Alert readers may notice that there is now an easier way to reach Kitty Winn. She’s been stamping and snorting about that all along, really put out like. So if you peruse the left side bar, you’ll see an Ask Kitty Winn link. Do avail yourselves of it! She’s still rifling through a hatbox full of 8×10 glossies looking for the perfect author headshot (and hampered mightily by the fact that her head’s not even IN most of them), but the page is a start. Yes, a real port in a storm!
xxoo
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
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
One of the best parts of my day as an underling for an international soup concern has got to be dealing with the foreign language stuff. Today I had to swap out a picture of a can of soup for…a new can of soup. All the writing is Japanese, and it’s a brimming bowl of yellow liquid. I started tittering at the possibilities. Let’s play “What’s! In! The Can!” shall we? Could it be…Cream of Dog? Tincture of Eel? Extract of Cock? Or, as my office pal suggested, that old standby, Rat Oil. Mmmm!
You’d think there would be exotic products like that, but actually it’s just boring shit like clam chowder and chicken noodle. Ho hum. So much for diversity. I guess I could link to the humorous foreign soup pages, but I’d probably get “canned.” Ahahahahaha. Then how would I pay for my drugs?
Yes, Lambchop, work is a funny thing. You used to make fun of me for wearing sneakers with my suit, but once you tried it you admitted there was no going back. The world of banking was not for me….I could write a novella out of my failed careers. Soda Jerk, Grease Monkey, Exotic Dancer, Roustabout. I really lost the love for the hot $9/hr world of bank tellering when I realized you are behind glass not so much because of the threat of robbery, but because people spit at you!
Sample Workaday Dialogue:
Me: How may I help you today?
Disgruntled Vagrant: I wanna take out all my money
Me: Account number please, and I’ll need 2 forms of ID.
DV: ARGHRRRPHHMMMPHPHHH! Cunt! Whore!
I can’t tell you what was in the briefcase. But just the other day I saw a guy handcuffed to a Louis Vuitton monogrammed case. In the checkout line at Stop n’ Shop. I wouldn’t fool about something that weird.
xxoo
Dear Kitty Winn,
I have not been involved with anyone for a looong time. Before I saddle up and head out again, I wanted to know what sort of girls are “In” these days? Sluts? Power Vixens who talk about the books they read? Cute-n-Dumb? Or maybe Innocent Virtue is back? Please clue me in so I don’t have to waste any time “having opinions” when I ought to be pretending I don’t want sex so I can have some.
Thanks!
-liza jane
Dear Liza Jane,
I’ll tell you what’s in: eating disorders! Hoo, had you there, didn’t I? Don’t fret, my gauche gamine, we’ll have you up and humping in no time, and nary a drip drop of yesterday’s lunch need cross your lips. You see, the secret to love is to have an alter ego. It’s kind of like becoming a super hero. First you need a name, then a costume, then some press coverage, preferably in the form of a slavish internet fan site. I will even give you some ideas for free: Lurid Crimson, Cyan Chlamydia, Lulabelle the Liberated Librarian. Soon the young dandies will come flocking to you, drawn in by the many pictures of your painted pout! The more wigs you wear in your photo shoot the better. Really, you have nothing to lose. It’s not like you’re that much to look at in person anyway!
knock ’em dead,
Kitty Winn
Yes, dear readers, a tale of depravity, rapine, and even VOMITOLA….
I will begin by noting that I am in an upright position today, and rather puffed up with pride about the whole affair. You see, boys and girls, I had what is known in the business as a “sinus and middle ear infection.” That means my head was filled with a noxious goop from stem to stern, and my doctor had a moment of mirth making me try to move my eyes to follow her little light pointer (I turned green and could not oblige, as a simple head moment could have spelled spontaneous spillage!).
So the upshot is that I have a variety of medical miracles at my disposal. I was bucking for an MRI, but I seem to have netted some antibiotics and some anti-nausea stuff which works great except that it puts me to sleep within minutes. So I should have another ten minute window here, do pardon me if I trail off!
And I must say, who knew that 2 days off from work could be so interminably boring? Actually I also left early on Monday as I started dry heaving everytime I looked at the screen. I felt really bad about leaving too, because people had to do some work I was trying to finish. Anyway, I walked home through the Public Garden in kind of a zig-zag pattern. There weren’t any cabs in sight, and I figured barfing in the garden would be nothing new for me, so why despoil the T? I made it all the way up to Louisburg Square. I don’t know how familiar anyone is with that area of Beacon Hill, but it’s sort of a really lame answer to Gramercy Park. There’s about a 30 square foot area of fenced in trees and grass, and some plum parking spots. Only people who live in the nice houses right there may touch the fancy foliage. So of course that’s where the dry heaves took me over!
