Tuesday, June 29, 2010

happy man

Even though they chose to exit-stage-left FAR TOO EARLY for my liking -- and left me here all alone -- for me, sometimes only my boyfriends, David Foster Wallace and Mark Linkous, will do. I wish I were having dinner with both of them tonight. I am always in love with the heads of dead men.

yeah...what HE said

"The assumption that I agreed by mere birth to your so called 'social contract' and to your entire body of ancient and useless laws designed primarily to deform my character and limit the possibilities inherent to my essential being is an obscenity and an absurdity, Sir!" -- Marquis Donatien De Sade

Monday, June 28, 2010


Regarding The World Cup: How fucking FURIOUS is the entire globe that the annoying, bullying, obnoxious, bitch-hawg Americans are now jumping on the bandwagon of what up to this point has been the ONLY big thing in the world with which we were not really associated? Something that belonged to just them...without our arrogant, overwhelming, soul-sucking, beauty-destroying involvement and presence? Goddamn, we're OFF TRACK.


This morning I was pondering life and death and truth and mortality whilst sitting in traffic on the 5, when the following thought came into my head and I found it both clarifying and comforting: If Frank FUCKING Sinatra can die, ANY OF US CAN DIE -- and the Universe goes on...expanding and shimmering and delivering up dreams, donuts, douchebags, diet pills, Diego Riveras, dibbuks, dilettantes, Dewey decimals, and dicks.


Today I was pondering life and death and truth and mortality whilst sitting in traffic on the 5, when the following thought came into my head and I found it both clarifying and comforting: If Frank FUCKING Sinatra can die, ANY OF US CAN DIE -- and the Universe goes on...expanding and shimmering and delivering up dreams, donuts, douchebags, diet pills, Diego Riveras, dibbuks, dilettantes, Dewey decimals, and dicks.

meat to the balls

"We are the CIT's so pity us. The kids are brats the food is hideous. We're gonna smoke and drink and fool around. (We're nookie bound.) We're the North Star CIT's."

Saturday, June 26, 2010


Vacuous Muff Fact #966: The Four Right Chords CAN ABSOLUTELY make my fatass cry.

Thursday, June 24, 2010

Tuesday, June 22, 2010


A public service message to all you gullible, self-deluded, Whole Foods-shopping, Subaru-driving, hippie muthafuckas all up in through here -- and, believe me, this comes from a place of love: You can horseshit yourselves ALL you want, goddamnit -- but Nutella ain't nothin' but a Euro-trash tub o' DUNCAN HINES CHOCOLATE FROSTING...and YOU FUCKING WELL KNOW IT.


Right. Like ol' Harry Potter got ANY room to talk. Yes, Justin Bieber looks like Ally Sheedy in "The Breakfast Club"...but did you ever see Radcliffe in "Equus"? Knitter, PLEASE -- that little queen's got a Crab Ladder goin' on that'd make the gottdamned Gorton's Fisherman recoil in shock and awe.



And so begins...The Twilight Bark.

on track

"I'm open to everything. When you start to criticize the times you live in, your time is over." -- Karl Lagerfeld, age 76

Sunday, June 20, 2010

whiffenpoof...on and on.

Oh, my god...you guys and your glorious guesses have entertained my fatass like you wouldn't believe -- and jarred my ancient brain in remembering SO MANY cheap, shitty perfumes from our collective past...those scents that -- if even still manufactured -- can only be found in your dead granny's bathroom or purchased at the Rite-Aid, the TJ Maxx, or the 99 Cent Store. God bless ‘em all.

However, in my particular case, the truest cause of my shame is not that what I’m currently wearing is cheap or even archaic...because it's NEITHER of those things. In my mind, it's EVEN WORSE. This perfume, though not ridiculous in price, is certainly not inexpensive. What is so mortifying to me about this perfume is ITS NAME and ITS AESTHETIC -- and the very idea that an aesthetically discriminating, culturally savvy broad of my age (27...okay, PLUS A WHOLE LOTTA GODDAMNED SHIPPING AND HANDLING), profound life experience, AND AN IN YOUR FUCKING FACE FEMINIST STANCE would have the SHEER AUDACITY to strut her fatass around wearing a scent with this name (even though her sniffer really likes it) absolutely mortifies me. If you know me at all, you'll know that if there's one thing that drives me ABSOLUTELY OUT OF MY MIND WITH PETTY, JUDGY, FEMALE INDIGNATION...it's a dame who doesn't posses the self-confidence, self-awareness, self-enlightenment, OR DIGNITY to dress and act her goddamned age. NOTHING makes my flesh crawl like seeing a 58 year old woman sashaying about in frosted pink lipstick, an Ed Hardy tank top, towering cork wedgies, and Daisy Dukes so tenuously shredded on the undercarriage that I can see the rainbow sheen on her pastrami sandwich at 40 paces. GO FUCK YOURSELF, HONEY – as much as you’d like it to be, it ain’t 1983 and it never again will be. Move on.

