Are you safe, darlings? Thank heavens! On our "to-do" list for the week: Dick Cheney, Jayonce, GaGa as the Fonz, Cha Cha DiGregorio & most importantly: me.

I feel like I'm in a Judy Blume novel.

You know what just hit me? Well let me continue to Picasso for you all. I will take my literary paintbrush and spread it across this page . . oh fuck it. Too much to type. Plus - wasn't he the guy that was blind and had to tie the brush around his arm? No? Maybe Renior? Monet?

All irrelevant. Here I am, lounging in my outdoor bistro set and its hit me (not literally - I bruise easily enough anyway, truth. And yes, I do take quite a few vitamins a day - when I remember.)

We can write about whatever we want. I think I'm compensating a bit for my last post - because I don't want this to turn into a diary set up. (Cue all the Anne Frank jokes I've made in the past . . . like the one less than five minutes ago).

I don't have a very good history with diaries. I know for a fact my Mom would always read mine (and fuck you guys, those were some good entries. Keep in mind (as I know you do) I was uber-intell long before know - imagine the delightfulness I was scrawling in my Hallmark "lockable" diary at age 6 . . ). In turn, I would always read my sister's. It was never anything too exciting. Or at least I didn't have the patience or energy to get that far into it. But I would always make it a point to flip to a random clean page in her book and write "I was here. Love, Your Secret Admirer."

Homegirl was quick on the uptake. Somehow she always knew it was me, and would follow suit chasing me through the house with a butter knife of some sort. Yes, really.

Ah, childhood. Those days are (mostly) gone - probably because I don't care enough to go diary-hunting. But if I did. . . oh man, if I did.

Real Talk, sorta.

Hello you. How are you this August afternoon? I mean, I'm good - I totes need a trim and I'm really sturggling with a few things. Like, most importantly, which color low-lites should I get for Fall 2K11? I can't trust all of you as far as I can throw you (no offense) so I won't regale with you the steps I'm taking in an effort to choose the perfect shade of gorgeous, I'm sorry. Maybe one day we'll be there, but that day is not today.

The yelling on Maury today is almost too much. I mean, no shit! Of course Ky'Juan (not of the St. Lunatics - unfortunately) isn't the father! Hoes always be triflin' - trust and believe.

I've obvi taken my blogging outside - it makes my cool glass of Crystal Light and rum all the more enjoyable - and plus, I'll be able to see when the sun hits the exact point in the sky that brings on 5:00 - so I can proudly imbibe. Not that I'm not proud, but you get it. Even though I know its five o'clock somewhere, I prefer for it to be five o'clock where I am - at least until probation is over.

Now, you all know I'm a genius. I mean certifiable. And good-looking, too. No broken records, today, little ones, but I have been pondering expanding the scope of the blowout. I don't mean, you know, like bitching about like . . . okay, well "bitching about" probably wasn't a good example. You feel me. Basically, let's just declare an open season in terms of blog topix. Deal? Excellent.

Before I get you all calling me Anne Frank (I'm not Jewish, so fuck you . . . although I am great at hide-n-seek). And oh-my-gah! I wish I had some really good skeletons in my closet - or skin coats for that matter, but I'm (not) sorry to say I don't. And thanks to several flights of stairs and a pair of steel-toe boots, I have no illegitimate bastard children to report.

One of the things I've always wondered is if its possible to combine the humorous . . the witty intelligence with real life raw emotions we encounter on a daily basis? I'm not even talking about myself here necessarily. You all know this heart of stone has been shut-off for years now, if only for efficiency. I mean, of course its possible. Anything is possible if you put your mind to it - right Henry Ford? Walt Disney? Eleanor Roosevelt? What I wonder is - can all of the above be melded to continue to endear the feeler to the friend . . . ?

For example . . . can a woman be funny, intelligent, hilarious, witty, adorable and have a button nose and still be allowed to be all of those? Does she have to tailor it to whom she's passing her time with?

Oh my God, I know, I'm starting to feel like I'm leaning out of my New York City apartment clicking the ash of my cigarette onto some unsuspecting passer-by wearing a spandex lace-hemmed camisole with curly off-blonde hair and a hook nose.  (You're welcome for that really well-painted shot of Sarah Jessica Parker that just came to mind.)

Don't worry! You haven't lost me. I've always been this insightful. I'm just saying. I fucking love double standards - for the most part. Especially when they deal with TwitPic scandals and sexting. But there is a time and place for everything, little ones. For now, we will have to see.

OMFG - do you want me to be totally lame and use words like "sign off" and "then I really got to thinking about . . . " . . . ? I bet you do! Maybe next time, but probs not.

Step In Time!

So you've all heard the story about that guy that didn't quite make it down the chimney a mere 27 years ago? Well, its not a story - and I'm pretty sure he wasn't wearing a Santa Claus suit (although his absence would explain why I didn't get a GD thing on my Christmas list that year . . .)

I'm not here to be a total jackass - well, partly, yes I am. But who the fuck doesn't look up there? Pretty sure Detectives Benson and Stabler always look in the chimney first. They learned it right off the bat. You know who taught it to them?

This guy . . . Thank you, Bert.

"Breaking News: Rick Perry Doesn't Give a Shit."

I didn’t have a chance to read the paper this morning – but can anyone verify if the following headline graced the front page . .

“BACHMANN WINS STRAW POLL."

"RICK PERRY & AMERICA RESPOND: ‘FUCK YOU and/or WHO GIVES A SHIT?’"

Anyone? No? You didn’t see it on your copy of the Jackson Constitutional? Don’t go checking that paper now – I totally made it up. Obvi. I didn’t want to single out any/all of the newspaper editors who are kicking themselves in the ass right now for not using some variation of my headline – papers would have flown off the shelves! If only!

