muffy bolding

Yeah, tell me I lie. And this is after having like 400 babies.

That Cleopatra eyeliner is a total and complete outrage.

My mother, the irrepressible Miss Sandy, circa 1970s.

Well, tomorrow morning we are packing up the babies and leaving for the week to celebrate the Thanksgiving holiday with friends and family up in Le Fresberg. Because of my new medication — which has to be kept refrigerated — traveling shall be a whole new odyssey in ice chest hell. We shall see how it goes.

However, on the bright side, I was able to stick myself in the belly last night. Can I tell you just how NO-talent it is to stick your own flesh with a spike of sharp metal and then inject yourself with red, hot liquid magma, to boot? In between my belly sobs of sheer horror, the cerebral side of me was thinking like an anthropologist; as animals, as creatures, it goes against everything in our genetic code to allow ourselves to be stabbed. I mean, in the wilds of the forest primeval, when our prehistoric ancestors stumbled upon a huge thorn or a wooden spike or spear or a even some nasty sabre-toothed bastard, our reptilian brains told us to get our fatasses the hell away — not to walk directly into the jagged clutches of danger.

So, all these millennia later, here I am, expected not only to allow myself to be impaled…BUT BEING FORCED TO DO IT TO MYSELF. It is just so unnatural, I cannot even tell you. But, I have no choice — it’s either this, or fever, pain, irreversible joint and organ damage, and a future spent savagely gathering rosebuds while I may on a bleedin’ Rascal. So, I closed my eyes, thought of England, and did it…and will continue to do it, gottddamnit.

Sometimes I am so BUTCH that it astonishes even me.

And by the way, if I ever do have to use a Rascal to saunter the boulevards and backalleys of Los Angeles, if you think for one second that I won’t bedazzle the chassis, install chrome spinners on that sonofabitch, and run a Jolly Roger up the back on a flagpole, you are sadly mistaken, my friends.

My rig would be bodacious.

All are welcome, all are welcome…step into the light.

If you are reading this, you have made the cut, my precious poppets, and are heartily welcomed into the inner sanctum.

My, my, my…all those horrible, nasty little children gone.

All these sweet, good little children left.

Out of necessity — nay, survival — I am being forced to scale back on several different facets of my life…including ye olde livejournal. Unfortunately, that means that this weekend I will be making the dreaded (ACK!) friends list cuts.

Along with beating the babies and schtupping the ol’ man, I am writing two feature scripts, doing the research for a third, and forging on with the intermittent television writing and producing gigs that continue to find their way onto my life. I am also working on my book, as well as a piece for an upcoming anthology. In between all that bastard typing, beating, and schtupping, I have just started a new course of treatment for my condition that is turning out to be not much goddamned fun at all. For those of you who know me well, you would not have recognized the mess that was sitting in this chair last night — HYSTERICALLY BELLY CRYING — a needle and syringe full of a potent medicine in my hand…aimed at my own flesh. I sorta feel as though I am just barely holding on right now. Anything that is extraneous or in any way fraught with difficulty, excessive effort, or stress above and beyond the usual horror that is life in the 21st century has simply got to go; those, my friends, are doctor’s orders.

If I am to be perfectly honest, I should tell you that it’s very difficult for me to admit this current chink in my armor, as it is not in my nature to do so. I come from wicked hearty peasant stock — the sort who birth their babies whilst squatting in the vineyard…and don’t miss a fucking beat with the pruning shears or a really scorching governmental grassroots revolution; we don’t slow down for much. No matter what, I have always been able to keep pushing forward…hard; Much to my amusement, I have even been referred to, on more than one occasion, as The Unsinkable Muffy Brown. However, over the past year, because of various and incremental health issues, I have been forced to simmer down now. It has been nothing short of a lesson in humility.

So, the only reason I bring the subject up at all is that if anybody out there has grown weary of my debaucherous self and has been thinking of cutting my fatass loose as of late, the time to do it is now — you can save me the trauma! Just hit the clicky button and say, “Be gone, vulgarian trash!”…and I promise I shall depart post haste.

In the end, I am and will be more than fine; that is in my nature. Myself, my husband, and the team of specialists who treat me have every faith that this course of treatment will help me to get back to some semblance of normalcy. I believe that with all my heart. But in the meantime, for me, it is a time for simplifying, pulling in, and letting go.

For the very first time in my life, I have no choice in the matter.

This disease is kicking my ass.

“She would rather die than leave her child up there…it is just something about a parent’s instincts.”

You goddamned right.

If you were offered the opportunity to travel to the city of Jerusalem for a week or two — with all expenses to be paid by a fairly prestigious film company that was courting you — would you go? If not, why not?

Two very important factors to consider:

1.) You are a complete European History fanatic. You are obsessed with the Crusades. You are obsessed with The Templars. You study 12th century battlefield strategy and siege tactics for fun and amusement. You have intense sexual fantasies about having a threesome with Pope Urban II and Peter the Hermit, with Godfrey of Bouillon running the camera and choreographing the money shot. Remember, you would be magically transported directly into the motherfucking heart of Walt Disney’s Crusaderland.

2.) You have a darling husband and three adorable babies who love you and need you and would rather you not be blown into a billion tiny pieces as the result of a suicide bomber stopping into the Temple Mount Sbarro Pizza for a piping hot slice of pepperoni and infidel.

Talk amongst yourselves and get back to me.

Guess which short, wicked, foul-mouthed Sicilian dame is going to see the final night of La Streisand’s tour one week from tonight, thus fulfilling the lifetime wish of a little working class girl from Fresno who believed with all her heart that odd, quirky Funny Girls could live happily ever after, too?

Yeah.

Unfuckingbelievable.

From Borat — the best line from a movie EVER:

“Her vagine was hang loose…like sleeve of wizard.”

Christ, who ever would have thought that underneath all that body fur and the faux Eastern European bravado…this guy was SUCH a piece of ass?

Man, I love me some pretty jew boys: