Godammit, I’m Mad!

Finally! For all of us who’ve been praying for Amy Winehouse to unload Blake Incarcerated, our prayers have been answered. Thank you, Lord, for saving our Amy from that rotten little scumbag, who now wants a divorce and half of her money.

I didn’t even know that Blake Incarcerated was back in jail after failing his drug test in December! What a horrible horrible shit that guy is. At least Pete Doherty is a musician, for Christ sake.

I blame Blake for everything. Poor Amy was under his spell, but now she’s learned that a nice clean hunky athlete is the way to go. According to the Daily Mail, which makes up its celebrity quotes, Amy even told a ‘reporter’ that Blake was “rubbish” in bed, “adding ‘Almost every time I slept with him it was like I was dead’.”

If only Blake could read, he’d be furious!!!

Now Amy can make another record, and her label can stop emailing me about all the extra special versions of Back to Black I can buy.

I love you, Amy! Don’t worry about that tattoo on your chest, you can have it removed. Keep up the eating and stay strong. As each day passes, you’re closer to realizing what self-esteem is.

And whatever happens, do NOT give that idiot your money, unless he promises to leave the planet and never come back.

*And also too, speaking of music, treat yourself to the genius of the Firstborn Wolf, whose song Omelette will make your day, or your money back!

Since some people have actual lives, I am once again providing a summary of the  Golden Globes Awards, having sat through most of it in a stupor when I wasn’t busy peeing or getting snacks.

It was a pretty dull event, as always, but this year there were three men I wanted to have sex with, a record number! The lucky winners of the Please Can I Have Sex With You awards were: Johnny Depp, Colin Farrell, and Sacha Baron Cohen.  And Colin, by please, I mean PLEASE.

On the subject of men, there were a frightening number of soul patches. Bruce Springsteen and Billy Ray Cyrus led the soul patch brigade, but it was all over the place.

Sting was revolting in a long frock coat that emphasized his self-importance. J Lo’s butt was bigger than ever, dwarfing her miniature husband. Tom Cruise was able to walk alone without clutching his robo-wife, who was probably out in search of more Birkin bags and boyfriend jeans. During the breaks, Tom could be seen schmoozing his way around the room, looking remarkably slim and airbrushed.

Kate Winslet was a goddess. She looked gorgeous but human, and one couldn’t ask for a nicer movie star. When praising her fellow nominees, she forgot Angelina, who gave her a lethal smile that simmered with hatred. Angie looked strangely washed out and waxen. Enough already with the kids, Angie!

Laura Dern seemed like a good person but she looked like a giraffe. Drew Barrymore had a blond make-over and flashed her tongue-stud. Poor Drew, she and her BFF Cameron Diaz are so unlucky in the boyfriend department, they should just marry each other.

Salma Hyak was there with her monumental boobs, barely able to speak English. She made sure to gush over Penelope Cruz, in case there’s anyone left on the planet who doesn’t know how tight they are.

Demi Moore looked stunningly youthful in a white wedding cake dress, but couldn’t resist humiliating her ungainly daughter by telling her not to “slump.” How mean can that bitch be?! Rumor can’t help it if she’s a hunchback, and she was clearly doing her best to look normal.

Mickey Rourke looked bizarre and terrifying in his role as Complete Weirdo. I liked his metal teeth, though, and I assume he said “motherfucker” a few times when he got bleeped during his acceptance speech. Personally, I wouldn’t see his movie for less than $500. But when he thanked his director and Bruce Springsteen, even calling the Boss “brother,” he proved yet again what Hollywood movies are all about: The Love Between Men.  Because nothing – nothing – is more beautiful.

As you know, Mrs. Palin has reared up her head into our airspace again this week. If that wasn’t enough, Ann Coulter and her Adam’s apple also made their re-entry into the media spotlight.

This got me to wondering, on the long drive back from the mall, which of them is the bigger cunt. It’s not an easy question, obviously. You could just go eeny meeny miney mo, but I think a more scientific method is needed to quantify the cuntishness of these two awful women.  How about rating them in all the germane categories? Using a scale of one to ten, here are my calculations.

• Malevolence: Coulter 10, Palin 8
• Deceitfulness: Palin 10, Coulter 7
• Shamelessness: Coulter 10, Palin 10
• Grandiosity: Coulter 10, Palin 7
• Overweening Ambition: Palin 10, Coulter 8
• Ignorance alin 10, Coulter 4
• Hypocrisy: Palin 10, Coulter 6

There!  It’s close, but I think it’s safe to say that Mrs. Palin is a bigger cunt, at 65 points to Ann Coulter’s 55 points.

Isn’t it good to have statistics to figure out the tough questions? Now, if someone asks you, you’ll know for certain, by a margin of ten points, Sarah Palin is a bigger cunt than Ann Coulter!

No, but why do I always look like one?!

