🏍️ Loretta Mae and the Long Goodbye (But With More Leather and Less Dignity) 🏜️
It all begins with an idea.
Filed under: Loretta’s Wild Dispatches
It was supposed to be a quiet farewell.
Just me, Mama’s ashes in a Folgers can (because she’d haunt me if I paid retail for an urn), and the open road. The plan was simple: drive The Kitty — my ’72 Mercury Cougar — out to the Grand Canyon, say a few tear-choked words, and let Mama ride the wind like she always threatened to do after tax season.
Instead?
I crashed a biker funeral at a defunct dude ranch.
🚫 The Rusty Spur Ranch & Poor Life Choices
Google said “scenic retreat.” What I found was fifty bikers, twelve Harleys, a suspicious amount of smoked meats, and a bounce house. Apparently “The Chrome Widow Riders” hold an annual memorial barbecue there in honor of one of their own named Lizard Dave (may he rest in leather).
I pulled up, funeral poncho flapping in the breeze like a majestic raven in mourning, and stepped out into the dusty lot. The entire crowd paused mid-bratwurst.
“This ain’t the scenic overlook,” I said, “but I got a dead woman and a full tank of gas, so scoot your asses.”
💀 Meet Butch and the Teacup Hellions
Butch — their leader — looked like if Santa Claus had been raised by wolves and forgot how shirts worked. I think he saw the ashes and sensed kinship.
He handed me a folding chair, a plastic cup of Fireball, and said,
“You wanna say a few words before we light the bonfire?”
I did.
I gave Mama the kind of sendoff she’d have hated: loud, smoky, surrounded by strange men in leather, and accompanied by a three-chihuahua harmony yapping under a picnic table.
Her ashes caught the wind — majestic, wild — and smacked directly into a biker’s custom-painted Vespa. (Sorry, Trixie.)
🎶 The Revival
Somehow it turned into a full-on spiritual experience.
We sang “Dust in the Wind”, off-key and weeping. A biker named Muffin passed around a casserole. Someone tattooed “MAMA FLIES FREE” on their calf.
I delivered a sermon. I think.
✨ The Aftermath
I was offered honorary membership in The Chrome Widow Riders. I declined. I’ve already got Thursday night bingo and an HOA summons I’m ignoring.
But I kept the embroidered patch:
“HELL HATH NO FUR LIKE GRANNY’S CHIHUAHUA.”
It felt right.
Till Valhalla, Mama.
May your ashes haunt the Grand Canyon gift shop and your sass echo through every soul brave enough to wear fringe with conviction.
💋
— Loretta Mae McGillicutty
Official BADGMA Founder, Unofficial Spiritual Guide to the Disorganized Arts
“What Danger Smells Like”
It all begins with an idea.
They always say you can smell danger coming. Well, I say you’re damn right - and it smells like Aqua Net, toaster strudel, and poor impulse control.
Real Danger? It wears knockoff Chanel No. 5, carries a Zippo with a unicorn etched on the side , and drinks bourbon out of a thermos labeled “soup”.
Read more if you dare - and don’t say I didn’t warn you.
✨OFFICIAL HOA COMPLAINT REBUTTAL✨
It all begins with an idea.
From the desk of Loretta Mae “Don’t Tell Me What to Do” McGillicutty
July 2025
Addressed to: The Petty Parliament of Azalea Creek Homeowners Association
RE: Violation #47B—“Unapproved Yard Decor and Aggressive Flamingo Placement”
To Whom It May Mildly Concern,
First of all, bless your hearts for taking time out of your busy lives spent measuring grass blades and counting solar lights to pen this little love letter. I’m tickled. Truly.
Now, regarding the so-called “violation”:
My Flamingos Are Historic Artifacts.
Phyllis and Phyllis Jr. (the flamingos in question) have been with me longer than my third marriage and held up better in hurricanes. They are pink, proud, and—unlike some people on this board—bring joy to the neighborhood.The Inflatable Eagle Was a Memorial.
