muffy bolding

Happy Labor Day, bitches.

The next time some corporate bastard tells you he got rich through hard work…ask him, “”WHOSE?”

UNION.

As I wander and sashay my fatass amongst one of the greatest art collections in the world, this is what an old hooker thinks about:

I just this second invented an iPhone app for Women of a Certain Age. Once purchased and installed, it shall measure the best camera angle at which an iPhone photo is most advantageously shot. For example, for every year past the age of 40 and for every pound over the suggested weight charts released by the nation’s largest health insurance companies, the camera moves up one degree. When it hits the optimum angle at which to eradicate Chin Whiskers, Florida Evans Neck, and Gargantuan Gunt, the app will beep and alert the photographer to kick that shutter in the gottdamned taco ASAP.

For the record, until such time that my new app is completed — and trust me when I tell you, this WILL happen — when I, myself, am being photographed, I ruthlessly insist that the shooter scramble up onto the motherfucking chandelier directly above my head and capture me from there. To wit…here Gregory photographs me whilst hanging precariously, ala KING LOUIE, from a rough-hewn rafter high in the cathedral-like ceiling of The Getty Center Museum.

I got no shame.

I recently went to see the new Total Recall with my bestest boys, Gregory, Jackie, and Mario, at the GORGEOUS ArcLight Theatre in Hollywood. Before it started, while they were all off claiming seats, throwing shade, and draining main veins, I got in line for treats. When it was my turn to order, I found myself standing across the concession counter from a handsome young guy who looked about 25 and was, as per all the people working there, wearing a badge around his neck proclaiming his favorite movie: Blade Runner. He asked what I would like, and I told him that if he didn’t have a godless, well-endowed sailor for me back there, I would like a large popcorn. He chuckled and then asked, “Would you like butter on that?” — at which I smiled, looked him right in the eye, and said:

“Son. I want you to take a really good look at my fatass. Do I look like a woman who turns down butter to you, motherfucker?”

Torn from his ordinary Orville Redenbacher-dispensing reality, he stared blankly across the counter at me for a moment, clearly not wanting to offend and yet having no idea how to respond…and then just BURST INTO RAGING PEALS OF BELLY LAUGHTER. He said, “Uh, ma’am…you are not just hilarious, you’re stunning. And you are NOT fat.”

“First of all, let me thank you for the lovely compliment,” I said, “I am quite a piece of ass for an old broad, aren’t I? And second of all, though I do appreciate your gallant attempt at denying the chubby, radiant reality standing before you — because that is what thoughtfully-raised young men are taught to do in this culture — allow me to let you in on a little secret: Don’t assume that I am not extraordinarily fond of my fat — because I am. It is as much a part of who and what I am as this”, I told him, tapping my index finger against my temple.

And, then, flashing him yet another dazzling smile, I grabbed my large popcorn with the butter, and added, “And, for the record, I would MUCH rather be called “fat” than “ma’am.” Now, why don’t you come up and see me sometime? I think you’d really like my owl.”

I blew him a kiss — which he smiled and caught — and then turned with a flourish of my black dress to go join my waiting boys.

From the rare, brilliant, and singular brain of the funniest, most GENIUS woman I know…and trust me, I know some SERIOUSLY GENIUS BROADS — pictured here doing a reading dressed as one of our partners in crime, renowned illustrator, cartoonist, and Brooklyn food co-op shitkicker, Danny Hellman.

Goddamnit, I wish I’d written this:

“Since the doctor told me I had to stop taking the pill I’ve been using rape as my primary form of contraception.” — Helena G. Harvilicz

Over the years, I have had the good fortune to take many a writing class with some of the VERY BEST, MOST EXTRAORDINARY writing teachers alive today (I’m looking at YOU, Ms. Bonnie Hearn Hill) and, after all that time and all that wisdom imparted unto my wannabe writerly self, something only just this second hit me:

All due respect to the AWESOME Mr. Stephen King…but, is it just me, or is the oft-invoked writing tip, “Kill Your Darlings”, not one of the MOST KILL-WORTHY DARLINGS EVER?

You know that old childhood rhyme — “Monday’s Child is fair of face, Tuesday’s child is full of grace…” and so on? Well, since my gusband, Miss Jackie Beat, and I both sprang forth with GREAT pluck, verve, and exuberance into this world on The Day of Woden, we have decided that we are doing a goddamned rewrite. From now on, it shall be:

“Wednesday’s Child is full of WHOA…”

So it is written. So it shall be done.

Just submitted Miss Pearlie Mae’s pic o’ shame to the hilarious new blog, Dog Shaming.

THINK I DIDN’T?

And more importantly…THINK SHE ISN’T?

This brand new dog blog is BRILLIANT and I have been BELLY SCREAMING WITH DELIGHT ALL DAY. If you have not yet had the pleasure…GO NOW, BITCHES:

Dog Shaming

In recent years, the Republican party has pissed off several very well-known musicians by using their music at GOP campaign and fund-raising events, among them, Tom Petty, Bruce Springsteen, The Talking Heads, and most recently, The Silverspun Pickups. Needless to say, the boys on the right got schooled REAL FAST on where these musicians stand on their music being co-opted to promote a political and cultural agenda that is the very antithesis of what they believe. ASSES GOT HANDED and permission got denied. The most amusing part of the entire debacle is that, had these conservative politicians and their staffs taken the time to actually listen to the lyrics, they would have found that many of the songs surreptitiously chosen as GOP anthems have been songs OF PROTEST AGAINST THE VERY PRINCIPLES AND TRADITIONS ON WHICH THE GOP IS BUILT. Ronald Reagan invoking “Born In The USA?”

