muffy bolding

Between the common citizens risking their very lives by courageously protesting in the streets of The Ukraine, Venezuela, Syria, and elsewhere…all towards the goal of freedom, dignity, decency, human rights, and self-determination…THE WORLD?

SHE IS RAGING.

And, meanwhile, back in America…we continue to be obsessed with and distracted by the two pillowy, luminous fat pads on which Miss Kim Kardashian sits and shits.

SHAME ON EVERY LAST FUCKING ONE OF US.

“An anti-government protester gestures towards riot police during clashes in Independence Square in Kiev February 18, 2014. Ukrainian riot police advanced on Tuesday onto a central Kiev square occupied by protesters, after at least 75 people died in the worst day of violence since demonstrations erupted against President Viktor Yanukovich 12 weeks ago.”

Always remember and don’t ever forget:

TUBBY MEDUSA LOVES YOU.

Always.

Let me tell you something, Mein Poppets. I would give up my precious, priceless poochie — Miss Pearlie Mae — just as soon as I’d give up one of my fucking children. In other words, THAT AIN’T HAPPENING. I would do whatever it took to maintain my family. WHATEVER IT TOOK. Believe me when I tell you that I would PROSTITUTE MYSELF WITHOUT EVEN GIVING IT A SECOND GODDAMNED THOUGHT, if that’s what I had to do. I’d suck a slumlord’s dick with a HUGE, BEAMING, IRIDESCENT, SELF-SATISFIED, DAVY JONES SPARKLY-EYED SMILE ON MY FACE if it meant we could all be together.

THINK I WOULDN’T?

Gosh, you know, now that I really and truly think about that statement, it actually means NOTHING AT ALL…since, trust me, I have FUCKED FOR FAAAAAAAAAAAR LESS than the very CONTINUED EXISTENCE of my beloved little family. Knitter PLEASE. I have shamelessly fucked in the back of a Chevy pick-up under the stars in exchange for “Ghostbusters”, pepperoni pizza, and Miller Beer at The Woodward Park Drive-In in Fresno, California.

THINK I DIDN’T?

And, I’d DO IT AGAIN, TOO.

For loyally choosing their beloved baby over their own comfort…these people are COMPLETELY ON TRACK.

Gosh, how odd, shocking, and discombobulating is it when — with a little time earned world experience under your belt — you suddenly open your eyes and realize that someone you once thought was really intelligent, inspirational, original, and unique…turns out to be just another common, run-of-the-mill, inauthentic, UNINTERESTING poseur butthole?

TIME and PERSPECTIVE, Mein Poppets.

It just takes my breath away, it does.

“‘Ruthless Old Hookers’ for $800, Alex.”

FUCK. YESH. — An Old Tart sashaying about at L.A. ZINE FEST 2014.

This right here is a most clueless, exuberant 13 year old me astride a bale of hay, at Tenaya Junior High School in Fresno, California, posing hard in RED DITTOS at an afternoon sock hop (hence, LE SOCKS) with my very best friend, Miss Christianne Berry, whose narrow ass is wearing Chemin de Fer button-up drive-in jeans. BRILLIANT! She was and IS smart and beautiful and what she was doing hanging around with sketchy trash like baby is BEYOND ME. But she did — and, let me tell you, I am the better person for it.

Christianne comes from an amazing, erudite, generous, well-traveled, worldly, family of academics…and it is from them that I got my very first wondrous gaze into the kind of life that I wanted for myself when I grew up. She was kind, funny, loyal, had the GROOVIEST, MOD, orange bedroom (ALL TO HERSELF! Unlike my many- siblinged cockroach-like self, who didn’t even always have a goddamned BED to herself! Such luxury! Such wonders!), and, most importantly of all, she shared her fancy, delicious, hippified, handmade with love and care sack lunch with me every single day. I can still remember the taste of Alice Berry’s liver wurst and pickle sammiches. Tastes like…COMMUNION, baby.

Christianne and her awesome family welcomed me with open arms and no judgment into their cozy home, even though I was weird and odd and different…and by doing so, they taught me and changed me as a person…just by being who and what they were. I will always love them and thank them from the bottom of my trashy little heart.

PS) If you look very close, behind the tragic tears of a clown, you will see that my tender little pubescent heart is shattered into about a million pieces because that PIECE-OF-ASS, PIECE-OF-SHIT SOC, Stuart Dean, never not once asked my fatass to dance to KC and The Sunshine Band. NOT ONCE. Bastard. But, hey, I got no pride or no shame. Even though he’s got the most BEAUTIFUL grandson in the world, and I’m old, fat, and I gotta REALLY GLORIOUS GUNT, I would TOTALLY make out with him now. What say you, boy?

When that vicious bitch, Miss Jackie Beat, and I finally get around to having an actual Gusband/Slusband (Gay Husband/Straight Lady Husband) promise ceremony in the presence of Maude and all our beloved friends, family, and Framily — QUITE LITERALLY in the presence of Maude, as both Bea Arthur and Ruth Gordon are actual HOLY DEITIES to whom we pray — we have decided that we are either going to show up for the ceremony DRESSED AS EACH OTHER (CAN YOU FUCKING IMAGINE?)…or Minnie and Roman Castevet from “Rosemary’s Baby.”

If we decide on the latter, at the reception we will be serving tough, two-inch thick sirloin steaks, dry coffee cake with canned cherries on top, chocolate mouse with a chalky undertaste, overfilled Vodka Blushes, and plain ordinary Lipton’s tea. You drink it.

With a sartorial threat and gustatory promise as BRILLIANT as all that, it will undoubtedly be THE SOCIAL EVENT OF THE SEASON.

And this is PRECISELY why I vow to NEVER SHUT THE FUCK UP.

“I know older men in comedy who can barely feed and clean themselves, and they still work. The women, though, they’re all ‘crazy.’ I have a suspicion — and hear me out, because this is a rough one — that the definition of ‘crazy’ in show business is a woman who keeps talking even after no one wants to fuck her anymore.” — Tina Fey

As I was flying down the 134 today, on my way home from an afternoon spent seated blissfully beside my brilliant writing partner, a most interesting truth unexpectedly emerged from the cloudy sky above me and slowly bored its way into the depths of my brown bobbed skull…and that truth is this:

The women that I consider to be the CHICEST women who’ve ever lived didn’t dress to impress men. In fact, what men thought or wanted didn’t play into the equation AT ALL.

No, the CHICEST fucking women in the world dress to impress OTHER WOMEN.

Okay, and GAY MEN.

HELL, YES.

As for me, I am guided, emboldened, and inspired by the FIERCE, MAGNIFICENT, VISIONARY Mrs. Vreeland — through whose bio doc I BELLY WEPT from beginning to end.

I am now going to share with you one of the most significant lessons I have learned in my life…and it came straight from the staunch, stylish, handsome lips of DV herself. Changed my life, it did.

THIS:

“You don’t have to be born beautiful to be wildly attractive.” — Diana Vreeland