bonafide

Fred McFeely Rogers; March 20, 1928 – February 27, 2003


Among other astonishing tidbits of wisdom -- like, say, a behind-the-scenes look at how crayons are made -- Fred Rogers provided me with my very first lesson on how you can totally and completely love someone with all your heart...even someone you've never met.

In the early 1990s, I read a newspaper story about Mr. Rogers’ stint as the main guest speaker at the graduation ceremonies of some fancy Ivy League college back East. I smiled as I read that he was overwhelmingly chosen -- from among a rather large field of quite renowned and impressive possible candidates -- by the graduating students themselves.

However, because of the great affection that I felt for this man, as I read the story I distinctly remember also feeling a small, but palpable twinge of fear in my chest -- fear that perhaps this bored, jaded, favored, overly-educated, disenchanted slice of my generation had chosen him to speak at their college graduation as some supreme statement of kitsch, or even as an opportunity to poke fun at his tender, gentle ways in a very public forum.

When I got to the part about him walking to the podium to begin his speech -- in that purposeful, patient, and unhurried walk of his that we all know so well -- the protective concern that I was feeling instantly shifted into a sense of great pride, relief, and community. They hadn’t let me down.

And I began to weep. And I weep again, even now, just remembering it.

As Fred Rogers was introduced and began his walk to the microphone where he would address them, thousands of voices -- voices that were soon to take their place in positions of great power, leadership, erudition, and meaningful discourse in this nation – spontaneously and enthusiastically erupted into song; his song:

"It's a beautiful day in this neighborhood, a beautiful day for a neighbor...
Would you be mine? Could you be mine? Won't you be my neighbor?"

They hadn't invited him there to their hallowed halls to make fun of him at all. They had invited him there, with great reverence, to pay him tribute. He had -- one song, one smile, one loving word at a time -- been a part of each of their journeys to adulthood. They had asked him to be there, on this symbolic last day of their childhoods, because they loved him.

Those thousands of voices raised in song were a profound and heartfelt "thank you" for the many years that he gave them his kind, patient, and undivided attention. A voice that was there, everyday, even when parents or friends weren't. A voice that, to a tragic few, may have been the only loving and reassuring words they might hear all day.

I miss him, and his kindness...his cardigan and his sneakers...his calm, sweet voice and his silly puppets. But most of all, I miss his unfailing belief that all things are possible.

Because they are.

That simple, glimmering truth was his gift to us all.


Thank you, Mr. Rogers. This place isn't the same without you.

i ain't goin' down with a GOTTDAMNED THING

I just watched the movie, Titanic -- and in doing so, discovered how very much the years have changed me. I was surprised to find that I wasn't nearly so caught up in the romance between Jack and Rose, as I was riveted on the fact that steerage or not, poor Sicilian trash or not, locked down in the bowels of that doomed ship with all the other filthy, stinking, garlic-breathed, godless bilge rats or not -- I woulda gnawed through the hull of that rig with my goddamned teeth. There wouldn't have been any of this noble, white-people, going-down-with-the-ship-to-the-glorious-orchestral-strains of Nearer My God, To Thee horseshit. FUCK ALL THAT.

No matter what, please rest assured that MY BIG, SCRAPPY, SCANDALOUS ASS WOULD'VE SURVIVED -- and if the only way to have done that would have been to ruthlessly surf my fatass onto shore on the dapper back of the bloated, stinking, nattily-dressed carcass of John Jacob Astor...YOU CAN BET MY FATASS WOULDA BEEN SHOUTIN' COWABUNGA, MOTHERFUCKERS.

dr. tony is REAL IN

The very existence of this video proves, once and for all, the indisputable truth about the MYSTICAL, MAGICAL TRANSFORMATIVE POWERS OF BREEDING. Celebrity Chef Anthony Bourdain was the MOST HATEFUL, MOST DISDAINFUL, MOST PUNK ROCK, NON-FILTER-CAMEL-SMOKING, BUSHMILLS WHISKEY-GUZZLING BASTARD ON THE PLANET -- contemptuous of all things mainstream and middle-America. He was one of those black high-top Converse/Ramones t-shirt wearing hipsters who would flick cigs and sneer "BREEDER!" at folks pushing a stroller through Central Park. A REAL hardcore prick.

