Muddy Death

Election Widget

2008-11-04T00:27:00.001-05:00

Ben does Keith

2008-11-03T21:07:00.001-05:00

I love K.O., and I LOVE this caricature. Watch, and laugh!
Oh, Miss Precious Perfect, at least we can say, "We knew thee!"

The Democrats

2005-08-13T11:36:00.001-05:00

Editorial comment by OPHELIA, Nov. 3, 2008: I leave the following post (mostly) un-edited, but, dawgonnit, I am surely in a different place now; you betcha. I'm still an Independent, but I'm not nearly as angry at the Dems. My only great fear on the eve of the 2008 Presidential Election is that the Dems will once again snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. Say it ain't so, Joe!

In response to my Dear John Letter to the Republican Patry Hugo said "hello Ms Muddy,I'll admit I'm unfamiliar w your blog; but what in particular is it about the democratic party you dislike?" Oh, Hugo. Hugo, Hugo, Hugo. Where to begin?
You know, Clockwork keeps telling me that since I'm not a Republican anymore I don't have to hate Democrats. He doesn't seem to understand that I've never really hated Democrats (or anyone else) because of who I am ... rather because of who THEY are. And who are they? Howard Dean, Hillary Clinton, Nancy Pelosi, Ted Kennedy, what's-his-head-that-ran-against-Bush-last-year, Dukakis (remember him?), Al Gore, etc. They are the mealy-mouthed, the insane, the lying/cheating bastards, the wishy-washy, poll-watching, morons, the back-biting, ass-kissing, mud-slinging, ethically retarded weak-minded propagandists. They are (and this is perhaps the worst accusation of all) politicians, and I'm sick of the lot of them.
Now, I've decided to start my own two-party system: the Constitutionalists and the Marxists (no not the Communists, you fools) and I would like to invite debate. Both parties are concerned only with the welfare of the nation. Neither party will brook any shananigans from its memebrs - we're going back to the taking-the-cad-behind-the-woodshed-and-shooting-him method of censure.
Constitutionalists are committed to the study and preservation of the Constitution. I invite addition sthe the platform.
Marxists are dedicated to the welfare of the common (read disenfranchised) man/woman. I invite additions to this platform.
Any similarities to already existing two-party systems is purely coincidental -- don't get the idea that we can actually reform what is clearly broken.

Beatrice Writes

2005-08-13T10:49:00.000-05:00

Beatrice has been writing stories and poetry since she was six years old (she is now eleven – oh God, help me!) Anyway, one of her latest stories has earned a space on this blog in part because of its insane good humor and in part because think I may need some advice from blog world about how to handle my emerging punk rock chick. Without further ado, I give you Beatrice …

Once upon a groovy time, there was a cool chick named “Beatrice.” In fact, she was so psychedelic, everyone knew her as “Foxy Cleopatra.” However, she was put under horrible conditions by her evil shagsisters named Britney Spears, Nicole Ritchie, and Jessica Simpson, who were all really ugly and dim. They would make even the Queen of England say, “Bummer, Dude!” Of course, Foxy was the exact opposite as the was super hot and very charming. Not only did Foxy have to do work for the sisters, but they all were in love with the same guy: Mike Dirnt, International Man of Mystery.

So like I was sayin’, Mike was the super-hot 70’s bass player for the groovy punk-rock band, Green Day. Mike was way cuter than the lead singer and certainly not quite as drunk or anorexic. In fact, Mike was so psychedelic, he decided to have a pre-party for the 18th annual Grammy awards and he was inviting all his friends. One of Mike’s best friends was Foxy’s father, so the19 year old and her shagsisters were invited. When Foxy heard about the party she said, “DUDE! That is frickin’ awesome!” but when everyone gave her an ungroovy look she said, “I mean, groovy!” But obviously, her evil shagsisters wouldn’t let Foxy go. So as the shagsisters were truckin’ out the door to go to the party, Foxy was left to clean and wash the dog with “GRR Your Butt Smells Terrific!” When she was done, she was down and watched a Gilligan’s Island re-run. Suddenly, the lead singer of Styx appeared in front of her and said, “If you’re going to that party, you’ll need some psychedelic threads and a groovy peace mobile, but make sure you’re back by midnight.” With that he did the Hustle all the way out he door! “What in the name of Paul Simon’s cat’s Mohawk and henna tattoos?” gasped Foxy, but he was already out the door. So Foxy followed him right into her groovy, psychedelic car.

