he says, looking at me like he’s surprised and impressed. “Did my sister get you a drink?” he asks, walking back towards his desk.
“No,” I answer.
“She’s helping me out until I find a replacement for Bernice, but she never was one for going above and beyond.” He walks to the corner and opens a mini-fridge I hadn’t noticed. He pulls out a Big Red and brings it over to me. I take it and he smiles down at me with teeth that I know have seen a dentist at least once or twice.
He takes my application from me and sits in a recliner next to the couch. I’m feeling very squirmy because my thoughts are not on the job. My crotch is twitching as I watch him read my form he holds in one hand while his other hand rests on his thigh, his thick thumb rubbing over his tight jeans.
I want to–have to distract myself from that big, muscular thumb with the dark hair growing on the bottom knuckle. I’m feeling nervous and before I know it my mouth starts blabbering like it does when I get this way.
“You’ve got a real nice place here. How’d you get so much so young?” Double screw a badger. I can’t believe myself, but at least I wasn’t cursing again.
He looks up at me and I get a real look at his eyes. They’re green. The exact same shade of the lightest green in a good set of camo. “Well, Miss Wood,” he says, really emphasizing my last name like it tastes good to him. “It’s simple—I like shit.” He smiles and those damn roman candles start sparking in my panties again. “I like to own lots of nice shit—expensive shit. To get all the shit I have, you have to work hard. You get up every morning, put your pants on one leg at a time, and then go out and grab the world by the balls.”
“So it wasn’t because your daddy was rich?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“Hell no,” he says with a grin that looks like a boy who just pulled the legs off a frog. “My daddy works for me. He was too lazy to do what I do; always complaining about his diabetes and cancer. I’m a self-made man. Men like me rise to the top and the weak go to work for us.” He leans forward and looks at me very seriously. “General Custer once said that wise men are those who know when to lead the weak and when to shoot them.”
He is definitely too big for his britches. “So General Custer liked bossin’ people around too?” Screw me. My damn mouth.

“Yep. It’s good to be boss. It’s good to know you’re what’s between a man taking his family out to the Golden Corral or making them eat government cheese with the rest of the losers.” He’s acting like a dick but for some reason I keep feeling nervous. Maybe it’s his big thumb rubbin’ his thigh.
He laughs. “You know, I’ve been tellin’ you all about me but you’re the one applying for the job. I’m supposed to be asking the questions around here.” He winks and looks at my application again. “I’m curious why there’s White-out where you wrote your name?” He looks up and I can tell he’s laughing at me inside like I’m a Sunday morning cartoon or something.
I can’t tell him that the entire application is really the one Kandy filled out. I just covered her name with white nail polish and wrote mine. “I dripped ketchup on it.”
He just nods. “So you worked at the Dairy Queen? What’d you do there?”
“Uh…just ran the register and made ice cream cones,” I say. This is actually true because I did work there with Kandy my senior year of high school.
“And what did you do at Shantay’s Hair Palace?”
“Just answered the phone and swept up hair.” This is a big lie. I never worked there.
“Well, Miss Wood, I have to say you don’t have any office experience to speak of.” He looks at me over the paper and I feel disappointed. I didn’t want the job but for some reason knowing I’m not good enough for it makes me sad.
“I know.” I uncross my legs and start to get up. His eyes widen and I realize he’s gawkin’ at my ankle. I tug my leggings back over my monitor.
“Well, well, well. It looks like somebody’s been a naughty girl,” he says smiling bigger than before. Good Jesus. He really is hot. I didn’t think men this hot could grow in Tennessee. Maybe he’s from Kentucky. “Tell me how you came about getting that piece of government bling?” he asks.
I know there’s no chance of getting the job so I just tell him the truth. “I’d lost my job at the animal shelter and blown my student aid on a trip to Daytona so I couldn’t go back to the vo-tech.” I say everything very matter of fact like I’m not ashamed at all. I want him to know I’m tough. “I needed stuff, so I went to the Walmart. I got a suitcase first, threw it in the basket, and then filled that suitcase with stuff while I shopped.”
“What kind of stuff?” he asks, his thumb really rubbin’ his jeans.
“Basic stuff. Cocoa butter, baby oil, ribs, panties—“
“Did you say ribs?” His eyes light up with interest and I feel like I fell off the monkey bars at school.
“Yes,” I answer. Screw me on a Buick. He is sexy.
His whole hand is rubbin’ his thigh now. Even his pinky finger is big and beefy. “My, Ambrosia, you are a woman that knows what she wants and ain’t afraid to take it.”
He’s lookin’ at me like it’s a good thing and that’s new for me. Everyone else has looked at me like a thief. Even I felt like a thief. I just needed stuff and couldn’t pay for it. Maybe he understands that. He suddenly stands up and holds out his hand. I take it to stand and it feels like I stuck a bobby pin in a light socket. The electricity shoots down my arm and right back to my thong.
“Miss Wood, I have to be honest that you aren’t truly qualified for this position but I’m a man that believes positions can be learned and if you don’t give a girl a chance to try different positions, how will you ever know what positions she’s good at?”
I’m feeling confused. For some reason it doesn’t sound like he’s talkin’ about the job anymore. He walks to the door and opens it, leading me down the hall and back into the living room lobby. His sister is still there and now another girl is sitting in the chair holding her application.
“Curtis, you’re 3:30 is here,” his sister says.
He doesn’t even look at her. He just keeps staring at me. “Cancel my 3:30.”
The girl looks up at us and back at the sister like she’s really confused. Cloreene is lookin’ at her brother like he just walked in wearing a clown suit and took a dump on the floor. Curtis doesn’t give her even a glance. He opens the door for me to leave.
“I’ll be seein’ you… Ambrosia,” he says.
“Ok…Curtis,” I answer back before walking out into the rain.

*** I will be posting one chapter a week from this project. Please, PLEASE feel free to pass this link along to friends who like to laugh. Please, PLEASE do not cut and paste portions of this into anything else because then people get confused about who it belongs to and then I might get mad, drink too much, and shank you with a spork.

!!!!!!!!Chapter 2 is here. Burt Reynolds, ferrets, and waders! Oh, my!!!!!!!

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