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Ten Weird Facts About Me

1) I have never, ever been bitten by a mosquito. I don’t really know what the deal is, but apparently they just don’t like the taste of my fatass. Pity. With a little gravy and a shot of Boodles gin neat, I think I’m actually quite savory.

2) Aside from Sam Kinison, George Carlin, Doug Stanhope, and Louis CK, I generally will only watch black stand-up comedians — because aside from these four GODS, there aren’t really any white stand-ups I find even remotely funny. None.

3) When it comes to fork usage, I prefer the type with long, elegant European tines.

4) My fifth grade teacher, Mr. Nickel (who was as fabulously gay as a day in Springtime) used to affectionately call me Rhoda (as in Mary and), because he said I was her exact doppelganger in every way.

5) In college, my husband’s roommate was this dame.

6) This is something that drives me completely insane: if his name is spelled Brett Favre, then, goddamnit, it should be pronounced “Fahv-ruh” not “Farv”. First of all, a word is not awkwardly pronounced a certain way just because you say it is — even if it is your goddamned name. It doesn’t work that way. And further, DO NOT tell me that I am not seeing what I am so clearly seeing, motherfucker. If the “r” sound comes first when you say it, then the letter “r” should come first when you spell it. PERIOD. Look, we are a civilized society that collectively agrees on certain conventions so that civilization itself can progress. You can’t change the rules part way through just because it suits you, pal. If your name is Naomi and you pronounce it “Nay-oh-mee”, then spell it “Naomi”, NOT “Noemi”. That’s “No-ee-mee”. And if you insist on being called “Brett Farve” then spell it that way, goddamnit, and quit fucking with the heads of those who have far more important things to think about –- like just how much they wanna be man-handled, violated, and called a dirty whore by Clive Owen.

7) I recently had the teenage friends of my 17 year old daughter leave me bouquets of flowers on my front porch, along with notes affectionately addressed to “The BAMF” (that’s “Bad Ass Motherfucker”, for all you church-going types.) You know, why on earth would you ever wanna be a MILF, when you could be a BAMF? Those babies RULE.

8) Speaking of those adorable teenage baby friends, one of the greatest compliments I have ever received was when a flock of them came to me recently and seriously asked if I might be willing to give local classes to all their folks on “How to Parent Teenagers –- The Right Way.” They told me I could be their Parent Whisperer. I cried, of course. I am a lucky girl.

9) I have a very definite theory on the whole Brad Pitt/Jennifer Aniston/Angelina Jolie triad. Now, you have known since DNA that when he was first cast opposite Jolie in Mr. and Mrs. Smith that Aniston told him, “You better watch your P&Qs with her, buster!” and you know he assured her, “Honey, don’t be silly!” –- just before he slipped ol’ Angie the high hard one in her set trailer. So, armed with that knowledge, here’s my take: If your man (or your woman –- we are, after all, speaking about The Tippiest-Top Shelf Of All Top Shelf Pussy here, kids) gets cast in a film opposite Angelina Jolie…it is then up to you to do the right thing and give your spouse a get out of jail free card. Do you hear me? Do not kid yourself. Yes, I know you have real nice slab o’ cooter yourself and you can suck a golf ball through a garden hose, honey, but your spouse will nail her –- there is absolutely no getting around it. Hell, given half the chance, I’d nail her myself! You think some swingin’ dick far from hearth and home is going to pass up the chance to bang around with Angelina Jolie? You gotta be fucking kidding me with that denial. As someone who works in the entertainment industry, allow me to teach you about a little something we like to call “The Thirty Mile Rule.” You know what “The Thirty Mile Rule” is? “The Thirty Mile Rule” is if you’re more than thirty miles from home, THEY AIN’T NO RULES, MUTHAFUCKAS. That’s it. It’s real simple. So, if your spouse will be acting opposite Ol’ Pillow Lips, just take a deep breath, step up, and do the right thing: turn your head, close your eyes, and think of England. It just might save your marriage, friend.

10) I honestly believe that life basically comes down to a neverending battle between the Greasers and the Socs. I am a Greaser.

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About muffybolding

Muffy Bolding is a mother/writer/actor/knitter/feminist/withered debutante who likes the smell of asparagus pee, and remains obsessed with the bathroom hygiene of her three children -- despite the fact that they are 23, 19, and 16. She is blissfully married to a cute Jewish boy who looks like Willie Wonka, but remains tragically in love with the dead poet, Ted Hughes. She has the mouth of a Teamster, and her patron saint is Rocco (pestilence relief.) Ms. Bolding lives in Southern California, where she enjoys typing words, making movies, and plucking the rings from the fingers of the dead. She was the co-creator and Editor-in-Chief of the award winning satire zine, Fresno Lampoon, and in between writing screenplays, carnival barking, and savagely threatening her trio of darling larvae with a wooden spoon, she currently publishes the zine, "Withered Debutante." More of her work can also be found in the anthology, "Mamaphonic: Balancing Motherhood and Other Creative Acts", the compilation zine, "Mamaphiles III: Coming Home", as well as in The Cortland Review and hipmama.com. She is currently writing and producing for film and television, and working on a book of essays entitled, "Inside A Chinese Dragon." She has slept around, but not nearly as much as she would have liked.
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