And with this one smooth, dulcet croon from Our Fearless Leader, one can just sense the sudden rush of dew on Herman Miller Aeron Chairs the nation over. Talk about your “TRUE BLACK”, BITCHES. Like I’ve told you before, my friends…OUR PRESIDENT CAN FLAT FUCK — and that virtue gets MY VOTE EVERY TIME.
Oh, my stars…what a whirlwind weekend of WONDER! Last night my fatass sashayed into an AWESOME club in Little Tokyo with My One True Love and our best girl, Miss Pammie, where we partooketh of a jaw-dropping performance of REAL-DEAL, NO HORSESHIT, OL’ SCHOOL JAZZ…and that was only after I had lunch yesterday at that infamous Eagle Rock HOUSE OF GUSTATORY DELIGHTS, Auntie Em’s Kitchen, with my VERY BEST BOYS: Gregory, Mario Diaz, and Jackie Beat…where our lunch date was (YOU GOTTA BE FUCKING KIDDING ME WITH THIS) Fred “My Band’s AMAZING Music and GROUNDBREAKING Aesthetic Changed The Life of a Trashy Fresno Trollop Named Muffy Bolding” Schneider.
Holy shit…SOMEBODY PINCH THIS PINCHE PUTA.
Herr Schneider, Old Hooker, Older Hooker, and a BEAUTIFUL LITTLE BABY NAMED ‘BABY”!
Have you ever dated a guy who made CRAZY EYES when he was fucking you? I’m not talking about “Crazy ‘O’ Face” here — everybody has that, for chrissake. I’m talking about actual CRAZY EYES while he’s nailing you. Talk about a buzzkill. Frankly, when a guy fucks me with CRAZY EYES, he cock-blocks himself. It makes the flesh crawl right off my body and out of my bed. Just hand me the remote and get the fuck out, dude. I’m so done.
And on that delightful note…this I guarantee you: RICK SANTORUM CANNOT FUCK.
And further, I’m gonna go out on a limb here and unequivocally state that if you are a Republican, YOU CAN’T FUCK*. It is a mathematical certainty. You just can’t. There is an ebb and flow to this life…a beat, a rhythm. We are born to it. Conservative Republicans can’t dance because they can’t feel that beat or that rhythm, and that’s because hate, intolerance, and certainly Fundamentalist Christianity cut you off from feeling it — and everybody knows that if you can’t dance, you can’t fuck. It’s as simple as that, Mein Poppets. Those beliefs neuter you. They castrate your connection to The Great Throbbing Pulsing Disco Beat that is this universe and is this life — the single, infinite beat that ties us all one to the other. When you live your life steeped in hatred, you are deaf to that beat and its enticing call. You don’t get to feel it move through you, bringing alive every cell in your being, calling you to join in The Dance. And it’s not just that you won’t dance — it’s that you can’t.
Now Obama? For however disappointed I am with his presidency thus far — oh, and trust me, I AM — there is one thing that cannot be denied:
That guy can FLAT FUCK.
*With the exception of my old friend, DeWayne Link. Now THAT OL’ BOY CAN FUCK.
“A genius is someone who shoots at something that no one else can see…and hits it.”
One of my writer friends recently put out a call on Facebook asking for the names of creative geniuses, historical and/or contemporary, I am guessing for a project she is working on. People chimed in with all manner of suggestions — some DEAD-ON and some positively inexplicable. It made me stop and consider what the oft-used (and misused) word, “genius” really means. What exactly is a “genius”?
For me, a genius is someone who takes my breath away with their natural talent — who takes the top of my fucking head off with their brilliance. Someone who comes into this world already brandishing that unknowable, unnameable IT. Someone whose lustre and illumination CANNOT BE DENIED.
True genius is a rare commodity, and to encounter it is an exhilarating experience. How does one recognize genius? As was once said by Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart (about pornography): …”It’s difficult to define…BUT I KNOW IT WHEN I SEE IT.”
And I do.
