Tag Archives: teebee

Tell me about the rabbits, Trista

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from the desk of Kitty Winn

Dear Kitty Winn, prescription

A few months ago I slugged it out with a few dozen other girls on a popular TV show. I won the affections of a lunkish Midwestern kinda guy. Everything was really dreamy for a few weeks, but then he looked at another girl in a bar! I did what any self-respecting person with crazy eyes would do and hucked the engagement ring at his head! I mean, I’m his fiancée! That alone should demand he pluck out his offending eye. We had a connection! And he didn’t see it that way. I like the idea of making a guy get down on his knees to re-propose every few days. I think guys like that too, it makes them feel like they have a special job to do. But then he just got all weird on me and wouldn’t spend the holidays with me. What’s with that, I’m his fiancée! And then he didn’t love me anymore. But I’m his fiancée! I have a ring! Should I keep it, Kitty? I won it fair and square.

-hella crazy

Dear Helene,

If I had one of those automagical Tivos, I would have zapped right past you, because you scare me so much. But I needed to see Trista lead Ryan around like a trusty St. Bernard. Yes, you do have crazy eyes. But Ryan seems to be on some serious veterinary tranks. Is he slightly retarded? Or is it just that rocky mountain high. At any rate, I hope Trista doesn’t let him pet her pretty hair too long. He’s got big strong hands.

Stay away from me,

-Kitty

P.S. Sure, keep the precious, go right ahead! Fine by me!

Hurry up and wait: a travelogue

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The two feet of snow Boston received a few days ago are still snarling things. Last night it took a full hour to drive from zee Back Bay to Mr. H’s house in Slummerville. There was honking and gesticulating, and failure to yield to emergency vehicles. And then there were the other drivers, ba dum dum. No, I’m teasing. Of all the rages I am known to enjoy, road rage is not among them. I did read about one severe case of snow rage. In Framingham. Isn’t that the town where people kill each other at their kids’ hockey games? Go figure.

And I won’t even get started on the T. The rage has disipated to a collective ennui. If it had a sound, it would be a low-pitched whiny “nnnnnnnnnuuuuuuhhhh.”

It’s finally warm enough to go out without gloves and a ski mask, so to celebrate living through a hellish drive, we walked to Rudy’s Cafe, the margarita mecca of Teele Square.

On the way back, I noticed a salon called “Skin Skedaddle.” What is the meaning of this? “We extract to the point of disfiguration. People will skedaddle when they see you!” That’s almost as good as Hair-azz, which briefly existed next to the Outback in Burlington. And let’s not forget what always, always cracks me up in Porter Square: “Long Funeral Service.” It used to be Long-Hurley, which was passable, but I guess there was some sort of schism.

But yes, I’m just rambling. Must be hibernation wearing off. Must focus. On…who won the Bachelorette! I’m going to subtitle this: And Shamu makes 3

Good God, who would have thought she would choo-choo choose Ryan?  He’s a poet, and he don’t even know it. But Charlie, Charlie had a serious hair problem. I kept flashing back to the footage of melancholy sea birds after the Exxon Valdez. Anyway, any guy who can tolerate the booming cadence of her biological clock totally deserves her. My stomach crawled up into my throat during the scene where she and Ryan, or maybe it was Charlie, were feeding bread to ducks. She cooed “Ready? Over here!” and I could picture her perfectly in maternity overalls, herding tow-headed children around on an “educational” experience.

I topped off my evening with a nightcap of “I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here!” Melissa Rivers blinked back tears as she realized she was there to be “humiliated” by having creepy crawling bugs and rats stuffed down her pants. Zen. And you bet your ass I will also tune in tonight to watch the Bachelor “follow-up” with Aaron and tearful Helene. I’d like to say I have something better to do, but somehow this has become important to me.

xxoo

Entertain meeeee

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So while Heather was off having stiff ones forced down her throat, I must have been at the movies. This weekend I saw How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. I expected a candy-coated piece of fluff, but it turned out to be all that and then some! It was entertaining to the nth degree, although don’t think I’m about it review it. Overthinking violates my policy of perpetual amusement! Besides, just like there are those who clean toilets, there are people to write reviews. Like the Times. If you liked Office Space, give this a try. Seriously. It’s the same brand of retardation, with more carbonated pop. Ok, the end was sultifyingly predictable, but such is. There are less fun ways to spend an hour and a half.

Speaking of peppy, a clever reader alerted me to the madcap world of Pokey the Penguin. Love it. Love Pokey.

Now I’ve got to make tracks home through the snow so that I can adequately prepare for the final episode of Joe Millionaire. Every passing day my lust for cheap, thoughtless entertainment grows. I wonder if it’s a new form of depression? Maybe it’s just my patriotic duty. I used to be one of those “oh I don’t have a TV” people, but no more! If I can manage to maintain a trash culture-fueled stupor, I don’t have to think about the REALLY bad things going on. Sometimes if the negative does intrude, I just throw money at the problem! It’s amazing. A well-timed $50 to the humane society or the foodbank really helps the pleasant fog roll back in. (Except never give to WBUR. They’ll hound you every 2 months for the rest of your life. Do I LOOK like I want a tote bag? I finally pretended to be deceased.)

