muffy bolding

Ode to Stevie

“You could be my silver springs
Blue green colors flashin’
I would be your only dream
Your shining autumn, ocean crashing
And did you say she was pretty
And did you say that she loves you
Baby, I don’t wanna know

I’ll begin not to love you
Turn around, see me runnin’
I’ll say I loved you years ago
Tell myself you never loved me, no
And did you say she was pretty
And did you say that she loves you
Baby, I don’t wanna know
Oh, no
And can you tell me was it worth it
Really, I don’t wanna know

Time casts a spell on you, but you wont forget me
I know I could have loved you, but you would not let me

Time casts a spell on you, but you wont forget me
I know I could have loved you, but you would not let me
I’ll follow you down ’til the sound of my voice will haunt you
(Was I such a fool?)
You’ll never get away from the sound of the woman that loves you

Never get away
Never get away
Never get away.”

— Silver Springs, Stevie Nicks

Three decades after the fact, Stevie Nicks’ fierce, impassioned anger at being wronged by Lindsey Buckingham still radiates out from her being and swirls about her like a mist. This now 60-something, still stunningly beautiful, raging harridan stares him down — conjuring up the righteous anger of every woman who has ever been fucked over, betrayed, or abused by the man she loves…and drawing on the sheer force of her musical incantation, she takes aim right between his goddamned eyes, and unleashes thirty years of rage.

You can see on her face and hear in her voice that, even after all this time, she is still not fucking around; a woman scorned may forgive…but she never, ever forgets. Every time I watch this video and she gets to the part where she looks him right in the eye and sings, “I’ll follow you down til the sound of my voice will haunt you…”, the hair stands up on my arms and I feel a force surge through me that is so primal, so ancient, so powerful, I can’t even describe it.

I read somewhere that Stevie Nicks has said she hoped her songs about Buckingham would ensure, for all time, that he’d never be able to forget about her. You just know that when he’s toodling down the Pacific Coast Highway — on his way to The Malibu Country Market on a sunny Saturday afternoon with his little kids strapped in the back of his Mercedes SUV — and this song comes on the radio, his dick shrivels up and the top of his skull is torn off and he’s immediately transported right back to the 70s and the hellish midst of the agonizing, harrowing turmoil that was his doomed love affair with Stevie. By virtue of still being able to endlessly fuck with him like that over the many miles and the many years — along with the way he all but genuflects to her as she rages at him in front of the thousands of people seated in that arena — I’d say she wins. His fate is sealed for all time. There is no escape for him.

By their very nature, women are shrewd, vindictive creatures. Because historically we have been denied access to positions of power and influence and because, for the most part, men are bigger and stronger and can physically overpower us, women have been forced to evolve, adapt, and develop an entirely unique set of survival skills. You wanna get drunk every night, fuck my best friend behind my back, slap me around, and then come after my kids, you pathetic worm? Go right ahead. But you gotta sleep sometime, motherfucker — and when you do, you better do it with one eye open.

Because in the past we have been forced to be patient, to wait our turn, to not overstep our bounds, to be good girls, women will lie in wait…we will bide our time. We’re good at it. If we find ourselves in an untenable, intolerable situation, our attitude is, “That’s right, asshole, keep bringing home your paycheck and feeding my babies and thinking you are getting away with something.” And I’ll smile sweetly at you like nothing in the world is wrong — I might even make you something to eat, or fuck you — and well. But I got a little message for you, pal: You won’t win. You will be forever hunted and haunted and tormented by the fact that you had a good woman — and you fucked it up. And you see this ass? You better get a real good look at it as I walk away…because you are never ever ever gonna have this again. In the end, a woman will always win. Always.

We are the witches. We are the healers. We are the mothers. We are the whores.

We are the ones who bring about peace, or die trying.

We are the ones who hunt, subdue, and take down men — not on the field of battle, but through ingenuity and murmurs, soft skin and seamed hose, intelligence and timing.

We are the ones who bring light to the caves, and birth both kings and poets.

We are the ones who whisper spells and incantations a hundred times a day — even if we aren’t aware that we do so: “Drive carefully.”, “Have a good day!”, “Have sweet dreams.”, “Be good.”

We are the ones who weep at the mouth of the grave, and bury our children who die fighting the meaningless wars of men.

We are not the destroyers of worlds, like men are — we are the portals through which the silver spring of life itself stretches on and on, both back and forward, into eternity.

We are the ones who carry the power of the cosmos within us in ways that men could never even begin to comprehend.

We are women — and we rule the fucking world.

Writing movies — creating entire worlds and the beings who people them — is the most fun a girl can have without knitting needles and Noro yarn, a pre-paid comprehensive European Rail-pass, seasons 1 and 2 of HBO’s “Rome”, a bottle of Absolut vodka, a copy of The Collected Poems of Anne Sexton, a pack of smokes, or the hard dick of a rich, ruthless man whose very soul you utterly and completely own.

Lemme tell you something, mein poppets — if I hear ONE MORE iteration or variation of the joke, “I just went through airport security at LaGuardia, and I’m so disappointed…because after I got patted down by the TSA officer, I was hoping he’d buy me a drink,” I’M TAKING MOTHERFUCKING HOSTAGES.

TRY ME, BITCHES.