As Foxy stepped out of her groovilicious ride, Mike instantly noticed her and tried to talk to her. They instantly loved each other and kept talking. But then as Tré Cool, the duck-like drummer of Green Day, came walking over to them like a total minority, Foxy thought, “Holy platypus and sacre bleu!” Mike, however, wasn’t as nice, and when Tré just opened his mouth to say something, he was like, “Shut the duck up, Bird Man! Go jump in a pond!” As Tré walked off he shot a bird at Mike and Foxy said, “that’s like potential cannibalism, man!” As much fun as it was talking and dancing and junk, come midnight Foxy could groove no more and ran straight out the groovy door.

For months after that, Mike had no idea who Foxy was or where she was so he was totally sad. One day, the totally mental and incredibly stoned lead singer of Green Day, Billie Joe Stupid Armstrong said to Mike, “Oh, I forgot to tell you, that girl you were talking to like, a long time ago, like gave me her number so you could call her.” Mike was almost speechless, but it was kind of hard for him to run out of words, so when he said nothing the stoned one screamed, “Aah! It’s a sign of the apocalypse! Run away!”
Later, he actually gave Mike her phone number and Mike asked, “Dude, why didn’t you, like, tell me before?”
“Hangover, man. That night I dreamt that Tré Cool dressed up like a woman and got drunk and we made out,” he replied and walked off.
Tré Cool, who was behind them, whispered to Mike, “You think we should tell him?”
“Nah,” said Mike, “ He’ll find out when he watches the VH1 countdown. Anyway, I’m having a strong feeling to become my own hood ornament.”

After Mike eventually called Foxy, they got married and lived grooviliciously ever after. As for the shagsisters, they all got arrested for improper use of wonder bras. In the end, Billie Joe eventually went to rehab and Tré Cool got a nose job.

THE FUNKYLICIOUS END

We're through - it's over - I want a divorce

2005-07-04T09:22:00.000-05:00

Dear Republican Party,

I am leaving you. I can longer continue this marriage. I cannot blame you entirely for the failure of our relationship. Though I loved you once, I think perhaps I fell in love with an idealized image of you. It’s like when I was teenager and I fell in love with Cary Grant. I didn’t love Cary Grant the old (and later dead) man (that would have been creepy). Rather it was the black and white and colorized versions of the screen legend. He was funny and mysterious and gorgeous as Mortimer Brewster in Arsenic and Old Lace (1944) and C. K. Dexter Haven in Philadelphia Story (1940) and Walter Burns in His Girl Friday (1940).
Similarly, I loved a much older and more idealized version of you, Republican Party. I loved you as the party of Alexander Hamilton and Abraham Lincoln. I loved you for being the party that was the watchdog for liberty and civil rights. You were the conservative party back when “conservative” had no moral or ethical connotations. I long for the day when “conservative” meant protecting freedom by preserving the integrity of the constitution and changing that precious document only if said change would enhance our freedoms, not limit them.
That brings me to the issue of your girlfriend. Yes I know all about her and I can longer brook your infidelity with that whore, the Moral Majority (who, by the way, is neither moral nor a majority). Since you started pandering to your new mistress (sometime during the Clinton era), you have changed and I have lost all respect for you. I have waited patiently for you to get over your infatuation with her and emerge from your midlife crisis, but I can wait no longer. I can’t even believe I’ve waited this long to leave you. I feel foolish for ever thinking you would come back to your roots. I simply cannot see myself standing side by side with a moralistic, judgmental, condescending, spineless bastard like you. Examples? You want examples? Okay ….
1. Abortion: no, I haven’t changed my mind about it – I still think abortion is evil. However, you have allowed MM to make it a moral issue, rather than the women’s health issue it really is. Your mistress is so busy trying to “punish” unwed mothers, that she actually fails in her supposed mission of protecting the unborn. And don’t even try to say it’s not about punishment. Of course it is. Why else would MM be in favor of abortion in cases of rape and incest but not in cases of consensual sex? Because in the former instance, the unexpectedly pregnant woman did not mean to have sex outside of marriage and in the latter she did. Clearly it’s about the INTENTION of the woman and not the INNOCENCE of the unborn. Your current position on abortion is intellectually dishonest AND morally untenable. You’re supposed to be the party of reason and intellect.
2. The War on Terror: You know and I know that we waged war on terror long before you came up with a silly label for our global-intelligence-gathering-counter-insurgency efforts.
3. The Patriot Act: what a load of malarkey this is! There is nothing patriotic about this document and you should be ashamed for supporting it. Shame, shame on you! Our forefathers are surely rolling over in the graves. By the way, your recent use of the word “patriot” as a weapon against dissent is tyrannical. How could you?!
I know what you’re thinking, and the answer is “NO.” This has nothing to do with another party. No, I am not seeing the Democratic Party. No, I do not have another party lined up after you. This isn’t about anyone else; this is about us. However, I will be looking, now that I’m single. Please do not respond to the following ad if you see it in your local newspaper:
Irish-American beauty, female, 36 seeks political party for committed relationship. Will respond to all 3rd party inquiries; no Republicans or Democrats.