Remember boys n’ girls, thoughtful analysis is for simps! Up with boobies!

xxoo

where have all the flowers gone?

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Dear Kitty Winn,

I’m a reclusive media figure, and I was recently pilloried in a highly rated television documentary. Barbara Walters kept clucking and saying mean things about me, and then that fat chick who was filling in for the blonde lady on Primetime called me “funny looking!” Kitty, I am at my wit’s end. Years of childhood abuse and blinding fame have rendered me a tragi-comic man-child, and at this point I lack the emotional maturity to defend myself or even see what the hell the big deal is in the first place! Kitty, how do I get these hounds off my back?

-Never had a chance

Dear Never,

Kitty avidly watched your public flogging, pausing only to stuff more Rolos into her pie hole. Kitty’s not sure why she’s referring to herself in the third person either, but it seems like a train one can’t jump off easily. Anyway, beleagured Never, Kitty applauds your parenting decision to raise your children out of sight. More people should do the damn same. Especially the people who shop at the Bread & Circus in Alewife. Right there, you are making a valuable contribution to society as we know it. Perhaps the next step is to apply that sensible ideal to yourself? They do wonders with burqas these days! Never again will anyone twit you about the condition of your nasal passages if they can’t see ’em! Allow Kitty to suggest retiring in style, to a small bunker or other fortified structure. Think of the fun you could have in all your spare time if you didn’t have to dodge the media. Why, there’s the Home Shopping Channel, or one of those “construct-your-own” submarine kits! Or if all else fails, there’s always voodoo, or installing a system of trap doors outside your mansion to swallow up unwanted visitors from Child Protection Services.

Bon Voyage,

-Kitty Winn

linky dink

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I would be remiss in my duty as a blogateer and general observer of trashiness if I did not remind all US readers to watch the freaky Michael Jackson documentary tonight on ABC. Check local listings! I would say that beats Friends with a stick.

In other news, unhealthy I must publicly declare that the editors of the Miss Gothic Massachusetts Pageant web site should shit or get off the pot re: posting an update. People want answers.

And finally, ed for your Daily Show-like moment of zen, you should check out Item #530 over at 665.

xxoo

drop a boulder on me, lord, or whatever method your might prefer

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Ok, this is not a typical rant, but I need to vent. I’m planning a motherfucking wedding, and I’m awash in a bilious sea of taffeta and shrimp puffs. $120 per person to feed Uncle Burt, Aunt Henrietta, and Big Fat Cousin Susie and her own unruly brood? I haven’t seen these people since New Year’s Eve 1986 (I’m not even kidding). I really see why women freak out (who watched Bridezillas last night on FOX? Admit it!) when confronted with all of these horrendous options for commemorating your nuptials. Today I’m at the point where I realized I just don’t care anymore, I want to hire a wedding coordinator, give them a budget, and we’ll just show up on the right day, stinking drunk. So I go Googling for Boston wedding coordinators, and I find…drumroll please….Klasi Events of Attleboro, MA….Dorna Love’s Wedding Daze of Lynn, and most notably Phat Katt Productions. Holy Fucking Shit. Not only do they cater to the big fat bride, they remind you that a basket of ladies toiletries in the restroom is a must for one’s guests!

Yes, you can’t throw a wedding without handiwipes. Now I don’t think I’m asking for much…an outdoor location in September for 75 people that will allow us to bring our own booze and have bar-b-q catered by Redbones. So if anyone out there has a palatial backyard they feel like renting out, let me know! Believe me, I’ve already lobbied for Vegas. Shot down. We are destined to have some unholy jamboree. Stay tuned as I unravel mentally over the next few months.

Oh, and yes, I’ve been to Indie Bride. Didn’t help! Feh. A pox on wedding bullshit.

Deep Impact(ion)

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So I awoke this morning and checked all the porn in my hotmail, and then when I logged out, I see a story beckoning to me from the MSN idiot portal. “Swelling star threatens world, providing preview of what awaits Earth.” First I thought it was going to be about Jennifer Lopez and/or Ben Affleck, and I just can’t get enough of those two. Then once I figured out it was all about Science, I was genuinely alarmed and proceeded to skim it with as much attention as I can muster after half a cup of coffee. I was prepared to get all excited and order a wet suit and gas mask, but then it turns out the Earth won’t fry for another few billion years. They snuck that tidbit in at the very end. Ho hum.

But I may be a day late and a dollar short with the gask mask anyway, as I see I’ve missed the Miss Gothic Massachusetts pageant! Oh calamity, oh cruel serendipity. Oh misery that the photos of the “winners” aren’t published yet. But! Do not depair, gentle reader. We are proud to announce that Vomitola will be providing in-depth team coverage of the event via special correspondent Mary Jane RottenCrotch (as soon as she is found, we are checking interstate rest stop bathrooms now). Oh wait, Lambchop is passing a slip of paper across the news desk…it seems she has been located, and she’s just in the middle of a streaming web cast about the hardship of taking her corset collection to the dry cleaner. Phew. Well, when she’s free we’ll try to extract all pertinent info!

Oh, and last but not least, we’d be doing a real disservice if we didn’t provide a whizz-bang Golden Globes wrap-up. Sorry about that.

xxoo