All Aboard for Fun Time

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I am going to scoop Licketysplit by informing you all that she is a concubine of Satan. Yes, she is the devil’s mistress, his bilious booty-call. I am sorry to bear such tidings, but it is true. At this very moment she has a bat sleeping upside down above her very marriage bed. She claims to be calling the Animal Rescue League, but I think it is a ruse to lure the dog-catcher into her Trap-hole.

I made some very successful cupcakes last week, and today I am going to try my hand at cupcake lasagnas. I am thinking there are lots of foods that could be prepared and served in cupcake form. A whole new world is opening to me.

I don’t often let anyone into my studio while I am working. I hate to spoil the notion that my work emerges from a cloud of drunken vapor, heralded by angels, while I lay on a fainting couch overcome with sleep deprivation and opium horrors. Because I know that’s what you all thought.

And the Oscar goes to…

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O best beloved internet, today I took some time from my busy schedule to worry about getting that bird flu and whether or not Hilary Swank will wear Vera Wang. Then that baby of my acquaintance stopped by. Here’s the thing with babies: They are swirling existential voids. People think babies don’t know anything, but they are wrong. Babies know they are helpless and insignificant, and this rightly pains them. This one is constantly suicidal, throwing himself at electrical outlets with tongue extended. He is also good at seeking out buckets containing one inch of water. I feel bad stopping him since he seems to really know what he wants, but I am pretty sure assisted suicide is illegal, even in this godless liberal state. Not that I looked that up, so don’t believe junk you read on the internet.

This disjointed rambling brings us to the results of our Vomitola election. I know you’ve all been irritated and jittery waiting for these results. I praise those of you who voted multiple times, especially for me.

And the winner is —

Cease! Desist! Impudent whores, I claim this puny electronic fiefdom in the name of superior intellect.

While I am no stranger to the pleasures of the flesh and the mother’s milk of the vine, one cannot build a nation by telling the little creatures that they do not have to toil if they do not wish to do so. Indeed, I rather admire the notion of enslaving the sans-culottes. However, I simply cannot abide the necessary company of rogues and japesters required to bring this to fruition. Let them exist under the iron rule of my ministers, out of sight and distance of hearing.

Thus, I see no other course than to appoint myself Monarch in Perpetuit. It is for your own good, you incompetent strumpets! Democracy is pointless and ugly simply because the pointless and ugly are allowed as much of a say as I. Now yield me my due as sovereign, and I will endeavour to rehabilitate the status of this intellectual cesspool.

-Melvin I

No, no, you illiterate slattern, Licketysplit for President!

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I’m glad Lambchop reminded me we were running for president today. I was down in the town with the little people, purchasing a new car. Disposable autombiles are a brilliant invention, and every President’s Day, it is a great thumping thrill to get a new one and heave the old one into the mire. I am getting my name airbrushed on the side this time!

Now, I am not here to wow you with facts about cursing parrots or obesity, as Lambchop has attempted to do below. And I must also point out that my opponent’s pro-drug platform is no different from the current administration’s. You need vision! You need innovation! You need a haircut, and you could stand to lose ten pounds! Turn to me as I debut my platform:

There Are People to Do Those Things

As you may have guessed, Licketysplit stands for leisure. I prefer not to, and I know you feel the same way. If you gave a damn, your feet wouldn’t look like that. My party embraces indifference and ennui, but we still like to keep up appearances. You won’t catch us spreading liberty — if other countries became tolerable places to live, no one would sneak over our borders to clean out my garbage disposal or chaffeur my new car! I speak from solid experience that you will be hard-pressed to make someone wear a silly little hat and epaulets if he’s grown up in a culture of free expression.

So let the third world languish in third place, and let’s try to look as if we rightfully inhabit first! I stand for a plunge pool on every roof, a heated towel rack in every bathroom, and a mini bar in every bedroom. Don’t you want your grapes peeled and your sea salt imported from the Himalayas? Don’t you care about an adequate supply of tranquilizers for our annoying senior citizens (and for everyone, really)?

Vote Licketysplit for President of Vomitola! You can do it without even getting out of your chair.

Lambchop for President

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It is President’s Day, a holiday for which there is no festive activity. No one really knows what to do. I encourage everyone to fold their one dollar bills in such as way as to suggest that our first president was, in fact, a mushroom. I have been finding out all sorts of Fun President Facts, for example that William H. Taft was really, really fat. He got stuck in the White House tub and had to have one specially constructed. He was carried to his inauguration in it! And in 1976 Jimmy Carter ran under the platform “Not Just Peanuts”. Did you know that our current President has an apple for a brain? That’s right, an apple!