Love,
Ophelia

How to Unlock a Door in 6 Easy Steps

2005-06-22T00:10:00.000-05:00

I see dumb people :-o
I was browsing the net looking for suggestions for common household repairs. I found this:
http://www.ehow.com/how_2989_unlock-door.html

Gay Stereotypes in Film

2005-06-20T16:07:00.000-05:00

Venereal Disease:
Hey it’s the 80’s, I’m gay, and I have AIDS! Yes, the effeminate gay man of the 80’s must have sex with lots of partners, do lots of drugs, and have those tell-tale purplish spots which denote “AIDS victim.” Most of these movies have some sort of agenda (you can’t catch AIDS from shaking hands, gay people are people too, hip/intelligent/cool heterosexuals who drink wine and eat cheese and read Whitman love gays, etc.) Ironically while the message is ostensibly pro-gay (whoever heard of an anti-gay filmmaker?), the plethora of gay AIDS victims on big and small screens does nothing but propagate the erroneous and harmful conclusion that AIDS is the God-sent plague of the gay community. Yeah, sure the dying gay man and all his grieving friends and his once-estranged-but-now-close family members garner mucho tears and the occasional Emmy/Oscar, but at what cost to the image of the much beleaguered gay community? Does is ever occur to these directors/actors/producers/writers that one of the reasons “mainstream America” continues to see gay people as “other” is because the mainstream media portrays them as strange and sick and promiscuous? With this image of gayness in the minds of the heterosexual majority, no wonder the fight for gay rights/parenting/marriage is an uphill battle. I mean what normal person would want to encourage the state to give custody of small children to an AIDS infested, perverted home? The Hollywood stereotype may be good for the box-office, but it’s a death knell for Gay America.
Hey it’s the 1800’s, I’m gay, nobody loves me, AND I have syphilis! (see above)

Costumes:
Leather and feathers and glitter, oh my!

Gay men love Divas:
Hey, I’m gay and I love [blank] (insert strong or masculine or drug-addicted actress here)!

The Lisp:
Explain the lisp thing, please! I’ve known lots of gay men and not one of them had a lisp.

Jackson Not Guilty on All Counts

2005-06-13T17:22:00.000-05:00

Okay I thought I was done for today, but I logged onto MSN and found this horror staring me in the face. What a travesty of justice! Why does injustice still shock me? Perhaps, it shouldn’t; you may say, “Ophelia, you’re old to remember O.J., Monica-gate, and other incredulous headline-grabbing mockeries of all that is sane and good and --- aaargh! Hang on while I light another cigarette and drain that bottle of Jameson’s --- Maybe, I should not be surprised by American idiocy, but the day I am no longer outraged is the day I will have discovered the oblivion of heroin addiction. But for now….