Then, three years ago, at the not so tender age of 51, Bourdain knocked up his Italian girlfriend. She delivered unto him a baby girl...who has since, of course, become the LIGHT OF HIS MOTHERFUCKING LIFE. He quit smoking cold turkey after pretty much a 40 year habit, and taught himself to slow down and really smell the "nasty bits" he was sauteing up for the worldwide audience hopelessly addicted to his travel/cooking show. To say it changed his life would be an understatement.

Want proof? Here he is -- the once scornful, bitter, curmudgeonly prick -- recently appearing on Nickelodeon's Yo Gabba Gabba...all for the love of Ariane.

get it, donna!

Histrionic, post-60s teenage Summer romance song...complete with a PERFECTLY coiffed flip. SO fucking good.

my resume

"It's silly to go on pretending that under the skin we are all brothers. The truth is more likely that under the skin we are all cannibals, assassins, traitors, liars, hypocrites, poltroons."
-- Henry Miller, Op-Ed page, N.Y. Times, September 7, 1974

don't fuck with the wolf

"This isn't right. This isn't even wrong."
-- Wolfgang Pauli, on a paper submitted by a physicist colleague

oooooh, cana-da!

Yes, we may have kicked their collective ass at Olympic hockey, much to their national horror...but when it comes to providing the most basic human right of access to quality healthcare to its citizenry, we got NOTHIN' on those FABULOUS Frostbacks. ALL HAIL CANADA!

librarian

Librarian

I have loved a hundred men—

Traveled the earth, sought them out, perused
The cafes, cathedrals, universities, auto
Shops, seaports, and hardware stores, acquiring each
Of them, a hundred strong, judging none

By just his cover. They are catalogued
All, sordid and filed, eager for my hands
To pluck, like posturing books from a potent shelf—
Waiting for me to flutter their pages,

Caress their spine, and preen their gilded edges.
They vie to seduce me with their blurbs, and impress
Me with the grandness of their frontispiece. I mouth
Their names, with a shake of the coils at my nape.

I love them all the same—

One, who paints my toenails like rich,
Italian tiles; And One who tells me
My eyes are the exact color of his first
Car, a '69 Camaro Rally Sport,
With tuck and roll upholstery.

One, who stoically bears my shame,
Gallantly returning the videos three
Days late, paying my fines
With coins of his own making;
And One who paints cerulean doors, bakes yams,
And reads Roethke aloud, like a warrior-poet.

One, watchless, who tells perfect time
By a graceful glance at a certain slant
Of light tilting in through a bedroom window;
And One who visits me in my dreams, whispering
Alchemical equations in French, altering
The composition of my leaden heart.

One who can tinker with a car and drink a beer,
While discussing Libertarian theory
And the space/time continuum;
And One who wields a hockey stick
Like a hammer of the gods, then stops
And buys me tampons on his victorious
Journey home from the icy northern rink.

One who charts the stars
From a vessel named 'Dissent';
One who roars The Wasteland
As he staggers in the snow;
One who eats thunderous apples
To fill my sullen silence;
One whose cruel, sensuous strides
Knife the air he moves through;
And One who weeps
At the sound
Of bagpipes.

I am their mistress and their keeper, these
Bound brothers, lined side by side
On the possessive shelves of my gallery.
It is my imprint between their covers.

No other book lovers are allowed to browse
My special collection, with their overdue root
Touch-ups, their screeching heels, their false
Beauty marks penciled on like dewy

Decimals, and their endless trails of perfume
On-recon. And if, peering over the top
Of my jealous spectacles, I should ever catch
Them there, sashaying my aisles,

I will raise one vengeful finger to my lips,
And shush them into nothingness.


-- Muffy Bolding

dirty andre

"The simplest act of surrealism is to walk out into the street, gun in hand, and shoot at random..." --Andre Breton

a braying brace of absolute cunts

GENIUS! Allan Uthman, the guy who writes this annual hammering of the pricks, is SO fucking brilliant that I was actually moved to send him a fan letter a few years ago in which I told him his writing is SO GODDAMNED GOOD...that I'd blow him for the difference. Let's just say HE APPRECIATED IT.