My favorite President is “Old Hickory” Andrew Jackson. Jackson was the first President to almost be murdered. He was shot at twice at a funeral and tackled his assailant to the ground, apparently pretty miffed. He was a brawler and a rodgerer, who threatened to hang his Vice President. When congress opposed his nomination for the Minister to England, he jumped to his feet and cried “By the Eternal! I’ll smash them!” He had a pet parrot named Poll. The parrot screamed curse words at his funeral.

President’s Day is a good day to observe the dignity and solemnity of this office. To give Democracy a great big hug. And so, high in our Vomitola treehouse, we have decided that we, too, need a President.

A vote for lambchop says yes to party favors and public drunkenness. A vote for lambchop says it is ok to drive while tripping on acid, and no, you don’t have to go to work if you don’t f@#$ing feel like it. Lambchop stands for promiscuity, painting, and pink tights. Vote for me and I will steer this ship right into a great pile of rocks, taking out a small village with me. Listen to your fat clotted hearts, citizens! They will tell you that you want me as your Vomitola leader. Sing the praises of underpants, while I hum a nihilistic tune:

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

-xo

Ten pounds of nothing in a five pound bag

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Man, it has just been a pigfucker of a week. Lambchop had to suffer business travel, and I had to recuperate from illness and deal with a client that told me “wooden” is spelled with a double “d.” It was all I could do to refrain from lapping from a bowl of beer at 10 a.m. yesterday. Then I realized “You work at home, idiot, go nuts.” Ha! I am a little slow on the draw.

This shot proves that children are vampires. Can you hear the hissing? That’s two inches of my sexy hip in that shot. The paparazzi doesn’t miss a damn trick around here.

Why are there children everywhere? I had a baby over again, and I let him play with the hairdryer in the tub and make fajitas. Everyone’s all “when are you going to have the sex and get the pregnant?” And I’m all “why, you want to watch?” They probably do. Perverts. I prefer children on a time-share basis. But, like going to an actual timeshare, someone is always waiting to pounce on you and make you go to a seminar on why you should invest further. I am the best Auntie ever, because I let the kids have all the coffee they want, and I never met a repetitive game I didn’t like. I honed this skill by taking drugs. Ask me what I can do with glitter putty.

Be sure to tune in on President’s Day, when Lambchop and I launch spirited campaigns for President of Vomitola! We promise to assassinate each other’s characters and woo you with false promises and titillating images. Then you’ll vote, and one of us will be left crumpled and whimpering on the bathroom floor as the other begins eroding civil liberties. OK, I am off to pluck my eyebrows in preparation for the evening gown competition.

You Can Pin and Mount Me, Like a Butterfly

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While Licketysplit is filling buckets, buckets full of love, I am covering the phones here. It reminds me of when we had a Sunday radio show. We were doing lesbian kisses before they invented them for TV. But that was only because we were hoping it might offend someone. Anyway, one time after the usual 4-hits-of-acid-saturday-wake-up-go-to-taco-bell-sunday, we arrived at the station and wolfed down some burritos. I played “the Choke” and “Lunchbox” while ol’ Skanky LaRue was off puking. Get well soon darling!

I am celebrating Valentines Day in a lofty fashion- by eating an enormous onion bagel with melted cheese and tomato. I assure you, it is a most romantic sandwich.

If I lack spirit today, it is because I threw a Valentine Ball at my house this weekend. We had a fog machine, a dazzling array of baked sweets, and a glass punch bowl filled with tequila. The walls were covered in construction paper hearts, heart tinsel, and red paper lantern lights. It was really beautifully done, thanks to the help of my roommates, and an opinionated six year old. Me and Echo hung hearts and decorated cupcakes in hot pink sugar and tiny red candy lips. The party itself was a whirl of dancing and cherry filled Kitty Dukkake. I am pretty sure I had a good time, for I recall delighted faces, dancing to “Xanadu”. I am also pretty sure I didn’t get into any fights, fall down the stairs, or start stroking my roommates’ chest hair and calling them “papi”.

Yesterday I was not awake for very long. Mainly long enough to watch Footloose, which I had never seen before. It has probably been a while for most of you, so let me remind you: Footloose is inexpressibly painful in its dorkiness. And while I love dancing movies, the one part of the body that I don’t want to see “loose” are the feet. Or that musical theater thing where people bow their legs, knees knocking back and forth. I must have a chat with you, 1980’s, and find out just what the hell we were all thinking. One interesting factoid about this film is that nearly all the cast went on to successful careers afterward. Mysterious. Since the film I am currently making is approximately 50 times as awful as Footloose, perhaps its release will catapult me into untold riches.

