muffy bolding

Both Gregory and I woke up feeling sorta punk today, so we stayed in bed in our pajamas, he lovingly clutching the remote and me molesting some NORO yarn with a coupla wooden sticks. After pissing the chihuahuas, munching Panda Express takeout, and taking a baby wipe whore’s bath, we are now watching tv…and as you can well imagine, hearing Beavis repeatedly and reverently singing the word “bunghole” as a Gregorian Chant thrills me to my very core.

My old favorite and one that always sends shivers of hilarity and delight through the hearts of little children the world over:

A Bear and a Rabbit were taking a shit side-by-side in the woods. The Bear asked the Rabbit, “Excuse me, Rabbit, but do you have any problem with shit sticking to your fur?” and the Rabbit answered, “Why, no, Bear, I don’t.” So the Bear wiped his ass with the Rabbit.

The lovely, dark, and deep Japanese Noro…nestled right up against the cheap, American, Liddle Kiddle-colored, polyester, Red Heart SHIT Yarn that I love so very much.

You know, I doubt very much that you could come up with a more apt metaphor of who the fuck and what the fuck I am than that.

Last night, not only did my darling friend, Drag Superstar Miss Jackie Beat, quite brilliantly host and perform at Drag Queen Karaoke in West Hollywood — she brought along a little birthday treat for my fatass…which, when I saw it, made my heart race, my pulse quicken, and had me on my knees faster than a teenage dream date with The Bay City Rollers, circa 1977: a GLORIOUS, vintage, Norwegian wooden knitting caddy! It is SO CHOICE. I’ve already loaded it with all my most treasured yarns, notions, doo-dads, trinkets, and knitting accoutrement, and have even tenderly kissed it on its bottom several times. Like coming upon a nude Helen Mirren languorously lounging in a certain slant of light tilting in through a bedroom window…I just CAN’T stop gazing at it.

You know, the only thing better than a good friend who loves you just the way you are…is a GOOD FRIEND WITH FUCKING STUNNING, DROP-DEAD, DEAD-ON, IMPECCABLY GOOD TASTE, UNEQUALED EXCEPT BY YOUR VERY OWN. That would be Miss Jackie Beat. Thank you, Bitch! I’ll treasure it forever. They’ll bury my fatass in this son-of-a-bitch.

Watching this is SO making me jones for the many pleasures and delights that await us at THE TRACK.

Next year: Santa Anita in the Springtime, motherfuckers! We miss you madly, Mather Zickel and C.J. Arabia — get your sweet, Pajama Jean-wearin’ asses back out to LA and let’s go size up the paddock and pick the filly with the WILDEST eyes and the WILDEST name. We love you! xoxo

Story of my fucking life.

Inane Muff Fact #67: When my darling husband, Gregory, has one of his rather frequent bouts of insomnia, I have been known to employ the pharmacologically-sanctioned and FDA approved Oral Sleep Therapy used by wives since time immemorial, i.e., like some sort of a demented Flo Nightingale/Jenna Jameson hybrid, I GIVE HIM A NO-FUSS BLOWJOB IN THE DARK THAT KNOCKS HIS ASS OUT FASTER THAN A XANAX WITH A DOS EQUIS BACK. 

The Bechdel Feminist Test for Film: “The Bechdel Test is a simple test which requires that a film meet the following three criteria to qualify: (1) It has to have at least two women in it, who (2) talk to each other, about (3) something besides a man.”

And Holy-Mary-Mother-of-God-in-baby-blue-saddleback-Dittos, am I writing such a film right now. This one, my poppets, might just be a GOTTDAMNED GAMECHANGER.

Inane Muff Fact #994: Whenever I attend the wedding of anyone under the age of 30, I put on one of my fanciest black dresses, I bring an AWESOME gift I know the couple will adore, I celebrate and make merry with all the other cherished assembled guests — and in my head, I silently tally up how many years (or months) until they separate and divorce…an eventuality which is, of course, a mathematical certainty.

I am not feeling at all well today, and in a pathetic attempt to prop myself up enough to get some writing done, I went a little heavy on the joe…and I now feel like a plague victim ON TRUCKER SPEED. Right about now, I need another cup of coffee like the LesbianLove@AOL chatroom needs another drunk, angry, horny bulldyke using some numerical variation of “MissChatelaine” as her fucking screenname.

OFF TRACK.