It doesn't get much better than this...
And, on a much more embarrassing for Tim Curry note...
Has anyone seen my tambourine???
Monday, October 31, 2011
Friday, October 28, 2011
Friday Video: The "Other"
“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I will meet you there.”
Definitely worth the watch...
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Two Turtle Doves... And A Drunk Elk In A Swedish Tree
How totally awesome is this? Drunk Swedish Elk Found In Apple Tree. That exact thing happens to me every fall. Thank God there haven't been cameras around.
Speaking of drunk, moose-like creatures, we haven't mocked one of our Stoopid States lately...
Stoopid State Laws: Idaho & Illinois
Okay, so in Idaho...
It is illegal for a man to give his sweetheart a box of candy weighing less than fifty pounds: [Insert: “This answers so many of my questions about Idaho women” joke here.]
You may not fish on a camel’s back: Party poopers. And, seriously, how many camels are there in the state of Idaho?
Riding a merry-go-round on Sundays is considered a crime: I’m thinking, since Idaho is Utah’s little sister, that engaging in any sort of merriment producing activity on Sunday is a crime.
Residents may not fish from a giraffe’s back: Aww, come on! How awesome would that be? What’s with the camels and giraffes in Idaho? I’d like to see one dude that keeps either of these animals in his carport instead of a fishing boat.
If a police officer approaches a vehicle and suspects that the occupants are engaging in sex, he must either honk, or flash his lights and wait for three minutes before approaching the car: I would appreciate that. It scares the crap out of me when they just sneak up and blow their air horns.
The carrying of concealed weapons is forbidden, unless exhibited to public view: Umm… doesn’t that kind of make them no longer concealed?
A person may not be seen in public without a smile on their face: Unless it’s on Sunday.
In Illinois...
You must contact the police before entering the city in an automobile: But I’m okay to zip in on my hovercraft without warning? Sweet.
The English language is not to be spoken: Oh, mon Dieu. C'est hilarant.
One may not pee in his neighbor’s mouth: Well, yeah. That’s just bad form. Dying to hear the back story on this one.
Law forbids eating in a place that is on fire: Bah-hahahahha. Duh.
It is illegal to give a dog whiskey: But it sure is hilarious.
It is forbidden to fish while sitting on a giraffe’s neck: I think these laws should be reversed. People should only be able to fish from the backs of zoo animals. (But, stay off their necks big, fat humans – that can’t feel good.)
Kites may not be flown within the city limits: Mary Poppins needs to pop a spoonful of sugar up their grumpy asses.
In the Pullman area, it is illegal to drink beer out of a bucket while sitting on the curb: I love this one. You know it was totally started by that one slobby, drunk neighbor that drank nasty homemade beer out of an old, mustard colored bucket while shouting obscenities in his underwear at Victorian church goers.
It is legal to protest naked in front of city hall as long as you are under seventeen years of age and have legal permits: Congratulations, Chicago, on legally and publicly sexualizing children. You totally win the Uncle Pervy Award.
Humming on public streets is prohibited on Sundays: One of these sabbath days, I’m going to gather a list of all the “Thou Shalt Not Do This On Sunday” activities and do them all. On Temple Square.
It is considered an offense to attempt to have sex with one’s dog: You know, I would have to say that I consider that an offense as well. (Put away the peanut butter, Valerie.)
Still waiting for one that's better than the Live Moose Plane Pushing. I honestly don't think anything will top that. Unless there is a law somewhere against pushing David Hasselhoff out of a plane. That might make me laugh as hard.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Seeing Myself Through The Eyes Of Chaz Bono
[Shebang Re-Post]
So, I’ve never watched Dancing With the Stars until, big surprise, this week. When I heard that Chaz Bono was competing as the first transgendered contestant I was totally excited. Then when I heard about all the hateful and mean shit-balls that were being thrown at him and the show because of it I, again, big surprise, decided to watch and support the show – especially him.