My future finances thus secured, I bought two import box sets of Morrissey singles, spanning decades of Morrissey. It is the age of Morrissey. All Morrissey, all day. Which is very fitting for Valentines Day. I think i will kick off the next hour with “Unloveable”. We’ll be right back after Licketysplit is done yodeling her groceries.

-xo

No picture, for I am pressed for time

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Last night I had to wrangle a baby of my acquaintance because his mum had the pukes, which he thoughtfully gave to her. He’s all better, don’t worry. We made a pizza, and we had a nasty disagreement over how much oregano to use. Then he was still steamed about that, so I agreed to make him an Americano*. Once I finished, he was all “But I wanted that iced,” and I was all “Things that could have been brought to my attention YESTERDAY.”

But we patched it up with some active listening, and then he took his first steps! He doesn’t even reach 10 months for another few days. They were pretty half-assed steps, but they totally counted, and then he did them again. The secret to teaching a baby to walk is to dangle a Chinese menu just out of his reach.

He finally passed out in my lap after about 6 Baby Einstein DVDs. Those movies rule! They made me want to smoke so much oregano. I have to get him from daycare later. I think we will make homemade ice cream and sharpen all the knives in the knife block.

I hope I don’t catch the pukes. Also, I am out of oregano. No good can come of this.

*I did not really make coffee for a 10-month-old. We just ate frosting out of a tub from Costco, duh.

Just-so story: file under famous, international

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I’m back in greater Massachusetts. I saw a lot of dogs in Baltimore. That was great! I love dogs. Every other block, one could say “Look at that dog,” and mean it.

I was not discovered on the shuttle. I can’t understand why not, after all that special treatment in Baltimore, such as the car service being on time. Way to get a girl’s hopes up. It’s just as well, because my hair was a mess.

I am tired of worrying about all the usual things I worry about. This is mindblowing. I no longer make a daily “Or Else” list. If the laundry needs doing, I, you know, do it. If I feel like meeting someone for lunch, it just happens. I’ve also discovered that I don’t suffer from social anxiety. I just don’t like most people. I’m not crazy; I’m stuck-up. What a damn load off.

Conversations with Angels

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Licketysplit is flying back today from the Galapagos. She says that the little creatures are indeed still evolving. I refuse to believe it, until I see actual proof of their hooked beaks, and their gaping craws. What? Oh, my fact checker says she was actually in Baltimore. Oh yes, we have a fact checker now. No more wild claims such as “3 cheese Doritos are low in Tar”, or “ugly people have lives, too”. Oh, Baltimore, it is too bad that domestic flights no longer offer food service, or I am sure you would be enjoying some embattled string beans with a frisson of watery melted butter.

While she was off, agog at the chancred locals, I prepared myself for the annual urban warfare that normally follows the winning of the Super Bowl. My disappointment is severe. ALLSTON, You Do Not Know How to Riot. I will sue the first person that even attempts to call that shameful non-event a Riot. Where once we saw burning couches and drunken students tumbling from the tops of lampposts and hopefully fracturing their spines, we now have cheerful people milling about, occasionally whooping and communing with one another, their happiness at the outcome. Fie!

Someone suggested recently that I “shove my f@&*ing copycat Alice Neel paintings up my f@#$ing a^&”. Needless to say it turned out to be a fat person who has a live journal for their dog, and not the Village Voice. Though grateful for the input, I continue nonetheless to paint. When it is working, it is nothing less than a conversation with angels. Most recently, I have shaken hands with the president, and we are lighting the cigars, because I am selling two large paintings to our fancy new offices on the 22nd floor of this tower. I won’t say how much, I will only say that the drinks are on me, just this once.

-xo

Saddled by cilantro

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Well, holy damn. I am still in damn Baltimore. We are officially Pre-Famous! There are a lot of perks that seem to go along with Pre-Fame. Men on the street hoot and compliment our bottoms, and the person making our coffee drink asks if we want whipped cream. Can you imagine? I put the “Privacy Please” sign on like a pasha.

Despite all these positive developments, I’ve developed a rash. I hope this is not related to fame, as it is rather uncomfortable. Some have posited that I am allergic to Baltimore itself. Or maybe I am allergic to crab. There seems to be ground-up crab in every dish in every restaurant. The other night we ate at the restaurant in the hotel, and the menu contained descriptions like “entwined with pasta” and “atop a puddle of…” and “carefully spiced.” I can’t stop thinking things like “beleagured by a balsamic reduction” or “hampered by roasted asparagus.” When I get a funny in my head, I will be thinking of it for days. Help me.

We took breaks from our scrivening to glance at a sporting event taking place in the television. I am not sure who won, but there was a charming advertising interlude featuring monkeys. If I worked at a company staffed entirely by actual apes, I would never, ever leave.