I’d say that judging by all the secret service swarming all over the island and all the governmental helicopters hovering in the air outside my bedroom windows…that The Jackass Has Landed.
My newly-downsized titties are healing nicely (thanks to all who posted good wishes!) The sugery went WELL, and it has been reported (and is now the stuff of legend) that I serenaded my surgeon, anesthesiologist, and assisting nurses with a soulful, inspired rendition of Miss Billie Holliday’s “Ain’t Nobody’s Business” upon receiving that first blissful blast of Demerol through the tubes. I guess I also profusely thanked Mr. Anesthesiologist for “luring me ever so sweetly into the seductive arms of Morpheus.” He has since announced that that will now henceforth be enrgraved upon his business card — where I shall even get a fucking byline for my narcotized literary ramblings.
The only post-op problem seems to be that getting one’s titties cut off might just have been physically traumatizing enough to have launched your very own “Our Lady of Guadalupus” into a flare. My temps have shot up and my skin and joints HOIT. At times I can scarcely stand and deliver. Ah, well…I suppose there is no getting around the notion that beauty is, in fact, pain.
Oh…and I WILL be posting pictures, muthafuckers. I got ovaries of iron, I tell you — and NO SHAME.
In other news, a category 5 hurricane is bearing down on New Orleans, where the dark skies have now opened up and the rain has begun falling — and there are legions of drunken frat boys still partying and staggering down Bourbon Street (good riddance, I say!)…one of whom, when asked by a Fox News reporter what he was still doing there, answered loud and proud to a live international television audience of millions, “It’s none of your fuckin’ business!” Okay, for that I sorta liked him.
And tomorrow night, President George W. Bush will be sleeping like a fucking baby just 3 short blocks from my house. Myself and my Frankentitties WILL be attending the protest and candlelight vigil just outside The Hotel Del. I may even lift my shirt and flash the motorcade as it passes. Wouldn’t that just be THE BEST?
More later. All my love and affection to all my cupcakes out there in Internetland and beyond.
All –
It’s the husband here. Just wanted to send the ‘all clear’ out. Muffy had some nausea in the recovery room but is feeling much better now and is snoozing peacefully next to me. I’m feeling much better now too, as you might imagine. All in all it’s a great success.
And now, the end is near…they’ve finally reached, their last unfurling.
That’s right, my friends…the day after tomorrow, at 10 a.m., my silly fat ass is going under the gottdamned knife to lose these two fleshy behemoths otherwise known as my breasts.
That’s right…as of Friday, you may all henceforth call me “Slim Bolding” — because there will be NARY a chi-chi left on this dame’s chest. I am going small — and when I say small, I mean tiny. I am talking going from a “G”, to a small “B.” I am just over 5′ 1”. Yeah. They are VAPOR, baby.
A quick history of these formerly milky monsters will let you know that I have been suffering under the staggering weight of them since high school. Childbirth, of course, compounded my agony and humiliation…and the weight gain that later came with pre-diabetes sealed my fate: pain, pain, and more pain. For as long as I can remember, I have been stacked beyond belief. That’s not to say that I don’t acknowledge and appreciate all that they have done for me; I do. They fed and sustained my three precious babies and provided much hands-on fun for all those with whom I have banged around throughout the years. However, enough is enough. I am done.
I cannot golf (not that I ever would, but that’s hardly the point here) as I am unable to follow through on a swing. I cannot play tennis (not that I ever would, as I much prefer lounging on my bed reading zines and sipping iced tea) as all that jogging and jostling does little towards returning the ball, and loads towards illustrating what a set of rocks in socks bouncing about would look like. My back hurts, I have bra-strap ruts in the tops of my shoulders that would put The Erie Fucking Canal to shame, and I won’t even talk about the underboob sweat factor for fear of bringing up your lunch.
They’re not fun, they’re not cute, they’re not sexy, and they’re not easy. I want breasts that are effortless — breasts where you don’t have to do that little “tittie hop” to get them up and into your bra. And I want pretty bras from Victoria’s Secret…not those Iron Maidens from the Sears “Iron Matron” Collection. I want to wear tank tops and tube tops and NO TOPS, goddamnit. I wanna be FREE. The Chesti From Bucharesti shall exist no more.