Following the very first public accusation of Michael Jackson, I said, “He wrote songs like “Thriller” and “Billie Jean” and “Beat It”. He sang with the great Sir Paul. He inspired numerous Weird Al parodies. He’s an artist, a beautiful mind. He loves children. Such a man could never molest a child.” Then I got therapy and he was accused again and I said, “OMG, of course he’s guilty. I mean he wrote songs like “Thriller” and “Billie Jean” and “Beat It”. He sang with Paul McCartney. He inspired numerous Weird Al parodies. He claims to love children so much that he feels compelled to sleep with them. He must be a pedophile.”

And like all right-minded, opinionated people who are seldom, if ever, wrong, I am dumbfounded at the number of seemingly sane people who don’t get it. Look at him. Listen to him. What do you think happened to McCauly Culkin? Key has a clue; you mouth-breathing, knuckle-dragging supporters of pedophilia need to get one, too.

Am I being too harsh on MJ’s supporters? Surely they’re just gullible or mislead or (God forbid) optimists? No, they’re idiots.

They read or watch news articles about the chef who saw it all, and they respond by accusing him of being French and a chef and conclude, “the witness is obviously lying, I mean he’s a Frog, he cooks for a living. Duh!”

They point out that the accusing family is poor and trying to get money. Clearly, if the accusing family were rich, their attempts to make Jacko pay for their child’s pain and suffering (which WILL last a life-time), would be regarded as “just”: the rich family just wants justice; the poor family needs money.

They say, “MJ is being oppressed because he’s a rich, African-American.” This doesn’t deserve a response, but I’m mad so here goes:
& MJ’s not an African-American by any definition of the word; he’s a former child star who does not now and never has lived in the real world; I would be flabbergasted if he ever experienced racism
& One cannot “oppress” the rich and powerful. It defies logic and semantics. “Oppression” is what the rich and powerful do to the poor and weak, you dumbasses.

The alternative to the preceding would be, “The Man is persecuting MJ because he’s a …” Also bullshit because
& “The Man” no longer exists; welcome to the 21s century.
& “Persecution” is an interesting choice of words; it conjures images of witch-trials and lynching, rather than the lawful pursuit of justice against a powerful and rich pedophile which this trial should have been.
& For the “because” clause, see above.

Well, the verdict has been rendered and the pajama-wearing freak of nature who cries more than I do when I’ve missed a dose of my happy pills is now free to return to Neverland (you know that place where the lost boys of J. M. Barnes’ Peter Pan await the return of their fearless leader), Jacko’s defenders can return to La La Land, where nothing bad ever happens to anyone, and I can go back to nursing the rage-induced migraine-from-hell. Thanks, MJ jury.

Randomness from The Lit. Prof.

2005-06-13T13:20:00.000-05:00

I'm on vacation, dammit! Why, oh why, do I have to work? Because, "vacation" means something different in the academic world than it does in the real world. In the academic world, "vacation" means you have to answer emails from disgruntled students who did "F" quality work and unrealistically expected an "A" for their efforts. In the academic world, "vacation" means participating in grade appeals.
Scenario: student X has three grades (70, 85, 83) which average out to 79. X wants Lit. Prof. to giver her extra credit for writing a critique of her preacher's Sunday sermon. Lit. Prof. balks at giving academic credit for attending church.
Question: what happens next?
A) Lit. Prof. stands by her decision, thus preserving her own integrity and that of the entire liberal arts community. X accepts responsibility for a well-earned "C" and moves on with her life.
B) Lit. Prof. stands by her decision, thus preserving her own integrity and that of the entire liberal arts community. X appeals her grade because "God" told her to or "mommy" told her to or "inner Satanic voice" told her to.
C) After numerous post-semester emails from a class populated by the worst students in 7 years of teaching, Lit. Prof. has a complete nervous breakdown and eye-twitchingly revamps her syllabus such that it excludes extra-credit (honestly deserving students be damned!); includes more mind-numbing tests (resulting in even more pointless grades which reflect absolutely nothing about students' potential, effort, and intellectual prowess); adds more readings about lesbians, satanists, moral terror, sexual imagery, and Marxism; and takes a vacation (which, as noted above, isn't actually a vacation by any standard definition of the word). Ah, academia!!!

