Tuesday, February 22, 2005

The Pussy Ranch has been ressurected as part of Twin Cities Babelogue, City Pages' online blog community.

Come get some at pussyranch.net

Wednesday, August 25, 2004

The All-Star Pussy Ranch Finale!

And so it has come to an end, my patient dears. This is my last Pussy Ranch post. I no longer have the time or the resources to write regularly 'round these parts, and I hate to leave such a smashing readership in Blog Update Limbo. So that's that.

Right now, Bette Midler is draped across my desk, singing "Wing Beneath My Wings." I am a bit choked up, but that's only because one of those blue corn tortilla chips is stabbing me in the windpipe. You know, I felt sorry for Bette when they cast Mayim Bialik as Bette the Younger in Beaches. I felt even sorrier for Christina Ricci when she played Rosie O' Donnell as a tween in Now in Then. When they make the Diablo Cody movie, they'd better get a really tasty bitch to play me. Perhaps Alyssa Milano with copious gluteal padding?

Anyway. I'm very proud of this blog. I've met a lot of incredible people because of it. I get to be a real writer now because a lot of folks dig the Pussy Ranch. I am lucky.

Also, can I just say it was/is a blast collaborating with Jonny? The man is a genius, and I tend to reserve that word exclusively for brilliant fiances and Ashlee Simpson. Jon is balls, yo. He's done so much cool design on this site that he deserves a retrospective at the Walker. He also deserves a gleaming halo for putting up with my ragged hormones and biting asides all the time. I love him. I love him so much I might marry him really soon.

Now, I have to go to bed. I haven't felt this self-conscious since the time I was stripping and realized I had a shred of toilet paper clinging to my vulva.

'Til the cows come home...I bid you adieu.

Diablo Cody


Thursday, August 19, 2004

Just wanted to point out that the lovely Ms. Cody has yet another excellent story in City Pages this week!

Click Here to check it out.

I think its her best yet. Of course, I think that of ALL her stories, as I am almost frighteningly biased.


Tuesday, August 17, 2004


I will be watching the Olympics tonight, along with every other flab-choked, glory-starved suburbanite in a Hungry Man coma. Specifically, I will be watching women's gymnastics, which is like dwarf tossing, except these girls don't need to be tossed. They have rubber band joints and Reed Richards spines, and they can do stuff that's creepier than the infamous "spiderwalk sequence" in The Exorcist. Also, it's fun to say "Mohini Bardwahj."

Also, female gymnasts never get camel toe or nuclear wedgies; either the leotards are specially engineered not to crawl into moist places, or the girls themselves are neuters. (I'm more inclined to believe the former.) They're all compact, ponytailed creatures, sleek, chalk-dusted and pigeon-breasted. Can you imagine if the women's gymnastics team was comprised of big, Rubenesque earth mamas with huge tits and errant pubic hairs? It would be a lot more fun to watch. "Svetlana Kislovodka has begun her sequence on the uneven bars, and...oof! Looks like she just missed the first release skill! Perhaps she should take off that Maya wrap with the two newborns swaddled inside."

I think the U.S. is gonna choke tonight. Those little Romanians are sneaky, and I'd know. They're always pleading for more even after I've spent hours caning their girlish bottoms.


Wednesday, August 11, 2004

Top Five Favorite Topics of the Crashing Bores Who Work Alongside Me.

10.) Baby food (Mixed Root Vegetable vs. Pulverized Beef Joints)

9.) Infant formula, the kind that costs $47 a can and is made from real Haitian breastmilk.

8.) The best way to get to work, which inevitably leads to the utterance, "Well, I avoid 494. 494 is a parking lot."

7.) Where The Children's Place is located in relation to the food court at Southdale Mall. (You wouldn't think a basic small-scale geographical fact could constitute a ten minute discussion, but it can and does.)

6.) "No, really, 494 is such a parking lot."


Monday, August 09, 2004

When it Comes to Insurance Claims, I Am the Brightest Star in the Firmament

I examined sixty long-term care insurance claims today. That is an astounding feat, akin to overcoming a childhood rife with fundamentalism and molestation to become a plucky pop star. Speaking of such things, I had Ashlee Simpson along to help me trudge through the oft-treacherous bog of elder care benefits. I listened to Autobiography all morning, and I believe it was Ashlee's grace and benevolence that guided me swiftly through the rougher claims.

At one point, I surveyed the beach of life, and I thought I only saw one set of footprints. "Ashlee," I said, (speaking directly to the CD case), "why did you forsake me during my darkest hour?"

Ashlee chuckled softly. It was a magical, coruscating sound, like the sound of a sacred albino squirrel scaling an aluminum Douglas fir. "That was when I carried you," she replied.

(I should have known, because the footprints were totally created by a pair of those pointy Lindsay Lohan shoes. And I don't own any Choos, just shoes. Jonny has a fetish for heavy, stacked, monastic footwear, so I'm still plodding about in ponderous black Steve Maddens while every other girl gets to wear lime-green kitten heels.

Just remember: Ashlee loves you super lots. She resides on a fluffy cumulus cloud somewhere, playing four-square with cherubim. She never stops smiling. Each day, she telekinetically reduces Jessica's breast density. Soon, Jessica will wake up looking like a principle dancer in the Joffrey Ballet. This is grounds for divorce in Los Angeles County.

It's all happening, babe. We goin' plat'num!


Thursday, August 05, 2004

Hot Ashlee Simpson Poop!

(And by poop, I mean "gossip," though I'm sure a sick cross section of the blog-reading populace would enjoy seeing Ms. Simpson dispense a swirl of chocolate soft-serve on Daddy's pecs...)

Anyway, a certain photographer I know was commissioned to photograph Ashlee at her Mall of America performance last Saturday. He breathlessly reports that no one, with the exception of Mama Tina and Papa Joe, was allowed in the preshow greenroom. No mall personnel, no fans, no pallid children from the leukemia wing, no one. What type of preshow activity could Ashlee be so desperate to hide? Was she pissing on the Schlotzky's deli tray? Arguing with Joe about the validity of the Kabbalah? Either way, it's pretty weird to be exiled in your greenroom with Mommy and Daddy when you could be riding the Timberland Twister with your hot, competent bandmates in the mall amusement park.

I missed the show, shockingly, because I didn't know about it. Man, how many opportunities will I get in life to shop at Sephora while listening to Ashlee Simpson bellowing from the other end of the atrium? I did, however, purchase Ashlee's debut album that very afternoon. It is awesome. I wish I was saying that in a dry, Michael Ian Black sort of way, but I'm totally serious. Ashlee rules, you guys. Jonny will testify. Autobiography is the pop masterpiece of the year.