muffy bolding

I cannot even utter aloud the name of the perfume I am wearing these days because although my picky, pissy, shitkicking sniffer absolutely adores it — my dignity prevents me from acknowledging that an old hooker as olfactively discriminating as myself would sashay about town leaving a trail of ******** wafting behind her. UNSPEAKABLE.

Vacuous Muff Fact #883: One of my greatest regrets in life is that no matter how much I may want it to be otherwise…no matter how perfectly it would augment my pose…no matter how much I may worship its creator…no matter how many goddamned times I have tried — I JUST CANNOT FUCKING STAND THE SMELL OF CHANEL NO. 5. It smells like stale, old lady perfume. So tragic.

I sleep with one chihuahua tucked beside my gunt and one chihuahua tucked between my hooters. For those undoubtedly wondering…YES, they, too, get in the way of my erotic lifestyle. BUT THEY’RE JUST SO GODDAMNED ADORABLE.

Though I am certainly known for my tact, as well as my unparalleled moral propriety, I simply don’t know how to communicate the following information in a non-offensive way…so I am going to dispense with the goddamned niceties and just say it: Both my gunt — AND my children — get in the way of my erotic lifestyle. There I’ve said it — and I feel the better person for it, as well. ONWARD!

Well, well, well…it looks like the chubby, delightful, little IMDB elves have been busy updating my professional profile for me:

Muffy Bolding is an actress. Muffy Bolding has sometimes been credited as “Butch.”

Muffy Formspring Question: “Do you go to garage sales?”

Funny you should axe this question, as, next to knitting, schtupping, reading, writing, traveling, and making movies, going to garage sales and thrift stores is just about my favorite thing in the world to do. Now that I’m old and married to My One True Love, for me, the thrill of the chase is focused on AWESOME finds at AmVets. A satanic Santa Claus from 1962? Some old wooden Fisher-Price Little People from 1964? Some old AVON Small World brooches from 1970? BETTER THAN DICK, my friends.

Muffy Formspring Question: Is the clam bald, Hitler or 70’s porn?

You know, I trim that shit up as best I can considering MY GUNT IS AN OUTRAGE.

Muffy Formspring Question: “What is the one thing your mother taught you that you actually still use to this day?”

My mother taught me how to properly fold the shit out of a bath towel. There’s actually both an art and a science to it, which I learned at the feet of the tiny, hair-pulling, face-slapping, cranberry-juice-hurling, valium-gobbling, slave-driving, Filipina master. God bless her!

Muffy Formspring Question: “What’s the best thing about your job?”

Not having to change out of my pajamas or wash my vagina before work. SO CHOICE.

Interrogate a Hooker. Don’t cost nothin’.

And THIS, my not-so-gentle readers, is supposed to be the very best of the best that we got to offer. Like I’ve been saying for the past 15 years or so — and believe me, as a poet and an absolute WORSHIPPER and SHAMELESS FANGIRL of guys like WS Merwin, Bobby Lowell, Ted Hughes, and TS Eliot…and broads like Anne Sexton, Sivvy Plath, Elizabeth Bishop, and Maggie Atwood — it breaks my heart into a million tiny fucking pieces to even utter it aloud:

Poetry, as an actual art form, IS DEAD. I’m talking DEADER THAN MY HUSBAND’S DICK WHILST LOOKING AT NUDE, EROTIC PHOTOS OF MISS SARAH JESSICA PARKER AND HER FRIGID EQUINE VISAGE AND JIMMY CHOO HORSESHOES. I’m talking NOT ALIVE here, folks.

What is passing as poetry today is 99% SWILL — absolute self-indulgent, navel-gazing, meathookian rubbish. The problem — and I’ve been bellowing this for years at anyone who would listen — is that no one is actually READING poetry…they are only WRITING poetry. Ask the editors of all the most influential poetry and lit journals in this country and they will verify what I am telling you. Readership and subscriptions are fucking VAPOR, baby — NADA. Ah! But the increase in the numbers of poetry submissions they receive every year is actually mindboggling. Tens of thousands of no-talent meathooks with computers…pouring out their poetic smegma for all the world to see — all the while having ABSOLUTELY NO MOTHERFUCKING IDEA WHAT POETRY EVEN IS. Yes, ladies and gentlemen — GARBAGE IN…GARBAGE OUT. You heard it here first:

THE POETRY MEATHOOKS AIN’T WEARIN’ ANY CLOTHES.

From the review:

“What I’d like to focus on is the aesthetic that seems strewn all over this particular anthology: poetry as a mechanical art. Walter Benjamin talked about the lost aura of the work of art in an age of mechanical reproduction. What we have here is poetry that is so seeped in the mechanics of mechanical reproduction that it seems to be looking beyond its status as a work of art, and reaching toward something of populist gnosis. It is poetry as facsimile, poetry as self-imitation, poetry as garbage in, garbage out.”