A friend just reminded me of that most amusing night last year when I was surprised and delighted to discover — via legions of belly laughing teenagers with cameras ringing my doorbell at all hours — that “a picture of you kissing the fabulous Muffy” was, in fact, required procurement on a citywide high school scavenger hunt. I, of course, accommodated every last darling one of them.
Goddamn, my life is ONE HUGE BELLY LAUGH.
Way back in the Internet Stone Age (mid-90s), my friends and I used to troll through AOL Chat Rooms looking for scandal and belly laughs — oh, and trust me, WE FOUND ‘EM. One guy from like Ohio wanted to have Cyber-Sex with me (remember that??), so, just for shits and giggles, I accommodated him. Being new to all that horseshit, I was absolutely STUNNED when he revealed his kink: He wanted me to pretend that I was driving a midsize sedan that was stuck in the mud…and that no matter how many times I frantically pressed down on the gas pedal — WEARING A PAIR OF TAUPE PUMPS WITH A SENSIBLE HEEL — I just couldn’t get myself unstuck. I remember thinking, “YOU GOTTA BE FUCKING KIDDING ME WITH THIS, PAL.”
Well, fast forward to 2010 — and, surprise, surprise — come to find out that it is now a THING. When it comes to debauchery, it seems my fatass is ALWAYS ahead of the curve. You shoulda known that I always know where to find the boys AND the booze!
Is it just me or is Shannen Doherty’s face all screw-jiggy? Bitch has got one eye way higher than the other. She looks like a really lovely, really pissy, REALLY BUTCH Picasso painting with a shitty attitude.
Someone recently asked me what was the first concert I attended. I was 12 and my parents took me to see The Beach Boys at Selland Arena in Fresno. I brought my vinyl copy of Pet Sounds with me in hopes of getting it autographed — oh, and trust me, I did — by all five of them…but only because my HOT, felonious, Filipina mother conned her way backstage by telling their manager that her young daughter was dying of cancer. Brian Wilson even wrote, “Get Well Soon!” before signing his name.
It is from this shameless, ruthless, grifter’s mindset that I sprang.
“Marie Osmond: My Mormon Faith Got Me Through Son’s Death”
Sort of an ironic statement, don’t you think…seeing that your intolerant, harsh, racist, sexist, homophobic, judgemental religion is most likely what caused him to take his young life in the first place.
As a mother, my heart breaks into a million pieces for you, Marie, and I openly wept when I heard the first news reports about what had happened. But with one gay son dead by his own hand and an openly lesbian daughter still here, you need to pull your Mormon head outta your Mormon ass and open your eyes to the goddamned truth: I have no doubt that your son was loved…but was he ACCEPTED — fully and completely — for exactly who and what he was? You know what — strike “accepted.” FUCK “ACCEPTED.” Was he CELEBRATED?
You wanna honor your dead son, Marie? You want to ensure that both his life and his death had meaning? Then break ranks with your church and its horseshit dogma and archaic stance on homosexuality and become a bold, passionate voice for all those young, gay Mormons still here, still struggling with the rage and condemnation of their families and their church communities. Statistics show that gay teens are FOUR TIMES MORE LIKELY to attempt suicide than their heterosexual counterparts — and one can only imagine how much higher those rates must skew amongst teens raised in religiously fundamentalist families. You have the power to change lives and to SAVE lives, Marie. Open your mind and open your heart — and by your loving example, teach others in your church to do so, as well.
Do it for your beloved son, Michael, whom you called “your angel.”
Do it for your openly lesbian daughter, Jessica, as she makes her way in a world that is still largely hostile towards anyone or anything considered “different” — and, in its ignorance and hatred, frequently seeks to destroy or extinguish it.
Do it for ALL gay teens, suffering and struggling not just for the acceptance of themselves, but the acceptance of those they love.
Do it so that not one more “angel” has to tragically fall to earth not knowing just exactly how beautifully, exquisitely, divinely perfect they already were.
I’m telling you, people, I’m a goddamned clairvoyant. I called this one six months ago when I proudly announced to the world that my new stripper name was Chewbacca Buffet. So, ladies and gentlemen, without any further ado — HERE I AM…IN ALL MY HOT, HIRSUTE, DIRTY, MATTED-FUN-FUR GLORY! Crawling across the stage…and CRAWLING WITH LICE.
I honestly believe that life basically comes down to a neverending battle between the Greasers and the Socs.
I am a Greaser.
To all my tie-dyed, big-bushed, hairy-armpitted, patchouli-reeking comrades out there — and god knows there are many: I love you and admire your commitment to protecting the earth, but GOOD GODDAMN…all your hippie household cleaning products don’t work FOR SHI-OT, and for god’s sake let’s not pretend they do.
Tea Tree oil can kiss my fatass — I need some ol’ school Clorox bleach up in this motherfucker.
And while we’re truth-telling about stuff you LOATHE that everyone else worships — and man, oh, man, is my fatass gonna get reamed for THIS: THE SIMPSONS IS NO. It’s always been NO, it’ll always be NO, and Homer Simpson NEEDS TO TAKE BEANO. That fucking show is OFF-TRACK — the animation color and style hurts my eyes and offends my tender aesthetic sensibilities, and goddamnit, the whole thing has just STAYED TOO LONG AT THE FAIR.
We need to dig up Paul Lynde, roll his ol’ bones out, and bring back WACKY RACES. Now THAT’S ANIMATED ENTERTAINMENT AT ITS VERY FINEST, people!
I am trying to write and am feeling all baggied-out and sketchy. I need another cup of coffee like Paris Hilton needs her pussy stretched
muffy bolding 