Tag Archives: Bahston

I would like to thank the Academy…

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Licketysplit is the goddess of good ideas and comfortable footwear. I have been so heartily welcomed- I even received this handsome cell phone and fruit basket! As marv of a time as i am having, I am not long for this corner of the land. On Thursday, I am headed for the Big Easy (stifle your chortling, Lickety). It’s the beginning of a two week road trip, destination L.A. Along the way, my pal Jim and I plan to see giant oaks, an exodus of bats, greasers, and maybe even greasers with bats. We are also going to stop in Las Vegas. As if the desperation of that town won’t be palpable enough, we are stopping in Roswell, New Mexico.

Gonna skin me a crocodile!

xo

Blow me up Buttercup

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So, the project I’m dealing with is now officially in “flaming barge of school children heading right for the Statue of Liberty” mode. Did I mention the kids have explosives strapped to them? And head lice? In other words, an unmitigated disaster. Only Spiderman can save it now. You think I’m kidding? Well, someone just asked me a question about an “XML std.” Uh, that person meant dtd, but I’ll take all the comic relief I can get. Now I’m just going to sit back, put my feet up, and wait for the FBI and possibly the ATF to contact me regarding my earlier gratuitious analogy with the school kids. And tomorrow I’m going to call out sick with a bad case of the “XML.”

Speaking of firearms, I have a new hobby a’ brewin’. Target shooting with small side arms. With a wedding gift haul of unwanted Precious Moments figurines just a month or so away, I’ve got to learn to shoot. A friend has promised to buy me and Mr. H a gun for a wedding present if we get our licenses to carry. We actually hope we get some sad-eyed angel figurines now, so we can take them to the range and pick them off one by one. The destruction will be filmed. Sometimes just returning something to the store is not spiteful enough!

I’m feeling especially entrepreneurial lately, as I wile away the hours thinking of how to get out of this job without being totally poverty stricken. So Mr. H gave me the idea for “blowyourshitup.com,” an extension of our own awful gift disposal plans. It’s a niche market, to be sure. Newlyweds unfortunate enough to not receive wads of cash will mail us their stash of useless crap from Things Remembered, and we’ll do the rest. Just choose “shotgun,” “steamroller,” or “sumo” from our destruction menu, and your commemorative DVD in a flocked velvet box will arrive in 4-6 weeks.

But really, my true calling is designing escape fantasies. I’m a natural. No, really. It’s my number one export these days. The gross national product of Licketysplit.

On a much more positive note, Lambchop has landed! There was a sighting today on Newbury Street. It was hard to tell it was her at first because of the huge dark glasses, but the fawning throng that assembled gave it all away. So she’s back in Boston, and you should beep her 9-1-1 and call her on her cell phone. Meet her by the friendly-ass bear.

-xxoo

Annie got my gun

I am not afraid to try new snack foods

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I have frequent opinions, and I love giving them. It’s even better when I am paid to do so.

See, I was walking through Faneuil Hall, and I saw that a crazy lady up ahead seemed to be stopping people. I was about to scuttle by and avoid her, but I was arrested by her line of questioning: “Do YOU eat yogurt?” Why yes, yes, I do.

“Do YOU want to make $15?” Once I ascertained that it would take about ten minutes and not involve photography or removal of clothing, I could honestly say “Why yes, yes I do. ” Self-interest really is the key to any sales pitch.

So I was ushered up into an office above the F.Y.E., and filled out a short demographic questionaire, on which I lied flagrantly. Then I was taken to a conference room. The table was covered in empty yogurt packages, all different brands. My interogator came in, bearing a tray of dixie cups and little baby plastic spoons. She made me identify the yogurt brands I currently purchase, those being Stonyfield Farm and Colombo. She seemed pleased. Then she hauled out some Stonyfield Farms cups with new packaging. The first one was a chocolate flavor, and it featured wavy grass with some chocolate chips in it, being surveyed by some omnipresent cow head.

I started laughing, because I am exceedingly juvenile. “You must know what that makes me think of,” I said. Oh Lawsy, what a design mis-step. I hemmed and hawed, mentioned that they had better add a dewy sheen to their fruit photography, and I want to see some fruit cross-sections, damn it, and that the ivory plastic looked more hippy-dippy recycled than the white plastic, which is what they are going for, right? Then I had to go through a tedious evaluation of competitor packaging. As a general aside, I will say that those Yoplait whips, custard yogurt infused with air, have got to be the nastiest thing every invented. Carbonated milk curd, mmm.

Finally, on to the taste-testing. And the first flavor was…banana-vanilla. I fucking hate any unnatural approximation of banana. I politely gummed around a spoonful, trying not to gag. “Well, it tastes like some ungodly bastard offspring of a tropical Starburst with an infection. I wouldn’t buy this in ten million years. What were you thinking?”

Next, blackberry. Hurrah, why not. It was pretty good. A little too sweet. I was given water and made great show of cleansing my palate. What fun. “Wait, wait, let me SWISH.” Then I tried some other stuff which was basically flavors they already have reformulated with that franken-fiber, inulin. Whatever. “Will this make me poop a lot?” Enquiring minds want to know!

