Thursday, December 29, 2016

Fu*k you 2016! You sucked!

This year has truly been like the Twilight Zone. First, people voted, and Russia hacked voting machines, to help elect a rich, arrogant pig like Donald Trump to be out next president. Then my favorite 1980s' people, Prince, George Michael, and Carrie Fisher, all died too young.
I hope the New Year finds you all well. Life can be wonderful sometimes, and other times, you wonder if you can pull through. I wish you all hope, love, sass, and good luck for the New Year.

Saturday, December 3, 2016

Is Anyone Else Sick Of The Struggle?

Most days are great. Most days are fine. But why do most of us feel like we’re always climbing a mountain with no end in sight?

There is always the struggle.

The struggle to get up.

The struggle to make money.

The struggle not to slap the latte out of that girl talking too loud on her phone.

The struggle to find work.

The struggle to love and be loved.

The struggle to be understood.

The struggle to smile and shut the fuck up.

Wednesday, November 30, 2016

Dear White People. You’re Not So Great.

With the winning election of Donald Trump there has been an uprising in so-called white supremacy. Crude incidents have been reported all around the good old U.S.A. It seems some white people are losing their shit because of all the pride they feel at being superior. There’s been vandalism and verbal abuse and one could only imagine—violence—will follow.

How sad. How pathetic. What makes white skin better than brown, or black or yellow or Smurf blue? Please tell me? I’d like to know because I’m white and I guess I’m proud, but the color of my skin has nothing to do with my achievements.
The year will soon be 2017 and many times it feels like some white people are turning back instead of going forward. So if we get rid of all the immigrants, gays and anyone else who doesn’t seem white enough. That will make America great again? Get a drip on reality, and a better hairstyle. An all-white America will all of a sudden make the welfare-sucking-white-trash become good citizens? Dear white people, you’re not that great. Some of you are awesome, and some of you are racist devils wearing cheap suits.

There are some people who should be deported. There are some people who should be spat on. But to abuse someone just because they lead a different lifestyle than you, or are another color—and that goes for any color, white, black, brown, yellow and blue—it’s wrong, cruel and sad. It hurts to see the tears of the father who got attacked in front of his 4-year-old son by an employee of a hardware store, who repeatedly called him a faggot. "The faggot that voted for Hillary." Other shoppers joined in on insulting the father, and one even said he was going to molest his son.

This is the new America? Some of you reading this may feel like this doesn’t concern you. You’re probably white and straight. Just remember this; Afghanistan was once a thriving and promising place. In the 1970’s women could drive a car, go to college and wear whatever clothing they wanted. Men could choose their career and aspire to do something more than learning how to use a gun.  Then the Taliban came into power, and year by year they rose using extreme tactics to control people into believing what they believed in. Now the women are sex slaves with no rights and little Afghanistan boys dream only of war and decay.

No one race is better than the other. We are all humans—and Smurf. So instead of trying to blame a race for your failure as a human being and worrying about being number one, just live your own life, and leave everyone else the fuck alone.



Monday, November 21, 2016

How I Ruined Christmas By Knocking Over The Tree.

*I grew up an only child. It made me independent, and bossy. It's no surprise I enjoyed telling my parent's what to do. I loved Christmas and decorating the tree. In October, I would be begging my mom to let me put it up.

    “Not yet!” she would yell at me as I pestered her while trying on my Halloween costume.

   Early November I would still be asking her, ”mom, when can I put up the tree?” 
“I said not yet, stop bothering me,” her cigarette ashes falling in the pot, a little extra flavor for that cheeseburger Hamburger Helper.

   It would yell and pout. I wanted to put up that damn tree. I was 8-years-old; my life depended on it.

   “Can’t we put up the tree now? Mom, please!” I said as she hacked three large sized slices of Pumpkin pie on plates. I stared as whipped milk and sugar made love on the pie. Seconds later an eruption went over the crust like snow down a mountain. It was a calorie landslide and man, was I skiing.


