muffy bolding

I have been online for almost TWENTY FUCKING YEARS. Trust me, in that time, I have seen and heard it all.

I once had cyber-sex with a guy who had a leg fetish…who told me that what would turn him on the most is me blowing him — whilst I simultaneously bench-pressed a fully-loaded railroad car…so he could watch my thigh and calf muscles strain against the weight.

I have seen pictures of the black smoke billowing up from the wreckage of The Twin Towers on September 11th, 2001 — that supposedly contained the image of the delighted face of Satan…surveying the devastation he doth wrought upon our nation.

I have seen pictures of diseased 19th century Tongan guys with balls the size of your fucking head.

I have seen broads blowing Shetland ponies with a smile on their face. The broads, not the ponies.

But the absolute MOST HILARIOUS thing I have ever seen in my entire life, BAR NONE…is this:

As Maude is my witness, I want this picture rolled up and buried with me in my fucking urn…so I can BELLY LAUGH until the end of time.

*RAPE TRIGGER ALERT*

It was 20 years ago last night that Mia Zapata walked out of the Comet Tavern on Capitol Hill in Seattle, wearing shorts and heavy black boots. She was last seen alive just after midnight.

When her body was discovered lying in the street just over three hours later, it was found that she had been brutally beaten, raped, and then strangled with the cord of her sweatshirt — which bore the name of her band, The Gits. According to the medical examiner, if she had not been strangled she would have died from the internal injuries suffered from the beating.

In January of 2003, after nearly a ten year investigation, police, using DNA evidence, finally made an arrest in Mia’s murder. The investigators working the case had refused to give up and were relentless in their pursuit of leads, no matter how seemingly insignificant.

When they discovered that DNA evidence found at the scene was linked to Jesus Mezquia, 48, a Cuban native living in the Florida Keys, they immediately got on a plane for Florida.

As they collected their checked luggage at the airport, one of the investigators looked down at the tag that had been attached to his suitcase — and saw the airport identification acronym, MIA, for Miami. He says that although he doesn’t consider himself a superstitious man, he knew in his heart that it was her telling them, “You are on the right track. Follow me and I will show you the way.”

That tag hangs in his office to this day, and will remain there, he says, for as long as he does — as a reminder of the life and tragic death of an extraordinary young woman.

In response to Mia’s murder, her friends formed Home Alive, an organization that educates women on how to defend themselves against attackers. A 1996 benefit album, entitled Home Alive, featured contributions from Nirvana, Soundgarden, Foo Fighters, Pearl Jam, Jello Biafra, 7 Year Bitch, and many others, and raised money for the organization — as well as an awareness of Zapata’s life and music.

Mia Zapata, a painter, poet, and activist, as well as a singer, was 27 years old.

JUST ONE YEAR OLDER THAN MY DAUGHTER IS TODAY.

And I RAGE.

Requiescat in Pace, Mia Zapata.

“There’s something wrong with that boy.” — William S. Burroughs to his secretary immediately after getting into the car following the very first time he met and spent time with Kurt Cobain.

In honor of the reportedly AWESOME new Anna Nicole Smith biopic that is scheduled to air this weekend on Lifetime, and which, as far as this Old Hooker is concerned, CANNOT AIR FAST ENOUGH…here is a piece I wrote about her shortly after her tragic death of a methadone overdose in February, 2007 — not knowing that just two weeks later, my own beautiful little sister, Julia, would unexpectedly die from the exact same cause:

For whatever else you might think about Anna Nicole Smith and her questionable methods regarding upward mobility — and perhaps even more questionable claims to legitimate fame — in the end she was nothing more than a working class girl and a teenage mother who clawed her way out of the abject poverty into which she was born…and for me, having done precisely the same, I just have to say that there is a part of me that understands exactly what compelled her. I understand the notion of reinvention; I have lived it. I AM living it.

For all the drugs, marriages, diets, centerfolds, and legal quagmires that her life had degenerated into — and gosh, what an epic trainwreck it was — I believe, in the end, she was nothing more than an extremely damaged and fragile human being…who simply could not move or breathe beyond the tragic death of the child to whom she had given birth while still a child herself and with whom she had consequently grown up. It was reported that when she awoke that morning in September of 2006 — just three days after giving birth to her second child, a daughter — and discovered her 20 year old son not breathing and unresponsive in the chair next to her bed, it took the doctors and hospital staff FOUR HOURS to pry her off his dead body. At his funeral, she demanded they open the coffin and then tried to climb inside. She said that, “If Daniel has to be buried, I want to be buried with him.” — and I have NO DOUBT that she TRULY MEANT IT WITH ALL OF HER SHATTERED HEART. That’s a biological thing, a cellular thing, an animal thing…and I understand it to the very core of my being. In fact, those same primitive urges ARE the very core of my being; they are every mother’s.

In the end, there are some wounds that can never be healed, some pain that can never be comforted, some horror that can never be forgotten, and some places from which you can never return.

