So odd. The older I get, the more I not only appreciate, but actually PREFER, music with no words. Charles Mingus, Charlie Parker, Thelonious Monk, Django, Wagner, DeBussy, Tchaikovsky. I don’t know when it all changed or why it all changed, but it’s almost as though I no longer feel the need to have my thoughts and feelings defined or expressed by someone else. I no longer need help in figuring out who I am, what I want, and what I have to say.
I already know.
Fact: If a panhandler or busker has a beloved dog lying beside them, I am 100% more likely to toss them some bills.
Translation: I AM A DESPICABLE PERSON.
No, seriously. The best part is that THEM MUTHAFUCKAS BELIEVE ME.
Actually, the best part is that a 20-something guy really DID try and pick my fatass up today!
He was adorable!
And totally serious!
And I told him that the white cotton Target Granny Panties I am wearing are older than he is!
And that MY MYSTICAL, MAGICAL, GLORIOUS GUNT would BURN and BLIND HIM!
Would DEVOUR and DESTROY HIM!
Would make him SEE GOD!
Then I smirked, winked, flashed him a dazzling smile and said, “Why don’t you come up and see me sometime? I know EXACTLY what to do with little boys like you: I’ll make you some delicious homemade macaroni and cheese and do a coupla loads of your laundry, and put you together a care package and send you on your way home with a sweet Mama kiss right on the top of your cute, little, shaggy Millennial head, Son.”
Then he smiled, laughed, and shook that cute, little, shaggy Millennial head and said, “Lady…YOU’RE MY KINDA GIRL.”
#youngchubbychaser
#oldbroadsruletheworld
#oldbroadstothefront #holyshitjennyisnowanoldbroadtoo
After my BELOVED Willie Nelson joke…this one is my second most favorite. This makes me BELLY LAUGH OUT LOUD EVERY GODDAMNED TIME:
The parish priest went on a fishing trip. On the last day of his trip he hooked a monster fish and proceeded to reel it in.
The guide, holding a net, yelled, “Look at the size of that Son of a Bitch!”
“Son, I’m a priest. Your language is uncalled for!”
The guide, embarrassed, had to think quickly and said: “Oh, no, Father, that’s what kind of fish it is — it’s called a Son of a Bitch fish!”
“Really? Well, then, help me land this Son of a Bitch!” Once in the boat, they marveled at the size of the monster.
“Father, that’s the biggest Son of a Bitch I’ve ever seen.”
“Yes, it is a big Son of a Bitch. What should I do with it?”
“Why, eat it of course. You’ve never tasted anything as good as Son Of a Bitch!”
Elated, the priest headed home to the rectory. While unloading his gear and his prize catch, Sister Mary inquired about his trip.
“Take a look at this big Son of a Bitch I caught!”
Sister Mary gasped and clutched her rosary, “Father!”
“It’s OK, Sister. That’s what kind of fish it is — a Son of a Bitch fish!”
“Oh, well then, what are you going to do with that big Son of a bitch”
“Why, eat it of course. The guide said nothing compares to the taste of a Son of a Bitch.”
Sister Mary informed the priest that the new Bishop was scheduled to visit in a few days and that they should fix the Son of a Bitch for his dinner. “I’ll even clean the Son of a Bitch”, she said. As she was cleaning the huge fish, the Friar walked in.
“What are you doing Sister?”
“Father wants me to clean this big Son of a Bitch for the new Bishop’s dinner.”
“Sister! I’ll clean it if you’re so upset! Please watch your language”
“No, no, no, it’s called a Son of a Bitch fish.”
“Really? Well, in that case, I’ll fix up a great meal to go with it, and that Son of a Bitch can be the main course! Let me know when you’ve finished cleaning that Son of a Bitch.”
On the night of the new Bishop’s visit, everything was perfect. The Friar had prepared an excellent meal. The wine was fine, and the fish was excellent.
The new Bishop said, “This is great fish, where did you get it?”
“I caught that Son of a Bitch!” proclaimed the proud priest.
The Bishop’s eyes opened wide, but he said nothing.
“And I cleaned the Son of a Bitch!” exclaimed the Sister.
The Bishop sat silent in disbelief.
The Friar added, “And I prepared the Son of a Bitch, using a special recipe!”
The new Bishop looked around at each of them. Slowly a big smile crept across his face as he said, “You motherfuckers are my kind of people!”