But at the end of the day, and for the time being, my nose sure likes it (the perfume, not her pastrami sandwich)...so I shall continue to apply its olfactory loveliness behind my ears...behind closed doors.

Shanti, shanti, shanti...and amen.

Saturday, June 19, 2010


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.

the fifth

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.

Friday, June 18, 2010

cock blockers deluxe

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!

Thursday, June 17, 2010

i'll kick their rotten heads in

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."

Wednesday, June 16, 2010


I am quite literally and literarily being haunted by David Foster Wallace.

homicidal politics

I am extraordinarily excited at the moment because Frankie Jean the Beauty Queen, Pearlie Mae the Empress of Shitkickers & Thieves, and I are getting ready to have us a little private screening of the movie, President's Day , from up and coming filmmaker Chris LaMartina. Big ass cup of French Roast? Check. Knitting? Check. Row of adorable Chihuahua Poontang cozily swaddled in soft, sweet smelling baby blankets on my bed? Check.

Let's do this thing.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

take a swill pill, dude

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:


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:


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."


"Remember one thing: Talent always rises." -- Joan Rivers


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'.


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.

Interrogate a Hooker. Don't cost nothin'.


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.

Interrogate a Hooker. Don't cost nothin'.


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!

Interrogate a Hooker. Don't cost nothin'.

Monday, June 14, 2010


Language is constantly being morphed and created just to keep up with the rapid advancement of technology with which we live, i.e., we now have objects and experiences that didn't exist even 20 years ago.

To wit...when you are in a roomful of people and someone's cell phone vibrates or rings, and every single person immediately reaches into their pocket or purse and checks their screen...that mass motion -- that very specific collective call to action? There needs to be a word for that, gottdamnit. Bring me that word.


Can someone please, please help me dig up David Foster Wallace's brain? 'Cause I REALLY wanna make out with it. I'd like to hacksaw the top off his brilliant, adorable skullcap and eat his goddamned brains like Cap'n Crunch with Crunchberries. I am literally in love with the head of a dead man.



"An indication of radiant light drawn around the head of a saint."

When I was a little girl, I thought the first line of this song was, "Oh, Nimbus..." -- which begs not only the question of why I thought this song was about a saint -- but HOW IN THE FUCK I KNEW THE MEANING OF NIMBUS AT THE AGE OF FIVE, IN THE FIRST GODDAMNED PLACE.

That aside...christ on a cupcake, Mike Nesmith is a BRILLIANT songwriter.

Oh, and to this day, I still sometimes make out with my official Davy Jones pillowcase -- but of that, I shall speak no more.


Man, these phony, negligent, opportunistic assholes should be held accountable and fully prosecuted for risking their teenage daughter's life ALL SO THEY COULD LAND A REALITY SERIES. I call DICK MOVE. Can anybody say BALLOON BOY?

Not to mention...fake, greedy, meatfaced Christians make Jesus cry.

ds on the dl

When I was little -- like little-little...back before my Hot-boxed Filipina Fuckmachine Mother had a thousand babies and I was forced to work as a biologically-indentured Teenage Mary Poppins With Boss Hooters And A Bad Attitude/Handmaid of Satan -- when I was lucky enough to be sick and got to stay home from school, I would climb my narrow ass up on that couch with some pillows and a blanket to be all alone and watch this show. I was COMPLETELY RIVETED -- especially by the shawdowy, exterior shots of Collinswood -- SO GODDAMNED SPOOKY...and if you know me, you know that I like to keep it REAL SPOOKY. I also like to keep it REAL HONEST -- and that means admitting to you now that I recently tried to watch this show all up on youtube...and I'LL BE GODDAMNED IF IT'S NOT COMPLETELY OFF TRACK...except for this theme song. This remains COMPLETELY ALL-TALENT.

Along with "Here's the story...of a lovely lady, who was bringing up three very lovely girls", the hoppin' opening theme song of American Bandstand, the beautiful, almost plaintive notes of The CBS Children's Film Festival theme music, the soothing tones of Mr. Rogers telling me I was special just the way I was, the WAH-WAH-WAH-WAH-WAH drone of Charlie Brown's unseen teachers, and my mother's voice perpetually barking at me to wash somebody's dishes, do somebody's laundry, cook somebody's dinner, or change somebody's ass lest I be drug down the hallway by my hair...this theme song is truly one of the definitive sounds of my youth. These are what got me through to the other side and saved me:

Sunday, June 13, 2010

girl fight

Speaking of Girl Fights...my BRILLIANT best friends, Peter and Billy, and I have an ongoing 20 year schtick where we purse our lips and say to each other, "Bitch...don't MAKE me take off these hoops", or "Bitch...don't MAKE me kick off these Jimmy Choos", or "Bitch...don't MAKE me hand my Bud Light to Junior and Lil' Tiger" -- or the best: "Bitch...don't MAKE me put the baby in the stroller."