The 50 Most LOATHSOME Americans:

#35. Teabaggers

Charges: America’s dumbest and most racist citizens finally found a cause they could all get behind that isn’t pro wrestling or NASCAR. The Lolcats of protest sign grammar, they think scare quotes actually make things scary (e.g. ‘Obama is a “communist”’). They don’t understand that they’re duped showpieces for billionaires who threaten their freedom and prosperity far more than their beloved nemesis, Big Gubmint. And their instant escalation from complacent couch potatoes to rhetorical revolutionaries just happened to coincide with the election of a black Democrat with the middle name Hussein. What are the chances?

Exhibit A: They called it Teabagging first.

Sentence: To star in an extremely patriotic, live ammunition reenactment of the Battle of Bunker hill.


The 50 Most Loathsome Americans, 2009

a bonnie boy

“I doubt I would recognize Lady Gaga if she walked into a room unless she had a wedding cake on her head." -- Stephen Fry

I ADORE Craig Ferguson, I adore Stephen Fry, and I adored Tom Snyder and My Dinner With Andre...and I ADORE this idea: a late night talk show host KICKIN' IT OL' SCHOOL. As intelligent, honest, and engaging as Ferguson is -- not to mention HILARIOUS -- I would watch this flavor of talk show every goddamned night. It feels very REAL and low-tech -- akin to reading an actual book you can hold and smell, or having a conversation with someone's flesh and blood face, as opposed to just their pixilated picture on a computer screen. Fuck the braying, extraneous audience -- ship 'em back to Omaha. What I want to see and hear is just two people talking...surrounded by delicious, beloved, empty silence...just waiting for them to fill it. BRING IT.

Craig Ferguson last night: no audience, one guest, a great hour of TV

ah, genius poetry!

The reason I like Edna St Vincent Millay
Is that her name
sounds like a basketball falling down stairs.

The reason I like Walt Whitman
Is that his name
sounds like Edna St. Vincent Millay
falling down stairs.

-- David Mamet

you gotta love winston

"We are all worms, but I do believe I am a glow worm."
-- Winston Churchill

the stench of redemption

Upon entering into our bedroom, where my sweet husband, Gregory, is lying and reading The New Yorker:

Me: "Jesus Christ, Baby -- what is that smell? It smells like shit in here."

He: (without even looking up from his magazine) "It must be my soul."

XXX pawn

The show "Pawn Stars" is nothing but an "Antiques Roadshow" for the trashy, working class scalliwags of the world -- which explains why I fucking love it so much.

cacada

The one thing we all have in common is that we are forced, by physiology, to everyday maneuver the material world, i.e., we have BODIES. So, when trying to bring people together, I think the very best PLACE to start is to have a person answer the following question: Have you ever shit your pants, and if so, what were the circumstances? In the name of world peace, international relations, and HUGE BELLY LAUGHS, I plan on compiling a book of these stories someday. FECES IS THE GREAT EQUALIZER.

mr. mike

"Living well and ripping your enemy's still-beating heart out with your bare hands is the best revenge." -- Michael O'Donoghue

i love me some zelda sayre, goddamnit

“There seemed to be some heavenly support beneath his shoulder blades that lifted his feet from the ground in ecstatic suspension, as if he secretly enjoyed the ability to fly but was walking as a compromise to convention.” -- Zelda Fitzgerald

i like to keep it REAL WITCHY

"I have come to the conclusion that pagans are evil -- not because they get in touch with the devil or warp the minds of the young or are responsible for more bad heavy metal art than anyone else, but because they have such appalling taste. I mean, sure, get in touch with the Great Spirit, run through the woods and kill a goat. But do you have to do it while wearing crushed velvet harem pants, Robin Hood shoes, pentagram jewelery and a purple satin cape?" -- Brendan Shanahan, in an editorial titled Bring Back the Witch Hunt, The Daily Telegraph.

