muffy bolding

This morning before he left for a day filled with big boss applesauce management meetings and such, my sweet husband, Gregory, hugged me and kissed me good-bye –- just like he does everyday. Except, this morning, instead of just, “Have a great day, sweetie. I love you.”, he whispered, “Last night I had a really hot dream where I was fucking you –- except it wasn’t you. It was Teri Garr from Young Frankenstein. But, it was you. Does that make any sense?”

But, of course it does, honey.

This is exactly why he is my dream date boyfriend until the very endliest end of time.

Yeah, Suri is the perfect name for her, because the second she gets old enough to understand who and what her father is…homegirl is gonna be SURI SHE WAS EVER BORN.

Congratulations, crazy Scientologist motherfuckers!

According to online reports, Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes are now the parents of a baby girl, named Suri. The news was confirmed by Cruise’s spokesman, who also announced that daughter Suri, born Tuesday in Los Angeles, weighs 7 pounds, 7 ounces and is 20 inches in height. Also, according the official statement, the name means “princess” in Hebrew and “red rose” in Persian. The birth caps off a media frenzy that began last year with Holmes and Cruise’s whirlwind romance, which has been chronicled — not always lovingly — by the press for the better part of the past year. It’s the first child for Holmes, and the first biological child for Cruise, who has two children by adoption with former wife Nicole Kidman. Cruise and Holmes are currently engaged, and rumor has it are set to marry this summer. Cruise was recently in the throes of publicity for the upcoming Mission: Impossible III, while Holmes’ latest film is the indie comedy Thank You For Smoking.

In an amazing bit of serendipity, Brooke Shields, who engaged in a notorious war of words with Cruise over the treatment of postpartum depression, also gave birth to a baby daughter, Grier Hammond, Tuesday morning in Los Angeles — also 7 pounds, also 20 inches. It’s the second child for Shields and her husband, writer Chris Henchy, who already have another daughter, Rowan, almost 3. Shields chronicled her battle with postpartum depression in her book Down Came the Rain, and despite the extreme difficulties she endured, vowed to have another child.

From Madhouse:

Me and Jordy Ladd just fucking hangin’ around and chillin’.

Ouchie!

If you haven’t yet seen this…you must.

As I was watching it, just for those few minutes, I actually allowed myself to experience what it would feel like to have a leader who truly cared about the world, and who used his power, his influence, and his vast resources to change that world for the better — instead of manipulating it to benefit just a few. A leader who channeled the hopes and dreams and prayers of mankind to lead us into a golden age, and not one dripping with division, devastation, and death. For just a few short minutes, I allowed myself to be caught up in that vision. I just went with it. My mind and body actually began to hum and vibrate with the possibility of what could be.

Gosh, wouldn’t it be extraordinary?

Imagine.

1) I am going to a Dodgers game this evening with Gregory, my son, Hunter, and his buddy, Brad. I am also going to another one on Wednesday night with Hunter, my best friend, Billy, and a whole slew of filthy Jackals. I am as excited as excited could be. Through my son’s passion for the game, and his love of the history and the mythology of the sport, I have inadvertently found that I fucking LOVE baseball. Who ever would have thought that an old withered debutante such as myself would enjoy a sport of ANY kind? (other than chasing sailors, that is.) Will wonders never cease?

2) Speaking of whoring around…Billy told me last night that he heard some HILARIOUS goddamned commedienne on The Howard Stern Show who reminded him of me. One of her biggest belly laughers:

When Howie asked her if she had any cellulite, she answered, “Do I have any cellulite? Shit, Howard, my ass looks like I been sittin’ on gravel.”

3) I am really getting in the groove with getting myself back into some semblance of shape — and I likes it. I feel so much better, I cannot even tell you. I know there are my fierce homies out there who love their fat — and god bless that fabulous fat, I say! — but the pain, discomfort, and related health issues are just not for me. I don’t have to weigh 110, goddamnit…but at 5’1″, pushin’ a fucking deuce is just too much for my smallish frame. I can’t do it. For those of you have expressed interest in the matter, I will keep you posted as to my progress and…my return to my own personal fierce fighting form.

4) We spent the Easter holiday up in Fresno with my sister, Mo, and her family. A fun and feasty time was had by all. Oh, and Fresno has finally finally finally gotten their very own Whole Foods — and a really grand and comprehensive one at that. Can IKEA be far behind? My ‘hood is truly coming into it’s own, goddamnit. I couldn’t be prouder.