   “Please, mom?”

   “I said no!”


   “God damn it, Hudson, do we have to get your hearing checked? No!”

   Finally, by December 1st, I wore her down when I kept interrupting her TV experience, “Charles In Charge”.
Go get the freaking lights already.”

   I thanked her with a giggle and ran until I got to the hall closet, throwing things about until I found lights and bulbs begging for my attention. I bundled all the little boxes in my hands and ran into the living room, the closet left behind looked like a tornado had been through it.

   “We have to set up the tree first and then we can decorate.” my mom said, a white box hitting the floor with a thud and green fakery peaking out of the top.
When I become a rich actor one day I will have my maids and butlers set up my tree and it won’t be a fake misshapen green thing like this either, no. It will be a real tree, from a forest or mountain, big, green and beautiful. There will be smell of pine and not the smell of an old person when I stand it up. It will be so tall it will hit the ceiling and I will have to stand on a damn ladder to decorate the thing. Regular bulbs from K-mart will not do for my tree, oh no. Faberge eggs will adorn it only, thank you very much, with real 14-no 18 carat gold ribbons. People will “oh” and “ah” as they come by my window, looking at my tree in amazement. I would not care to notice the gawkers as I come out on my balcony and act surprised that everyone was there.
As my mom put up the tree I watched her bitch and moan. Plastic limbs being pushed and shoved like some sale-whore shopping for bargains on Black Friday. Finally it was erect, green and tall.

   Would this year be different? Would I get my Farrah Fawcett-Majors doll that I requested? I would be so happy if they surprised me with the gold lame’ outfit set as well, which was sold separately. I know Farrah would look great in it, plus it would fit my Cher, Toni Tennille and Diana Ross dolls.
My father was disgusted with my mom for buying me a Cher doll.

“That boy needs to be into sports and…dirt. Boy things.”

   I prayed his attitude would not defer her from making future gender defying purchases. Damn them all to hell if I got another truck.

   “You can’t braid a truck’s hair!” I wanted to shout at my Father.
I did enjoy The G.I Joe doll but soon lost interest because I could not style his plastic hair. For some reason he always laid around Barbie’s dream house, muscular and naked on her plastic bed, waiting for her like a good man should.

   My mom was great at giving me what I wanted and my father was great at complaining that I was not acting like a boy, a real boy. What was I to him anyway, freaking Pinocchio?
   Now it was time to decorate. Bulbs thrown on different branches; cross eyed angels hung by their backs; tinsel, in all its tacky silver glory. The tree slumped with decorations-maybe too many decorations.
   My dad walked into the living room, eating cereal out of a box in his underwear.

   “Looks like a fairy threw up in here!” He said before leaving.

   Finally, I was almost finished and mom wanted to start dinner but the star was left to be put on the tree and I couldn’t wait for her. I followed her into the kitchen.

   “C’mon mom, I want to finish it,” I said.

   “I have to slave over the stove,” she barked, tearing open 3 boxes of Swanson’s Salisbury steak TV dinner. I walked hard on the floor until I made it back into the living room.

   I sat there, pouting, looking at the wonderful tree with its glittering sheen and assortment of gold, red, silver and green. The big silver star sat in its crumpled box, waiting to shine as the pimp of the tree.
Damn my mother, I thought, what does she know? She wears white after Labor day. I guess I will just sit here and stare at the four walls until she gets ready to help me. Only if I was on my own and had a funky apartment; I could do anything that I wanted to do and not rely on other people telling where and when I had to do something; I could eat a jar of Fluff for dinner if I so desired.

   “I hate being a child. I can’t wait to be a grown-up and be on my own.” I said out loud to the tree.

On my tiptoes I went over to the star’s box and opened it quietly, cord hitting the floor. I moved a sofa chair over to the left of the tree and climbed on the chair with the star. After a few minutes of adjustments I made the star sit comfortably; like a nympho on top of a sailor. It was happy. It was gorgeous. It lasted one minute as the tree fell over to the right.