Finally, “So when do YOU eat yogurt?” Ummm….when I’m crash-dieting? I mean “as a healthy snack to supplement meals.”

Soon I was being hustled out the door, $15 in cash in my sticky paw. I also got a whole bunch of coupons. Whee.

After I spotted this link on Rebecca’s site, I realized I had been a part of the ground-breaking “Trends in Yogurt Consumption” study. How monumental! If I could only secure employ doing a survey every hour. That’s $15 an hour, plus I would never have to buy food again. Sure, the sour cream survey could get a little hairy. Don’t get me started on the prospect of the hot dog survey. But I would be doing good in the world, as banana-vanilla has so far stayed off shelves, clearly all thanks to my vehement protest.

-xxoo

Public service

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Lately we’ve been mulling over the fact that, for the foolish, crime just does not pay. Everywhere you look, there’s some poor chump getting hauled off to the pokey. People leave evidence in plain sight, can’t seem to get their stories straight. From Makeshift Chambers of Horror to the obvious purloining of panties, we are awash in incompetence. Why, your lie is as plain as the nose on your face! Do you ever wonder “How’s a poor maroon like me supposed to make a dishonest living these days?”

We’re sick and tired of bungled dirty dealings, and we’ve enlisted a professional to help our readers: Enter Stella Nuance, the amoral Ann Landers, the deceitful Dear Abby, the Heloise of heinousness. Must we disturb the peace with our horrid proclivities? Stella says “No!”

from the vault of Stella Nuance

An open letter to Heidi Erickson, Beacon Hill Cat Lady

Ok, doll, here’s the scoop. Your business, while admirably fiendish, is simply not sustainable. Did you really think you wouldn’t get banned from Boston with a strategy that includes animals that expire so quickly? Boston’s a small town, and people have big yaps. Nothing better to do than flap their gums about your putrid pussies. The key is to move around. Try Reno, it’s a dry heat.

You definitely went wrong with your choice of venue. Why pick a small apartment in a highly populated ritzy neighborhood? You could have rented a whole triple decker in Roxbury for that kind of scratch, installed bank vault doors, sound proofing, and spritzed the whole place up and down with Skin So Soft. No one would been the wiser, and the police don’t even GO to that neighborhood. Hell, you could have even had a little shed out back.

So your choice for a lair was iffy. But you could have still pulled it off if you didn’t get lazy and stack those frozen peas in front of Princess Patty Paw. The Charles River is mere blocks away. It works for disposing of the corpses of crack whores and show cats alike! Don’t forget, weight them down! Failing that, you should have scored some embalming equipment and those pull-out morgue drawers if you really needed to keep those things around. No posh chamber of horrors is without such niceties. Or what about taxidermy? “That’s not a criminal mishap, that’s just Fluffy!”

Finally, when cornered by the authorities, don’t ever represent yourself! If you can’t get Johnnie Cochran, so what, even a public defender knows when to sit down and stand up. For cryin’ out loud, go get a haircut, a smart suit, and shut your pie hole. Lose the pancake makeup, it makes you look like you have something to hide. No one likes a frumpy villainess. Didn’t you see Chicago? Christ. I can see I have my work cut out.

Mum’s the word,

-Stella

Up, up and away

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Why is it so freaking hard to rent an elephant in Boston? I have a wedding to plan. I was really peeved to learn that I could have had my wedding at the Franklin Park Zoo, next to the African Wild Dog Exhibit for a mere $1500. I want a do-over. I’m just sucking it up and renting a Moon Bounce instead. I can’t decide between the Econo Kastle or the Pirate Fun Bounce. Seriously, if anyone out there in reader/stalker land knows where to find an itinerant elephant in New England, lemme know.

Just…ew

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Some of you have asked for more information about the “Beacon Hill Cat Lady,” Heidi Erickson. Local papers have quite a few articles detailing her bizarre streak of litigation and run-ins with past landlords and neighbors. Now she wants to get her frozen dead cats back, in case she needs to clone them. I walked by that apartment building every day for the past nine months or so and never noticed anything. Ironically, an upscale pet boutique, Fi-Dough, is also housed in that building. They are not affiliated with the cat lady in any way, and they leave free dog treats in a basket outside the door for the many people walking pets through the neighborhood. Just makes you wonder how many “makeshift chambers of horror” you walk by every day.

Since we are a two-paper town, I’m going to include both Boston Herald and Globe articles, for funny headline comparisons. See if you can guess which is which!

May 2, Cat-alog of complaints: Woman rips purr-loining of immortal mousers, Cat Breeder Fails to Appear at City Hearing

May 1, Beacon Hill cat lady files suit over police raid of apartment

April 30, Impurrfect tenant: Cat woman creates stink, Cat Breeder, Neighbors Often Clashed

April 29, Inspectors find cat ‘graveyard’ in apartment

This would be a great time to rant about people who feel the need to buy purebred animals, but I haven’t got that got kind of energy, and I’m sure no one cares. I know you all secretly want teacup poodles to fit in your Marc Jacobs tote. Basically if a breeder won’t let you come tour their facilities (which a man in one of the articles reported), that’s a huge red flag. Obviously this woman had some kind of a market for her attempts to build a better mousetrap. Look, I could write for the #$@! Boston Herald.