Yeah, I fight like a girl. You got a fuckin' problem with that? 'Cause we could, like, you know...step outside and discuss it.

Friday, June 11, 2010


You cannot fathom the immensity of the fuck I do not give.

girl in the boat

I am so relieved to hear that Abby Sunderland, the 16 year old who was attempting to sail solo around the globe, has been safely plucked from the Indian Ocean after SOS rescue signals were sent out from her little boat yesterday. I certainly admire this girl for her bold and adventurous nature...but as a mother, I do, in fact, have a real quick question for her parents:


In their comments to the press, they've said that Jesus put their daughter out on that boat in the first place and that it was Jesus who plucked her young ass from the sea -- but either way it might've gone...well, that was just fine with them. COME AGAIN?

What is it with these Born Again Hard Bastards that they just LOVE to sacrifice their children on the altar of the lord. THEY LOVE IT. Well, I say FUCK ALL THAT. The lord can just take somebody else's baby -- my baby ain't goin' anywhere ALL UP THROUGH THIS MOTHERFUCKER. I'll chain all three of those adorable little biatches to a wall in their bedroom and feed 'em Cap'n Crunch with Crunchberries and let 'em watch Jersey Shore until the end of time. Better to end up buried in Snooki's Orange Cookie...than Davy Jones' Locker, I say.

Shantih, shantih, shantih...and amen.

Tuesday, June 8, 2010


Sixteen years ago today, I became the mother of a beautiful boy. And, what a boy he is! Talented, hilarious, intelligent, compassionate, egalitarian, wildly interesting, and endearingly eccentric, this young man plans on being a sports journalist, which is his all-consuming passion. Not just the stats, but the magic, meaning, and mythology of sports. Bob Costas? I pity the fool. Otis, My Man...Happy Birthday! I LOVE YOU!


Merry Birfday to one of the great loves of my life -- My Sweet Wayne Cole! I would not be who I am today without all the support, guidance, and divine affection that's been lavished on me since sashaying into your class all those many years ago. I am a lucky dame to have such an awesome mentor, friend, and champion. I love you, Mr. Benchley -- always have, always will.

Your Hyacinth Girl, Mrs. Parker.


"I'm gonna keep these ol' mashed potaters down here on my end of the table because I wouldn't want ol' chubby to get ahold of 'em!" -- Great Crapaw, 1991

dreams redux

So, what you're telling my fatass is that not only did I have TOTALLY-FUN, TOP-SHELF MAKE-OUT DREAMS about you BEFORE the flurry of the GREAT 3 AM DOG PISSING...but in an almost unheard of continuation of the scandal and degeneracy, I also fell back to sleep and DREAMT OF YOU AGAIN? Even though I am OVER THE MOON for My One True Love, Gregory -- gosh, what a little strange can do for a girl's outlook...even if it takes place only in her dreams.


I CANNOT believe that I just dreamt what I dreamt about you. What a shameless, ruthless trollop.


mother and child

Muffy and Pearlie Mae in The 'No -- posing in the shitter at Supercuts whilst the darling Gregory gets his hairs cut. That's a little baby girl whose mother likes to kiss her on the lips!


An enduring image from my childhood.

This place is in my ears and in my eyes. Always.

Friday, June 4, 2010


Recently, I was at a FABULOUS Black and White dinner party thrown by my best friend, Billy Butler -- and I was lucky enough to be seated next to the hugely talented and adorable writer and actor, Tara Karsian ...who is perhaps the funniest goddamned woman I have ever known. Not like a silly, giddy, bonk herself over the head with a bowling pin sort of funny -- I am talking a SHUT YOUR SHIT THE FUCK DOWN WITH AN ICE-COLD DEAD-PAN GRANITE FACE FUNNY. She is COMPLETELY ON TRACK.

At any rate, about halfway through this posh, candlelit, star-studded affair, Miss Tara wanted to check her phone to see if she'd gotten any calls, so she slyly opened her purse under the table and checked it without actually removing it from her bag, in an attempt to keep the escaping light to a minimum. Sitting next to her, I totally noticed what she was doing and called her shit out on it, along with, of course, congratulating her on inventing such a clever subterfuge. We belly laughed out loud and decided that, henceforth, this move would officially be known as A VINCENT VEGA.

When you are raised poor or in perpetual economic peril, no matter how much money you may ever have in your life, you're always expecting to have your credit card denied, to have your check bounce, to have your power shut off, to be evicted, to be discriminated against, to be judged, to be arrested. My husband -- a Jewish doctor's son who was raised solidly in the Upper Middle Class -- finds it an absolutely mindboggling, inexplicable habit, but to this day, I still religiously save all of my store receipts -- not just because I might need to return something...but to have as an alibi should I ever be wrongly accused of a crime. That class insecurity never goes away. Ever.

