Tonight, I cannot tell you how proud I am to be a native New Yorker. I could just BURST! Even as I type this, the cheering crowds are gathered once again outside The Stonewall Inn, and the iconic rainbow lights of equality — and Miss Judy — shine from the top of the Empire State Building, beaming out to the world a multi-colored beacon of acceptance, persistence, justice, victory…and most of all, LOVE. Tonight it is RIGHT to celebrate — and so we shall. Thank you, New York.
“If she can’t afford it, she won’t buy it. If it doesn’t fit , she won’t wear it. If she can’t find it, she won’t compromise. If she loves it, she won’t toss it. She reuses it, rethinks it, lets it age. When a French girl shops, it isn’t a solitary act of buying something new. It’s part of a lifelong process of editing her environment, making small but meaningful additions to her home, her closet, her life.”
Because I frequently write about them and their hilarious, scandalous, maddening, madcap, criminal, violent, delightfully dysfunctional antics, people often ask me what my family of origin is really and truly like, all literary device/horseshit aside — and the answer is this:
Take away all the money, freckles, and connection to the entertainment industry…and I essentially grew up in the Family O’Neal.
I should have been addicted, incarcerated, on the pole, or fucking dead a LONG time ago, like so many of my kin — but like the ruthless, degenerate Sicilian cockroach that I am…MY FATASS ENDURES, baby.
And with all this Sarah Palin nonsense about Paul Revere warnin’ the British by ringin’ and ringin’ that ol’ bell…I just need to ask:
Is it just me — or does Paul Revere…
look EXACTLY like Bob Hope?
Gosh. More and better in-depth coverage on The Amazing, Enraging Target Sandal Scandal of 2011 — from Ms. Laura Andre, whose gorgeous writing takes my breath away…even when she’s just waxing poetic about me and the notorious Miss Jackie Beat almost getting tossed in the fucking hoosegow for snapping contraband photographs in the Target in Pasadena earlier this week.
Miss Laura has picked up our story and added it to a much deeper, more meaningful cultural discourse than just the working class fisticuffs and vulgarian clapperclawings of Miss Jackie Beat and myself (Scottsdale and Fresno REPRESENT!) Thank you, Miss Laura, for dragging us scandalous louts into a sunbeam of respectability — if even just for a moment.
TELL IT, SISTER. TESTIFY!
PS) Felonious Sandals is the name of our new band.
A gaggle of fab friends of the awesome Miss Jackie Beat — including Mario Diaz, Miss Selene Luna, Miss Coco Peru, Miss Susan Olsen (YES, Cindy FUCKING Brady!), Miss Roseanne Barr, and Miss Alexis Arquette, as well as your own scandalous and humble correspondent (yes, MY FATASS) — issue forth their pronouncements for Gay Pride 2011!
Let the GLORIOUS FAGGOTRY COMMENCE!
Two of The GREAT Loves of My Life: The Baby Goat and Pearlie Mae. Could you not just EXPLODE from all the cuteness in this photo? Also, note the “mushroom” that my 16 year old son made in art class sitting proudly under the Cocteau, in a place of great honor on our family mantle. Tell a teenager that they can make anything except bongs or dildos — and that’s THE VERY FIRST THING all the wry, crafty, subversive motherfuckers are going to do. He got an “A”, of course.
“We so much want more women’s projects and I want them being able to do this kind of thing. But I want the people who are doing it to not just go, ‘Okay, movies with women make money now so let’s just slap a bunch of women together and here’s a script and let’s kind of change the names and do it,’ because that’s not going to help anything. You have to then put in the time to make sure these are the best they can be and that you are empowering these women to do what they do.” — Bridesmaids director Paul Feig
WITHOUT QUESTION…this video from the May 22nd tornado that devastated Joplin, Missouri is the most harrowing thing I have ever heard.
Even though everyone thankfully survived, it’s so strange to bear witness to how different people face what they believe is their death. With the powerful, ruthless, otherworldly scream of the tornado bearing directly down on top of them, some are quietly stoic, some are calling for their mothers, some pray aloud, calling out the name of their God, and some simply turn to the other terrified voices in the dark and tell them how very much they love them. I suspect that would be me.
At any rate, I fully recognize that being allowed to listen in on these very private few moments is a profound gift, a glimpse into our own shared humanity. It is a privilege. I am so happy and relieved that they are all still here with us to share the collective story of their survival — as well as to continue on writing, creating, and forging the stories that will mark their time here in this wondrous, monstrous, magical thing called life.
Language is a living thing. It changes and ebbs and flows and dips and swivels and marvels and moves and morphs and no matter how much whining and petty sniping and griping you may do in an attempt to cage it one place, there is NO FUCKING STOPPING IT, my friends. That’s the way it’s always been, and further, the way it always should be. From the very second grunt of Australopithecus, humans have made language their bitch. It exists to serve us, not the other way around.
You see, no matter how much you may try to cram “The Elements of Style” up my scandalous icehole, I’ll continue to use language exactly, precisely, LITERALLY how I goddamned well please. You know why? ‘CAUSE IT’S MINE, BITCHES. I would never presume to tell an artist that he can’t use a particular off-color color for his endless sky, or a guitarist a certain thundering chord in her latest song about the heartless boy who broke her heart — so why on earth would some soulless, passionless, meathook motherfucker think he can tell me or any other writer how to wield the tools, techniques, and materials WE use?
So, if you got a problem with what I write or how I write it…I beg of you — I BEG OF YOU — PLEASE unfriend me now and then hurry scurry back to your pointless, pathetic, uninteresting little life of CONTRIBUTING NOTHING OF VALUE TO THE UNIVERSE.
FUCK OFF, lady!
With tender kisses upon your triflin’ buttcheeks,
Muffy
xoxo
muffy bolding 