Can O' Whup-Ass

On your 50th birthday

*sigh*

So. How's junk?

Lots happened since we saw you last, looking (forgive us) less than your best in that sterile chamber; silent, save the regular beeps and whirrings of all that infernal machinery.

Where to start? Chronologically: an election was stolen, the twin towers (and a nation's optimism) reduced to dust, a war or two. We've fallen in (and out of) love. Worked several jobs.  The writing briefly took off, then stalled. In short, life has been occurring. Time has its pedal to the metal these days; milestones fly by in a dizzying blur.

Some developments you'd find interesting: marriage equality and the supreme court stare each other down at the OK corral. Soon our soldiers will be allowed to be gay, honest and employed – all at the same time. A recent rash of homo teen suicides has God's favorite country shaking its head and tossing the word "tragic" around like frisbees at a picnic (we suppose we should be grateful that suddenly it's "tragic"). There's even a YouTube phenomenon called "It Gets Better," where hundreds of well-meaning folks, famous and not, have posted video platitudes for gay youth about how everything gets better.

It's a lovely lie. You knew that better than anyone, having made one clumsy attempt in your youth. Suicide happens when "tomorrow" is too long and terrible a road between "today" and "it gets better." What's more, it doesn't "get better." But we do develop spines. We grow into our armor. Those slings and arrows become easier to deflect.

The two of us are of a certain era, aren't (weren't) we? We're the ones who came of age while watching the ones we adored morph by the dozen from "happy, youthful and vibrant" to "blind, emaciated and incontinent," sometimes in the space of a month.

Our coping mechanism was withdrawal. Numbness over fury. We seldom cried. But now in our 46th year, the ice has thawed a tad. The novocaine's worn off. Some of us are lonelier that we'd prefer to admit. There are so many of you we miss. Maybe we drink more than we ought.

Middle age crises strike every man, of course. Suddenly we feel a tender brotherhood with the poor sap we used to ridicule; the one driving his Corvette down the avenue, hair plugs to the wind, Huey Lewis blaring on the stereo. A lesson you'll mercifully never learn: it's terrifying for a dude, waking up to discover he's past his prime. But enough about us.

What an infuriating, original, beautiful and flat-out cra-zay-zay creature you were. The consummate host who could (and frequently did) clear a room with a venomous remark. You were the big brother we never had, and we fought accordingly. Often. But lord, how you were loved. By everyone.

Your final night on terra firma, we got what we knew would be our last look at you. The faint furrow in your unconscious brow, your body heaving slightly as you refereed the hushed battle between AIDS and your respirator, those impossibly blue eyes clinched shut. Somehow we wound up on the floor, our cheek against the lime green tile of Beth Israel's terminal ward, our nose filled with Pine-Sol clean. We never cried harder or longer, before or since.

Through the alchemy of time, we turn around and a decade separates us from the tiled floor of Beth Israel. We can still smell the Pine-Sol, though.

Remembrance has its irony. We're the big brother now, to the memory of that sweet man on cusp of 40, hooked up to a breathing machine. Funny, isn't it? Life's unexpected reversals.

It's a beautiful autumn Sunday. The air's crisp, the sun brighter than it has a right to be, the sky so blue it borders on cruelty. So...

So we raise a glass (ginger-ale, tonight) to your miserable, glorious, bi-polar, gorgeous ass.

Happy birthday, B.

You would have been fifty today.

xox
WAM

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A Christmas Card to Hayden Wright: Cross-dressing Alcoholic Toddler-Grinch

Merry Christmas, Hayden!

You know, Santa's well into the "checking-it-twice" phase of his annual naughty-nice list making. And we suspect when he comes across your name the fat man's likely to pop a gasket. 

Near as we can tell, this is how things went down. Daddy is incarcerated. Mommy has (sensibly) decided to divorce him. And you (perhaps the coolest four-year-old EVER), have made clear your intentions to enter the criminal underworld so that you might enjoy some maximum security father-son time. Last Tuesday night, you pinched a couple beers from the fridge and slipped out of the house while mumsy was watching CSI: Miami. A spectacular bender ensued: 

1. You chugged a brew.
2. Feeling a tad bold, you broke into a neighbor's house and stole their Christmas presents.
3. Soon thereafter, examining the night's take, you took immediate fancy to a frilly lil' dress. You stripped and slipped into the frock, pulling it over your spiderman underoos.
4. To celebrate your new-found freedom, you cracked another can o' suds and went for a stroll through town (presumably to go a-honky-tonkin').
5. You caught the attention of a kindly policeman, who found it slightly odd to encounter an inebriated transves-tyke prancing through the town commons on a Tuesday.
6. You were invited to the hospital where you were treated for acute drunknicity. Evench, you were released to the care of your remarkably competent mother.

