Times have been trying of late. We have had weather. Our hairdos and our hauteur have suffered the indignities of moisture and outfits comprised mainly of padding. Despite this chaos, people desire appointments and apostrophes continue to be errant. Is this to be borne?!? Not without some casual, festive raging. Our favorite cartoon cat knew what it was all about.
Yes, it’s Fuck You Friday. So, no, I will not send out an email when I want to use the bathroom, to ensure that phones are answered. And ho, man who slammed me in the shins with a heavy parcel as you tore through the underground passage, not bothered to cast a glance when you struck me: your time is valuable! I have one message for you, and that is Fuck You.
A very, very special Fuck You to US Airways, on behalf of my Mary. You know what you did.
It feels good to Fuck You. My heart grows light as a feather! Who else deserves a rich helping of Fuck You?
1. Anyone who says, “ok, this is going to feel cold.”
2. Clocks. Always running too slow or too fast, never just right.
3. People who advise you to do things they would never, ever do themselves. Oh, hell no!
4. The crick in my neck, courtesy of the Newark Hilton.
5. Lima Beans, constant loiterers on my plate throughout my childhood, bringing only misery. I will never forgive you for tasting like that.
At least we can always go back to Rebecca Black, to remember that it IS Friday, at least. And that it is very important to deliberate carefully on choice of seating.
A celebrity died this week, of natural celebrity causes. You probably heard all about it. No, it wasn’t Puck from the Real World, although that guy really had it comin’. Anyway, a few days have passed and I feel it is safe to once again resume talking about myself. I know, I know, there is NOTHING you can’t make about YOU, if you really put your mind to it. I could have talked about how the guy who used to ring me up at Campus Convenience resembled the dead actor. I could wistfully recall how many times in the past I had thought that. And how I won’t find myself thinking it any more, not without a sense of something having been taken from me. That’s so tragic!
At least his memorial contained some crudite, by the look of it. Being deceased is no reason to neglect your health.
What else can I make about “me”? Let’s look into social media, shall we? Food pictures ehhhhhh….baby flinging….some complaining. That’s too easy. Whenever anyone complains, there is always someone right there to tell them that *their* troubles are far worse. That reminds me, I need to update my pity spreadsheet. It pays to keep track of who has the most “woe is me.” I would not want to exhaust my compassion with overexertion. I might have to go to a spa.
The news of the day is not any more helpful. I click open the NYT and I am confronted with scores of worldly developments, not a one of them mentions me! In the crushing absence of any kind of validation, how can I be sure I even exist?!? Why should I read this damn thing at all? Oh, there is that Mr. Hoffman again, right above the fold. Still dead, apparently. Poor fucker. If I have learned anything binging on countless episodes of Intervention, it’s that you need to accept the amazing gift being given to you today.
I love intervention, the screechy, scabby people plodding along toward their acoustic guitar 90 day wellness. I love the interventionists with their lined faces, droopy moustaches and catch phrases. “If feeling bad solved anything, it would already be solved.” After watching 20 episodes in a row, I start to feel I could *be* an interventionist. “Will you accept this gift today? No, it’s not a METHOVER. You already had one of those. As much as we love a pop eyed, knife cheeked weirdo, it is not working for you, hon. And you need to wear something besides sweatpants.”
I looked into the qualifications of an interventionist. UGH, cucumber masks won’t cut it. You have to “go to school” and then be “poorly paid.” I am already doing that!
Imagine that, free to resume talking about myself, and I found I didn’t really have anything to say! Nothing left to do but turn off the mind, and enjoy the fine, relaxing musics of the type my granny would have liked.
2013 was a vacuum, sucked into the oblivion of mind numbing cold. Are we in space? I see girls bare legged in their crotch skimming skirts against the bone biting winds of 8th Avenue. It’s a Polar Whoretex!
I have not taken the G train in over a year. Ridership has plainly doubled. The neighborhood is POPULAR. Thanks, Dunham, thanks to your flobby knobs I can suffer hands in my creases for two stops. A sea of bodies in Manhattan as well. Do people live in Queens now, too? As I stepped back to allow a person seated in front of me to stand and exit the train, an appalling human pried her way past me to slither into the seat. My seat. Everyone was staring at her, so she hid behind her giant neon-pink telephone. As I daydreamed about slapping her jaundiced face with my open book, the 90 year old lady seated next to her whispered to me, “you should have shoved her back.” Then she said, “don’t get old. I’m 90, it sucks.” Goodness, I gasped! “Goodness had nothing to do with it.” she said. Did I just meet myself on a subway ride from the future? I looked back. She smiled at me, lipstick unevenly applied. It WAS me! I asked me where I was off to. A bookshop downtown. I told me I would not mind living in the West Village and she said, “It’s horrible, everything is too old.” There were so many more things I wanted to ask me. Can I remember anything for more than a few seconds? How’s the painting going? Do I have any dogs? But I had arrived at my stop. It was getting a little embarrassing having to speak so loudly on the train, anyway. I was definitely a little hard of hearing. I gave me my card and told me to have a lovely day. She said “well, it has definitely gotten interesting!” I agree with myself!
