When we think of holiday cupcakes -- pop cultural freak that The Corsair is -- he thinks of the self-described Mandela-like martyr, Martha Stewart, (along, of course, with our magnificent blog wife, Miu Von Furstenberg, although a confection of her calibre of complexity would be more properly construed as approximating, yet never quite achieving, a "mille feuilles," more than the common "cupcake").
Anyhoo: Of Martha, incarcerated boldface, over at "Camp Cupcake (Do they practice the ancient sport of falconry on the grounds, perchance? No? Class will tell)," we can imagine heating up a commissary burger on some leaky West Virginia radiator -- charmed, I'm sure -- leaning in, warming up those buns, really getting in touch with the red-stater check-kiting "posse" (Averted Gaze). And we worry. Really we do. Okay, we don't but we're acting like we do.
Luckily, Martha updates us via a peasant on her website, MarthaTalks, where she tells us -- mirabile dictu:
"When one is incarcerated with 1,200 other inmates, it is hard to be selfish at Christmas"
Correct, one's ass is quite literally forfeit -- no pun intended here; okay, only a little -- once one is locked up. Martha continues:
"-- hard to think of Christmases past and Christmases future -- that I know will be as they always were for me -- beautiful! So many of the women here in Alderson will never have the joy and wellbeing that you and I experience."
Wait a second, is Martha pimping us? (The Corsair rereads briskly to himself) "--Will never have the joy and wellbeing that you and I experience," like, what the fuck is that all about? That creation of a false intimacy, if delivered in an even predatory tone ... that (The Corsair's eyes glaze over)... sounds like she's trying to turn us out. Jailhouse-style; real "country" like ...
The Corsair just visiting the Martha website out of some morbid curiosity, and a little concern. Martha sounds like she's laying down some hustle, pratting us out, probing our inner-psyche for weak spots to expose to her advantage, crawling into our vulnerable spaces and establishing residence, and, at the end of the day (The Corsair sighs), we're going to find ourselves -- as per usual -- donning "the fishnets" and heels, wearing smudged pouty lipstick like some ... crushed baby-doll, walking up and down the boulevard of our own broken dreams, incessantly, performing "favors" for Martha's cellmate -- you know -- the one with one eye, and the fine layer of Spanish-moss like growth atop her upper lip .. that one ... and ending up in the fetal position at the end of the day. Damn (The Corsair picks up the fallen spaghetti strap on his dress, powders his cheeks), Martha's pimp hand is strong!, we couldn't resist, she had us at -- sotto voce -- "hello. "
The Corsair began worrying for MarthaMarthaMartha after this National Enquirer story said:
"'A gang of four inmates cornered Martha in a recreation room,' an insider told The ENQUIRER.
"'They didn't physically rough up Martha, but did make it very clear that the next five months of her life would be spent in their world, where certain unwritten rules would have to be followed."
And, one imagines, "their world" does not include "bewitching Halloween eggs"
"Two of the inmates got right in Martha's face and warned her they were the ones who called the shots inside Alderson, while two others stood with their backs turned and watched for guards.
"They filled her in on prison's one-strike rule, which simply means Martha will be given only one warning about those inmates she's expected to obey.
"If she gets out of line and doesn't heed their first warning, then they promised there will be hell to pay for strike two!
And it won't involve "perfect pie crust every time"
"All Martha could do was stand there and nod her head in agreement. She paid close attention as they explained the special favors she would sometimes be expected to provide--laundry, making their beds and buying supplies for them from the commissary."
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