One day I'll get the courage to enter the real-world work force. I would be a good secratary/accountant/personal assistant. After all, I did all of these jobs working for my dad as a teen and 20-something (10 years experience). I can also wait tables at a country club (3 years experience), prostitute my body (17 years of an active sex life), do psychological counseling (15 years on this side of the couch), and flip burgers (no experience, but how hard can it be?). Of course the downside to all of these professions is I wouldn't get my summers off.

I want to be a cat. I took that animal-test thing and came out as a wolf.

Ten (More) Things

2005-06-11T13:34:00.000-05:00

Key did a lot of fussing and called me a newbie and accused me of being impolite. So here's another list (this one actually conforms to the original theme).

Ten Things I Have Not Done, But Intend to Do Before I Die.

Defend my dissertation. The defense should take place some time between July 8th and 12th, which means I can die any time after that, but not before (from this blog to God's ears).

Subject A Clock Work Orange Happier to my will. This may take a while.

Publish a fully annotated critical version of the complete works of Margaret Cavendish.

Balance my checkbook. If you would like to contribute to The Balance Ophelia's Checkbook by Adding More Money to It Foundation, I accept PayPal.

Give my pussy a bath. She's very dirty, and is starting to smell. Besides she's all matted and stuff.

Plant a garden. The only truly happy memory of my maternal grandfather is of working in his giant garden, drinking tea from a jar, feeling very small walking through rows of corn.

Visit the Hemp Capital of the world: Amsterdam. Be a judge in the High Times Cannabis Cup.

Single-handedly reform the Republican Party. Granted this will be a monumental task, and may take some time, but it must done or America will suffer under the tyranny of so-called conservatives who have mistaken moralistic oppression for political conservatism.

Start my very own self-sufficient artist commune. Writers, poets, painters, sculptors, musicians. It will be an orgy of creativity. We'll starve together and live a monk-like existence. It'll be great!!!!

Achieve nirvana; figure it all out; detach from everything; fully connect with God and all existence. This will of course have to be the final thing I do before I die , as I will be pure being at that point and will have completely detached from a world of action.

Ten Things ...

2005-06-10T19:10:00.000-05:00

Key is fussing. I've just returned from battling the evil creepy crawly in my bathroom (or to be precise the parallel universe in my bathroom closet).

Ten Places (real or not) I Will Never, Ever Visit Under Any Circumstances Whatsoever (in no particular order):

The Clinton Monument: aside from the fact that it doesn't (yet) exist, I do not look forward to visiting the giant phallic symbol (what other form could it take?) dedicated to the man who, with the help of Hillary, set back feminism 20 years.
California: we have plenty of ocean and sunshine on the east coast, dog! Of course, we don't have any decent vineyards, but then again neither does CA. I want a vineyard in Italy. How much do you think those go for? I've got a-buck-fity. Think that's enough? Maybe just some land - and I'll plant my own grapes. I want a few hundred acres that come with their own bare-chested farm-hands (or whatever you call those guys who tend the vineyards; big, sweaty Italian men).
Asia: too far, too hot, too dusty, too marshy, too crowded; though I would like to thank India for curry and some of the best literature ever.
Paris: armpit of the world, according to my brother. I will not dishonor his memory by visiting the place he visited so that I would not have to. Thanks, bro!
The Ozarks: banjo-playing, toothless, inbreeding Hell, rivaled only by the mountainous regions of Georgia and all of West Virginia. All apologies to my West Virginian friends; get out while you can!
Texas: cowboys, bad tourism commercials, country music, rodeo clowns
Greenland: NOT green; funny story about that - the Vikings, taking a break from raping and pillaging tried conning; they convinced some locals that they would be able to grow food in Greenland (the Vikings made up the name in the very first and arguably biggest real estate scam), where the grass is always green and the soil always fertile; the locals peacefully packed up and went to this so-called Eden, where of course they discovered solid ice and all starved to death; the Vikings did not, however, enjoy this non-violent approach and promptly invaded Ireland.
La La Land: I know way too many people who have been there, never to return. Ignorance may indeed be bliss, but awareness is more interesting.
South America: rainforests kill!
Eastern Europe and Germania: got to be the most depressing place on earth. Have you seen the literature and fine art that comes out of Eastern Europe? Even their languages are depressing. Russia's supposed to be all democratic and capitalist now -- or in the lexicon of the New Right, "free" -- and yet it's just as depressed, repressed, and oppressed as ever.