I hope she finds the peace in death that she never, ever knew in life — and that wherever she is, she is with her treasured son and that she feels safe and secure and thin enough and good enough…and loved. At last.

1. What’re your 5 favorite bands?

The Replacements, Big Star, Sparklehorse, Husker Du, and The Bay City Rollers. Oh! And EVERY fucking incarnation of Frank Black possible (The Pixies, The Catholics, et al.). I also love Django Reinhardt and Sidney Bechet and frequently write to their music, as well as the GENIUS exotica of Martin Denny from 1957. My latest musical obsession is a band called, “The Lava Children.” SO. FUCKING. BRILLIANT.

2. Do you have any body art done? (scarification, branding, tattoo’s, piercings)

Standard Mediterranean female piercing — ears, at age two, whilst sitting on a utility stool in the kitchen in Rochester, New York — with ice, thread, a clothespin, a needle, and homemade spaghetti sauce simmering in the background. No tats to date. I got a husband born and bred in the educated, Ivy League, Upper Middle Class who would blow about a thousand fucking gaskets if his piece-of-shit High School Drop-Out Working Class Wife from Fresno came home with a tattoo. Now, under most circumstances, I would tell a bitch to go fuck himself — but this battle really isn’t all that interesting to me…and, really, he axes SO little of my fatass. So I just keep feedin’ him chili-dogs and lettin’ shit slide. And besides…he’s cute and he can fuck. Surely that must be worth something to you people.

3. Name the one emotion that you battle with almost daily to control.

Oh, this one’s EASY — and can be vehemently verified by every single person in my inner circle: UNBRIDLED capacity for amazement, joy, wonder, and profundity — to the point of unstoppable tears over hearing a single, perfect, inspired note or riff in a song (“I Want You Back” by Michael Jackson), or reading a sublime poem that takes my breath away (“Breasts” by Charles Simic, “Hawk Roosting” by Ted Hughes, or “60 Yard Pass” by Charles Bukowski), or seeing an old woman pass me on the street and literally being unable to see her as she is — but to see her only as she once was: a little girl, with her whole life ahead of her.

4. Name 3 of your favorite books.

Oh, Christ…only three? Okay: “Cat’s Eye” by the indomitable Maggie Atwood, and “Revolution of the Mind” by Mark Polizotti (the story of Andre Breton and the Surrealists). Oh, yeah — and “The Great Gatsby” by Scott Fitzgerald, and “Capote” by Gerald Clarke, “Dorothy Parker: What Fresh Hell Is This?” by Marion Meade, “The Portable Dorothy Parker” by Dorothy Parker, “Bitter Fame” by Anne Stevenson, “Europe” by Norman Davies, “The Crusades” by Zoe Oldenbourg, and “Everybody Was So Young: Gerald and Sara Murphy, a Lost Generation Love Story” by Amanda Vaill. And “The Chronicles of Narnia” by CS Lewis. Sorry…I can’t do just three — I am a filthy book whore of the highest order. I am the fucking VICEROY of book whores.

5. Are you close to your parents?

Even though we all live in different cities — and even on different coasts — yes…I feel close to my parents in my heart.

6. Any siblings?

Oh, YEAH. GET READY:

EIGHT siblings…three brothers and five sisters…TEN if you count my two step-sisters, which I do. My parents REALLY liked to fuck — sometimes even each other. What can I say?

7. Any children or pets?

Yes, three darling larvae I grew in my bery own bagine…and an adorable chihuahua girl who is the SUN and MOON in my goddamned sky.

Also — and perhaps I feel this way simply because I am a GODDAMNED POUND PUPPY, descended from EVERY FUCKING MARGINALIZED MUD CULTURE ON EARTH — but I just gotta say that I am pretty much OVER the whole hysterical charge of “Cultural Appropriation!” every five seconds. Doesn’t everybody realize that, not too far in the future, it is a MATHEMATICAL CERTAINTY that EVERYONE will be a MARVELOUSLY MONGRELIZED MUTTY MELANGE. Hey, just like me!

My proposal then, is this: Teach your kids about where their ancestors came from, what foods they ate, what clothing they wore, what gods they worshipped, what dances they did, what tales they told, what language they spoke. Display art from your family’s place of origin in your home, so your babies can see it every day — so that it is IN THEIR EARS and IN THEIR EYES. You can even take a trip and immerse your babies in the motherland from whence their pipples came — STEEP THEM IN THE LIVING GHOSTS OF THEIR ANCESTORS. And then?

SHUT THE FUCK UP and HAVE A GOOD TIME! Go to a Redskins game and consume a brace o’ nachos and Margaritas with great gusto and, at halftime, enjoy an Amy Winehouse soul video on the Jumbotron and the inspiring sight of Gwen Stephani’s bindi shining like justice and Miley Cyrus twerking her flat ass off with all her WHITE MIGHT.

Yes, yes, yes, I know ALL about Oppression and Colonialism…but at some point, we just have to realize and accept that it is inevitable. THERE IS NO STOPPING IT.

