MOLLY'S TRASH TABLOID

 

Kellyanne Conway: The love-child of Dolly Parton and Lyle Lovett?

 

 

With the photo of a thinner, aged Dolly Parton, recently released along with photos of the tragic fire which destroyed so many homes in the Tennessee Smokey Mountain blaze, came praise for Dolly to step up to the plate and donate $1,000 to each family losing their homes. But, that is not all that was sparked by this particular photo of Dolly Parton. An ealier 2016 speculation was re-ignited; that of the possible children born of younger flings in the life of Dolly.

Among the stories of love-child gossip, there stands one that was, by appearances on the surface, quite intriguing. Is President-Elect Donald Trump’s leading campaign and transition team whirl-wind, Kellyanne Conway, the result of an encounter between Dolly Parton and country-western performing artist Lyle Lovett?

This rumor has been easily proven false. Although Lyle and Dolly have been at the same place at the same time on more occasions than countable, Lyle Lovett was born in 1957. Kellyanne Conway was born in 1967. Lyle Lovett is not as old as he looks. In 1993, when Lyle eloped and married actress Julia Roberts, he was only 35, although he looked older, then, too, due to the deep crevices on his cheeks, and remnants of skin conditions. Lyle is not old enough to have fathered Kellyanne Conway.

Actually, speculators say, it is likely that the original Lyle-Kellyanne rumor got an unfortunate twist, following the publication of just one photo of Dolly in which she looked a little like she could be the mother of Kellyanne. Yes, a distorted twist from the original story. Lyle Lovett’s father, William Pearce, was a successful marketer who lived in Texas but traveled widely in the 1960’s. Kellyanne Conway’s mother divorced when Kellyanne was three years old. They lived in New Jersey. Kellyanne grew up to be a highly talented marketer, as well. Lyle’s father was a great marketer; Kellyane has what seems to be a fantastic inborn knack for marketing, and Kellyanne bears some resemblances to Lyle. The original rumor was that Lyle and Kellyanne are secret siblings.

Photo credits: ronbenningtoninterviews.com (Lyle); The Dollywood Foundation (Dolly) ; Jonathon Ernst-Reuters (Kellyane)



MY OLD BITCH

Molly Bixby expounds on...  "MY OLD BITCH"/  Slang

During my transient life, hopping boxcars (ooops, that wasn't me), I have encountered some unsavory people. I picked up a few phrases unique to certain settings. One, in particular, is the seemingly proper noun, "My Old Bitch".

I decided to research this but, finding little credible data, I decided to write what I think it means:

My Old Bitch,  archaic form of a proper noun. Origin: Jerusalem, in a stable, circa one hour B.C. (Blasphemous slang)

 Modern interp: 1. A female dog 2. a horrid woman. 3. A nickname given by an uncouth male, to his  spouse or significant other whom is a  perfectly nice woman that refuses to leave the uncouth man. {Definition #3 is often followed by the woman say, "You aint gettin' any, tonight."}

My Old Bitch can also be used in place of "...the wife of a junkyard dog..." of either canine or male human type.

"Old" is generally not used as a measure of age, but merely a term of un-dearment.

Coffee, Jesus and Fannie Flagg

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Coffee, Jesus and Bernie Sanders

Outta java

what shall I do

outta java

diddly-poo

    oh, me

       oh, gee

          

could drive to buy some

but that takes gas

outta java

pain in the ass

      makes me blue

         oh, screw

outta java

what shall i do

outta java

diddly-poo

should have a W.W.B. D.

    b    r    a    c    e    l    e    t 

to see me thru;

screw  jesus*,

"What Would Bernie Do?'

*I know this is blasphemous.  It was a joke regarding the rubber bracelets that read: WWJD? They sold like hot-cakes, in the late 90’s, to people who wanted everyone to think they were guided by a disciple/preacher/carpenter that had the answer to everything. I think Senator Bernie Sanders had the answer to everything. I’m going to go outside, now, and probably get slowly eaten by a plague of locusts. And all because I spent two minutes writing some shit about being outta coffee. Coffee can be like heroine. I’d sell my body at an interstate rest area to get seventy-five cents for one of those paper thimbles of coffee from the vending machine.

My dust bunnies

   I took my dust bunnies to the vet because they wouldn't eat. I've tried everything. I put little pieces of carrots in front of what I assumed were their noses. I offered lettuce, and celery, too. I eventually tried meatballs, in case they are carnivorous. No luck.The offerings are still there.
   I did find one dust bunny on top of an old jelly bean I gave them on Easter, but the jelly bean looked untouched. I think the bunny may have fallen asleep on top of it.
    Despite the seemingly anorexic nature of my pets, they seem to procreate well enough. I keep finding more, when I get up, each morning. I have about 100, now, but that's okay. They're very quiet.
I think they must be very intelligent, too.  I often find some on the stack of books I have under my bed. They don't all congregate on the books, though, so it must be a book club. Some hang out on my barbells. They get around the house very well, too.
                     There must be a really BIG one, somewhere.
                  YESTERDAY I found this bicycle on my window sill.