Let’s face it…some women were meant to have big boobs — and some women were NOT. Big boobs contribute to a pose that I am in no way interested in communicating to others. Pamela Anderson? Definitely a BIG BOOB GAL — and since she wasn’t born with them, she got a little help from her friendly, neighborhood plastic surgeon. And so shall I. Huge hooters look marvelous and apt in a carefully shredded black “Motley Crue” t-shirt…but NOT so marvelously apt when you’re wearing a chartreuse thriftstore cardigan over an old black, floral witch dress from the 50s. I want to look youthful and exuberant – not like I could breastfeed a nation, which is most definitely the current pose I am working: International Wetnurse Of Mystery. Fuck that. God fucked up when he parked these missiles in this silo. Be gone!
In closing, some people have asked me about the inevitable scarring that I will bear as a result of this procedure, and to them I say: I would rather be Esmeralda Frankentittie any fucking day, than to carry these saggy, cement beavertails around with me for one second longer than I must. So wish me luck…and I shall see you on the other side.
PS) Each and every one of us has a picture in her covetous mind’s eye of what she believes to be THE WORLD’S PERFECT TITTIES. If you could have ANY titties on earth, which ones would they be? Find your perfect pair and post them in my comments. In these last hours, I wish to be verily smothered by pulchritudinous titties!
PPS) And for those who have asked about what I am planning on doing with my leftover boobies: They are going to make one HIP motherfucking lavalamp — in which my titties shall float on…forever.
In early 2003, a supporting part had been written for me in a film that was scheduled to be shot in Romania later that Spring. As casting got underway for the main roles, the director and producers sat through countless readings from an amazing plethora of actors representing Young Hollywood. Among those actors was Natasha Lyonne — a performer whose work and style I had long admired. I especially loved her in “Slums of Beverly Hills.” She was wry and astonishing in that film — jiggly fake titties and all. A small bit of trivia you may not know (which, when I discovered it, made me feel an even greater sense of affection for her than I already had): When she was still a tiny girl…Natasha played Little Opal on “Pee Wee’s Playhouse.”
Anyway, Natasha came in to read for the lead female role — The Ingenue, for chrissake. She came in, flopped down in the chair, lit a smoke, and point blank told the director and the casting agent, “I read the script, and I like it, but I’m here to tell you that I am WAY too fucking butch to play the part of Sara. There’s just NO fucking way it’s gonna happen. But, there is another part I’m interested in: The crazy girl, Alice.”
And, so it goes that, written specifically for me or not, there was no way they were going to miss the chance to have her name and indie clout attached to the project. This is how I came to lose my part in the film to the talented Ms. Lyonne. All I could do was laugh and revel in the distinct honor. I was affectionately bumped to the role of Polly, a young nurse in the insane asylum where the story takes place — which worked out just swimmingly. I lived, worked, and traveled in Romania for a month and had the time of my fucking life — of which working and hanging with Natasha was definitely an extraordinary part. When we weren’t on set, we laid around in our hotel rooms, smoked cigs, read zines, and just talked and talked and talked. She had ALOT to say — especially about women in Hollywood. I remember one specific conversation we had, about the impossible beauty standards imposed on actresses, which she finished up with, “Fine, fuck ’em all — DON’T hire me and my fat ass. See if I give a shit. I’m not starving myself for anyone or anything.” I loved her for that.
She was troubled and difficult and audacious and brilliant. I still have the wonderfully profane drawing of the naked, menstruating Romanian woman she made for me on set one day when we were shooting in the asylum’s rec-room. Below the nude dame bleeding a river of bright red blood from her furry muff, in black crayon it reads, “You are a really good actress. Love, Natasha.”
Trust me, coming from you, Ms. Lyonne, that means everything.
Billy, our friend and director, just told me he sent her flowers at the hospital. I hope she sees them and they remind her of a better time.
Much love to you in this difficult time, Natasha. Get well and come back. Hollywood could use a whole lot more honesty, beauty, and artistry like yours.
Lyonne in Limbo at Hospital
by Charlie Amter
August 19, 2005
The troubled life of Natasha Lyonne has taken a tragic turn.
The American Pie actress is in intensive care at a New York City hospital with hepatitis C, a collapsed lung and a heart infection, according to Access Hollywood and the New York Post.
The 26-year-old actress, who hasn’t been seen publicly since a judge issued a warrant for her arrest in April after she ducked a court hearing, is reportedly “fighting for her life” and “struggling to survive,” per Access Hollywood.
“I’m crying actually. It’s terrible, you know. It’s my little girl,” Lyonne’s father Aaron Braunstein told the syndicated show Friday. “It’s a terrible tragedy, but she’s going to get better. We’re praying for her, and she’s a tough girl.”
