muffy bolding

This morning, my old friend — the awesome, intrepid artist, Gabriel Liston — posted simply the following as his Facebook status update: “muffybook”…to which I curiously inquired if he were referring to me…or to some hot, new, vaginally-inclined social networking site. To this, he responded: “I lay in bed while Danielle reads me your notes from her iphone. That is what I do. Everything else is gloss.”

I have to say that this might just be the nicest thing anybody ever said to an old Fresno hooker like me. Thank you for such sweetness, Herr Liston — I adore you no end. Now…pack your youngest child on ice — you know, she who sends her crazy Auntie Muffy the VERY BEST birthday wishes of all! — and ship her out same-day airmail so that I might feast on her tasty little Freddie Flintstone foots this very gottdamned evening.

My god, Dom DeLuise was a BONAFIDE GODDAMNED GENIUS. Watch this and marvel, my friends. Even though every blasted second of it is sheer brilliance, please know that when he uses his scepter to casually scratch his GUNT at :45, I am SCREAMING WITH BELLY LAUGHTER. ALL HAIL DOM!

Oh, my god, I am the only one awake in this house and I just went in and made my fatass some REALLY GOOD, REALLY STRONG French roast and while it was a’ brewin’, I did a bit of washing up…and then headed back towards my room to see if the two little sniveling piglets had yet arisen in bed with Gregory and whilst I was heading back here I realized I was actually walking and wiping my hands on a white, cotton tea towel…and just for a moment, I felt like Olivia Walton, as played by Miss Michael Learned — who always seemed to be walking into some room or other, drying her careworn hands on a tea towel with a concerned look on her face…though, to be honest, the only thing I am concerned about right now is that I wish Gregory would wake up so I could kiss his sweet face.

This Muffy Moment brought to you by Starbucks coffee and the chilly, gorgeous, grey sky that currently exists outside my bedroom window and inspires me like nothing else…except maybe a kiss from a cute, snoozy Jew boy and dos BOSS chihuahuas.

I’ve decided that I no longer wish to think. I just want to sit my fatass in a big fat gilded Roman throne and take one bite out of a turkey leg and throw it back over my shoulder before reaching for the next one…and when my subjects are brought before me, I wish to give them a quick once-over, before simply announcing (with no explanation needed beyond just my unquestionable judgment):

“ON TRACK!” or “OFF TRACK!”

Though I am a fervent, passionate, longtime supporter of gay rights — and, in fact, tend to be surrounded by magnificent gay men at all times, aka I AM THE EMPRESS OF HAGS — I still feel very strongly that the following MUST be said: Whenever you hear him speak, how much does it sound like awesome gay Congressman Barney Frank (D-Mass) IS STRUGGLING TO SPIT THE WORDS OUT AROUND THE HUGE DICK THAT’S PARKED IN HIS MOUTH?

I only fear three things in this godforsaken world:

1) Someone I love getting hurt, getting sick, or dying.

2) Becoming irrelevant.

and 3) A MOTHERFUCKING JUNEBUG FLYING INTO MY MOTHERFUCKING HAIR. God, I hate those bastards.

So, there’s MY Kryptonite. What’s YOURS?

Oh, wait. I cannot believe I forgot to include THE GRAND POOBAH of all my worst fears — the one that actually landed my fatass in a mental health facility on suicide watch at one point, way back in the delightful mists of my scandalous past: LICE.

I’m sitting at a Dodgers game with my boys, Otis and Gregory, and every five minutes I quietly pull up this photograph of my beloved boyfriend, DFW, on my iphone and pretend to make out with it…and ol’ Otis is slowly being driven mad. As a mother, my work here is done.

GO DOYERS!

Even though all good children know that the TRUEST, MOST SHIMMERING BRILLIANCE in Big Star actually dwelled within Chris Bell…that doesn’t change the fact that I’m STILL IN LOVE…WITH THIS SONG.

GODDAMNIT, I loathe Summer. I need a CHILL BREEZE blowin’ across my vagina for me to be a happy and productive person. The searing heat that is currently Los Angeles is STRICTLY OFF TRACK.

What I need right now is for the disembodied piece-of-ass that was Paul Newman, circa 1962, to rise up from the grave, slowly remove the tasteful white shirt he was buried in, and strut around up in through here like there’s no tomorrow. Mama needs to take her mind off the fact that her undercarriage currently feels like the surface of the sun — AND NOT IN A GOOD WAY.

COME TO ME, LOVERBOY.