So. Hayden. Here's the thing. According to every nauseating Christmas special ever made, we're supposed to be in touch with our inner child right about now. Tradition demands our hearts be filled with good cheer, that we join hands with Cindi-Lu Who and sing a song about how there's peace on earth and goodwill towards all men and stuff. You know, we're supposed to lie to each other, and save our receipts.

But thanks, Hayden, for reminding us of two very basic truths that NO ONE ever admits to.

First, for most people, Christmas is miserable. We pretend it's not; we act like we LOVE being reunited with bickering and/or bitter loved ones so we can exchange hideous sweaters and drink ourselves stupid. Or we find ourselves alone, all misery and no company. Maybe we're faced with hardships, we're failures who can't afford to buy our kids the gadgets television convinces them they deserve. Perhaps it's all so rote now, a seasonal calisthenic now drained of all meaning; so we coast through it, anesthetized, a hollow smile plastered to our faces with egg nog. Odds are, whoever claims to love Christmas is either in grade school or lying. Yeah, we said it.

Second, most children (unless they're your own) are insufferable. They are booger-eating, pants-pooping tantrum throwers. They scream daggers into our ears in airplanes and movie theatres. They have deplorable fashion sense and they're chronic attention whores. Yes, everyone thinks their child is a genius, but in reality almost every below-fiver is a barely endurable dimwit.

But you, Hayden. You. Are. Awesome.

We suspect you're endlessly entertaining and know you're destined for celebrityhood. We hail your brilliant actions as high performance art. Your brazen behavior reminds us what we've let this holiday become: 'tis the season of excessive drinking, retail sales and suicide. And all of us, were we as acquainted with that inner child as the yule tide demands, would cut loose, raise a little hell, dress like a tart and sashay down main street like a drag George Bailey mincing through a recession-choked Bedford falls.

And although you've been colossally naughty, we believe your parent's stockings are the ones Santa's  going to stuff with coal.

The one gift we think you most deserve?

Without a doubt, your own reality series.

xox
WAM

Cindi-Lu Who sez: "F*ck it, all I want for Christmas is a subscription to this blog's feed."

Dear Mike Penner

When you wrote that heart-breaking, brave article about your decision, as a sports writer for the LA Times, to send back your kielbasa for the clam dish (and asked that everyone refer to you as "Christine"), we were in your corner. You handled it with more humor and good grace than we could fathom.

When you decided you'd had enough of Christine (and her split ends) and were returning to Mike Penner, we had fun at your expense. We said that unless you're Mr. Potato Head, genetalia are not easily interchangeable. We also urged you to pick a gender and stick with it. This ain't a game of musical chairs, we chortled.

And now. Now you decided to kill yourself.

Goddammit, Mike.

We curse the demons that tormented you. We feel shame for making light of your game of "pin the tail on the gender."

You didn't have to do this. You were loved, regardless of what you packed 'neath your underoos.

So now, as you stand naked before your maker, vulnerable (liberated?), ask Him what He intended. Did he aim to make a Mike or was he really going for a Christine? And know, down here on this mortal coil, it didn't matter a damn whether you had an "innie" or an "outie."  You were a member of the family of man. A being of value and beauty. 

Would that we could have made you feel more welcome in your skin. And that you were able to love yourself for the fabulous creature you were.

Sleep tight, bitch. You better work.

xox
WAM

A Gal Named Stu

Sometimes, as in the case of LA Times sports writer Mike Penner, a dude decides to send back his plate of bratwurst in exchange for the clam dish. Or in the case of Chastity Chaz Bono, a gal realizes she's not in the mood for meat pie, and opts instead for the kielbasa. In either case, it requires a brass set of cojones to willingly have one's shame hose hacked off and replaced with a batcave (or vice versa). It's not like having one's cavity filled. This is not an out-patient procedure. As we've mentioned previously, unless you're Mr. Potato-head, genitalia are not easily interchangeable.

