muffy bolding

Oh, yes…and to everyone on my friends list who is bitching about how miserable cold and wintery it is where they be, I have the following message:

It is in the 90’s here all week. Go fuck yourselves.

Hey, , you got a pool into which I might cannonball my fatass?

Goddamn, this is fucking NO.

This video is a right belly laugher, ’tis true…but the main reason I lifted this from the gorgeous motdujour and am reposting it here, is to let you in on the following bit of trivia, which is 100% true, so help me christ:

The actress who played Henrietta Hippo — Hazel Shermet — is my yenta mother-in-law’s sister; in other words, she is the aunt of my true love, Gregory.

Oh, and for the record…she’s completely hilarious and completely fucking insane.

That is all.

Now, enjoy the woodland debauchery.

I have made yet another executive decision.

Upon my death, I wish for the following picture of my friend, Kelly (), to be set onto my sarcophagus — with absolutely no explanation whatsoever. This photo rocks me in life…and shall rock me in death. God may certainly abandon me for my wicked, wicked ways — but this picture will be with me always. From the lighting, to the cigarette, to the slightly open Tupperware, to the Barbie, to the tattoo, to the toy ball on the floor, to the glint of the barette in her hair, to the sweet blur of her son’s face, to the perfect little mole upon her brilliant little neck. Compositionally speaking ALONE, this picture is stunning. Now, add the actual subject matter and we’re talking Pulitzer, baby. I love this. It’s so beautiful that I cannot stop looking at it.

In short, this is the greatest picture I have ever seen.

From the utterly brilliant :

A Mother and Her Gun.

Take one film — one single film in the entire history of films — and claim it as your own. Which film would it be? What is the one film that says the most about who you are? What you desire, what you value? What film would you most love to claim as your own?

As the medium of film is one of the greatest loves of my life, it puckers my undercarriage to think of picking just a single one as my very own…but if I must:

Oh, poop, I can’t. I just can’t.

But because I am such a living, breathing, sashaying contradiction-in-terms, I can absolutely do three:

The Godfather, What’s Up, Doc?, and Arthur

What about you?

From my great friend and girl crush, Miss Traci Jean Burns — the English teacher we all wish we’d had in college. Pony up if you are able, my pretties, as it’s a very worthy cause — and do tell her that Madame Muffy sent you (hey, it might help me make-out with her someday!):

Hey all you fine and foxy people.
My English 1101 classes are doing a zine-making project and I was wondering if maybe I could get some help from all of YOU. The help I would like to get is: Do any of you have any zines sitting around your house that you would like to donate to my worthy cause? They don’t have to be zines that YOU wrote, y’know – could be any old zines. I would offer to pay for them, but I can’t afford it right now, so this is truly a request for donations. I want my students to be able to revel in the format a little bit, to see what is possible. Most of them have no idea what in the hell a zine is (crazy to my early-90s coming-of-age self!) and I would like to show them. I have some stuff but not a lot.

Thank you and spank you!

For my sweet honeychild, miss — who is the only other person I know who loves this marvelously nelly horseshit just as much as I do and whose heart, I am sure, verily bursts with joy when she sees it…just like mine:

Well, as many of you already know, when I am driving around — alone in my car — I frequently speak aloud to the grandbabies I shall someday hopefully have…and I do so only in a Scottish brogue. There is absolutely no reason nor precedent for this…it’s just something I’ve always done. Furthermore, when my grandbabies do someday arrive, I also fully intend to speak to them exclusively in said Scottish brogue. “Come and give grrrrranny a kiss, me wee bairn!”

On another note, for the duration of her entire life, I have rarely spoken to my 15 year old daughter (except for perhaps a handful of times whilst kickin’ ass and takin’ names) in anything except this odd, Eastern European accent that is not really specific to any country or region but sounds to be maybe Romanian or perhaps even Albanian. Again, no reason nor precedent. So, as if that’s not enough, there is the accent, yes, but it is also combined with this odd, somewhat backwards syntax — which is something akin to “Yoda Speak”, i.e. (imagine this in a Romanian accent) “So beautiful you are. So lovely you are. So tender and delicate and savory you are. Such a succulent baby goat you be. To gnaw on your cute baby buttcheeks I would love to.”

I only speak this way to her and not to her brother or sister. I have done so since before she was born — when she was still a bean in my belly. I have no idea why I do this and am not even aware anymore that I am doing it until someone points it out…or mentions that they do something along the same lines themselves — which is, as you can imagine, quite rarely.

By the way — that is the first and only time I have ever acknowledged this publicly.

Yesterday I had an exquisite and interesting lunch with at the best goddamned restaurant — Hugo’s in Studio City. SO GOOD (both the food AND the company!) Don’t let him fool you — he is FAR more charming than he lets on here. He is an officer and a gentleman — with great taste in food and a marvelous belly laugh, to boot.

So, Filmie, thanks again for lunch and the great conversation (who knew vegan carrot cake could be so freakin’ yummy? or that a person could get permanently axed from The Palm for punching a whiny no-talent meathook in the face?) and keep watching the papers for when Merwin is doing a reading here in town; it’s a date, baby.

You people rule the school. I cannot believe all the great book suggestions you made for the boy. Even though we could choose only one for this particular assignment, oy!, the reading list we have started! He is mighty excited, to say the least.

We went to Barnes and Noble last night, and he chose “The Misfits” for today — and we got him a copy of “The Outsiders”, as well, just for good measure. Goddamn, life is good when you’re 12, and you already know you want to be a writer, and you love love love to read — oh, and your mother has Taco Bell on speed dial. All, hail the mexi melt!

So, thank you to everyone who made suggestions and recommendations; they have all, every one, been duly noted and logged. And now, for your next literary assignment…I need book recs for the 15 year old girl. She is currently reading “The Crucible” for school and “The Lovely Bones” for pleasure — and we are in the process of lining up a reading list for her, as well. What books might an also very bright, culturally sophisticated, belly laughing, somewhat eccentric 15 year old baby goat girl like to read? Dig deep and hit us with your best shot.

Thanks!

She never ceases to amaze me with her insight and honesty. I consider hers one of the most unique and profoundly important voices in alternative parenting today; it is certainly one of my favorites. Her truths are sometimes staggering and close to the bone — but, of course, that is where life, and truth, are the sweetest.

Her work illuminates the notion that parenting children is only the second most risky and arduous task known to humankind; parenting teenagers, on the other hand — no matter how cool or hip or tattooed you may be — will cause you to light your own hair on fire, question your own sanity, and gratefully take your own life with whatever implement of self-destruction happens to be within arms reach, including Brillo pads, butter knives, and bridges. Ever try to swallow an entire box of Brillo pads just to achieve sweet release from the teenage chains that bind you? I have, friend. Trust me, “The Ultimate Cotton-Mouth” was absolute paradise compared to the sheer horror that was “Not-So-Sweet 16”. Teenagers have eaten my soul with a spoon; they have chunks of my spirit in their stool.

But, when I sit down and read her work, it always makes me feel like it’s all going to be alright…because it is.

From a great writer and an even greater friend — Ms. China Martens:

*This issue has been a long time coming! And now it’s here, 18-year-old-daughter approved and uncensored!*

available soon from local bookstores: Atomic Books, Normals, & Red Emmas
Contributor Copies and Trades will be send out shortly (Monday at latest)