5) My hair is growing out FINALLY. I was starting to get real fucking tired of looking like a fat Paul McCartney, circa 1962. I loved it for awhile, but have decided this whole short hair thing is just not for me. It seems like short hair would be easier, but in fact it is much more complicated and perilous. One, with my usually longer hair, I never ever ever have bedhead in the morning; I wake up and I look pretty much exactly like I did before I lay me down to sleep. Now, I arise and looketh like a crazed cockatiel. Not pretty. Secondly, when you have hair that grows as fast as mine does, to keep up with an actual ‘do, you have to get your hair cut like every 3-4 weeks. Umm, I don’t hardly think so. My fatass doesn’t play that kind of maintenance. And thirdly, I just don’t feel like myself with short hair. So, out it grows. I can’t wait.

More later.

And, now…take me out to the ballgame.

I snapped this photograph of my best friend, Billy, and his goddamned prom date, Little Opal, on one of our many delightful sojourns into the seedy underbelly nightlife of the Romanian capitol.

If we’ve said it once, we’ve said it a thousand times:

“Jackalfest Bucharest — one gets pie…fuck the rest.”

A few of the cherished members of my “family”:

Left to right: Leslie Jordan, Jerrie Werkman, Patrika Darbo, Aaron Strongoni, Muffaletta, Billy Butler.

This picture makes me smile…as it reminds me of some truly extraordinary days spent on location in a glorious old palace on the outskirts of Bucharest.

I love this incomparable pack of Jackals like you cannot imagine.

Mindnumbing drivel like this is why we are the laughingstock of the entire planet. It is why everyone is contemptuous of our culture and our citizenry. It is why they loathe us. It is why I loathe us.

It is why spoilt, privileged, judgemental, self-righteous, ridiculous, bored, misguided, Subaru-driving, Bugaboo-pushing, completely fucking crazy Park Slope pricks like this must be rounded up, savagely stripped of their Dansko clogs, Kate Spade handbags, and GAP khakis, and sent to detention camps that serve only fried baloney sandwiches and Taster’s Choice. Prozac, pilates, wasabi, and root touch-ups shall be absolutely out of the question.

My message to them is this: What, you got nothing better to do than prodigiously whine about contextually meaningless semantic horseshit minutiae such as this this? If that’s indeed the case, I got a pickaxe and a filthy, freezing, lice-infested cement bunk with your name on it, sister. Let’s see if we can’t set your fucking priorities straight.

Try as I might, I don’t think I can adequately convey to you just how weary I am of whiny, neurotic broads such as this lot. As far as I am concerned, these nutty goddamned bastards are every bit as zealous, insane, and dangerous as hardcore conservative Christian fundamentalists.

Fuck ’em all.

Goddamnit, I love this song. It just so…resonates with me — ‘cuz I really do hate that shit.

You know, I truly believe that underneath all these titties, cashmere, and Jean Nate…I must just be a fucking guy.

She’s Got Issues

The Offspring

I’m seeing this girl and she just might be out of her mind.
Well, she’s got baggage and it’s all the emotional kind.
She talks about closure and that validation bit.
I don’t mean to be insensitive, but I really hate that shit.

And I say yeah, yeah,
Oh, man, she’s got issues and I’m gonna pay.
Yeah, yeah
She thinks she’s the victim, yeah.

Now, I know she’ll feel abandoned if I don’t stay over late.
And I know she’s afraid to commit, but it’s only our second date.

And I say yeah, yeah,
Oh, man, she’s got issues and I’m gonna pay.
Yeah, yeah,
She says she’s the victim, but she takes it all out on me.

I don’t know why you’re messed up.
I don’t know why your whole life is a chore.
Just do me a favor,
And check your baggage at the door.

Now, she talks about her ex non-stop, but I don’t mind.
But when she calls out his name in bed, that’s where I draw the line.
You told me a hundred times how your father left and he’s gone.
But I wish you wouldn’t call me daddy when we’re gettin’ it on.

And I say yeah, yeah,
Oh man, she’s got issues and I’m gonna pay.
Yeah, yeah,
She’s playing the victim and taking it all out on me.

Yeah, yeah,
My god, she’s got issues and I’m gonna pay.
Gonna pay, gonna pay, gonna pay, gonna pay.
Gonna pay, whooo, whoa.

If you think I’m controlling,
Then why do you follow me around?
If you’re not co-dependent,
Then why do you let others drag you down?

I don’t know why you’re messed up.
I don’t know why your whole life is a chore.
Just do me a favor,
And check your baggage at the door.