The 12-foot inflatable bald eagle (code name: Freedomzilla) was erected in honor of my Uncle Boone, who once drove a fire truck into a Taco Bell drive-thru and declared it the “Fourth of July in February.” Y’all could use more patriotism and less passive aggression.Wind Chimes Are Protected Speech.
My wind chimes are tuned to the key of Grit. If they’re “too loud,” maybe the real issue is your soul’s been too quiet for too long.My Grass Is Wild. Like My Spirit.
Nature don’t trim itself with a ruler, and neither do I.
Attached, please find a Polaroid of me standing next to said decorations, holding a cup of sweet tea and offering the universal hand gesture for “file this under Nope.” 🖕
Also included: a notarized letter from my cousin Darla, who is a certified spiritual lawn consultant, confirming that my front yard is, in fact, a “zone of aesthetic rebellion and emotional healing.”
In closing: I shall not be moved, fined, or mulched into compliance. If that’s a problem, I suggest a bake sale, a prayer circle, or a hobby.
Sincerely unbothered,
Loretta Mae McGillicutty
Founder, BADGMA
Unlicensed Therapist to Stray Cats
& Reigning Queen of Lot #668
Friday Night Bingo & the Hijacked HOA: A Cautionary Tale
It all begins with an idea.
It all started innocently enough—with a sensible amount of bourbon in my travel mug and a dauber that matched my lipstick. I showed up at the rec hall for Friday Night Bingo ready to win, flirt with the widowers, and make exactly the right number of enemies.
Things were going smooth until Constance “Connie” Parsnip-Loomis, head of the HOA, swanned in wearing her rhinestone visor and an attitude two sizes too tight. Picture a hummingbird that got into the Botox and now thinks it’s in charge of FEMA. That’s Connie. She once fined me for “unlicensed decorative yard poultry.” (It was one flamingo. One.)
Now, Connie doesn't play bingo to relax—she plays to dominate. She brought her custom bingo tray, personalized chips, and a clipboard labeled “Observations.” If that doesn’t scream buzzkill with spreadsheet energy, I don’t know what does.
About three rounds in, Terry from the next street over yelled “BINGO!” just milliseconds after I did. Connie, naturally, inserted herself as the self-appointed auditor of daubing accuracy, and accused both of us of suspicious daubing behavior. “Double bingo? Not statistically probable,” she hissed, like that was the most damning math she’d ever seen.
Well. That didn’t sit well with Terry, who once arm-wrestled a sheriff over an unpaid parking ticket. And me? I simply removed my earrings and said, “Connie, darling, if you want a fight, all you had to do was say so. But you best put your clipboard down unless you’re planning to swing it.”
That’s when someone—probably Phyllis—pulled the fire alarm.
Chairs were overturned. Daubers flew like holy water at a demonic tent revival. Connie fled out the back door clutching her bingo tray like it was the Holy Grail and muttering something about “calling the regional office.”
And wouldn’t you know it? I still walked out with the prize basket.
Which, for the record, contained three cans of creamed corn, a scented candle that smells like tax fraud, and a $5 gift card to Arby’s.
📌 Loretta’s Lessons:
Never trust someone whose clipboard has monogrammed initials.
Bingo is not a game. It is a battlefield.
HOA Presidents are like vampires—you have to invite them in, and I never will again.
Until next week,
Stay weird, stay bingo-ready, and never surrender your dauber.
—Loretta Mae
What the Hell is in that jar?
It all begins with an idea.
That jar is absolutely full of glitter — probably weaponized. ✨
Knowing Loretta Mae, it’s:
A homemade blend she calls "Glitterbomb #5"
Intended for either crafting or passive-aggressive deployment in HOA meetings
Possibly laced with sage ash, a hex, and spite
That glint in her eye says, “This ain’t for arts and crafts, darlin’. This is for revenge.” 🐆💅💥