So, to answer your questions, Mary:
1. No, we are never going to feel like a grownup and not a total imposter, but the real you is out there somewhere, cackling and thrusting out a cartoon leg to trip someone horrible.
2. I will lose ten pounds for you, but it will have to wait until tomorrow. I heard there would be piiiiiiiizza.
3. If people stop publishing screenshots of weather apps on social media, how will I update my spreadsheet on those most deserving of pity?
4. I am a poor, freezingly cold soul, so far from where I intended to go.
EDIT: I have been getting a lot of emails to congratulate me for my appearance in Louis c.k.’s new little indie film. Not only do I have a time traveler, I also have a doppelganger. This latter Heather Morgan is most known for a film called “Bark” in which she stars opposite Vincent D’Onofrio, as a woman who thinks she is a dog. This is a film I actually rented at a video store in Berlin, took home and watched. Life abroad is surreal, as you know. You might discover someone who shares your name, playing a dog. I *just* vanquished my double in the google search results and now THIS. Thanks to Louis Cock Krammer I will probably drop down below the country singer and the dominatrix. Again. Life can be so unfair.
Every venerable institution has an awards program, and Vomitola is no exception, for we are truly unafraid to roll up our sleeves, turn up our dainty noses, and pass judgment just as the lord intended. So please help yourself to your box wine and your hoarded twinkies. Go on, you totally deserve it.
The Clammy for the best loser of an American presidential election this year has got to go to Mitt Romney. Mary disagreed with me, she thinks the award should go to the state of Texas. However in fine Romneyan tradition, 47% of the votes didn’t count, so I carried the day. Mittens, please enjoy your clammy, especially while your wife is traveling.
What else do we have written on this sodden napkin? Oh! Best description for Donald Trump’s hair goes to Penn Gillette for “cotton candy made of piss”. That is painting with words, sir. The Clammy for best Robert Smith Nazi hunter goes to Sean Penn, we really could have watched him giggle in face paint all the livelong day. We could not decide what was the best waste of our time, but it might actually be coming up with this list. Honey Boo Boo was a shoo-in for Best Emerging Clamlet. Licketysplit wins in the trusted friend category for always showing up at the right time. With pills. In breaking clam news, Halle Berry must get some kind of award for having two Frenchmen fighting on her lawn. Best Thing is a tie between spicy dumplings, red pandas, and a suitcase full of money. Taylor Swift gets the Clammy for best recipient of awards. At that point we stopped writing things down and started fighting over the glitter pen.
Anyhoo, who cares? The important thing is to see how everyone is dressed at the afterparty. At the Drafty Clam, of course!
Obama’s reelection may not have renewed my spirit, but looking at pictures of all those sad white republicans did give me fresh life and vigor. But it could not last. Boredom will set in, that even the pruniest scowl of an entitled christian xenophobe cannot whisk away.
I did come across some good news today. Apparently, after a full 24 hours of soul searching by the Republican Party, they have determined the culprit for their losses. If you think they are realizing that a pro-rape stance is not a winning position for today’s congress, you underestimate the clever little buggers. No, no, they have discovered our trump card. The SLUT VOTE.
The jig is up, hoes. But I am proud of us. Who knew that our hem hitchin’, scabby knee’d ways could coalesce into functional representation? Surely those cash prize abortions will be released in different flavors now. I have a real thing for marzipan.
No wonder I feel blasé. Now that sluts have put their man in the ovum office, what is left to do? Please feel free to tell us, because that is the way we like it best.
In lieu of a humorous photo to accompany this post, I will inform you that if you google “vulgar balloon”, you will get photos of Kathy Griffin. Google, I am impressed, as that really seems like something approaching wit.
Oh lookee, we are having a parade! Everyone is so excited, so absolutely cornholed that Barack Obama has been re-elected President. I am with you thus far, Americans. I value my crotch agency and my Obamacare as much as the slattern on the next corner. But let us not get all dewy-eyed. After all, it is not 2008. And unless you are some John Deere driving pork belly with a bowling ball for a head who thinks “civil liberties” is some far left concept, it should mean something to you that our current administration has made Anthony Romero, director of the ACLU, weep with disgust.