I remember when he was Chastity. As a little girl, along with Donny & Marie, Sonny & Cher was my absolute end all favorite TV show. She was a cute little blond girl and I was jealous that she got to be on TV with her parents. Years later, I remember when she came out as a lesbian and I thought how ironic it was that her name was Chastity. Then, even more years later, I heard that She was now a He. Okay, cool. (Obviously, it takes a lot more than that to rock my world.) I never really gave him a second thought again – until the other night.
He did really well and was very likable – making charmingly self deprecating jokes about his belly and expressing frustration about having an older body with limitations – which I am just beginning to relate to. I found myself actually thinking he was cute with an amazingly infectious smile. I marveled at how we have evolved medically to where a woman can actually become a man and vise versa. And, I found that every time I focused on the transgendered aspect of Chaz – I kept hearing two words…
Know thyself.
I found myself more and more overwhelmed with awe and respect for a human being who knew himself so intimately that he was able to say: “I am not living true to who I know I am… Contrary to all outward appearances, I am not a woman, I am a man… No matter how many people stand on the outside of my skin and demand that I am one thing - I know that I am another.” And then he actually did something incredibly radical about it.
How many of us are able to do the same?
How many of us are brave enough to really know ourselves that intimately? How many of us are willing to face the rejection of not just family and friends but an entire society in order to live purely and authentically in the light of who we really are? How many of us can, not only withstand the loud viciousness of small and ignorant people, but actually get up on stage, without apology and say, “Bring it on!” so that others can find the courage to do the same, to actually know themselves and to be set free as well?
Are we able to do the same? Are you? If the answer is no then I have only one question...
What the hell are you waiting for?
So, I’ve never watched Dancing With the Stars until, big surprise, this week. When I heard that Chaz Bono was competing as the first transgendered contestant I was totally excited. Then when I heard about all the hateful and mean shit-balls that were being thrown at him and the show because of it I, again, big surprise, decided to watch and support the show – especially him.
I remember when he was Chastity. As a little girl, along with Donny & Marie, Sonny & Cher was my absolute end all favorite TV show. She was a cute little blond girl and I was jealous that she got to be on TV with her parents. Years later, I remember when she came out as a lesbian and I thought how ironic it was that her name was Chastity. Then, even more years later, I heard that She was now a He. Okay, cool. (Obviously, it takes a lot more than that to rock my world.) I never really gave him a second thought again – until the other night.
He did really well and was very likable – making charmingly self deprecating jokes about his belly and expressing frustration about having an older body with limitations – which I am just beginning to relate to. I found myself actually thinking he was cute with an amazingly infectious smile. I marveled at how we have evolved medically to where a woman can actually become a man and vise versa. And, I found that every time I focused on the transgendered aspect of Chaz – I kept hearing two words…
Know thyself.
I found myself more and more overwhelmed with awe and respect for a human being who knew himself so intimately that he was able to say: “I am not living true to who I know I am… Contrary to all outward appearances, I am not a woman, I am a man… No matter how many people stand on the outside of my skin and demand that I am one thing - I know that I am another.” And then he actually did something incredibly radical about it.
How many of us are able to do the same?
How many of us are brave enough to really know ourselves that intimately? How many of us are willing to face the rejection of not just family and friends but an entire society in order to live purely and authentically in the light of who we really are? How many of us can, not only withstand the loud viciousness of small and ignorant people, but actually get up on stage, without apology and say, “Bring it on!” so that others can find the courage to do the same, to actually know themselves and to be set free as well?
Are we able to do the same? Are you? If the answer is no then I have only one question...
What the hell are you waiting for?
