Broke-Ass and Big Daddy: No One Here Gets Out Alive

A gorgeous number of you lovelies have written–both in these pages, as well as via private email–expressing concern about the state of Broke-Ass’s and Big Daddy’s union. To be frank, Broke-Ass laughed giddily that: a) you beautiful-hearted creatures were worried about Big Daddy (because that’s just silly it’s so lovely, and by the way, he loves you back); and b) there was some vaguely-held notion that anyone besides Big Daddy would touch Broke-Ass with a 10-foot pole. Twenty-foot. Never mind a billionaire. Though in her youth, Broke-Ass did decline a blind date arrangement with Bill Gates. Don’t ever speak of that again. It aggravates her ulcers.

Here’s the thing. Just this evening, one of the friends dearest to her heart compelled Broke-Ass to ruminate on her tendency to ask people to marry her. Like, a lot of people. Thinking it over, Broke-Ass had to admit that this was true. She has asked editors at publishing companies, newspapers, and magazines; movie producers, directors, and auteurs; and various and sundry people who think to compliment her, including her mom friends. Within the past week, Broke-Ass has probably asked five people to marry her. It’s possible, though she can’t remember, that she asked her favorite cousin to marry her because he’s such a killer writer and excellent dude. It’s also possible that, as we live and breathe, Broke-Ass has Austenian agreements with as many as 108 people.

This is how the proposal works:

Editor/Auteur/Mom friend: I love your shoes!

Broke-Ass: I love you. Will you marry me?

So, you can see where this usually goes. Broke-Ass is rawther operatic.

But the truth is that Broke-Ass is flat-out astonished that anyone would want to marry her. Broke-Ass is a red-headed Scorpio and all that such connotes. That is, she is not exactly everyone’s cup of tea. She’s the cup of tea that was overbrewed and not strained properly, so you find yourself spitting sodden tea leaves into a napkin and then trying to find a discreet way of disposing of the napkin because it’s now wadded up into a slimy clot of papier mache–and now, you’re also too hopped up to enjoy the tea fancies. Plus, there was no milk or sugar. Shit, that was an intense cup of tea. And really, you’re a coffee person.

So, it is an endless source of wonder to her that she and Big Daddy got hitched at all. Big Daddy is also frequently in a state of wonder, but it’s too late now, so tough. Big Daddy and Broke-Ass aren’t going anywhere. In fact, he’s lying on the sofa this very second, mouth open and legs splayed out on either side; Broke-Ass just asked if he was was waiting for his exam or about to give birth. Big Daddy bolted awake: “Hunh?” And then laughed. That’s a marriage, babydolls.

Having said that…Mark Zuckerberg, I love you. Will you marry me?


About brokeassgrouch

I'm goddamned broke and grouchy. I live in the middle of the damned ghetto and raise chickens for eggs; grow all my own vegetables and fruit; bake the bread and make the cleaning products. Why? Because I fucking have to, that's why! That's what you do when you're fucking poor! You have to make the shit yourself, dumb-ass! Broke-Ass Grouch is sick of all you Bennington and RISD trustafarians yapping about your "urban farming co-ops" and your "carbon conscious lifestyle" and your "green choices" in the Times Styles section and every alternapress periodical that you can pick up for free in every eye-wateringly expensive, edgy bakery or green-market. Maybe when you have a trust fund, you can make "choices" or have a "lifestyle" or "decide" how to "spend" your "money." Excuse me, but Mama is just trying to feed her kids over here, you little shits. And stop spraying your art-school graffiti on the fence of the vacant lot across the street from my house. I know who you are, and I'm telling my friend Keith (who lives in the projects) that it was you who painted that cartoon of the African mask. So what can I tell you? I don't fucking know. I know a lot about being broke, sure as Bob's your fucking uncle. I know about how useless an Ivy League degree is when you're flat-ass broke. I know how to unclog a drain with baking soda and vinegar, and I know how to make my own CHEESE, for fuck's sake. You tell me.
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2 Responses to Broke-Ass and Big Daddy: No One Here Gets Out Alive

  1. GiRRL_Earth says:

    Dear BAG,

    Thanks for the laugh. As always I enjoy your blog.

    I do have a question that isn’t related to this post, so please forgive me. I have been following No Impact Man and was wondering if you have been following him (before exiting Brooklyn for Philly)? He’s running for Congress and is looking for Brooklyn voters.

  2. Liz Beckman says:

    ah, relief! thanks for confirmation big daddy’s still in!

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