After that, I teetered back to my house. At least I didn’t get arrested for holding onto the wrought iron PRIVATE fence. An attractive older British fellow asked if I was OK. I wanted to assert that I was not simply a drunken prostitute (a – I was not carrying an umbrella b – we were nowhere NEAR the docks)…but all I could do was mumble something like “mrphhh yeah….”
At any rate, I return triumphantly, er, sort of. At least the room stopped spinning! I think my dr. was disappointed I didn’t have menningitis or something sexier. Thanks to Lambchop for brilliantly holding down the fort in my infirmity. Maybe I should give her Power of Attorney too! Although she’d probably just sign me up for a bunch of magazine subscriptions or government studies.
Also, I exhort you all to make use of the services of Kitty Winn! She’s a firecracker, she’s a pistol, she’s a former Miss Omaha. As you can see, her advice is top-drawer, just like her rack.
xxoo
You’re all in luck, I am pretty freaking incoherent today. A heady blend of dayquil and giant starbucks latte is coursing through my veins. My eyes are glassy, I can barely hear a damn thing save a dull roaring, which could be my monitor or possibly the voices screwing with me. It would be easy to sneak up on me and scare me if anyone were so inclined. And what do I have to do today? Lots of busy work. Print shit out. On the scary big “tabloid” sized paper. Use a 3-hole puncher. I should probably swear off using the paper cutter. Yes, normally I do fairly complimicated technical work, but these days I am the secretary. Secreting everywhere. And it’s not even like I have James Spader for a boss!
Speaking of amputation, it is my fondest wish to have my little toes removed. They serve no purpose, and they make it hard to wear fashionable shoes! I’m not talking about any kind of accident, I want full anesthesia, a reputable cosmetic surgeon, and a prescription for some top-notch drugs for my extensive recovery period. Yes, I want it to look like they were never even there. Tootsies as smooth and gleaming as other parts of my anatomy.
Lambchop, I have set out a bolt of the finest burlap, and it is my fervent hope that the gnomes will scurry out and whip up a flouncy frock for you! I’ve called several bridal supply stores, and they were a bit brusque as they informed me they did not carry any live animals, nor do they have any truck with burlap. I guess we’re going to have to do this ourselves.
In other news, my sister is being stalked by a crazed Saved By the Bell fan! Godspeed, li’l tofu boots!
xxoo
I got take out sushi from Shino Express on Newbury today. On the wall there is a painting of a silhouette of a woman, sort of a teal color, looking very much like a Duran Duran album cover. Her lips are bright pink, and she’s hosting a hefty piece of tekka on her chopsticks. And swirling teal letters read: Tuna as fresh as your lips.
Needless to say, that set me off but good! I walked back to work humming “lips like tuna/tuna kisses…” My friend S speculated that this was a translation from Japanese that was actually more meaningful than the orginal thought. Infused with a hearty significance.
Anyway, life is sheer dada at this point. I’ve decided to solve the wedding problem by hiring a stand-in. I am picking out Lambchop’s dress….it’s going to be a good one! Can’t wait to see you tooling around the floor doing the chicken dance!
Last night I watched the State of the Union address. Of course I really set out expecting American Idol to be on, but alas and alack, there was my least favorite winged monkey, in full becufflink’d regalia. I shouted lustily at the screen for the first fifteen minutes, then I feel asleep. And when I woke up, the Democrats had trotted out a God-honest Chinaman to give their rebuttal! I expect this was to counter all the tight shots of the one female Reublican and the one Black Republican in the audience. Anyway, Governor Locke managed not to start frothing at the mouth with rage (which is what the Democrats probably SHOULD do for a change), and he navigated the moderate waters valiantly and even concluded with a rousing “God bless America!” Oy. The subtext of the whole affair seemed to be “at least we all agree we are not down with Allah.” And before I feel asleep, the Shrub had managed to tout a Hydrogen Car and condemn abortion and any research involving cloning. I think I conked out right after faith-based initiatives. The human mind can only withstand so much torment! What a sense of defeat. I’ve voted my bleeding heart liberal conscience in every election since I turned 18. But what good does it seem to do? There’s all those states in the middle of the country to contend with!
I think my only hope is to move to Canada. I’m going to call up the Prime Minister, whatshisname, and see if I can come for a visit. Surely they’ve never encountered the situation of someone WANTING to move to Canada before? This could be one for the history books!
xxoo
So we long ago decided that I am usually right, but Lambchop is far more quotable. Hang on to your knickers, nelly, this guy is a regular Bartlett’s!
I am loving his reason for why no one needs to drive a Humvee: “you’re a dentist, not the right leg of voltron!” aughh.
xxoo
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.