And of course, transgendered folks make the Jesus crowd all nervous. Any man in a dress (who isn't Milton Berle or Flip Wilson) makes them all fidgety. The sight of Ru Paul makes them want to vacuum their Volvos. If a man isn't the pope, he simply cannot flounce about in a gown. And of course, there's a blossoming fear that under Obama's health plan everyone will be forced to have sex changes. It's ironic that the uberconservative Iranian theocracy will execute a dude for fagnicity, but accepts gender identity displacement as a valid medical condition; if you chop it off and wear a hijab, they won't give you a rope necktie. But that's neither here nor there. Let's get into the meat of things, shall we?

Meet Stu Rasmussen. Girlfriend has recently undergone sexual reassignment AND been elected mayor of Silverton Oregon (we admire multi-taskers). Since being freshly equipped with a set of boobalicious ta-tas and corresponding oopsie hole, Lady Stu has been displaying the merchandise; she showed up for a speaking engagement at a children's charity clad in a mini skirt over a backless one-piece bathing suit and open-toed "f*ck me" pumps. This prompted yelly vibrator hobbyist Bill O'Reilly to yell about how trannies are harming the kiddies. But f*ck O'Reilly. He's retarded and yelly.

We'd like to address Ms. Stu:

Dear Mayor Rasmussen,

First, get a load of you. How many years have you longed to shake your maracas and mince about like Mitzy Gaynor? It must be terribly liberating. So you go, girl.

What's more, we believe our country needs more transgendered mayors. For instance, if Lady Bunny was Mayor of New York, everything would instantly be much more entertaining (we imagine Bunny at a press conference spontaneously lip-syncing "Come on-a My House"). But more to the point, city hall would be whipped into shape faster than you can say "sashay shantay." One does not irk a queen and live to see tomorrow. The only thing scarier than an angry transsexual is a premenstrual minotaur.

But we have some issues. First, you've endured the discomfort of having your pants worm refashioned into a hoo-hoo. You've had more estrogen jabs than all of the Golden Girls put together. Why then are you still named Stu? To our mind, you look like a Babette or a Prudence. That settles it; hereinafter you shall be Babette.

See, Babs, it's like this. We really have no qualm with an ex dude tarting himself up like Lady GaGa and slinking into a Children's Charity fund raiser. Kids will accept you; they've been acquainted with gender illusionists since Tinky Winky pranced onto the scene like Lola Falana at a Key West gay bar, since Lady Elaine vamped about on Mr. Rogers Neighborhood. And it's not that we object to the fact that you're uglier than a pole cat on a mud fence. Just because you couldn't win the Miss Landmine Pageant even if the judges were blind doesn't mean you're incapable of holding office. Heck, Golda Meir looked as if she'd been hit in the face with a shovel more than once and that broad was serious.

No, our main beef is taste, or your tragic lack thereof. If Mayor Bloomberg marched in the Saint Patty's parade clad in fuscia spandex biker shorts and pasties, it would be inappropriate (though certainly amusing). Likewise, if Los Angeles Mayor Antonio Villaraigosa attended a ribbon-cutting ceremony dressed as Charo, eyebrows would raise. Babette, a bitch cannot expect to dress up like disco gidget at public appearances AND retain the dignity of elected office. You are hereby sentenced to open a charge account at Dress Barn. Pick out a lovely pants suit or three. Some tasteful separates. Invest in some closed-toe flats, stat! (and, not for nuthin, maybe some moisturizer)

Save the hoochie-mama get-up for latin night at karaoke. Capice?

xox
WAM

Stu Rasmussen sez: "I like to dress up like a whore and subscribe to this blog's feed."

Dear Mable Peabody

Hiya Mable,

We have no idea who you are, but we're inclined to like you. First of all, we suspect you're hilarious after your third harvey wallbanger.

Beyond that, this must be said: there's multi-tasking and there's multi-tasking. For instance, we recall watching a beauty pageant as a child and were enthralled by one particular contestant whose talent was tap-dancing as she juggled lit torches. While we doubted she'd have much practical real-world application for her spectacular tap-juggling, it was nevertheless an intriguing skill-set.

