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Bottom’s Up!

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Last night I had a fine time at Alvin and Jenny’s house. We played a rousing round of Dr. Quack. According to Alvin, one can suffer mightily from Driver’s elbow, a heartbreaking condition of the joint of the arm that does nothing while one is driving. I am in a dire state of vomitola. My poor Tract has been bothering me and I am finally going ’round to the doctor today. I do hope I have to swallow barium or have a colonoscopy, as I know there is nothing you eager little piranha will appreciate more than pictures of my supple bottom. The other good thing is that I will be granted entrance into Jenny’s new religion, The Diagnostics. But I have a long way to go to rival the founding members, who have suffered allergies to snail larvae, and a syndrome that paralyzes half your face in a stroke-like manner, but is easily treated with two days of antibiotics.

Here’s hoping I have Crone’s Disease!

-xo

All I could eat

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We consumed our portion of a 30 pound turkey in a home that looked like something out of Yankee magazine.

We had flaming ambrosia and volcanos next to the big fountain at Kowloon while the band played Tiny Bubbles. We gorged on nine-layer dip and tequila, recipe followed by a wake-up call of Rock Star punch (a disgusting mixture of every energy drink in stock at the store 24. Congratulations to my pals for discovering the recipe for anger, generic hatred of mankind and instant colossal headaches.)

We showed Herr W. our side of the Atlantic on this crisp November day in the lovely and salty town of Marshfield.

Then we introduced our foreign friend to Robby the lobster, pictured here steamed.

Now if you will excuse me I have to go slip into a coma….

-xo

Failure to thrive

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Overheard, stomach competition between two grandmothers. “Your pictures are AFTER UTERO, hers are better because they are IN UTERO.”

So, Thanksgiving, as we do in my family. A lot of deep breathing, counting to one hundred, drinking, and stepping out into the bracing cold, usually to find another family member out there, cradling his or her head in hand. For Christmas, I hope to be on a plane to a place with umbrella drinks and cabana boys. Or I will beat someone to death with a bottle of rum.

-xxoo

Vomitola offers you Meat

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Dear Kitty Winn, health

Someone made this photo-collage of me and sent it to my email account. Should I imagine that I have enemies? Or is it in good humor? Paranoid in Montana…

Thanks, decease

“Richard”

(Note to the dear, malady gentle Reader- the photo-collage in question in question actually depicts a great, tumescent Schlong, so be warned if you are tuning in at work, or simply do not like to look at great, tumescent Schlongs.)

Dear “Richard”,

I see you are wearing some sort of sports cap. Apparently a Boston Red Sox cap. So humiliation and loss is something of a badge for you. You also admit to being both paranoid AND living in Montana- I could spend all day on this complex little nugget, but I will stick to your question, as I have a mimosa turkey brunch. So your face appears as a dainty cap, a Jimmy Hat as it were, on a massive Schlong. But this is not so much of a “letter from a foe”, as a friendly reminder that you are a Big Weenie.

gobble,

Kitty Winn

You can be NEW

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Gone are the days of me eating cheese and sucking down tequila, falling into some paranoid dream with a full belly and my boots still on.

Well, not OVER. Can’t I be gin-sodden and be FIT? Science is about to tell us this. Last night was my first appointment with Thunder, my personal trainer. It was great! “Feel the burn!”, he said, “Are you sure you have never done this before?” Oh my god, if I had a nickel for every time…

-xo

Deutschland Ueber Boston

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Herr Werkhausen has come to visit me from Berlin, his first trip to Amerika! Two things you can’t find in Berlin are sweet potato waffles and non-potato root-type objects. Fascinating!

There is more Americana in store!!! Long, leafy walks, Thanksgiving dinner, & the Simpsons in English. But if someone really wants to feel like an American, we must teach them how to fritter away their money. I mean spending great flipping wadges of cash on utterly useless items such as rubber goldfish suspended in handsoap, a Dukes of Hazard thermos, a Mr. bubble t-shirt or an issue of Rolling Stone with a List in it.

So I am sending Herr W. back to Berlin with blue bathwater dye. And then we are going to the harbor and eat a nice piece of fish.

Honorable ME-ME-MEntion: the Women’s Art Organization of Berlin has published a new book and it includes the work of yours truly! If you wish to purechase a copy, email Lambchop and she will procure one for you to the tune of a C-note. (Shut up, I had to buy my own copy, too).

-xo