DON'T DO IT

Muff Pet Peeve #664: People who UNDER-ORDER in restaurants. Last year, we were visiting my sister, Mo, and her family up in Fresno, and one night we all went out for pizza at Me 'N Eds, a local joint with REALLY YUMMY grub. Now, this has absolutely NOTHING to do with money nor the willingness to spend it -- this is just some bizarre, fucked-up pathology which, once set in motion, found 7 adults and one child sitting around a table with one medium pizza to be split among them. I was STARVING and FURIOUS. Big Fattie don't play that shit.

hey, cuz!

Odd Muffaletta Fact #1612: My husband Gregory's first cousin, Robert Rhine, is the founder, publisher, and "Deaditor-In-Chief" of the taut skin/rotting flesh horror/comedy magazine, "Girls and Corpses." Bob, who also portrays Rod Serling in the "The Twilight Zone Tower of Terror" ride at Disneyland, is the son of actress Hazel Shermet, who played Morticia's sister, Melancholia, on The Addams Family television series, and writer Larry Rhine, who wrote the EPIC "Hey, you guys! [BONK!] Oh, my nose!" episode of The Brady Bunch.

the moon and sixpence

“Now the war has come, bringing with it a new attitude. Youth has turned to gods we of an earlier day knew not, and it is possible to see already the direction in which those who come after us will move. The younger generation, conscious of strength and tumultuous, have done with knocking at the door; they have burst in and seated themselves in our seats. The air is noisy with their shouts.” -- Somerset Maugham

cute jew boy

My One True Love.

i want to make out with keef

"The world bursts at the seams with people ready to tell you you're not good enough. On occasion, some may be correct. But do not do their work for them. Seek any job; ask anyone out; pursue any goal. Don't take it personally when they say 'no' -- they may not be smart enough to say 'yes.'" -- Keith Olbermann

the force

When you have teenagers in the house, you can never, ever fuck. All we have to do is quietly shut our goddamn door and those kids -- dickin' around on Facebook and listening to Lady Shithead in their own rooms -- will suddenly look up from what they are doing and scan the air...as if sensing a disturbance in The Force. Within 30 seconds, they are knocking on our door looking for Starbucks money and a ride. Here is my theory: You spend the first half of your life hiding your sexuality from your parents...and the second half hiding it from your children.

One word: INFANTICIDE.

somewhere...over the rainbow

And speakin' about my mother's cooter...I want Charlie Sheen and that crack-het he's married to to have yet another baby they can't take care of and to call it RAINBOW SHEEN.

"rainbow sheen" is the name of my new band

You know how sometimes when you buy pastrami, if you look at it in just the right light it has that RAINBOW SHEEN on it? Yeah. That rainbow sheen is why I don't eat pastrami. Well, that and the fact that it looks exactly like my Filipino mother's vagina.

in the end, the love you take...is equal to the love you make

The way I see it, The Beatles were present at both the birth and death of the idea that was the 60's. If that single, resounding, earthshattering, opening chord of the film Hard Day's Night represented its jubilant beginnings...then the words "Helter Skelter" ruthlessly scrawled in blood across the wall of a hilltop home in Los Angeles most certainly signaled its end.

dave is god

I have always taught my children that you can find god anywhere -- ESPECIALLY in the most unexpected places. For example, when I hear Dave Grohl unleash his thunderous, machine gun drumming in the first 20 seconds of Nirvana's "Breed", I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I am in the presence of the divine. It is breathtaking.

wrong, wrong, wrong

Facebook is just SO fucking wrong on so many different levels. I ask you: would you EVER throw a cocktail party and invite your mother, your boss, your ex-husband's new wife, your drug dealer, the cousin you made out with when you were 14, your son's geology teacher, the minister who baptized your daughter, and the guy you drunkenly banged on the hood of his Pantera in 1985 as if you were Tawny Fucking Kitaen in a goddamned Whitesnake video? FUCK NO. And yet, there they all are.

mamaphonic

Mamaphonic book tour.

Writers Lli Wilburn, Maia Rossini, Bee Lavender, and Muffy Bolding...at the MIGHTY Atomic Books, Baltimore, 2004.

oh, the possibilities!