You know, I can’t really be sure, but I think my bush might be HUGE — or, rather, I can only assume that it’s huge, being that I’ve not had an actual visual on it since before the marriage of Charles and Diana because MY GLORIOUS PONDEROUS GUNT HINDERS MY VIEW. Can I get a little help over here? I promise to douche with Scope mouthwash first, a la my mother, Miss Sandy, who, as you by now well know, has always liked a MINTY-FRESH COOTER. God bless us, every one.

As a feminist and as a woman, I realized something very interesting during this last midterm election. As much as I dislike both Meg Whitman and Carly Fiorina, and despite their resounding losses with voters here in the great state of California, at least these two broads were in the goddamned ball park.

I think few would argue with me when I say that, despite profound differences in ideology, they are pretty much like the Hilary Clinton and Barbara Boxer of the other side. They are professional, intelligent, committed women who, despite my strenuous and vehement objection to most of their politics, I still believe would make fine public servants, albeit servants for the pasty-faced, confused, intolerant, judgmental, misguided masses on the Right.

But now — strutting out of the wings in cheap heels and tan pantyhose and stinking of thorazine, dry vagina, White Rain hairspray, and inexplicable, unwarranted, pathological self-confidence — emerges this whole OTHER breed of broad jostling for position in the Republican leadership. I call them “The Crazies”, i.e., Michelle Bachmann, Christine O’Donnell, and Sarah Palin, among others…and aside from their annoyingly shrill voices and just generally ignorant, fascist ideologies, they all seem to have one thing in common: They look like refugees from an old Bobbie Gentry music video, circa 1971 — only completely lacking in  Bobbie Gentry’s cool sensuality, compassionate heart, feminist beliefs, and genuine style. These bitches are Gentry’s “Fancy” — all grown up and still hustling…only they don’t spread their legs; THEY SPREAD “THE WORD.”

You see, despite their parched labia and persistent screeching and braying about virtue, “dirty pillahs”, chastity, abstinence, the right-to-life, and God…every one of these frigid Brides of Christ/Brides of Elvis — with their too big, too long, “freshly-fucked” looking hair and heavy makeup — look like loose, gussied-up Blackjack dealers at a two-bit, shithole casino in Bullhead City — the only difference being that not a single one o’ them actually can fuck or will fuck. What the fuck?

Anyway, what I wouldn’t give to get the news this mornin’ from up on Choctaw Ridge — that all these shrill, annoying, deluded cunts jumped off the Tallahatchie Bridge.

I can dream, can’t I?

Like I said…if one of my children proudly announced to me that they were saving their virginity for Jesus and had plans to marry someone they had never slept with…I’D FUCKING CRUCIFY THEM MYSELF.

Important announcement:

As a Big Fattie who was also one of NINE children, I think I speak for us all when I say that BIG FATTIES LIKE OUR VERY OWN GODDAMNED PLATE OF CHOW WHEN WE EAT. We don’t like other meathooks grabbing at our grub, as it gets in the way of our gustatory satisfaction and pleasure. We are very concerned with getting our fair share. Fat Kids like a LOT of flavor and a LOT of time, space, and liberty when we eat. We enjoy moving freely  and exuberantly about the cabin whilst sucking the marrow from a juicy hind leg, yet staying ever close enough to keep a watchful eye on our waiting plate. We don’t like the food panic that ensues when we are forced to share or eat communally.

Therefore, WE DON’T DO MEALS “FAMILY STYLE.” EVER. So, don’t embarrass yourself by suggesting it.

Thank you. That is all.

I recently woke from a dream, openly weeping…a dream whose content — aside from the following verbatim passage — I could not for the life of me remember. But this part I will never, ever forget:

“You have NO IDEA how love can change your life, how loving others can change their lives. Give love freely — let it wash over every aspect of your existence. Infuse your every thought, move, and gesture with it. Through love, you will BECOME.”

A few sweet souls have written to ask me, “Who is 4chan and what exactly is it that they do?”

Well, this link will give you just the very beginning of the most basic, minute, stripped-down concept of who and what the fuck they are.

As for what they do…have you ever watched that scene in the movie, “Ghost”, when those vast legions of horrifying, anonymous, black, shadowy demons from hell single out, swarm, overtake, and consume some wretched, villainous bastard, before spiriting him away to hellish regions beyond?

Yeah. That’s pretty much what they do.

Shiiiit. The horrifying, relentless, collective vigilante webhive that is 4chan had this racist asshole’s name, home address, social security number, and telephone number in about two minutes. Those ruthless bastards will eat her alive and spit out her white, white bones. There is no stopping them.

Yeah, that’s right, Erika — you really fucked up this this time, honey. Hope you’re enjoying all the pizzas, Chinese food, aluminum siding salesmen, Slap Chops, Snuggies, slashed tires, feces hurled at your front door, visits from both Department of Homeland Security agents AND Craig’s List trannie hustlers, delightful telephone callers threatening to disembowel you and gut you like a carp, interruptions in your phone/power/cable/cellular service, and 20,000 subscriptions to Ebony, Guns and Ammo, and Scat Mag International that you’re going to be receiving for the rest of your hateful, miserable life. Oh, and while we’re on the subject…FUCK YOU.

This bitch is a goner.