The Post reports that the actress is also receiving methadone treatment, which is typically used to combat heroin addiction.
It’s not clear if Lyonne has been using the drug, but according to a Mayo Clinic report, the primary mode of transmission of hepatitis C is via contaminated blood–through needles shared by drug users or through blood transfusions. The disease can lead to potentially serious liver damage.
Braunstein, who told Access Hollywood he visited his daughter last week, says he thinks Lyonne may have picked up the virus while shooting a movie abroad three years ago.
“She’s probably with the wrong crowd,” he said. “The main thing, she picked up the liver thing in Bulgaria during [filming of] The Grey Zone.”
Lyonne, whose credits also include Slums of Beverly Hills, Party Monster and last year’s Blade: Trinity, has not had a publicist or Hollywood representation for the past several months, which have been a rough stretch for the actress.
She was charged in December with criminal mischief, harassment and trespassing after she purportedly melted down on her New York neighbor, ripping a mirror off the woman’s wall and threatening to sexually molest her dog.
Lyonne had been due in court Apr. 19 to answer the charges but left the courthouse early, prompting Manhattan Criminal Court Judge Abraham Clott to put out an arrest warrant.
The Post claims that Lyonne was subsequently evicted from her apartment and wound up living on the streets before turning up in the city’s Bellevue Hospital. She was then transferred to Beth Israel Hospital, where she is currently admitted under a pseudonym, according to the Post. Neither hospital has confirmed Lyonne’s patient status.
Speaking to Access Hollywood, her father disputed the report that Lyonne was homeless and suggested he might take legal action against the paper.
“There’s a confidentiality between patient, doctor and hospital, so all of this is probably going to be a major lawsuit,” he told the show.
Lyonne previously pleaded guilty in 2002 to a DUI charge in Miami. She was sentenced to six months’ probation for the incident, which involved fleeing the scene of a car accident.
She last starred in the indie comedy Max & Grace, about a suicidal couple who break out of a mental institution. The film premiered at South by Southwest in Austin in March and has been making the rounds on the festival circuit but has not yet been picked up by a studio.
There was a time when I would’ve read this and said, “HA! That’s hilarious! It’ll never really happen, but that’s a great fucking story.”
Now, I see us pretty much already there.
We have lost so much — and our children will pay the price for our voracious appetite for convenience and technology. It is they who will be the ultimate losers in our relentless race to get there first. I can’t even imagine what their lives are going to be like with this kind of shameless pillaging of their privacy and personal information. There will be absolutely no cushion available to them — no play in their wheel, like we had when we were young. No beating the bank, if necessary. No writing a check for much-needed groceries on Wednesday or Thursday night, with the paycheck coming on Friday. They will either have it, or they won’t. Or they will come to to us for help — which they know they always can.
This makes me want to pack up their checkerboard Vans, their perpetually playing Rocky Horror and Moulin Rouge DVDs, their MAC make-up, their PSPs, their ipods, their Volcomm and Abercrombie and Fitch t-shirts, their Hot Cheetos, their Modest Mouse CDs, their surfboards, their skateboards, their messenger bags with the buttons on them that say “ART FAG”, their Diet Dr. Pepper, their bigass owlie sunglasses, their spangly bangles, their Yankees caps, and their tee-tees (the little silky blankets from their babyhoods that all three of them still have in their beds) and spirit them far, far away. But, to where? And is there anyplace even far enough away from here to save them?
Sadly, I don’t think so. But as a mother, I will never stop looking.
Ordering a Pizza in 2007
Operator: “Thank you for calling Pizza Hut. May I have your…”
Customer: “Hi, I’d like to order.”
Operator: “May I have your NIDN first, sir?”
Customer: “My National ID Number, yeah, hold on, eh, it’s 6102049998-45-54610.”
Operator: “Thank you, Mr. Sheehan. I see you live at 1742 Meadowland Drive, and the phone number’s 494-2366. Your office number over at Lincoln Insurance is 745-2302 and your cell number’s 266-2566. Which number are you calling from, sir?”
Customer: “Huh? I’m at home. Where d’ya get all this information?”
Operator: “We’re wired into the system, sir. I already knew from the Caller ID where you are. I was just checking to see if you were honest.”
Customer: (Sighs) “Oh, well, I’d like to order a couple of your All-Meat Specialty pizzas…”
Operator: “I don’t think that’s a good idea, sir.”