After pondering the concept for a bit, here is a list of some of those humans I believe to be, or have been, not only extraordinary…but actually FUCKING GENIUS:
As for me, though I have known countless brilliant creatives in my life — in fact, I am blissfully surrounded by them at all times — I have only personally known one whom I consider to be an actual creative genius…and of this, there is NO QUESTION:
The Seven Deadly Sins
Day 1 — Pride. Seven awesome things about yourself:
1) I’m a HUGE belly laugher – and I can and do belly laugh at ANYTHING…even tragedy and horror. In fact, belly laughing is how I survive tragedy and horror.
2) I possess an absolutely inhuman ability to improvise, adapt, and overcome. I am like a ruthless, belly laughing cockroach in a black dress and red lipstick.
3) I can keep secrets like a motherfucker. LIKE A MOTHERFUCKER.
4) To those who are worthy of my devotion, I AM LOYAL TO THE DEATH.
5) I am an uncanny judge of character. Give me just five minutes — and I GOTCHA.
6) If you are my friend, I can absolutely guarantee that you will never, ever, ever experience any drama with me. When it comes to relationships, I am COMPLETELY drama-free. I like it like BUTTAH.
7) I fuck on the first date.
I just gotta say that I LOATHE how we have commodified and fetishized babies and motherhood in this culture. Just the thought of it makes my flesh crawl. It’s time to move past the $300 diaper bags with hand-embroidered bluebirds of happiness on a chocolate brown organic cotton background, and the vintage, Mid-Century, original Calder mobiles hanging above their motherloving reclaimed old forest growth Danish-design blond cribs that cost twice what my parents paid for their first house.
We need to get back to the ways of my Sicilian grandmothers: Squat and push it out it in the vineyard, strap it to your chest, pop your nipple in its mouth, love it with all your heart…AND GET THE FUCK ON WITH IT, BITCHES.
My youngest daughter, Anne, and I were hanging out this afternoon, belly laughing and reciting lines from “Bridesmaids”…and at some point we touched on the subject of fear — and I told her, “If I could give you only one gift of wisdom from all my years spent on this planet, it would be this, Young Baby Goat: Fear is WORTHLESS. It’s a waste of time. FEAR NOTHING. FEAR NO ONE. KNOW HOW POWERFUL AND ASTONISHING YOU TRULY ARE. NO ONE knows any more than you do. Go after ANYTHING YOU WANT — because you can have it. MOVE THROUGH THIS FUCKING WORLD AS IF YOU OWN IT — BECAUSE YOU DO. IT’S ALL YOURS FOR THE TAKING, sister — ALL OF IT.”
She beamed that amazing Baby Goat smile at me and said, “I already know that, Mommy — because you taught me.”
At 20 years of age, this delightful little creature already gets what it took me a goddamned lifetime to learn. She TOTALLY gets it.
If I dropped dead right this second…I would do so knowing that my life was an utter success.
There is no more telling statement on America’s attitude toward aging than this:
If given a choice and the necessary resources, otherwise rational, intelligent women in the culture in which I, my daughters, my sisters, and my girlfriends exist…WOULD RATHER LOOK LIKE MOTHERFUCKING MONSTERS THAN TO LOOK OLD. This has GOT to change. We can run away as far and as fast as we are able — but in the end, Age has its way with us all, baby.
My way of dealing with it? I look Age right in the crepey bastard eye, throw back my greying head, grab my jiggling gunt, and BELLY LAUGH.
I DON’T GIVE A FUCK.
Let’s see…my most favorite memory from our wedding day was not just that I finally finally finally got to marry My One True Love…but that right after I became her son’s lawfully wedded wife, my new mother-in-law handed us an envelope that contained a very generous wedding check — an envelope across whose front she had accidentally written, “Greg and Marla”, i.e., Gregory’s lovely, talented, long-term ex-girlfriend. When he laughed and pointed the mistake out to her, my MIL was ABSOLUTELY MORTIFIED — and for the rest of the day, could NOT stop apologizing for her gaffe.
Being the perpetually-bemused, wry, old hooker that I am, I, of course, LOVED the inadvertent error…and even saved it to be framed and hung in a place of great honor in our home.
In the sacred spirit of Christmas and of being grateful and counting one’s blessings for all that is good in one’s life, I have even come up with a way to be thankful for My Dread Disease: This malar rash is saving me A GODDAMNED FORTUNE IN ROUGE.
Merry, Merry, Mein Poppets!