But Mable, the ability to give a bitch a rinse-and-set, while adjusting the carburetor on a McCulloch MXC kicks tap-juggling's ass.

We live, Ms. Peabody, in the era of one-stop shopping. We've seen everything from laundromat/tanning salons to dog-grooming chiropractors.

With that in mind, we admire the entrepreneurial spunk required to open the world's first go-to resource for the sensible lady who'd like her permanent did while getting her chain drive greased. Or for that matter, your establishment is a convenient alternative for the discerning transvestite logger whose fuel line is clogged yet who also needs his brows tweezed and his roots touched up. 

However, we are just a wee bit concerned that in the middle of an unforeseen rush you might inadvertently give a henna rinse to a refurbished Black and Decker and replace some poor woman's front hand grip and tighten her bar nuts. We also hope you're even-keeled and you avoid the meth, because on a bad day you might snap and give a gal a little off the top with a turbo-charged Husqvarna 359.

Why, that would make about as much sense as Paul Bunyan trying to fell a sequoia with a lash curler.

xox

WAM

Mable sez: "I subscribed to this blog's feed while giving a frost-n-tip to an Echo CS-341." 

The Great Bambi Pie Challenge!!

Holy crap. This is Sweeney Todd meets The Yearling.

On Saturday, we wrote a lovely letter to one Mrs. Dorothy Richardson, the Ohio octogenarian who, upon seeing a fawn sitting rudely amongst her zinnias, grabbed a shovel and pounded its skull into mulch.

This prompted an unsolicited plethora of venison recipes from our demented readership. Appalled, we queried whether anyone had a recipe for Bambi Pie; and it was Psychocat to the rescue. Here's the recipe:

Ingredients:
2 lb venison steak
1 medium onion, chopped
1/2 lb button mushrooms, sliced
3 tablespoons of lemon juice
1 cup of red wine
¼ cup of bacon fat
¼ cup of flour
1 teaspoon of chili powder
½ teaspoon of ground mace
4 bay leaves
½ teaspoon celery seed
1 recipe of rich pastry crust (double crust)

Preparation Instructions:
1. Cut the venison into 1" cubes & roll them in lemon juice. 
2. Mix flour & chili powder in a flat dish. Dredge the venison cubes in mixture. 
3. Heat the bacon fat in large skillet & brown the meat. Sauté the onion and mushroom in another pan with a little butter at the same time, then add to venison, then add spices & red wine. 
4. Cover with cold water and bring to boil. Lower heat & simmer for 1/2 hour. 
5. Transfer meat to lined pie dish, cover with top pie crust and seal edges. Bake at 400 F oven for 20-25 minutes, or until crust is golden.

Serve with a nice red wine and a fresh green salad. 

It sounds like such a delectable entree, that we decided to contact the author of Cooking for Assholes (one of our favorite blogs), and challenge him to whip up a lovely batch of Bambi pie. Not only did he take us up on this challenge, in a desperate attempt to align himself with COWA, he featured our email on C4A.

So now we dare you, dear readers. We call you out. Pop Bambi into a pie and serve him to your guests (with a lovely red wine and fresh green salad). Take a snapshot of it and send it to the Cooking Asshole. Beat that bipolar alcoholic chef at his own, sick game.  Extra credit if you know of a recipe for rabbit pie, so we can serve up Thumper along side his orphan friend.

And Mrs. Richardson, if you're out there...um...waste not, want not.

xox
WAM

Mrs. Richardson sez: "subscribe to this blog's feed or the fawn gets it."

Shovel-Toting Ohio Granny pwns Bambi

Euclid, OH -- Dorothy Richardson loves gardening. Her flower beds kick the ass of every other flower bed in dazzling greater Euclid. So one day, when the frail 75-year-old woman was greeted with the sight of a cute fawn sitting in the midst of her pansies and gladiolas, what do you suppose she did?

Why, she grabbed a shovel and beat bambi 'til he was dead, that's what.

So now, natch, every hippy animal hugger from the redwood forest to the gulf stream waters is offering to return the favor. She's been charged with animal cruelty and could face 18 months in prison (coincidentally, the same maximum term faced by a certain wig-wearing child porn purveyor named Vance Fulkerson).

As one might imagine, we have some stuff to say about that.