Knitter, PLEASE.

And while we’re on the subject of music and the GOP, now comes word that Mitt Romney’s vice-presidential running mate, Paul Ryan’s, favorite band is Rage Against The Machine. Rage Against The Motherfucking Machine. Holy shit, I wish you could have heard the HOWLS OF GENUINE BELLY LAUGHTER that left my body when I read that last night. Apparently, RATM’s guitarist, Tom Morello, wasn’t nearly so amused.

TESTIFY, BRUTHA TOM!

“In a blistering op-ed published Thursday night on Rolling Stone’s website, Tom Morello [guitarist for Rage Against The Machine] blasts Mitt Romney’s new VP choice as ‘the embodiment of the machine our music rages against.’

In painting Ryan as antithetical to progress, Morello compares the Congressman’s appreciation of RATM to Charles Manson’s love for The Beatles and New Jersey Gov. Chris Christie’s liking for Bruce Springsteen.

At the heart of Morello’s distate for Ryan is ‘his guiding vision of shifting revenue more radically to the one percent.’ He goes on to say Ryan has plenty of ‘rage,’ but claims its ‘A rage against women, a rage against immigrants, a rage against workers, a rage against gays, a rage against the poor, a rage against the environment.'”

Like I have said many times before…really think it through, decide which side of history you wish to be on, and CHOOSE WISELY, my friends….because if you don’t like the progressive ideology of our side, THEN YOU DON’T GET TO USE OUR ART TO HELP SELL YOUR HATEFUL, HORSESHIT, RIGHT-WING ETHOS, EITHER…because that open-minded ideology is where the art COMES FROM, motherfuckers.

It comes from what we believe in.

It comes from who we are.

Choose your side wisely…or the only anthems you have to pick from come from the edgy, riveting, rapier-like minds of guys like Crazy Dave Mustaine, Pat Boone, Lee Greenwood, and the motherloving Osmonds — and you just gotta trust me on this one: not a single one of those guys can fuck.

My personal belief is that people perpetually look for god in all the wrong places. God doesn’t necessarily dwell in some rarefied cathedral in Rome or some bottomless collection plate in Fresno. God is YOU. God is ME. We are ALL GODS, walking the earth, powerful and beautiful and infinite beyond measure.

You wanna know what my religion is? You wanna know what I believe in? You wanna know what moves my soul and makes me want to be a better person?

Listen to the first 45 seconds of Jimi Hendrix’ “Voodoo Child.”

That’s it. It’s that fucking simple. THAT, my friends, is GOD. Hearing that makes me want to sing. It makes me want to dance. It makes me want to feed the poor and tend to the sick and dying. And, even more importantly, it makes me want to BE FRUITFUL AND MULTIPLY.

Yeah.

Look, I don’t need my fatass dipped in the River Jordan TO BE FILLED WITH THE ECSTASY OF THE INFINITE. In my religion, this is irrefutable proof of our Human Divinity, distilled into 45 seconds — 45 seconds that represents the very best that we are, and even more importantly, the very best that we can be. All I gotta do is close my eyes and listen to the beginning of this masterpiece of human achievement — pouring out of just one man’s heart, soul, and very mortal fingers — to know that WE ARE ALL GODS.

Shantih. Shantih. Shantih.

And Amen.

<p><a href=”https://vimeo.com/12762009″>Jimi Hendrix – Live at Woodstock – Voodoo Child (Slight Return)</a> from <a href=”https://vimeo.com/user1928107″>Dernouny Anass</a> on <a href=”https://vimeo.com”>Vimeo</a&gt;.</p>

Happy 54th Birthday to the amazing broad from Bay City, Michigan who set out to rule the fucking world — and did just that. Love her or hate her, you cannot deny her sheer force of BEING. For a creative freak girl growing up in Fresno, California…her very existence proved to me that ANYTHING was possible — and she continues to inspire as she shows us all that life and lust and love and light do NOT end at 50.

TESTIFY, MY FIERCE, MIDDLE-AGED SISTER!

“Not only does society suffer from racism and sexism but it also suffers from ageism. Once you reach a certain age you’re not allowed to be adventurous, you’re not allowed to be sexual. I mean, is there a rule? Are you supposed to just die?” — Madonna Louise Veronica Ciccone

I love this photograph more than I can even say. In fact, I don’t need to say anything at all. Shep’s face says EVERYTHING.

This is why we are here in this place.

From Stonehouse Photography:

“This is 19 year old Shep being cradled in his father’s arms last night in Lake Superior. Shep falls asleep every night when he is carried into the lake. I was so happy I got to capture this moment for John. By the way, John rescued Shep as an 8 month old puppy, and he’s been by his side through many adventures.”