You don’t want to hear about torture and rendition, indefinite detention, and setting infants on fire by remote control, awash as you are in the candy-like warm fuzzies of our cool b-ball twirling prezzo. You are all going to blaze one and get gay married and that is just swell.
But I do hate to see everyone so happy, on general principle. Take just a wee second from your hooting and your tweeting over the gloriousness of Obama to recall that we live in a rapidly militarizing state of constant war. You deserve your parade for not electing a complete charlatan of a corporate raider into the White House. But please notice that it is still raining.
I got on the commie bread line at a Polish church this morning for thirty minutes in the cold to vote, like people. Far too late came Mary’s suggestion that I wait in the Escalade and have a migrant worker stand for me. That’s how Romney votes, he is a job creator!
So I inked my little ovals for the Kill All the Little People Party and got my dram of potato vodka and was then ready to ride from the land of no working subway into the freezing blasts to the city. Last night at my theravada massage, my guru suggested I needed some empathy exercising. I know “what’s that?” Apparently my compassion organ has shriveled like a sad balloon from last New Year’s. Other people have things a lot worse than I do, apparently. My local market is out of Lapsang Suchong! But there are also the homeless. I know, because one looked at me today in a way that displeased me.
I digress. The important thing to remember as I wear my manicure to a ragged state looking at election returns is that it hardly matters if you voted for one War Pig or another. The rich will still be rich, the poor will still be poor, and the ugly will need vouchers for facial reconstruction.
My fellow citizens, you probably can’t read this because you are in the dark of your Brooklyn boudoir, scraping the scum of the Gowanus Canal from your floor with a toy shovel that blew in from Rockaway. Fear not, for it will likely freeze soon!
We managed to stop those scrawny Eritreans from running through the ravaged city so our police can concentrate on things that really matter, stopping apoplectic jagoffs from throttling each other at the Sunoco. But it looks like we won’t stop the election. After all, this isn’t Ohio!
I am sure you will all agree that Everything Sucks. Even if you are not trapped under a fallen tree, you probably don’t have a job. And if you do have a job, you probably spend your days wishing a tree would fall on you. Well, Mitt Romney has your solution. You have been so short sighted- Life could be a whole lot worse! Once Mitt is in charge there will be rapery all around, and no more of your fun time, lazy Sunday abortions. Health insurance and retirement benefits will only be available via the dice table at Monte Carlo. But don’t worry, you will still get a tax break for being beautiful. Me, I will be disappointed if I am not personally raped by Mitt Romney himself. But those are the kind of high expectations that have been mostly dashed in this hopeless economy.
In sum, please take your heads out of the ovens and vote for Brock Omama. You probably don’t have gas, anyway.
Imagine you were seated at a table, fiddling with your swizzle stick when a great spotlight lit upon you. “Congratulations, you are GREAT, prepare for life at the head of the queue!” As soon as your fancy calls to mind images of yourself, splayed naked on the back of a jewel encrusted sea tortoise, someone comes along and smashes all your fingers with a ball peen hammer. Well, glory is fleeting!
I have been offered a show in Duesseldorf in a gallery immediately following Alex Katz. Aaaaaaand, I have arthritis in my painting hand. As tempting as it is to get all Morrissey about how the brightest lights attract the bleakest fates, I am not actually all-that-plussed about it. You see, something terrible happened to me at the end of last summer. After experiencing my first ever painful injury, I was subject to the alarming discovery that I am mortal…possibly even vulnerable. I am going to die like the rest of you scruffy louts no matter how many cherry stems I tie into bows. This was a a great shock, and has me picturing gruesome tableaux of hideous fates within sight of cars, trains, staircases, knives or large holes. I assume I will get back to taking existence for granted again and thank heaven! No sense tiptoeing around in awe and fright like some grateful pilgrim. I welcome even a slight return of reckless nature. If my hook withers like a monkey’s paw, I will just have it fitted with a rig for holding my paintbrush. Whatever. As it is, I have a pretty cool brace in my current favorite color, “spoiled mayonnaise”. It comes with a fingerless gauze glove, like crippled Madonna!
I have been hard at work in the factory, trying to make this show happen. You can have a look for yourself, as Cheap & Plastique magazine came to visit. Mary was also so kind as to update my website, so there is a lot of new work there.
Did I say I wasn’t going to get all Morrissey? I LIED.