Friday, October 21, 2011
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Turned On
"How can I describe to you, a man, what it feels like to be a woman? Think of a light switch with a rheostat control. As you turn it on, the bulb begins to get bright, then brighter, and brighter and finally in a blinding flash is fully lit. It is so good." Marilyn Monroe
Tuesday, October 18, 2011
Being A Real Woman
[Shebang Re-Post]
Okay, so a few posts back we had a discussion about what makes a woman “real.” Around the same time, I saw an episode of Glee where a big deal was made out of a girl wanting a nose job – with all the anti-cosmetic surgery reasons that are usually thrown out there. “Don’t do it, because it’s…”: being fake; caving to societal pressure to fit an “ideal”; homogenizing oneself to look like everyone else; lame; blah, blah, blah…
Right off the bat, I would like to say that I am totally against a teenager getting plastic surgery. It should never be an option for someone who is still baking in the oven of life. But, for us adults that have long since left the cooling rack? Well, big surprise, I gotta few things to say…
I have had a boob job. I have also had a nose job. I also have capped teeth.
Teeth: I was pushed off my bike as a child and my face smashed into the pavement – breaking my front teeth. Having them re-built was a no-brainer. I don’t think anyone would blame me for not wanting to go through life like a hillbilly with missing and shattered teeth.
This does not make me a fake woman.
Nose: This explanation is twofold. 1) My family has larger noses. Mine was always a bit bigger then I would have liked – but no big deal. Whatever. Then I got pregnant. I looked like a giant, head to toe, swollen bee-sting. My nose was replaced by Karl Malden’s (I’m not kidding) and I was oh-so-sad. Then I gave birth, body started repairing itself, swelling went down…except in my nose. And I was even oh-so-sadder. It changed my face. I didn’t look like me. I didn’t like it. I really, really, really wanted a nose job but, honestly, would most likely not have ever gotten one except that… 2) I had to get a Turbinectomy (yes, it’s real – you can look it up). In order to help me breathe and speak and sing like a normal person they had to gut my nasal passages several inches into my face, remove my turbinates and reset all the bones. So, I figured – hell, if you're going to put me through all that major face trauma anyway, then, by all means, take that fucking bulb off the end of my nose while you're at it.
This does not make me a fake woman.
The boobs: I was a flat chested Skinny Minnie growing up – thinner than all the girls in every ballet class I ever took. I felt like a boy. I was teased by everyone from my little brothers; to other girls in dance that were starving themselves to be as thin as I naturally was; to boys in school making “bra fitting backwards” jokes out loud in class; to a cruel prank during a “Dating Game” Homecoming activity that resulted in my entire high school pointing and laughing at my small boobs. I spent my formative years with my gay dad on Castro Street in San Francisco, hearing ad nauseam the Drag Queen Drawl, “Oh Honey, we have GOT to get you some tits!” I grew up around gay men and decided that I was worth less, if anything at all, because I was female. Then I was glad I felt like a boy. Then I married my very own gay man and that brought a whole new level of self loathing. It was awesome. To say that I always wanted a boob job was a gross understatement. But, far more than that, I always wanted to love myself. For real.
I scheduled a boob job the same time I had my nose surgery but cancelled it because I knew it wasn’t time. I HAD to know what it felt like to be loved just the way I was first - by a man and by myself. So I forced myself through the most painfully uncomfortable vulnerable intimacy with boyfriends until I emerged on the other side of all the bullshit and really knew love – from a man, yes, but, even better, from myself. Years of therapy for all the other shit that went down in my life, and my own searching and healing and determination to be happy-well-whole, plopped me smack dab in the middle of a full blown love affair with myself. And it was – IS – glorious.
The day finally came when it was only about wanting pretty boobies. Again, I had given birth to children and, low and behold, I got giant milk-jugging breasts. Then I stopped breast feeding and was left with two empty socks stapled on a board. Total crap. So, I got a boob job. I didn’t know if I would regret it, but I knew if I didn’t do it I would regret it for the rest of my life. I have never once regretted rebuilding my boobs. They are pretty and sexy and fun and I love them.
This does not make me a fake woman.
