The adorable Baby Goat moved her narrow ass into her own apartment today. Pay no attention to that weeping, wailing old Sicilian broad in the black dress standing in The BG’s empty bedroom, sobbing as though her heart might break. Trust me, this is, BY FAR, the hardest gig in the world, my poppets.
“Standing alone at the top of the stairs, she breaks down and cries to her husband, ‘Daddy, our baby’s gone…'”
My most favorite thing about coming to Dodgers games? Well, aside from the awesome goddamned Dodger dogs, of course: Watching all my working class pipples in the cheap seats do The Wave with far more enthusiasm, exuberance, abandon, and gusto than all the rich, stiff-pricked bastard motherfuckers in the entire joint. The joyless, passionless Upper-Middle Class can SUCK MY FRESNO DICK.
For all those who are always telling me that my life is so gottdamned glamorous…please allow me to tell you just exactly how glamorous it is in thirteen succinct and profoundly meaningful words: AN OCEAN OF CHIHUAHUA DIARRHEA ON MY BEDSPREAD, EVEN AS WE FUCKING SPEAK.
That is all.
A genius is someone who shoots at something that no one else can see…and fucking hits it.
From Muffy’s “Things That Are Sexy” List: FUCK cut pecs, a thick head o’ hair, and/or a hillbilly horsecock. For me, the SEXIEST virtue a man can possess is that he’s an EXTRAORDINARY FATHER. Honey, you could look like Ernest Fucking Borgnine…but if I see you gazing at your child AMAZED and tenderly kissing his or her sweet little skullcap at the bookstore when you think nobody is looking, I’M ALL YOURS, brother.
I co-wrote and am producing the son-of-a-bitch with William Butler and Peter Garcia…and today, my fatass will co-star in it as the BUTCH, circa 1976 roller disco rink manager, Miss Ingrid Harshman — a REAL BALLBUSTER. It’s a Charles Band film that is already being hailed as a cult classic — and the bastard’s not even in the can yet! Gingerdead Man 3: Saturday Night Cleaver. Tonight…NOBODY’S STAYIN’ ALIVE!
I woke up remembering a really marvelous, merry day a few years ago…spent adventuring and thrift shopping with my son, Otis, and My One True Love, Gregory, in grey, gritty Aberdeen, Washington. The inexorable clouds that clung to the ceiling above the city made my heart swell with affection for a place I’d never been before…but that nonetheless felt like home. Oh, and BEST thrift stores I’ve ever been to.
Ah, sweet Aberdeen!
I am often visited in my dreams by a sober, handsome Dean Martin. When he appears to me, he is always wearing a black tuxedo and smoking a Chesterfield cigarette. He takes my hand, smiles at me, asks me how I am doing…and I tell him. Good or bad, he listens without judgment. Sometimes he belly laughs with me — and sometimes he dries my tears. But, always…the sound of his warm, smooth, velvety voice comforts me.
“The tragedy of old age is not that one is old…but that one is young.” — Oscar Wilde
muffy bolding 