Dear Dorothy,

While bludgeoning a fawn until its brains are splattered amongst one's petunias might sound a wee bit harsh, we are not without our sympathies. One puts down bulbs and spreads excelsior in the autumn, mulches, seeds, and fertilizes in the spring, composts, weeds, and waters almost daily in the summer, all so one's neighbors will turn green with envy at the sight of our floral display. It was neglectful of that thoughtless doe to leave her baby sitting provocatively amid your prize-winning snapdragons while she foraged for food. We suspect, at the sight of it, a toxic cocktail of geritol and metamucil kicked in, causing momentary homicidal dementia. It wasn't until later, we're certain, when your arms cramped and bits of fawn skull shrapnel had peppered your trellis of morning glories, that you came to and realized the extent of the carnage you'd wrought.

The thing is, oldsters are wont to hack wildlife to death with shovels. To them, it's as satisfying as shuffle-board or mah-jong. Take for instance our own Auntie Magnolia, who once shovel-bludgeoned a cottonmouth water moccasin to death in our horrified presence. Sure, there are those of us who might be charmed by the appearance of a fawn. They might even take a picture and post it on their insufferable blog. But they don't understand that if you'd wanted any fauna cluttering up your flora, you'd have purchased a plastic flamingo or a lawn jockey and be done with it.

And now, those rude prosecutors are trying to send you to granny jail, where presumably your cell won't be festooned with a window box of forget-me-nots. But fret not, for we suspect that as soon as word spreads that a bitch will beat bambi with a spade til its legs stop twitching, you'll be given wide berth and substantial cred. Not only that, we're rather certain your garden will be doing quite well once you're released; fawn brains are likely a FABULOUS fertilizer.

xox
WAM

Dorothy Richardson sez: "Subscribe to this blog's feed, or I'll go after Thumper."

Dear Farrah

In the fifth grade, we went with friends to our one-horse town's lone movie house to see something called Logan's Run. When you appeared on screen our best friend Danny Tatterson whispered "dude, that's the Wella Balsam chick!" 

We came away from that flick thinking it was actually a good idea to make people to fly around a carousel and explode on their thirtieth birthday (which seemed a century away), not to mention that coolio gadget that enabled the citizens of bubble-town to browse homo or hetero hump mates from the comfort of home; "wow" we thought, "I hope they invent that when I grow up." But walking home from The Evergreen Bijou, all Danny Tatterson could talk about was "Creamy" (his retarded nickname for you).

Then came Charlie's Angels. That poster. That mega-watt smile, warm and bright as the first sunny day of summer. Holy crap. Suddenly everyone wanted to have you or be you, and we'll leave it to Jesus to figure out which camp we were in. You were single-handedly responsible for making everyone we know (including yours truly), compulsively feather their hair; an unfortunate plague that afflicted Bonnie Franklin, The Bee Gees, and everyone in between (and reaching its tragic apex with Blair in The Facts of Life). You dazzled. If we hated you for anything, it was because you'd taken The Six Million Dollar Man off the market.

So what if you were capable of chronic ditziosity? Aren't we all? You also handed Bill Cosby's ass to him on a platter in a wicked tennis match on Battle of the Network Stars (remember THAT?). And you proved that beneath your seriously pretty face and rockin' bod you had real chops. The Burning Bed is what everyone will talk about. But Extremities was a better performance; harrowing, intense and empowering. Beyond that, anyone who saw you in The Apostle wondered silently to themselves "Damn, she's good. Why doesn't she work more?"

And today. Today, the Pilsburry Doughboy that used to be Ryan O'Neal is reprising the final scene of Love Story, that movie in which his gorgeous girlfriend dies of cancer, long before her time. Why can't the Ayatollah die of ass rot? Kim Jong Il? Robert Mugabe? Bernie Madoff? Where Do I Begin?

And today, on the first sunny day to bless NYC this summer, Jill Munroe is gone. And suddenly, sadly, middle-aged folks like me (for whom age thirty, once again, seems a century away) look back on the time when you exploded onto the national scene as suddenly as the hormones in our adolescent bodies. And today, we feel a lot older. And sadder.

RIP and so long, Creamy. You were a beauty.

xox
WAM

Charlie sez: "Angels, your mission is to subscribe to this blog's feed." 

A Letter to Ms. Yakeisha Ward, Pistol-Packin' Waffle Waitress

Dear Yakeisha,

May we call you Yak? No? Suit yourself.