From the Muffy Bolding "Just Fucking Say What You Really Mean" Files:

In old movies, when a man and woman get back to her place and she coyly tells him to help himself to a drink while she goes and "freshens up" -- what she really means is "You start gettin' liquored up, motherfucker, while I go squat in the bathtub with some really hot water and a bar of Lux soap so's I can wash my possibilities."

east village awesome

In December, Gregory and I spent a grand and glorious evening at Bluestockings Books in New York City, listening to Ayun Halliday and Victoria Law (and others) read and discuss zines, feminism, and girl culture. SUCH complete awesomeness was made even more awesome by the fact that it was snowing outside for the duration. There ain't nothin' like snow in NYC. So lovely.

After eating a yummy Chinese food dinner with her afterward, Gregory is -- just like the rest of us -- smitten with the fabulous writer, zinester, and all around FAB GAL, Ms. Halliday...whom he called, "An interesting combination of goofy and sexy." And how! Order her books! Read her zines! Follow her exploits! And discover for yourself the Hilarious Hoosier Heinie deliciousness that is Ayun.

The FABULOUS Ayun

cardigan resemblance

From the Inexplicable Life Files of Muffy P. Bolding: Whilst at the MIGHTY Bust Craftacular in NYC in December, NO LESS THAN FOUR separate crafty girls approached me to tell me I look exactly like Exene Cervenka. Other than the red lipstick, the thick waist, and the ever-present cardigan, I find this comparison absolutely baffling.

knitta, please

To all our Knittas out there: If you are on Ravelry -- and have a knitting obsession, a foul mouth, and a scandalous soul -- please join the group founded there by myself, CJ Arabia, and Kimberly Scott -- The Vulgarian Yarn Mafia! We carry sharp, pointy sticks and are planning a hilarious, hostile takeover of the planet. Join us in our revolution, won't you?

Vulgarian Yarn Mafia

festival of cherry pez

As a rabid and LONG TIME collector of PEZ dispensers -- I have WELL over 500 -- I must say that this awesome menorah, cleverly fashioned from the recent Star Wars collectors set, makes me downright moist.

truth

As a child, I fervently believed that Mincemeat Pie was made from mouse meat...and therefore, refused to eat it.

knit in public!

Mark your calendars, my Scandalous Knitty Exhibitionists! "World Wide Knit in Public Days 2010" are the 12th & 13th, as well as the 19th & 20th, of June. The Vulgarian Yarn Mafia Los Angeles Chapter will undoubtedly hold some sort of a gathering -- come join us if you're in town! Sharp sticks and even sharper tongues -- that's us!


KNIT, BITCHES.

the year of the tiger

I am FAR less offended by Tiger Woods' OUTRAGEOUS pussyhound behavior than I am by his BELLY LAUGHABLE TASTE IN VAGINE. You'd think with all his simolians that he'd only go in for TOP SHELF COOTER. Those broads he's bangin' look like Tuesday night at Jumbo's Clown Room.

the ring

At his high school graduation party, John Mellencamp broke up with his girlfriend so he could fuck college broads. When he asked for his class ring back, the girl was so furious that -- in front of a 100 people -- she pulled the ring off, reached under her skirt, pushed it into her vagina, and loudly announced, "You want your ring back, motherfucker? THEN COME AND GET IT!"

According to Mellencamp, some 40 years later, she still has it.

a pirate's life fer me!

How much do I love that I have three babies who, when in Disneyland, NEVER EVER fail to call me when they are about to step onto The Pirates of the Caribbean ride because it is collectively our favorite place in the world? I love to hear them DEEPLY INHALE the dank, watery, delightfully evocative smell of the place, and exclaim, "I'm getting on the boat, Mommy! I love you and wish you were here!"

SO ON TRACK.

truth

To paraphrase the words of the brilliant Doug Stanhope: Why would you want to wash away your sins? YOUR SINS ARE THE MOST INTERESTING THING ABOUT YOU MOTHERFUCKERS.

babies!

FUCK NEW YORK. They need to send all these babies to MY HOUSE! I love these babies! I want FLEETS of these babies! These are BABIES and that makes them babies and Mommy likes to kiss them ON THE LIPTH!