   Bulbs broke in tiny little pieces; the floor a twisted mess of glitter and glass; wings of angels separated by force. Poor Mrs. Claus looked like a gang of hostile teenagers from South Central Los Angeles had jacked her up.

   There Santa was, face down but still smiling with a candy cane up his north pole.

“What the hell—Hudson!” my mom bellowed, her thick legs making sounds on the floor. She tried to pick up the tree but it soon fell on top of her.
   "OH Lord!"

   “I tried to put the star on,” I answered, trying to hold up the tree so she could roll out from under it. When my mom got to her feet she was a mess of glitter and pieces of broken glass.

   “You ruined Christmas!”

   “Please, I’m not a child, there is no Santa Claus.” I said, trying to hold my smirk.

   “Whoever told you that is a spoiled sport!” she said, anger rising like water in a teakettle.
*Taken from There's A Bastard A Bastard Born Every Minute by Hudson Taylor copyright 2016

Sunday, October 9, 2016

Donald Trump's Pussy.

I guess the women in Donald Trump life learned a thing or two about how to protect themselves around him. #CoverThatPussy

Wednesday, October 5, 2016

Miley Cyrus Twerk’s Herself Out Of Vogue Cover.

Don’t fuck with Anna Wintour, editor-in-chief of Vogue magazine. Cyrus, 20, has already shot the photos that we’re going to be the Vogue cover story for the December 2013 issue. Well that’s until Cyrus danced a weird, rumored drugged out performance at the MTV Video Music Awards, in which she stuck out a tongue that a snake would have been embarrassed of; danced around like she’s got gonorrhea and played with a huge finger, that seemed wasn’t big enough for the former Hanna Montana star, who many are calling Whore-tana. When Wintour lowered her Tom Ford sunglasses and saw Cyrus; she was rumored to yell, “hell-to-the no!” and promptly canned her from being on the cover.
I have to say I’m glad that someone has class these days. This is Vogue magazine, not some moronic rag that features Kardashians and reality Stars with manure for brains, and don’t give me that crap about Cyrus is like Madonna, breaking rules; Madonna might have never been a lady, but she was a woman when she came out, not a little girl taking off her clothes every-time she’s not getting attention. When will people realize, sex is great, sex is good, but it’s not the only thing in the life. If we as a society would promote using our brains as well as our bodies we wouldn’t have so many unwanted pregnancies in the world, and so many people on medication for depression.
No word yet if Vogue will ever use the Cyrus pictures. Meanwhile Cyrus, who should be bored already, with taking off her panties when the wind hits, has just released a new song and video (Wrecking Ball) in which she’s naked on a wrecking ball, and licking a hammer; way to go Miley, why even wear clothes anymore at all? Just make all you’re feature appearances in the nude, this way when you’re dancing and moaning about in barely their clothes, your attentions won’t seem so transparent.


Sunday, October 2, 2016

Can You Go Back?

Recently I had dinner with an old friend. Instead catching up I found my mind wondering. As he got sloppy drunk and buttered too many rolls and talked so much about all the stuff he owned. It made me think; how did I ever stand this person years ago?

Before this dinner I thought of my old friend often, and not that he was perfect or I was a perfect person, but I yearned for his friendship again. My new friends we’re not the same as him; we didn’t laugh as much as I did with him; they didn’t understand me as much as he did, blah-blah. All these things I kept in my mind, making our old friendship seem better as time went on. The reality was he was still the same; but I changed, I grew up.

Can Lindsay Lohan go back to being a fresh faced talent like she was in “Mean Girls”? Can O.J Simpson ever go back to being a football player and shitty actor, instead of a murderer and thug? Will Bethany Frankel’s voice ever go back to being non-irritating?