We read with rapt fascination the account of your eventful shift at the dazzling Waffle House in glorious Manning SC. Apparently, during a recent breakfast rush a surly customer named Crystal Samuel haughtily demanded the house specialty (a steaming plate of grits, sausage, toast, eggs and a waffle). When the meal arrived it proved unsatisfactory for some reason and Ms. Samuel complained. Things quickly escalated when a waffle became airborne, whereupon you drew your piece and popped a cap in Ms. Samuel's ass.

Yakeisha. Yakeisha-Yakeisha-Yakeisha. We know. We were a waiter for a spectacularly disastrous three months. During that time we found it extremely difficult to care about what our customers wanted to eat (they seldom seemed the least bit interested in our needs, which we can all agree makes for a doomed relationship).

We recall, in fact, an elderly woman of impressive girth wedged into a booth fatefully situated in our station. She informed us that she required an espresso. We procured her demitasse. She snapped her fingers and proclaimed the espresso too cold. We apologized and fetched a new demitasse. When she snapped her fingers again and announced that it was now too hot, we lost it. We apologized, bent over the table, and blew into the demitasse, hard enough send espresso spraying majestically all over ourself and the offending biddy. We were, of course, promptly terminated. We don't regret it for a minute. And frankly, in your defense, we've never met a Crystal who wasn't either an insufferable bore, a nasty skank, or both.

However, blowing on a liver-lipped matron's espresso and opening fire on a hapless waffle aficionado are two entirely different things, don't you agree? For instance, "Alice" would have been very different (though infinitely more entertaining) show if Flo turned Mel's into a bloodbath every time someone found her grits lacking.

Sure. It's hard out there for a waffle waitress. And according to your enchanting MySpace page, you fancy yourself the next gangsta crunk raptress. We enjoy how you pay homage to the Good Lord, Salt n' Peppa and Trickdaddy for making you the classy lady you are today. We appreciate the ironic juxtaposition of MLK quotes and the "snitches end up missing" animated gif. So perhaps gunning down a finicky breakfaster gives a heat-packing waffle bitch some cred.

We doubt, however, it resulted in a very generous tip.

xox
WAM

Crystal Samuels sez: "all I wanted was a subscription to this blog's feed but dat crazy Yakeisha ho pop a cap in a lady's azz."  

A Letter to Mr. William Kaluf, Snappy Dresser

Dear Mr. Kaluf,

We read with interest the item on Action 3 News regarding your recent interaction with law enforcement personnel.

As the story goes, you decided to enjoy a lovely spring day in the dazzling metropolis of Lincoln Nebraska. So you got all gussied up in pink fishnet stockings and a bra. Then you went for a lovely stroll through the hilariously named Wilderness Park with your toddler son in tow, during which you sat on a park bench and started reading some porno. Apparently, some nosy passers-by found this rather disturbing. They phoned the police.

When the police arrived you picked up your son, dashed to your car and went for a high speed drive with the police in madcap pursuit. They finally caught up with you and discovered your ride was a virtual porn-mobile, stuffed to the gills with naughty videos and magazines. This led to the cops thoughtfully extending an involuntary "come as you are" invitation to the local precinct and returning your lil' tot to his annoyed mommy.

So, Billy (may we call you Billy?). Spring is busting out all over, ain't it? It always revives the spark in our loins. And while most dudes might react to spring fever by whacking off and/or watching some baseball, it seems there are a few like yourself who dress up like a Tuscaloosa pole dancer named Tammi and go tiptoe-ing through the tulips.

We applaud your sincere effort to bring a little desperately-needed spice to Nebraska. What's more, we appreciate your desire to be Auntie Mame to your toddler son, exposing him to eccentric fashion and obscene literature. You've also generously provided the lucky tyke with an amusing anecdote to suppress so that it can resurface during hypnosis during his ninth year of psychotherapy.

However, we feel compelled to suggest that the next time you feel an irresistible urge to take a walk on the wild side, it's a good idea to live in a city that has one. Because while the sight of a tarted up daddy reading porno to his son in the park might cause the citizens of Lincoln no small alarm, the same sight in New York would likely cause its citizens to think it must be Tuesday.

xox
WAM 

All the sexy bitches subscribe to this blog's feed.