All of this, and so much more, makes me a very real woman. I think, I feel, I laugh, I cry, I desire, I dream, I make mistakes, I eat, I run, I love, I hate, I work, I care, I struggle, I succeed, I wimp out, I kick ass… I am about as real as they come. No amount of cosmetic tweaking will change that.
I absolutely do not understand what the big deal is and why we point such nasty fingers at one another. We humans get to choose how we want to look. We color our hair, we wear makeup, we tan, we shave, we paint nails, we build muscles, we pierce, we get tattoos… It’s called self expression. If you don’t want to express the way another person does, then don’t. If you don’t want to get a boob job (or be with a woman that has had one) then don’t. But don’t step up onto your pedestal and say it’s because you are a “Real Woman” – because that’s bullshit and it says far more about you than the women you are calling “fake.”
Okay, so a few posts back we had a discussion about what makes a woman “real.” Around the same time, I saw an episode of Glee where a big deal was made out of a girl wanting a nose job – with all the anti-cosmetic surgery reasons that are usually thrown out there. “Don’t do it, because it’s…”: being fake; caving to societal pressure to fit an “ideal”; homogenizing oneself to look like everyone else; lame; blah, blah, blah…
Right off the bat, I would like to say that I am totally against a teenager getting plastic surgery. It should never be an option for someone who is still baking in the oven of life. But, for us adults that have long since left the cooling rack? Well, big surprise, I gotta few things to say…
I have had a boob job. I have also had a nose job. I also have capped teeth.
Teeth: I was pushed off my bike as a child and my face smashed into the pavement – breaking my front teeth. Having them re-built was a no-brainer. I don’t think anyone would blame me for not wanting to go through life like a hillbilly with missing and shattered teeth.
This does not make me a fake woman.
Nose: This explanation is twofold. 1) My family has larger noses. Mine was always a bit bigger then I would have liked – but no big deal. Whatever. Then I got pregnant. I looked like a giant, head to toe, swollen bee-sting. My nose was replaced by Karl Malden’s (I’m not kidding) and I was oh-so-sad. Then I gave birth, body started repairing itself, swelling went down…except in my nose. And I was even oh-so-sadder. It changed my face. I didn’t look like me. I didn’t like it. I really, really, really wanted a nose job but, honestly, would most likely not have ever gotten one except that… 2) I had to get a Turbinectomy (yes, it’s real – you can look it up). In order to help me breathe and speak and sing like a normal person they had to gut my nasal passages several inches into my face, remove my turbinates and reset all the bones. So, I figured – hell, if you're going to put me through all that major face trauma anyway, then, by all means, take that fucking bulb off the end of my nose while you're at it.
This does not make me a fake woman.
The boobs: I was a flat chested Skinny Minnie growing up – thinner than all the girls in every ballet class I ever took. I felt like a boy. I was teased by everyone from my little brothers; to other girls in dance that were starving themselves to be as thin as I naturally was; to boys in school making “bra fitting backwards” jokes out loud in class; to a cruel prank during a “Dating Game” Homecoming activity that resulted in my entire high school pointing and laughing at my small boobs. I spent my formative years with my gay dad on Castro Street in San Francisco, hearing ad nauseam the Drag Queen Drawl, “Oh Honey, we have GOT to get you some tits!” I grew up around gay men and decided that I was worth less, if anything at all, because I was female. Then I was glad I felt like a boy. Then I married my very own gay man and that brought a whole new level of self loathing. It was awesome. To say that I always wanted a boob job was a gross understatement. But, far more than that, I always wanted to love myself. For real.
I scheduled a boob job the same time I had my nose surgery but cancelled it because I knew it wasn’t time. I HAD to know what it felt like to be loved just the way I was first - by a man and by myself. So I forced myself through the most painfully uncomfortable vulnerable intimacy with boyfriends until I emerged on the other side of all the bullshit and really knew love – from a man, yes, but, even better, from myself. Years of therapy for all the other shit that went down in my life, and my own searching and healing and determination to be happy-well-whole, plopped me smack dab in the middle of a full blown love affair with myself. And it was – IS – glorious.