I was surprised to find this old photo on Facebook, posted by one of my younger sisters. Since it’s already up for people to make fun of me, let’s make fun of me here, where I can maintain a tiny bit of control.

This is a very former Sister Wolf, age 38, soon to become pregnant and give up the weightlifting.

What about that dress!!! Purchased at a thrift shop in Ventura for $1, and worth every penny. Don’t get excited though; I never wore it out of the house!

And the armpits! Jesus Christ! If only my armpits were still this luxurious! Now I only wish I’d flashed them more often.  Maybe I’ll see about getting extensions.

The saddest part, beyond the unbearable stupidness of the whole enterprise, is the worthless calves. I tried and tried, but No Calves, as Arnold would say. They’re the hardest muscle to build, and thus a badge of honor, or dishonor, in any serious gym.

The couch, the painting, the lamp, the shoes, all history, but at least I have this photo to remind me what a nutcase I once was.

Comments?

Tonight I finally saw the documentary “Leonard Cohen: I’m Your Man.” Various singers perform songs by Leonard Cohen, who is shown in snippets, talking about his life and his music.

I revere Leonard Cohen, but he managed to annoy me. Rufus Wainwright was pretty good, Nick Cave was forgettable, but a singer called Antony was a mind blower.

What an amazing voice! It has been compared to Nina Simone, but it’s nothing like anything I’ve ever heard. Check out his performance here. (If you can do without the Goth androgyny and awkward body language, just close your eyes.)

Ever since he knocked up his girlfriend, nothing has gone right for poor Levi. One minute a rakish Wasilla heartthrob, the next minute a hostage at the RNC with no hope of freedom, ever.

Now he’s lost his job after it came out that he never finished high school, and he can blame that loudmouth Mrs. Palin for making a big stink about it.

Of course, Mrs. P. denies helping Levi get that high-paying job in the first place. That would be pulling strings or something, and with her high regard for this great country of ours, that is something she just would not do. She did write a letter of recommendation for Levi and here’s what it said:

“I have known Levi and his family for many years and am most impressed with Levi’s work ethic. Levi is organized, efficient, extremely competent, and will prove to be an excellent employee. Also, Levi’s physical strength and determination are assets that will be useful to your company.”

How brilliant is her coding?! Let us deconstruct the letter…

“I have known his family” means “I have had his mom busted for drug dealing.”
“extremely competent” means “He was able to impregnate my daughter twice.”
“Levi’s physical strength” means either “I find him pretty yummy myself!” or “Todd hasn’t been able to beat him up.”
“Useful to your company” means “Give his ass a job, or else.”

Now Levi’s life is ruined. His parents are divorcing, his dream of playing pro hockey is long gone, he has two babies with stupid names and he can’t afford to buy diapers. All he wanted to do was drink, do drugs, shoot his rifle and screw his girlfriend! If there’s a god, why is he so mad at poor Levi?!

I have a hunch that he wanted to name that baby Trapped, instead of Tripp, but I can’t prove it….yet.

If you were Levi, what would you do?

If I were on the Titanic (and all the news hints that I am, along with the rest of you) I would be the one running to put on more red lipstick.

Therefore, I have purchased this new lipstick by MAC, from its new Dame Edna line. First of all, the packaging is glittery and awesome, Then, the lipstick case itself is adorable. Much prettier than in this picture.

I chose “Kanga Rouge,” a creamy blue red. I prefer a matte lipstick, but what the hell. Who am I to say no to this one, especially as it’s less greasy than most non-mattes.

I recently learned that Dame Edna is married to my ex-husband’s cousin Lizzie, which further proves that Sister Wolf is always three degrees or less from everybody, including the Queen of England and the previous Pope.

On a sadder note, I was stupid enough to buy a new matte lipstick by Revlon (eeoow!) which looked beautiful on the display thingy at CVS, but turned out to be a HORRIBLE brick red that looks like rust. It’s called “In the Red” but a better name would be “In the Waste-basket.”

I’ve been meaning to write about this for a long time, but I guess I wasn’t mad enough.

John Travolta should have been outed, and not for being gay. His insistence that his son Jett, now dead at 16, wasn’t autistic has bothered me for years. Travolta has denied all talk of autism, even refusing to attend the premiere of his brother Joey’s film about autism.

Scientology does not accept autism as a legitimate condition. Instead, Travolta and his wife Kelly have militantly insisted that their son was afflicted with Kawasaki disease, a rare illness that usually lasts a few days and can be treated quite easily once it is diagnosed. It is rarely fatal and is not associated with any developmental disorder.

John Travolta has kept his son hidden from the public as best as he could, but his lovely and healthy daughter Ella has been photographed often, even at red-carpet events. When rumors of Jett’s autism hit the internet, Travolta’s wife arranged with a national magazine to have photos of her and Jett frolicking together at a beach. A nice PR move that only made it more obvious to people familiar with  autism that the kid was autistic. See a recent video here, until it is mysteriously removed from the internet.