2005-06-02T11:19:00.000-05:00

There's a creepy crawly in my bathroom. I hate creepy crawlies. My husband is asleep, so he's no help. BTW, it's noon here in exile. Where have all the cowboys gone?

Ramen, Sex, Chocolate

2005-06-01T23:11:00.000-05:00

DH and I were pillow-talking last night when it hit me: RSC is the ideal weight loss regimen for women. Let me break it down for you ...

Ramen noodles: clocking in at low 190 calories per serving, ramen is also a good source of iron, which we all know is essential to athletic performance (inlcuding marathon sex) and relieving depression. Since depression can and usually does lead to overeating, iron is an important weight fighting nutrient. Add the occassional canned green vegetable and/or canned protein source, and you may actually have a balanced meal. Of course the best thing about ramen is that it's cheap, easy, and requires absolutely no culinary skills.

Sex: this is one of my favorite activities -- it's fun and it burns calories. I refer my gentle readers to Calories we burn whilst having sex! According to She Vamp, sex with a man with a normal-sized penis while balancing on a barstool burns 42 calories. By adding a faked orgasm and supressing your frustration and rage (the result of faking it), you can chalk up another 173 burned calories. The great thing about sex as exercise is that's it's cheap (if you don't pay for it -- and what woman has to?), doesn't feel like work (unless you're faking orgasms), and is readily available. A word on "availability": if you don't currently have a partner you CAN substitute masturbation. The drawback of masturbation is that it doesn't burn as many calories, so you'll have to do more of it and do it more often than intercourse -- which for some women may not be a drawback at all, but I don't want to think about that right now. To achieve maximum benefits on the RSC program, I recommend some form of sex at least four times a week for 15-30 minutes per workout.

Chocolate: (note: this is purely my addittion; DH stopped at sex -- go figure!) No diet regimen is complete without at least one indulgence. Although this regimen has both sex and chocolate, sex has the added benefit of burning calories. Therefore sex is not, strictly speaking, an "indulgence." Chocolate, however, is just for pleasure; it is just for you; it is dessert; it is ecstasy; it is a great compliment to any bubble bath and goes well with coffee, wine, and strawberries. If you are one of the rare few who hates chocolate, get help!

In conclusion, you CAN have your ramen and eat it, too. Moderation is a good thing, but sex and chocolate are best enjoyed in excess.

Peace to you all.

(This is my first blog -- If you must comment, please be kind.)

So Much To Do ...

2005-06-01T21:24:00.000-05:00

... so little time. The following is my things to do list:

Clean shit - my mom visited this weekend and told my daughter to tell me to clean
Organize shit - my mom, who, as you know, visited this weekend, said I had to organize my stuff and I would feel better about my life -- cluttered home = cluttered life
Watch more Dead Like Me -- I'm not teaching this summer, so I have to find things to do in between cleaning and organizing; a show about the living dead would fit perfectly with my schedule and mood
Bone up my Metal genres so I can have an intelligent conversation with my Metal-head husband about music
Take up Yoga -- I remember when I did Yoga, I was much happier -- wait a minute, I never did Yoga
Sort memories -- 1. real, 2. imagined, 3. real, but wish they were imagined, 4. imagined, but wish they were real
Defend disseration
Learn to spell "dissertation"
Kill ex-husband -- just kidding!
Learn to use filter in brain which should prevent me from saying and writing things best left unsaid and unwritten
Ignore emails about grades from crappy, ungrateful students -- those bastards!
Caulk around bottom of toilet to prevent seepage of water onto floor which is buckling due to seepage from toilet which needs caulking
Wash car OR buy new, clean car
Read for pleasure more
Fuck more
Make brain-filter thing a priority

Peace to you all