Life Truly IS Like a Board Game

    I know it's not an original thought to compare life to the board game MONOPOLY, because I've heard that saying, "Do not pass GO. Do NOT collect $200." But I've been day-dreaming, instead of sleeping, and I have some more personal thoughts about that. 
    I remember when I was but a small child, sitting around a folding card-table with my family, playing that never-ending board game. My dad thought it would be a good way for us to bond. Never-mind that I was only about 8, and didn't even know about capitalism, nor "...how fun" it would be to collect little plastic houses, piles of money, and sadistically laugh at kin for having landed on your property, so the banker could take every bit of the low-roller's pastel money they had tucked neatly and sacredly under the board's edge. Never-mind that Dad put Hitchcock's movie, The Birds, on the huge console TV, with screaming, running, crying, bloody children  having their hair eaten by possessed members of the Aves family. Yeah-buddy, a fun time for an 8-year-old. "Will this nightmare ever end? All my play-money is being taken from me and my family is laughing. People are screaming, birds are attacking"...Whaaaaaa!!  Anyway, maybe that is when I first had the bitter taste of the greed of capitalism, with the snickering rich, and the terrified poor.
   That board game that lasts for hours is only fun for those who roll high numbers so they pass GO, collect the bucks often, and roar with glee when taking money from others. For those who roll low numbers, rarely passing GO, having visions of flipping the whole board up into the air is much more fun. "Little hat, little dog, little shoe, little race car...fly, fly, fly!"

Nobody wants to be the dirty penny Mom puts in the box for times when there are more players than pieces. 

   I wonder how my outlook on life's monopolizing quagmires would have turned out if I, the frightened, confused, laughed-at little 8-year-old had taken control of the situation by climbing up onto the table, pulling down my knickers, squatting like Linda Blair, voiding on the game board.

"ALL I ASKED FOR WAS TO BE THE DAMN TOP-HAT, BUT, NO! NO, THAT WAS ALREADY TAKEN!"

   If there was not a GO and a $200 reward, nobody would want to play the never-ending game, though. 

I know, I know...if we don't like the American way, we can get the fudge out. I agree. I  really do. It's more fun to stay, play the game, piss on the board, and eat the mint green money, though. I'm not fond of thatch huts, loin clothes, snakes, malaria and lions. I'll stay, and play the game.

The grand old party....yeah, they say, "...pull yourself up by your own boot-straps." 
I went to college. I got good grades, and was dubbed most likely to succeed. I had to wrap some SPAM  in my college diploma in order to eat, long ago, however. I sustained a paper-cut on my uvula. My boot-straps and shoe leather are on the menu for tomorrow.

But, seriously, I have a job, and I have food. I like to help people less fortunate, though, instead of being a shark. I'm far from rich, and really just get by, living under the sharks, but there are people worse-off than me.


TRY THIS: Let somebody that has already had to eat their boot-straps be the top-hat if they wander into your board game, today.
                                              

                                                 

                                                

Retarded Dog

    My dog is a hoarder. I guess that makes her an animal hoarder. It's so nice to have a dog to love, though. Last night I felt things I've never felt before. I was reaching between the cushions of my couch.

    Winnie, my red, long-haired dachshund, eats mud. I was laying on my bed, trying to be a day-sleeper, and Winnie The Weiner came in the doggie-door, jumped up on the bed, and put Andy Warhol-esque art all over my chest. Loads of the same image....muddy footprints in pseudo-India Ink...redundantly speckled my lilly-white flesh (the thermostat was set too high, and I was too tired to get out of bed to turn it down), equally as aesthetically-balanced as Warhol's Campbells soup montage. I would have been mad, but this little doggie is brain-damaged from something denting her cranial soft-spot when she was a pup, so she is as intelligent as soup ladle. Gotta love her (or hire a hit-man to strike her, again, in the center of her poor butt-shaped skull). While she was on me, wagging her muddy-black tail, she opened her mouth to expose what looked like Barbie's black bowling ball.  
    "There's something in her throat!" I yelled, doing my best impersonation of that forensics weasel from The Silence of the Lambs.
     I made a hook-shape from my very long, sexy, index-and middle phalanges. I scooped the hook into her blackened pie-hole, and flung out a round mass of mud, and probably tetanus, earth-worm turd, and a touch of radon. 
    "You're gonna kill yourself, you moron", I said. 
    She was still wagging her tail, when she looked at the orb in my hand. She sniffed it, and her eyes seemed to say, "That's cool. Where did that come from?"
     I went in the bathroom to wash my violated breasts. I took the skissors (I like to say skissors), and I snipped dried mud off of her paws. It took about fifteen minutes, being careful not to whack off her Naugahyde pads.
  WHY CAN'T I SLEEP? I've got to work the midnight shift, tonight! GRrrrr...!

  I took about 52 Benedryl, so I could have a short siesta.

     Wieners...sigh...Can't live with 'em, can't kill 'em.

                       

                               

 

 

    
 
      

IRONING OUT THE WRINKLES

I'm awake, getting ready for work. I still don't know how to do this site well. I need to "iron out the wrinkles", as people say. I can see my life as something of which I need to iron out the wrinkles. I would have a nice old-fashioned ironing board, with coffee stains on the circa 1920's cover (I love nostalgia...and coffee), and there would be this big pile of former jobs, bad habits, and words that came out  of my mouth in regurgitation chunkettes of which I could not take back. I would flick a glob of spittle on the iron... sizzle...yes, it's hot enough. I'd grab a handful of paisley social faux pas and put them on the board, spread them out, and begin to iron. The stench would be incredible.