“here’s your one chance, fancy, don’t let me down.”

As a feminist and as a woman, I realized something very interesting during this last midterm election. As much as I dislike both Meg Whitman and Carly Fiorina, and despite their resounding losses with voters here in the great state of California, at least these two broads were in the goddamned ball park.

I think few would argue with me when I say that, despite profound differences in ideology, they are pretty much like the Hilary Clinton and Barbara Boxer of the other side. They are professional, intelligent, committed women who, despite my strenuous and vehement objection to most of their politics, I still believe would make fine public servants, albeit servants for the pasty-faced, confused, intolerant, judgmental, misguided masses on the Right.

But now — strutting out of the wings in cheap heels and tan pantyhose and stinking of thorazine, dry vagina, White Rain hairspray, and inexplicable, unwarranted, pathological self-confidence — emerges this whole OTHER breed of broad jostling for position in the Republican leadership. I call them “The Crazies”, i.e., Michelle Bachmann, Christine O’Donnell, and Sarah Palin, among others…and aside from their annoyingly shrill voices and just generally ignorant, fascist ideologies, they all seem to have one thing in common: They look like refugees from an old Bobbie Gentry music video, circa 1971 — only completely lacking in  Bobbie Gentry’s cool sensuality, compassionate heart, feminist beliefs, and genuine style. These bitches are Gentry’s “Fancy” — all grown up and still hustling…only they don’t spread their legs; THEY SPREAD “THE WORD.”

You see, despite their parched labia and persistent screeching and braying about virtue, “dirty pillahs”, chastity, abstinence, the right-to-life, and God…every one of these frigid Brides of Christ/Brides of Elvis — with their too big, too long, “freshly-fucked” looking hair and heavy makeup — look like loose, gussied-up Blackjack dealers at a two-bit, shithole casino in Bullhead City — the only difference being that not a single one o’ them actually can fuck or will fuck. What the fuck?

Anyway, what I wouldn’t give to get the news this mornin’ from up on Choctaw Ridge — that all these shrill, annoying, deluded cunts jumped off the Tallahatchie Bridge.

I can dream, can’t I?

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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2 Responses to “here’s your one chance, fancy, don’t let me down.”

  1. Lou says:

    Hey Cuz, – if the bowling alley gals around here were like you; I’d even frequent them! Would really like to connect now that the drama/angst of my sister’s dying has passed.

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