Life can be strange; the person who was your best friend for years can slowly turn into your enemy in the manner of days. Sometimes I find myself wishing things we’re the way they we’re, before life and responsibility changed it, but then I think how great things are for me now, and I’m blessed to be alive and healthy. There are so many things I want out of life, but the reality is I’m really happy with what I have and I don't want to be around anybody who is a big asshole.

So can you go back? Not usually, so it’s good to keep going forward. If you don’t learn and grow and move on, you can never get better.

Tuesday, August 30, 2016

The Man Bun: The Fad For Men I Wish Would End.

 His pictures weren’t blurry, looked old or had more retouching than a photo of Oprah Winfrey on her magazine. I was psyched for our first date until I turned the corner of west 10th street. My lover boy had a high bun on the back of his head that reminded me of Mrs. Garrett from The Facts Of Life TV show. To say I was turned off would have been an understatement.

It was a shaky date, people kept staring at us, really him, and I guessed they wondered; why was this gay guy with a bearded lady?
If you’ve noticed, the man bun has become a bigger fungus then Kanye West. All over the big cities men have taken the hairstyle of a romance-paperback-female-cover-model. I can’t imagine most women would want to have sex with a dude sporting an up-do hairstyle, but hey, what do I know? I don’t get why movie studios keep remaking Spiderman with different actors every two years.

Male celebrities of every talent level have been sporting the man bun, which is sad because once they stop wearing it, Middle America will pick up the look. Soon grandfathers, sporting beer guts, and old sweaters will have their hair swept in a high bun, leaving little kids to wonder, just who the hell is grandma?


Monday, July 25, 2016

God Answers Questions on World Peace, Gays, Guns, Hillary and Donald.

When G (that’s what he told me to call him) first contacted me I thought someone was playing a cruel joke, but after a few more text messages and his promise to give the east coast a mild winter (G said Mother Nature owed him a favor) we were off and I believed in a higher power besides Oprah Winfrey.

Two months later G somehow found out I was in San Juan (shoot; maybe G is one of my Facebook friends and I didn’t even know it)

I admit I still had my reservations, especially when he wanted to meet me at a Taco Bell; actually I was floored, if God doesn’t know what good Mexican food is; the world was really in the shitter. I admit to thinking it was dumb now, but I sassed God about Taco Bell, and hoped he wouldn’t strike me with a thunder bolt or Donald Trumps complexion.

We decided on Starbucks instead. Getting ready I became a Nervous Nelly. What to wear for God? This dude is supposed to be my creator and I didn’t want to wear a “Sunned My Ass Off in San Juan” T-shirt. I settled on a maroon Polo and blue jeans.

I sat in Starbucks and waited for him; hopping the overpriced java wouldn’t give me cramps and send me running into the Restroom. Finally I heard my name called with such a masculine voice that I knew it had to be G or some retired drill sergeant. Nervously I looked around but saw nothing but a Puerto Rican lady with frizzy hair. I heard the masculine voice again;” It’s me, G.” When I didn’t see anyone I realized that I was losing it and imagining things; a grown up life of working with the public had finally fried my brain.

How could I think I would be interviewing God; wouldn’t he want Barbara Walters or some married Republican dude--you know the type who hangs in men’s restrooms, and supposedly chats with God often? I heard the voice again; embarrassed with myself I looked down to collect my thoughts and a quick getaway, but to my surprise there was G. I was shocked and spit my coffee on the frizzy haired lady; luckily she didn’t seem to notice or care.

God has red hair, tattoos and is a dwarf; who’d have thunk it.

Motioning to the seat in front of me G hopped up on the stool with all the grace of a blind miniature poodle. I thought of offering to buy him something to quench his powerful thirst but a Frappuccino appeared in his hands magically. G smiled and I nervously stared at his huge hands. He only had two requests: 1 was time; he was catching a Queen Latifah movie in 20 minutes and wanted a good seat. 2. I couldn’t ask him to explain any of his answers.