I can’t tell you how many times, in the past – when I’ve been listening to the news or radio or glancing over someone’s shoulder while they were scanning the days’ latest CNN tweets (I thought it was a scandalous text message – so sue me!) – I come across a story about Iran or South Korea or Argentina – or (in my younger days) Cuba – and all of their jack-ass moves, their blatant disregard for world safety, the prosperity and/or lives of their populations, or (most importantly) what the MF’ing U.S. of A has told them to do. Bastards. Anyway – the first thing that always pops in my head is the following (it comes across in a Walter Cronkite voice, by the way – come on – work with me) . . .

“IRAN DEVELOPS NUCLEAR PROGRAM”

which, I interpret to mean:

“BREAKING NEWS: IRAN DOESN’T GIVE A FUCK!”

Am I wrong? No – I am never wrong.

Anyway – as you all know – Michele Bachmann barely beat out Ron Paul to win the Iowa Straw Poll (what? Is this before or after we light our corn cob pipes?)  - and I say to her: “Go On Girl!” . . . Like, seriously, go the fuck on out of here. We’ll get on Michele Bachmann some other time, when I have the patience for it. That raspy ignorance gets on my last goddamn nerve. And 23 foster kids? What is this? An Annie re-make? Who gets to be Daddy Warbucks?

Silly me – Rick Perry is Daddy . . Warbucks that is. You all know I love Texans – George Bush was not lying when he detailed the swagger Texan men display – and they all do. All of them. Yes – really. I swear it. Those narrow eyes that match his narrow mind – damnit to hell – he gets me. Not mentally – but, you know – if I needed a calf wrassled or some shit (and I have in the past – trust and believe.)

So its clear, now that he’s announced his run for the American Presidency – Perry’s big man on campus. Hate him or hate him – you have to admire his jack-ass-ness. Declaring his run on the day all those other pesky GOP candidates are up at 5 in the morning serving tea and strumpets? Bitch please. Perry doesn’t have time for that shit. He doesn’t have time – and he could care less. And that’s the maverick in him. A dumbed down George W. (Apparently, it is possible).

I do wonder though – in an age when everyone is declaring that Washington is broken, and that America is still kicking (and screaming, in my opinion) – what does it mean when such a favored candidate throws out a figurative “Fuck You” to his fellow party-members and running . . . mates? I mean how do we take it? I really don’t care – just like Rick – because I’m still bumping the “My President is Black” remix – but – for all you heartless Republicans out there – I mean, really? For realz? (That last translation was for Herman Cain, obvs).

I’m not saying – but I’m just saying. How are we (you) going to reach across the aisle, GOP? It seems all the reaching you’re doing is with a glove filled with pebbles in your grasp – and I, for one, will not turn the other cheek! (Who’s going to apply my rouge, I mean, really?)

Personally, I relished Rick Perry’s squinted knife-twisting to Michele Bachmann. Fucking loved it. Its totally something I would do. Hellz Yes. I mean Rick and I are almost alike – except that I went to Texas’ public Ivy – not some washed up Technical poor-fort building school. Whatevs.

Anyway; the road to 2012 is starting to heat up – and I don’t know about you; but I’ve got my Yankee cap on and lasso ready.

TQZAJYKZQ5UK 

Party! (Up In Here.)

I trust you all read my short "texting/blogging-while-driving" post the other night. You know, the one in regards to our old favorite pseudo-Hip Hop star: DMX. After a small bit of research - I confirmed that I was, of course, right, and it was his gravelly vocals gracing my airwaves after a quick appointment with my spray tanner. It was food for my soul. No really. I mean, DMX was riding ruff way before the clowns we have to put up with on Top 40 today. You all remember - back in high school - sophomore year - yes? Jamming to the beats of the summer like "Get At Me Dog" and "Party Up" . . . they both were two of my favorites - my Dad's too. Finally something we could do together.

Then homeboy dropped off. I mean, really dropped off. My Dad was crushed, and I just surmised he'd popped one too many wheelies on his crotch rocket with E-V-E. Apparently I was wrong! He's just spend the past decade-ish locked up off and on for a variety of offenses. You know, the usual, animal cruelty (but he released "The Year of the Dog . . . Again" - that one must be trumped); drug use; weapon possession; using foul language in the Caribbean. Followed of course by his studying of the Good Book. It's like a broken record. Typical fall from grace.Art imitates grace with his "Slippin" track, right?

Anyway, I'm pleased to be wrong about his surmised doom to let you all know homeboy's back and is going to indeed be dropping an album on all of is this year - aptly titled "Redemption of the Beast" or some shit like that. Yeah DMX. You go girl! Fingers crossed we can get a Romeo Must Die part II, if only we could figure out where the fuck Aaliyah's been.

Mark DMX off of your "Where the Fuck?" list. You're welcome.

(Just playing about Aaliyah, you know she's my girl, y'all).
And now, ease on through your Saturday with this slow jam . . . and Holler.

It might be my longing for the past, but I swear DMX just came on with a new track during the 10:00 Mix. My prayers are answered, Ruff Rydaz!

Talk about Scary Spice.

So, I'm sure you've heard about this whole Moon business! The Earth had two moons? That somehow orbited to each other and merged to form one huge crater-ish Super Moon? Talk about breaking news! This has blown my mind. Especially because I've been the recipient of numerous moon craters named in my honor. (or was it stars? or constellations? Fuck it - its a shitty gift either way.)

While I'm digging out those certificates of authenticity (I believe they are in the same storage location as my stamp collection, naturally . . . ) I want you all to do some digging and get the scoop on this whole Moon story, since I don't care enough to do so.

And, please, allow the following song to serve as your soundtrack to this story.

(Who says really, really good pop music can't be adapted to any situation? Certainly not this girl.)