That’s right: WE ARE EVOLUTION’S BITCH. IT OWNS US. Every time Kanye sticks his dick into Kim, we move closer and closer to Our Destiny:

Pantone #17-1227

“I am the beautiful reflection…of my love’s affection. A walking illustration…of his adoration.”

Just an Old Trollop spending a DELIGHTFUL Summer afternoon playing dress-up in the BRILLIANT private movie memorabilia collection of a MOST CHERISHED friend. Yes, an ancient whore running amok amongst the hats, dresses, and jewelry once worn by several amazing legends of the big screen…including this get-up which was featured in the infamous Ziegfeld Follies, “His Love Makes Me Beautiful”, wedding number in which Miss Barbra Streisand as Fanny Brice unexpectedly reveals not only her delicate feelings of matrimonial love…but her DELICATE CONDITION, as well.

And no, Mein Poppets, this is not some clever set-up to announce that I am expecting, which would, of course, be a biological impossibility since my Girlie Bits got ruthlessly GANKED some two years back.

I am definitely NOT pregnant — though according to the nice older lady at the grocery store yesterday who smiled sweetly at me, laid her hand on my tummy, and excitedly asked me when I was due…apparently I JUST LOOK LIKE I AM.

I smiled sweetly back at her in return…and scrunched my nose up and answered, “Labor Day. Can’t wait!”, and then, holding my head high, marched off into the produce section in search of cucumbers and kale.

I suspect that, up until yesterday, the GOP thought that women were just gonna roll their dumb asses over and allow their FUNDAMENTAL HUMAN RIGHTS to be stripped from them by a political body largely made up of IGNORANT, RELIGIOUS, SELF-RIGHTEOUS, SANCTIMONIOUS, PASTY-FACED PRICKS.

And, obviously…THEM MUTHAFUCKAS WAS WRONG.

Despite their pathetic, malfeasant, ILLEGAL attempt at CHEATING and OUTRIGHT FRAUD within their OWN SENATE CHAMBERS…the FIERCE, FEARLESS, FOCUSED WOMEN OF TEXAS and of THE ENTIRE GOTTDAMNED WORLD — led by the TENACIOUS TEXAS SENATOR, Wendy Davis — FLAT BROKE IT DOWN FOR A MOTHERFUCKER.

Gentlemen. We are the Mothers. The Grandmothers. The Daughters. The Sisters. The Wives. The Nurturers. The Healers. The Mourners. The Seducers. The Alchemists. The Breadbakers. The Breadwinners. The Warriors. The Ones Who Will FUCK YOU UP IF YOU DARE ATTEMPT TO SUBDUE US.

Don’t you see? We are USED to being told no. We are USED to being marginalized. We are USED to having to work twice as hard at the same job for LESS FUCKING PAY. Our strength and determination have been FORGED IN THE FIRES OF INJUSTICE and INEQUALITY. We are like a WELL-SEASONED IRON SKILLET — which can be used to either rustle you up some delicious, nutritious grub…or, TO BUST YOUR FUCKING SKULLCAP.

Which’ll it be?

Yes, Our Brothers, we have faced MANY obstacles to which you, as men, are not only not subjected to…but of which you are actually UNAWARE. You have the PRIVILEGE OF THAT IGNORANCE. However, this adversity has made us STRONG. And FOCUSED. And ARMED. We are READY to do battle. BRING IT ON, BITCHES. Trust me, as women and girls, all of our lives we have fought FAR WORSE ENEMIES THAN THE LIKES OF YOU FECKLESS WORMS — some of them right in our very own homes and families.

As the mothers and caretakers of humanity, believe me…we know how to SURVIVE in the trenches. We know how to bob and weave, how to plot and strategize, how to bide our time, how to organize and feed legions, how to strike. HARD. And WITHOUT MERCY.

We know how to create MAGIC out of NOTHING. When our babies are hungry or suffering or sick or needing, WE ARE THE ONES who work miracles from the last two drops of a bottle of Robitussin or the last two cans of beets and green beans pulled from the very back of an empty pantry. We are SHREWD.

INGENIOUS.

INSPIRING.

COMPLETE.

Don’t EVER forget, son: WE are the ones WHO ASSEMBLE THE STARSTUFF OF LIFE ITSELF DEEP WITHIN OUR OWN BODIES…INCLUDING THE LIVES OF CRETINOUS ASSHOLES LIKE YOU.

So, gentlemen…SIT THE FUCK DOWN, SHUT THE FUCK UP, and SHOW SOME GODDAMNED RESPECT FOR THOSE WHO CREATED YOU.

In the end…this, THIS, is what should surprise EVERYONE…and what should surprise NO ONE at all:

That the whole world was saved…by a FIERCE TEENAGE SINGLE MOTHER — who herself WAS RAISED BY A FIERCE TEENAGE SINGLE MOTHER.

Mark my words: This is JUST THE BEGINNING.

We’re NOT MOVING.

This is a WOMAN’S WORLD.

We’re TAKING IT BACK, boys — for OURSELVES.

FOR OUR BABIES.

Give it up…or PREPARE TO BE BOARDED.