Q. Why do people die?

A. Some people have certain destinies; others have none; some should floss regularly.

Q. Do you like it when Tim Tebow and celebrities thank you on sports games/awards shows?

A. Actually I laugh. I have no power in picking best actress or where a ball is going; get a life.

Q. Will there ever be world peace?

A. Not until greed, acceptance and world taste for Fluffernutter becomes an everyday pastime.

Q. Should gays be allowed to marry?

A. People should spend more time on their own lives; oh and clean bird cages more often; pew!

Q. Should people carry guns?

A. No, they should ONLY carry humility with them at all times.

Q. Why are we all here on earth?

A. Where else do people want to go; Uranus?   (did this have a double meaning?)

Q. Are Aliens real?

A. If E.T was so smart he would have called home, collect.

Q. Does homosexuality really make you cry?

A. Only when watching “Will and Grace,” Debra Messing has great comic timing.

Q. Should we be scared of South Korea?

A. You should fear anyone with bad haircuts and nuclear weapons.

Q  Last question. Hillary Clinton or Donald Trump?

A. Hilary Clinton is in bed with big banks. Trump is in bed with Putin, biting the pillow. I'll take Clinton.

With that he slurped down the last of his Frappucino and bid me adieu. I sat for awhile, thinking I was blessed for the experience, but eventually couldn’t stop staring at the mess of napkins G left on the table; what a pig I thought and went back to writing my next Ethel Cunningham mystery.

Thursday, June 30, 2016

Why Am I So Damn Angry?

Why am I so damn angry? Strangers I don’t know, get on my nerves at the gym. Little dogs dressed in outfits make my stomach hurl. Neighbors who don’t know how to decorate, steams my broccoli. Men who kiss badly should be thrown in jail. People who talk at the movies or too loud on their cell phones should be tasered by the public.

Not everybody gets on my nerves, but a lot of people do. Sometimes I think of taking a yoga class or having one of those trendy spa enemas, that are supposed to calm you down, but I still haven’t done it, and probably never will.
When you live in a place like New York City, it’s easy to get annoyed with people. If the crowds, smell and expense doesn’t get you, surely dating here will send you into an early grave. Sometimes I wonder why I live here, and other times I have to admit I miss it when I’m gone from it.
Just the other day on the Today Show, the waxy host was getting wet talking about what Kanye West and Kim Kardashian named their kid; North West. I know most celebrities are attention whores, but why do most famous people have to name their kids after strippers?

Anger is interesting, people that hold it in scare me; people that let it out and go crazy really scare me. So what’s really the right way to be? I hate when some loser will say turn the other cheek; turn the other cheek and get your butt smacked I say.

Paula Dean said in her first television interview when addressing her use of the N word, “I is what I is, and I’m not changing.” It made me laugh, not only did she cry without tears, but she actually really just said, “this is me and I’m not changing; so fuck off, you ’all.” Which is a stupid PR move on her part, but I guess I’m like Paula in the way of, I Is What I Is, And I’m Not Changing.

In the end I’m not so angry; I laugh a lot, love easy, and sometimes hard. I’m happy and feel good about everything I have achieved in life, and though there’s more I want out of life I’m thankful, and excited for my next journey; just don’t get on my nerves.


Monday, June 13, 2016

Dateless Blunders and Other Wonders in Online Dating.

 Going through online profiles on websites like OkCupid or Match I’ve discovered that what most people write isn’t really what they mean. If one is to really believe most of what is written online you’d think every single person in the world is: laidback; very-good-looking; loves to travel and has the most ‘amazing’ friends in the universe.

So to help people out I’m going to explain what-the-hell people really mean when they say:

Laid Back: I’ll contact u first, but will be too lazy to follow-up later.
Love To Travel: Will never be free enough to make a connection, “you free in two months?” He will ask.