Babies!

purple haze

Apparently, the Charlie Band movie we shot in a genuinely haunted Italian castle last year -- 'DEMONIC TOYS 2: PERSONAL DEMONS", directed by the amazing William Butler -- is now available on iTunes to buy or rent! Get your fatasses a clickin', motherfuckers!

This is the seance scene -- starring the stunning Miss Selene Luna, whom I worship and adore. And yes, the EVIL, TWISTED, HIDEOUS, BELLOWING DEMONIC BELLY LAUGHTER YOU HEAR IS MY VERY OWN. I'm like a poor man's Ursula, for chrissake. Also in the film are the awesome actors Alli Kinzel, Elizabeth Bell, Leslie Jordan, William Marquart, and Michael Citriniti, with Miss Jane Wiedlin as the delightfully demented voice of Baby Whoopsie. Yet another BRILLIANT casting extravaganza by that industry legend, Miss Frances Rhyne. God bless her.

truth

"Chewbacca Buffet" is my new stripper name.

lucid dreams

Miss CJ and I spent Saturday night at the gorgeous Hollywood hilltop home of Tamra Spivey and Ronnie Pontiac, of the amazing band, Lucid Nation. The sangria was glorious, the paella was divine, the view was breathtaking, and the company and conversation were BEYOND EXTRAORDINARY. It is a night I shan't soon forget. The stuff of which dreams are made, indeed. Thank you, Tamra and Ronnie, for the BEST TIME EVER. And Happy Birfday, Ronnie!

dame on flim

My fave movies of the past decade? "Little Miss Sunshine" and "Slumdog Millionaire" -- two films that felt "small"...and yet both made my spirit soar. As I sat in a dark theatre watching them, I recall looking at the delighted, rapturous faces all around me and thinking, "THIS is why I come to movies -- and THIS is what movies CAN and SHOULD be: extraordinary characters, extraordinary story."

Optimus Prime can suck my dick.

band geeks CAN FUCK

This is the astounding circus punk marching band, Mucca Pazza. They are all old band geeks who get together and tour the country and TURN THAT SHIT OUT. The next time these awesome motherfuckers come to LA, I am SO going. Listen to this tune and imagine my big fatass snaking through that crowd doing a BIG FAT GENIE DANCE. SO ALL!

truth

The world is a poorer, much less interesting place without Johnny Cash in it.

i'll be back again and again and again and again...

One of my favorite songs of all time and one that I have requested be played at my bacchanalia/wake when my fatass finally exits-stage-left for scandalous and delightful regions beyond. I AM a highwayman.

"I fly a starship across the Universe divide, and when I reach the other side...I'll find a place to rest my spirit ...if I can. Perhaps I may become a highwayman again. Or I may simply be a single drop of rain...but I will remain -- and I'll be back again, and again and again and again and again..."

cacada

Last month I saw The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus and, I gotta tell you, it was in the TOP FIVE WORST FILMS I HAVE EVER SEEN -- and trust me, I have seem some bad fucking movies. Aside from the production design -- which, like all Gilliam films, was positively exquisite -- watching this film was like gazing at an extraordinarily beautiful, yet boring, and completely insane woman...who hurls her turds at you.

I am still not recovered.

keep stirring the sauce!

Last month, the BIG Texas-Alabama game was played like five seconds from my house and all day there were noisy goddamned news choppers following me EVERYWHERE...vast, humming, rotating legions of 'em. It was like Goodfellas up in this motherfucker -- the only thing missing was the muscle car, the cool 70s tune, the brown paper bag full of untraceable handguns, and the EXTREME cocaine sweats and paranoia.

Shit...that's like a Tuesday night for me.

"sing out, june!"