Why does this matter? Here’s why:

1. Jett Travolta was not allowed any services or intervention that could have made his life better. At 16, he remained non-verbal and was isolated from his peers. Neighbors of the Travoltas reported that Jett was left to watch videos all day and was not allowed to join the rest of the family at meals. He could barely hold a crayon.

2. Jett Travolta apparently had seizures, which can afflict up to 50% of autistic children. He should not have been left alone to take a bath. He had two caretakers with him in the Bahamas, and yet he died in a bathtub. At first, the police reported that Jett had last been seen the night before he was discovered dead at 10: AM. The story has since changed.

The real story of Jett Travolta will be covered up. Scientology is a force stronger than most investigative reporters. I am heartbroken for the loss of this boy, but his life for the last 16 years should have been better, and we don’t need an autopsy to know his death could have been prevented with more diligent attention from his caretakers.

Read a frighteningly prophetic mention of Jett Travolta here.

Tonight, an observant teenage visitor pointed out that we have a lot of crackers. There are six boxes of crackers on top of the fridge, and two more behind that you can’t see in this photo.

This is clearly a problem. Why does a small family need so many boxes of crackers? Is it because we fear a cracker shortage? Are we stocking up for a famine? Or does someone in the house just like to amass crackers?

I personally am not in charge of procuring crackers. We can’t blame me for this one. But I’ve just done an inventory of my nail polish and counted 35 bottles.

Hoarding leads to clutter, and clutter leads to chaos. If you take your hoarded clutter and relocate it, stacking it or piling it but not reducing it, you are just “churning,” in the language of hoarding studies. I keep trying to get the crap off the coffee table, but mostly I end up organizing it into neat groupings of crap.

I am thinking of getting a book called “Buried in Treasures: Help for Compulsive Acquiring, Saving, and Hoarding.“  It sounds great. I like the title of the third chapter, “How did this happen?”

How indeed? My house looks more and more like a thrift shop. It’s a place of female hoarding and male hoarding. Meaning, tons of CDs and electronics, and tons of guitar magazines, along with tons of girlie shit. Tons of pop culture memorabilia. I can see from where I sit the vast collection of Little Golden Books that I read to my firstborn, 30 years ago. But they’re so cute! So full of tender memories!

I wouldnt dream of making a resolution or even a pledge. I just want to get this crap under control. Then I’ll feel better about acquiring some new crap.

I know I am not alone in this cycle of buying, hoarding, churning, and paralysis. It would be nice to know where “collecting” ends and “Hoarding” begins. Are they the same?

I will be praying for deliverance to Saint Marie, the new patron saint of Hoarding Crap. You can pray to her here. But don’t tell her that I just ordered a new pair of ankle boots to not wear with my leather dress. In fact, don’t tell anybody.

Cat Dancers is the name of a documentary now playing on HBO. It’s also the name of a show biz act consisting of Ron and Joy Holiday and their younger partner, Chuck Lizza. The three of them trained and worked with wild tigers in their act, which pre-dated Seigfried and Roy.

It is a mesmerizing documentary that challenges all sorts of assumptions. The director creates a bittersweet, surreal atmosphere as Ron recalls the excitement of his years on stage with his beloved wife and their exotic pets. When they meet Chuck, a lost young man who ran away to join the circus, he becomes their favorite pet, in a sense. Chuck becomes their lover, forming a romantic triangle that lasted harmoniously for 14 years.

In some respects, Cat Dancers recalls Grizzly Man in its portrait of well-meaning humans who refuse to believe in the boundary between them and the wild animals they love so deeply.

It’s a tragic story that lingers with you like a strange and vivid dream. I’m glad I saw it; It felt like a trip to Mars… a hallmark of a great documentary.

Still under the spell of Cat Dancers, I heard from my friend Romeo that he’d been on a wild pig hunt while visiting his family in Texas. I think it’s okay to kill a wild pig, but I’m not sure if the pig thinks so. Probably not, I’m guessing. Romeo’s email message brought forth a bunch of ads for Wild Boar Hunting. I clicked on one, a big mistake if you’re not turned on by images of fat guys grinning next to huge dead boars.

Then, I was intrigued by an ad for “ethical trophy hunting” in Namibia and Mozambique. Here, you can plan your “safari” where you are guaranteed to get the “trophies” (i.e. dead animals) you want, but by “fair chase only!”

Here is some bastard with his Ethical Trophy!

If Romeo wants a dead pig, by god he deserves it. He just got through a stint in the US Military Forces, protecting us from terrorists. That guy in the photo above, though, is not worth fighting for. Fuck that punk. It’s almost, but not quite, enough to put me off wearing fur.