Thursday, June 3, 2010

requiescat in pace, miss rue

Blanche: "Ah! Look at the shameless way she's flirtin' with him. DIS-GUSTIN'!"

Rose: "You flirted with him."

Blanche: "I'm from the South. Flirting is part of my heritage."

Rose: "What do you mean?"

Dorothy: "Her mother was a slut, too."

From one Old Slut to another -- thanks for the belly laughs. I'm gonna miss you, Miss Rue. xoxo


In saying that I am no longer able to partake of either the pixilated or the "live poon/scratch n' sniff" versions myself, I am certainly not judging others who do watch porn -- or even those who take part in its making. But, for me, it's just too much of a reminder of what can go wrong when you have children.

Yes, I know that some women -- mostly those with Betty Page bangs, Sailor Jerry tattoos, PT Cruisers, and toddler daughters named Ruby -- find empowerment in sex work...but for most, unfortunately, that's just simply not true. For most, their last hope for Ruby's future is that she would have to spend her nights taking her clothes off in front of strangers...all so she could feed and clothe her own toddler daughter, Linda (which, trust me, will be a REALLY COOL HIPSTER BABY NAME in about 20 years.)

Anyway, it's like I always say -- if, at the end of my life, I have kept those two adorable little bitches off the pole...THEN I DONE MY JOB, GODDAMNIT.


Vacuous Muff Fact #98: For the past ten years or so (or, more specifically, when our two daughters entered adolescence), pornography in all its glorious forms has been COMPLETELY ruined for both Gregory and I. Christ, I can't even enjoy a goddamned good ol' fashioned evening of belly laughter at Jumbo's Clown Room anymore without constantly being aware of the fact that I am exploiting someone else's daughter. OFF TRACK.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010

a call for baggie

This is a stock photo of my Queen Bee Creations purse...which I have had for about a million years -- the only difference being that I immediately ditched the record and replaced it with THE MOST AMAZING PROFILE PHOTOGRAPH OF MY SISTER, JENNY, DOING A HIDEOUS JABBERJAWS FACE (the glorious, chuckling citizens of Rome especially LOVED LOVED LOVED IT!)

I use this bag every single day and it has been around the world with me several times. It carries both my treasures and my necessities and is practically an extension of myself. Unfortunately, Queen Bee has inexplicably ceased making this style -- The 7" Record Truckette -- and, just like the rest of us, my beloved ol' girl has begun to show her age. I am having no luck on ebay in finding a replacement. Might there be anyone out there within range of my font who possesses such a bag and is willing to sell it to me? I promise, it will go to THE MOST ADORING, LOVING, BELLY LAUGHING HOME EVER. She will accompany me on AMAZING ADVENTURES -- of which I promise to send pictures. Let me know. Thanks!

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

requiescat in pace kassie lee

And so...the light brings with it even more incomprehensible tragedy and grief.

Yesterday evening, two of my oldest, dearest, and most treasured friends from Fresno -- Bryan and Cathy Lee -- unexpectedly lost their 21 year old daughter, Kassie, to a pulmonary embolism.

It is only natural to lionize and glorify a person upon their passing from this world -- to celebrate their character, contributions, achievements, and legacy -- even if that means remembering them in a light much rosier than they actually cast here during their life.

That is not so with Ms. Kassie Lee; she has made our job easy.

She was simply one of the most charming, sunny, dynamic, brilliant, ambitious, inspiring young women you could ever hope to meet. Her extraordinary parents imbued her with the very best of themselves (which, if you know these two amazing people, is REALLY saying something), and as a result, Kassie embodied, every single day of her life, what is best in all of us. Among her many achievements...in high school, she was a leader and shining star in the Rainbow Girls service organization, she had just graduated with honors last week from Fresno State with a BA in Mass Communications in Journalism/Advertising, and she also served as the delightful co-host of an awesome, progressive home improvement radio show along with her father, Bryan. The loss of this young woman, not only to her shattered family and friends, but to the entire world, is absolutely incalculable.

Kassie was a young woman who was doing EVERYTHING...and in the future, could have done ANYTHING. She touched more lives, achieved more dreams, did more good, inspired more people, and spread more joy in her short 21 years than most people four times her age do in their entire time on this planet. She was a uniquely amazing young woman -- and her absence here is a loss to us all.

All my love and prayers go out to you...Bryan, Cathy, Kaitlyn, Karson, and all the countless others who adored her, were changed by having known her, and will miss her...as you begin to deal with the unimaginable loss of your beautiful, brilliant, extraordinary, unforgettable, irreplaceable Kassie.

Kassandra Lee, 1988-2010.