The day finally came when it was only about wanting pretty boobies. Again, I had given birth to children and, low and behold, I got giant milk-jugging breasts. Then I stopped breast feeding and was left with two empty socks stapled on a board. Total crap. So, I got a boob job. I didn’t know if I would regret it, but I knew if I didn’t do it I would regret it for the rest of my life. I have never once regretted rebuilding my boobs. They are pretty and sexy and fun and I love them.
This does not make me a fake woman.
All of this, and so much more, makes me a very real woman. I think, I feel, I laugh, I cry, I desire, I dream, I make mistakes, I eat, I run, I love, I hate, I work, I care, I struggle, I succeed, I wimp out, I kick ass… I am about as real as they come. No amount of cosmetic tweaking will change that.
I absolutely do not understand what the big deal is and why we point such nasty fingers at one another. We humans get to choose how we want to look. We color our hair, we wear makeup, we tan, we shave, we paint nails, we build muscles, we pierce, we get tattoos… It’s called self expression. If you don’t want to express the way another person does, then don’t. If you don’t want to get a boob job (or be with a woman that has had one) then don’t. But don’t step up onto your pedestal and say it’s because you are a “Real Woman” – because that’s bullshit and it says far more about you than the women you are calling “fake.”
Monday, October 17, 2011
Dancing With Crazy PRE-ORDERS
Okay, so it is with endless screaming Happygasms that I am here to announce the availability of PRE-ORDERS for Dancing With Crazy. Response to the upcoming release of this book has been overwhelming. Pre-order here to guarantee that a copy is in the mail to you the first week in November.
Friday, October 14, 2011
Friday Video: Porcelain Unicorn
This past summer, Philips and director/producer Ridley Scott launched a global filmmaking competition dubbed “Tell It Your Way” following its Cannes Lions award-winning short-film project “Parallel Lines.”
The entrants were given freedom of expression and could choose any theme they wanted. There were two strict rules—
1. The dialogue could be precisely six-lines
2. Entries could not exceed three minutes.
I Love this short. Click here for more information.
SheBye Bye
So, the experiment formerly known as The Whole Shebang is over and done. Dead in the water - for many reasons. For those of you that didn't follow it, I'll re-post a couple of my blogs here...
A Needle In My G-What???
[Shebang Repost]
Okay, so the other night Laura, JJ and I were looking up something on the Internet and the most amazing thing popped up. It wasn't what we were looking for but not totally unrelated either. The website we stumbled upon is for a doctor that does G-Spot Shot Parties.
What is a G-Spot Shot Party you may ask? Oh. My. God. It's like those Botox parties women used to throw when Tupperware, Mary Kay and Bunco got old. Well this Baby puts those "Lets drink a few bottles of wine and get poisonous bacteria injected into our foreheads" parties to shame. Hell, this is even better than "Come on, Ladies, let's take a mirror and look at our vagina's!" Now you and your girlfriends can gather boldly together, hold hands in the spirit of true sisterhood, spread your legs and have needles injected into your G-spots.
Booyah!
So, the thought alone made us burst out laughing. Then we scrolled down and saw the picture of Dr. David Matlock, M.D., MBA, FACOG and completely lost it.
Okay, first of all this guy looks like he should be dressed in camo wielding an AK-47 not gingerly parting the labia of women in stirrups. And WTF does FACOG stand for? As far as I can see it means Freaky Armed Coochie Oggling Guy. Laughter turned to the screaming snorts as our eyes traveled up from the oh-so unfortunate angle of the stirrup-ed leg to the tiny tuft of Muppet bush that, judging from the look on his face, the good Dr. clearly wants to strangle.
This guy has women going into private rooms with him on g-spot finding adventures after which he injects them with a magical collagen that will enhance their sexual experience for up to 6 months.
Huh.