My most favorite thing that anybody has ever said to me:
I was at a party — flitting about, workin’ the room, makin’ nice, talkin’ shit, belly laughing — and about an hour into the shin-dig, a delightful young woman whom I did not know came up to me, took my hand, smiled hugely, and said, “I immediately noticed you when you walked in — and I just had to come over and introduce myself and touch you to make sure that you are real…because WATCHING YOU IS LIKE WATCHING AN ANIMATED CHARACTER MOVE THROUGH A LIVE-ACTION WORLD.”
HA!
Inane Muff Fact #714: When I was little, I HONESTLY believed that licking the backs of Easter Seals helped immunize you against crippling childhood muscular diseases.
That’s a true story.
People frequently ask me about my harrowing, hilarious upbringing in Fresno — and I always try my very best to explain the felonious family in which I grew up:
We were raised, hopelessly out of place, in a rigorously middle-class, upwardly mobile neighborhood — because, you see, my parents were movin’ on and movin’ up from the impoverished lives where they had each started. They were like reckless, young pioneers who liked to fuck, fight, gamble, shoot guns, and make babies – sometimes even with each other. Despite my overabundance of sisters (6 or 7. I always forget which. No, seriously.), my house wasn’t anything like “The Brady Bunch” or “Little Women.” We were more like “Eight is Enough” meets “Reform School Girls.” We were OUT OF FUCKING CONTROL.
My ten siblings and I were like a gang of renegades, raised fearlessly and recklessly in a dysfunctional Wild West sort of a childhood — of which cardsharks, rogues, sheriffs, showdowns, showgirls, shootouts, saloons, vigilantes, and firearms played a large part. We were the SO-NOT-O.K. Corral.
We were like a Mongol horde…a pack of Comanches…a thundering herd…The Plague. We were audacious, impervious, and most of all, notorious — descended from criminals, rogues, shitkickers and thieves. But, we hung tight – and, for the most part, survived.
In my family, you are born and bred to be a badass — because you have to be a badass just to fucking SURVIVE my family.
This is my amazing sister, Jenny, when she was a teenager. My book opens with her…because of all 11 of us kids…Jenny is THE BIGGEST BADASS OF US ALL.
You wanna know where I come from?
THIS IS WHERE I FUCKING COME FROM.
And, Black Republicans, Gay Republicans, and Republicans With A Cooter, too.
When I hear all my working class Metseecan family back in Fresno are staunch Republicans, I just axe myself WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK, Man?
#shitijustdontgetandneverwill #stockholmsyndrome#fuckingyourselfintheassandnotevenhavingthedecencytogiveyourselfareacharound
Let me say, as I verily quiver with righteous anger, that I have fucking HAD IT with the cavalier attitude regarding violence against women in this goddamned country. Make no mistake — violence against women is the most commonly perpetrated act of civil terrorism committed here and all over the world and we need to treat it as such. Retribution needs to be SWIFT and HARSH. Men need to be taught from an early age that it is ABSOLUTELY UNACCEPTABLE to EVER lay a hand on a woman with the aim to bully, punish, control, or harm — and this is NON-FUCKING-NEGOTIABLE. I’m gettin’ REAL SICK of hearing new stories every day about women being threatened, attacked, beaten, raped, and murdered…because some WORTHLESS, SOULLESS, PIECE-OF-SHIT, WASTE-OF-SPACE WITH A MINISCULE DICK couldn’t control his own rage and twisted compulsions.
I should not be afraid to walk ANYWHERE at ANYTIME for fear of being assaulted.
My two daughters should not be afraid.
My sisters, friends, and colleagues should not be afraid.
A 16 year old girl in Steubenville, Ohio should not have been afraid.
Mia Zapata should not have been afraid.
Lily Burk should not have been afraid.
Jyoti Singh, Daughter of India, should not have been afraid.
All the nameless, faceless, young women of color — who are apparently without value or worth in their own goddamned country — who disappear or are murdered every single day and whose names we never hear on the evening news because their tragic, anonymous deaths don’t matter to a fucking racist, classist, misogynist culture that certainly didn’t value them in their lives. They should not have been afraid.
I am SO OVER IT.
WE NEED TO UNLEASH THE FUCKING KRAKEN ON ANY MAN — ANYWHERE — WHO PERPETRATES VIOLENT ACTS AGAINST WOMEN.
NOW.
Oh, hey. That one time I was on film location and my fatass got bent over an ancient butcher’s block like an ancient Sicilian whore and had a screeching REAL chainsaw held above my Florida Evans Neck by an AWESOME, HILARIOUS, BUTCH MOTHERFUCKER named Enzo in the authentically rustic kitchen of a 900 year old castle in the Italian countryside two hours outside of Rome.
Yeah.
The single best word to describe my life?
IMPROBABLE.
muffy bolding 