Customer: “Whaddya mean?”
Operator: “Sir, your medical records indicate that you’ve got very high blood pressure and extremely high cholesterol. Your National Health Care provider won’t allow such an unhealthy choice.”
Customer: “Dang . What do you recommend, then?”
Operator: “You might try our low-fat Soybean Yogurt Pizza. I’m sure you’ll like it.”
Customer: “What makes you think I’d like something like that?”
Operator: “Well, you checked out ‘Gourmet Soybean Recipes’ from your local library last week, sir. That’s why I made the suggestion.”
Customer: “All right, all right. Give me two family-sized ones, then. What’s the damage?”
Operator: “That should be plenty for you, your wife and your four kids, sir. The ‘damage,’ as you put it, heh, heh, comes to $49.99.”
Customer: “Lemme give you my credit card number.”
Operator: “I’m sorry sir, but I’m afraid you’ll have to pay in cash. Your credit card balance is over its limit.”
Customer: “I’ll run over to the ATM and get some cash before your driver gets here.”
Operator: “That won’t work either, sir. Your checking account’s overdrawn.”
Customer: “Never mind. Just send the pizzas. I’ll have the cash ready. How long will it take?
Operator: “We’re running a little behind, sir. It’ll be about 45 minutes, sir. If you’re in a hurry you might want to pick ’em up while you’re out getting the cash, but carrying pizzas on a motorcycle can be a little awkward.”
Customer: “How the heck do you know I’m riding a bike?”
Operator: “It says here you’re in arrears on your car payments, so your car got repo’ed. But your Harley’s paid up, so I just assumed that you’d be using it.”
Customer: “@#%/$@&?#!”
Operator: “I’d advise watching your language, sir. You’ve already got a July 2006 conviction for cussing out a cop.”
Customer: (Speechless)
Operator: “Will there be anything else, sir?”
Customer: “No, nothing. Oh, yeah, don’t forget the two free liters of Coke your ad says I get with the pizzas.”
Operator: “I’m sorry sir, but our ad’s exclusionary clause prevents us from offering free soda to diabetics.”
1) Went to the premiere of Rob Zombie’s new horror flick, “The Devil’s Rejects.” Goddamn, that movie was fucking NO. But for the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Zombie and all of the assembled cast and crew were in the audience with us, I would’ve walked my fatass out about ten minutes into it for a coffee and a tight slam o’ smack. Some marvelously inspired casting and some pretty damned impressive acting all in a frighteningly derivative, piece of horseshit film. Suffice it to say, as we were dressed like insane homeless people living under an overpass on the 163, we RAN the red carpet. You can kiss my ass E! I needed to hurry so I could get in line ahead of Deborah Van Valkenburgh and Priscilla Barnes for my large popcone and Diet Coke — both actors who totally ruled in the movie, by the way.
2) Went to Comic-Con: the largest assemblage of comic book fans and artists on the planet. Also, the largest assemblage of fat chicks in Xena costumes — they were COMPLETELY BRILLIANT! They didn’t give a FUCK about their hangin’ guts or their rotund asses or their back fat oozing out of their black leather warrior princess get-ups — they looked HOT, and they knew it. I wanted to stop and hug each and every one of them for the HUGE FUCKING OVARIES it takes to proudly strut about, LARGE AND IN CHARGE, in a society as fat-phobic as our own. I raise my french roast to you ladies — you made my weekend.
Doesn’t it just figure that everyone else who is affected by Seasonal Mood Disorder gets fucked up in the lovely, lovely Winter — and my perpetually odd, backwards, insane self drags ass and feels like hammered fuck in the good ol’ Summertime. I feel so incredibly uninspired.
Christ, my entire life how I’ve hated fucking Summer — it is something merely to be endured. That damp pavement smell of Autumn cannot get here fast enough. Year after year, the glorious entrance-stage-left of October rocks my world…emotionally, physically, and artistically — I come alive. Big v-necked sweaters and Halloween. The icy transformation of the air itself. My heart beats faster, the light looks different. I fall madly in love with the world all over again.
Hurry.
“We took on the Romans, the Saxons, the Danes, the French, William Wallace, the Black Plague, the Roundheads, the Great Fire, Napoleon, the Nazis, the IRA, and the Blitz, and we’re still here. You terrorists are bloody amateurs.”
Jesus fucking christ, I love the British.
Nobody does pissed-off disdain quite like these bastards.
muffy bolding 