There's just something about this that doesn't sit right with me - which is weird because I really have nothing against cosmetic enhancement (especially if it's connected to sexual pleasure.) It's probably Dr. Creepy. If it was the Old Spice Guy I'd probably be all over it.
JJ and I also had a friend tell us about clitoral piercing - the thought of which makes me squirm worse than a needle in my g-spot. But, ever since said friend swore up and down that the stimulating effects to the "nerve bundle" were unparalleled I have to admit that I've been curious.
Maybe us Shebangers need to just strap on a pair and get these procedures so you can all live and learn vicariously.
Or not.
Maybe we'll just start with a bottle of Vodka and some good old fashioned V-Jazzling.
Okay, so the other night Laura, JJ and I were looking up something on the Internet and the most amazing thing popped up. It wasn't what we were looking for but not totally unrelated either. The website we stumbled upon is for a doctor that does G-Spot Shot Parties.
What is a G-Spot Shot Party you may ask? Oh. My. God. It's like those Botox parties women used to throw when Tupperware, Mary Kay and Bunco got old. Well this Baby puts those "Lets drink a few bottles of wine and get poisonous bacteria injected into our foreheads" parties to shame. Hell, this is even better than "Come on, Ladies, let's take a mirror and look at our vagina's!" Now you and your girlfriends can gather boldly together, hold hands in the spirit of true sisterhood, spread your legs and have needles injected into your G-spots.
Booyah!
So, the thought alone made us burst out laughing. Then we scrolled down and saw the picture of Dr. David Matlock, M.D., MBA, FACOG and completely lost it.
Okay, first of all this guy looks like he should be dressed in camo wielding an AK-47 not gingerly parting the labia of women in stirrups. And WTF does FACOG stand for? As far as I can see it means Freaky Armed Coochie Oggling Guy. Laughter turned to the screaming snorts as our eyes traveled up from the oh-so unfortunate angle of the stirrup-ed leg to the tiny tuft of Muppet bush that, judging from the look on his face, the good Dr. clearly wants to strangle.
This guy has women going into private rooms with him on g-spot finding adventures after which he injects them with a magical collagen that will enhance their sexual experience for up to 6 months.
Huh.
There's just something about this that doesn't sit right with me - which is weird because I really have nothing against cosmetic enhancement (especially if it's connected to sexual pleasure.) It's probably Dr. Creepy. If it was the Old Spice Guy I'd probably be all over it.
JJ and I also had a friend tell us about clitoral piercing - the thought of which makes me squirm worse than a needle in my g-spot. But, ever since said friend swore up and down that the stimulating effects to the "nerve bundle" were unparalleled I have to admit that I've been curious.
Maybe us Shebangers need to just strap on a pair and get these procedures so you can all live and learn vicariously.
Or not.
Maybe we'll just start with a bottle of Vodka and some good old fashioned V-Jazzling.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Here's To The Crazy One
"Here’s to the crazy ones. The misfits. The rebels. The troublemakers. The round pegs in the square holes. The ones who see things differently. They’re not fond of rules. And they have no respect for the status quo. You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them. About the only thing you can’t do is ignore them. Because they change things. They push the human race forward. And while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, are the ones who do."
I am so incredibly inspired by this man.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Dancing With Crazy Endorsement - Will Swenson
(This picture of Will totally looks like my fantasy Vampire Pirate. I'm just sayin...)Okay, my friend Will Swenson - Broadway Super Star / Director of our film Facing East / Vampirate - was kind enough to write the following snippety blurb for my book:
* * *
"There were two kinds of gay guys at BYU. The ones who stayed in the closet, kept quiet about their sexual orientation so as to not get kicked out of school, and then the minute they graduated went on to become happier, more well-adjusted and “out” gay guys. Then there were the others. They also stayed in the closet. (So as to not get kicked out of school) but they fought their nature. They dated girls, classically overcompensated in the masculinity department, and then often married some poor girl and started having children. I always marveled at this second group of guys. Wondered how they could set themselves up for a lifetime of repression. But more than that, I wondered and marveled at the girls who married them. I guess growing up Mormon can really mess with developing a strong sense of “gay-dar”, but I just felt so bad for these girls. How could you miss this glaring aspect of somebody’s nature?