Not Looking For A Hook-up: ONLY looking to hook-up.

Not Judgmental: Totally judgmental (he’s judging you for even having an online profile)
My Friends Wrote This For Me: I’m a big pussy and won’t make a date with you unless my friends do it for me.

I’m A Nice Guy: I’m really a bastard.

Very Good-looking: Sometimes they are attractive, but mostly they’re not; either way, do you really want someone who is in love with themselves only?

Sunday, May 29, 2016

David Muir Makes Us Warmer Than A Hot Car Seat.

Here at HTYM we usually get our news from Chelsea Handler or Wendy Williams, but now that ABC has promoted David Muir as host of "20/20" and "World News," we can’t get enough facts about 'Moms Who Murder,' or that place called Libya. OK he might stand weirdly, but we can't keep our eyes off him!

Muir could be reading the back of a shampoo bottle most nights and we would be hypnotized with every word he says; now that’s reporting, and that’s one serious side part he’s got.


With his trademark brown suits and puppy dogs eyes, Muir has more than a few ladies using Google to see if he’s single and ripe for the picking. A little (gay) bird told me he plays on the lavender team; which, if true will have many women yelling into the air, “I can change him!” and many gays hooting, "what's his number?" and "is he on Facebook?"

David Muir is hot and ours; and that blonde needs to leave him alone.

I really don't care where Muir dips his pickle; besides his good looks and body that could make me sell my mother; Muir is a refreshing change to late night news; he seems smart but not a snob, and unlike most news people; when he smiles it really looks like he's happy; i'll take Muir's face (and anything else he wants to give) anyday over the frozen death look most TV news people give to the public. 
Gulp, those arms could open a lot of jars around my house.
Let's be honest, Muir could just eat a bag of Fig Newton's on air for an hour and i'd still watch, and by the good ratings he's getting, so would you.

Friday, May 13, 2016

Download the #1 Best Seller, New Year's Eve Kill for FREE.

My first #1 best seller! Tears. In honor of my first #1 book, U can now download New Year's Eve Kill, for a FREE. And please leave a quick- kind-review on Amazon after you read :)

  When This Hospital Takes Your Blood—They Take Your Blood!
After getting through the busy holiday season, coffee shop owner and all around sassafras, Ethel Cunningham, suffers a fall and winds up in the notoriously rundown Christmas hospital on New Year’s Eve. There’s no holiday cheer here for the sassy sleuth as she soon realizes her roommate is trying to communicate with her from behind the bed curtains that are never open. The staff tells Ethel that the man is in a coma and has been out for a week. Then why is there odd scratching coming from the other side of the curtain?

In one of her trickiest, and heart pounding mysteries yet. Ethel is faced with one of her greatest fears—being trapped in a scary hospital where no one can hear your screams.

LINK to Amazon.


Monday, April 11, 2016

Men Who Lost Their Looks; It’s The Guys Turn To Be Judged.

Steven Tyler, Dude looks like a lady, and that lady ani't right.

The media is obsessed with women losing their youth and beauty and I'm bored with it. How many times have you read, “She’s gained weight,” or “She’s lost her looks.” Rarely do people talk about how many men have gotten old, fat and ugly. I know some men look better with age, blah, blah; well not all of them do.

Here are the studs that turned into duds; a hudsontayloryourmind exclusive.

Val Kilmer: Famous for “Top Gun” and “The Doors”; now looks like the Pillsbury Dough Boy.


Arnold Swartzeneger: “My looks will be baack!” I don’t think so.


Warren Beatty: Was once hot and bedded many; now just wets the bed.

David Hasselholf is scary young or old; yikes, Puppies?
David Hasselholf: There was a time he could jog without his man-boobs hitting his knees.

Mickey Rourke: Once starred in 9 ½ weeks; now he looks like he’s been hit with 9 ½ 2x4’s.


John Travolta: Grease was once the word; now it’s served with gravy and biscuits.