"You can uh...you can uh...you can uh...uh...uh -- that's how Burlesque was born. So I uh...and I uh...and I uh...uh...uh...but I do it with a horn! Once I was a schleppa, now I'm Miss Mazzeppa, with my revolution in dance. You gotta have a gimmick, If you wanna have a chance! If you wanna stump it, bump it with a trumpet! Get yourself a gimmick and you, too, can be a star!"

spooooon

OH, YEAH. Spoon's "Cherry Bomb" is my fucking groove for the day. Christ, when those horns come in, it's like touching the face of god. I wish you could see my fatass snaking and strutting around this goddamned room right now -- sort of a combination of Little Eva doing the Locomotion...and Spicoli bringin' it home onstage at the Big Dance Finale in "Fast Times." Man, life is amazing, NOW IDN'T IT?

pat and rush can suck my dick

You wanna know "What Jesus Would Do"? Jesus would tuck his greasy, girlish bouffant behind his ears, jauntily lift the front of his stinking, homespun robes, get a good running start, and kick both Pat Robertson and Rush Limbaugh right in their ignorant fucking tacos. Jesus ruled.

black, white, and blue

"When I think about my relationship with America, I feel like a battered wife: Yeah, he knocks me around a lot, but boy, he sure can dance." -- Sarah Vowell, Take the Cannoli: Stories from the New World

true dat

Muffy Bolding is eatin' chili dogs and lettin' shit slide.

you can't sell your soul to rock n' roll if you never had one to begin with

Here is my official Vulgarian edict for the day: If you regularly listen to John Mayer, Phil Collins, The Dave Matthews Band, Hootie and the Blowfish, Jack Johnson, or Jewel...you have NO SOUL and if you have no soul, YOU CAN'T FUCK and YOU NEVER COULD. PERIOD. That is the beginning and the end of it.

Now fuck off, lady.

orville redenbacher, dds

The most interesting thing about Jewel is that she always looks like she's got a mouth full of popcorn -- and coming from the trashy, working class myself, I can totally respect a broad with fucked up teeth.

RIP, lee

"Whilst on Savile Row, Alexander McQueen's clients included Mikhail Gorbachev and Charles, Prince of Wales; McQueen recounted in an interview that he once wrote the words 'I am a cunt' in biro into the sleeve lining of a suit he was working on for Prince Charles."

He was the most irreverent, innovative and completely original designer of our time -- and now, just like that, he is gone. Requiescat in Pace, Lee.

yarny don't play that shit

You know you're addicted to knitting...when you knit whilst taking a dump.

That is all.

power, my fatass

Whenever I hear one of those hideous power ballads from the 70's or 80's, IT MAKES ME WANNA KICK ASS. Home Tonight by Aerosmith, Faithfully by Journey, or Home Sweet Home by Motley Crue. Those horseshit songs were written by musicians for their wives and girlfriends back home OUT OF PURE GUILT because those boys were out on the road gettin' some SERIOUS pussy. Those aren't power ballads -- they're PACIFICATION BALLADS.

addendum

Odd Muffaletta Fact #8772, Addendum: Aunt Hazel also played Morticia's sister, Melancholia, on the AWESOME 60's television series, The Addam's Family. She was also the wife on the famous vintage Alka Seltzer commercial who, when her husband groaned, "I can't believe I ate the whole thing", answered back, "BELIEVE IT, HARRY." Looking into Aunt Hazel's face is just like peering back into my childhood.

good god

Odd Muffaletta Fact #8772: My husband, Gregory's, Aunt Hazel was the voice of Henrietta Hippo on the marginally disturbing 70's children's show, New Zoo Revue. Do you have any idea how absolutely dumbfounding it is to attend a family dinner and hear Henrietta Hippo's shrill, unmistakeable voice shrieking your name from across the restaurant?

oddball

"Enough with the negative waves, Moriarty. Why don't you say something righteous and hopeful for a change?"

ceejie weejie

A Merry Birfday to Miss CJ Arabia...one of the most amazing, generous, loving, hilarious, talented, compassionate, fearless broads I have EVER known! Thank you for teaching me to knit, thank you for always encouraging me to forge ahead with my dreams with NO FEAR, but mostly, thank you for being such an extraordinary friend -- my life is exponentially more AWESOME with you in it. I love you, Ceejwick the Magical Elf!

opie!

Now what are the goddamned chances that I would have the opportunity to play the word OPIATE in two separate games of Lexulous in one night? And this coming from a person who always has TONS of vicodin around (doctors just LOVE to give it to my fatass, for some inexplicable reason) but wouldn't ingest that nauseating nonsense if my life depended on it.