Enter Emily Pearson. At school, all I knew about Emily was that she was one of those girls. She had married a gay friend of mine. The more remarkable thing about Emily was that her Dad had also been gay (yep) so you’d kind of assume that she, more than anyone, would understand how to miss that particular pothole on the road of life. Add to that, that Emily is incredibly beautiful and amazingly talented. She was a major catch – could have had her pick of straight, returned Mormon missionary fellas. And yet, there she was, heading down a road that seemed to be clearly labeled “danger” and all we could do was sit back and wait for the crash – which, by the way, was pretty massive.
So, knowing these things about Emily, I figured I knew the basics about her life and her somewhat unbelievable story. Then she sent me Dancing With Crazy and I discovered I had no idea AT ALL about the crazy (to say the least) journey that this life has brought her. It’s not just a memoir. That would be interesting enough, considering all the stories Emily has to tell, but it turns out that Emily is an incredibly gifted writer as well (don’t you kind of hate people that are good at EVERYTHING?)
Throughout her narrative I was simultaneously in awe of the insanity that has seemed to follow this girl all her life, and then really moved and impressed with how Emily has taken each step along the path and examined it for what it was, figured out what she had to learn from it and grown stronger through the whole process – all the while keeping me riveted and page turning thanks to her random sense of humor and ease with the turn of a phrase. I thought I had seen some adventure in my life, but I’m afraid Emily has me beat by a mile.
I’m pretty sure if Em were to try to put her life into a screenplay, Hollywood executives would say it’s far too unbelievable. Gay Dad? Leather Queens? Brushes with polygamy? Baywatch? Mormonism? AND a gay husband? Forget it! And yet, that’s her story. A really, really entertaining and inspiring one."
Friday, October 7, 2011
Friday Video: Betty White's Muffin
I'll bet Betty White's Muffin would be fabulous alongside Alec Baldwin's Schweddy Balls...
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Update
Several people are asking about the digital release of Dancing With Crazy. Yes, along with the printed version, it will be available on both Kindle and Nook in November and will roll out to both iBooks and Google Books shortly thereafter. And, I'm currently recording the audio book which will be available in November as well.
I'm as excited as a pig in a pile of poop. Except that conjures thoughts of Chris Buttars and I really don't want to throw up my breakfast. How about... I'm as excited as a cock in a hen-house? As a puppy with two peters? How come all the excited idioms have to do with penises? I mean, I know why. Duh. But are they really the only things that get excited? Nay. I am not a penis and I am very excited. How about as happy as a clam? And a lark. With a bug in a rug. As the day is long. I just Googled "Happy as..." sayings and got "Happy as Larry." Who the hell is Larry and why is he so damn happy? Doesn't matter - he cannot be as happy as I am. Not possible. He doesn't have a book coming out that he has been working on for 9 years. Or, maybe he does. Whatever.
Either way, I'm pleased as punch.
And now I'm off.
Like a prom dress.
I'm as excited as a pig in a pile of poop. Except that conjures thoughts of Chris Buttars and I really don't want to throw up my breakfast. How about... I'm as excited as a cock in a hen-house? As a puppy with two peters? How come all the excited idioms have to do with penises? I mean, I know why. Duh. But are they really the only things that get excited? Nay. I am not a penis and I am very excited. How about as happy as a clam? And a lark. With a bug in a rug. As the day is long. I just Googled "Happy as..." sayings and got "Happy as Larry." Who the hell is Larry and why is he so damn happy? Doesn't matter - he cannot be as happy as I am. Not possible. He doesn't have a book coming out that he has been working on for 9 years. Or, maybe he does. Whatever.
Either way, I'm pleased as punch.
And now I'm off.
Like a prom dress.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
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