Viewer outrage

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Gremlins

Oh readers, what a discombobulating day. Our Lambchop is off touring through Bavaria with Steele for the Easter holidays. She doesn’t know this, but Steele took me into strict confidence and mentioned they will be visiting a few realtors to shop for a castle! He is eager to find one with a suitable balcony for Lambchop to let down her tresses, the rosy gloaming delicately highlighting her cheekbones.

In other news, I am stuck in Boston for the duration of Jesus’ rising, making a valiant go at starting my morning the way normal people do: watching the Today show and drinking a medium regular from Dunkin’ Donuts. But I was ASSAULTED, yes ASSAULTED, by a Lamisil ad that features a maniacal newt-like critter wreaking havoc with an unsuspecting toe. You think that flip-top head in the toothbrush commercial of recent years was bad? Try the trap-door toenail! Dear God. Foot care is near and dear to my own heart, but this, this is crossing the line of propriety!

See my letter to Lamisil, sent via their website. If you have seen this ad and are similarly concerned, do not be shy: let them know!

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Dear Lamisil:

Just saw the Lamisil TV ad with the gremlin character flipping up the cartoon toenail and running under it to munch on the nail bed and otherwise root around like a pig under a blanket. I almost spat out my coffee. That is absolutely disgusting! I found myself clutching my own toes, howling in distress, til the end of the ad. I never want to see that ad again. While I’m sure nail fungus is painful and your product no doubt effective, why do I, a fungus-free individual, need to see this graphic imagery during my breakfast?

Please stop running this ad!

-yours, Lickety

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Now I’m off to shiver in a darkened room.

-xxoo

So jung kommen wir nicht mehr zusammen

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I just learned today that a girl with whom I went to undergrad at Boston University has died. At 27, pharmacy she was briefly ill and that was it. In digging out my memories of her (they are few, we were simply classmates in the core art program of a large university), I am amused by the great sense of self-importance that fills the mind and fuels the debates of young art students. It seems so comical now the way I roundly abused this girl for painting a still life of a toilet without providing a reason, some meaning or purpose, that we should have to look at it. “Why?!”, I shouted, “why should we care?!” I was a quivering ball of contempt and sincerity. The others were mainly coolly talented, and relentlessly pretentious. But not Jackie, painter of toilets. She was scatterbrained and cool enough not to pay attention to anyone, and take art school on the chin.

The last time I saw her was about a year after graduation. She was leaving Boston, going to study graphic design, like me making the rounds of shitty jobs, dizzy and chatty like always on a sunny day in Kenmore Square. We said goodbye.

I love you like a fat kid loves cake

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It’s a slow news day. Boston is under a blanket of white stuff….much like the one under which Vomitola staff frequently finds themselves. I was toying with the idea of a post called “Things I have spilled on my desk.” Last week it was chowder. Corn chowder, not man chowder. Heather. A co-worker walked into my office and said “Aw man, I missed the bukkake.” A few days later, marinara sauce. Same co-worker walked in, he of impeccable timing, and said “Aw man, I missed the placenta!” The moral of all this? I’m a saucy girl? Bukkake is always amusing? I don’t know what to tell you. I’m ashamed of myself, really. And I do clean it up, it’s not like it festers for days! Surely that’s more important than the snow out there. I feel for all those poor Fox news bastards shivering out along the highway in their parkas. “It appears to be snowing, yes, quite a bit. I’d stay inside if I were you. Don’t walk on the Charles, morons!”

That out of the way, I should explain the title of the post. It’s from the song “21 Questions” by 50 Cent. 50 is a numerological cipher, he is! He is really on the pulse of America’s damaging love affair with food. Witness 50’s take on the obesity epidemic:

Fat, fat, them Snickers got your ass getting fat, fat

Those cookies got your ass getting fat, fat

That Cake got your ass getting fat, fat

Bitch you grown, that ain’t baby fat, fat

In the gym I see your ass up on the Stairmaster

But you got it on level two bitch go a little faster

Look girl, I ain’t gonna lie, I’ll tell you how I feel

They should handcuff your big ass to the treadmill

He’s really on to something, huh. The secret to weight loss is definitely to reduce intake while increasing activity. I’m not sure diet experts would agree that one should handcuff him or herself to gym equipment, but I’m sure 50 cent was speaking in metaphorical terms, citing willpower as a virtue. In fact I’m inspired to get a personal trainer! Brawny Hans will have me lithe and limber in no time.

xxoo

Playing cupid

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Dear Kitty Winn,

I hate valentine’s day. I keep seeing fun valentiney things to do and then realize I have no plans, and even if I had a date, it wouldn’t be the kind of sincere and loving date that would be worthy of the extravagant valentiney things. When I was dating someone, I hated valentines’ day and was disgusted by all the extravagant gifts that the season demanded I give, and by the whole commercial insincerity of it all.

I know what other singles will be doing. The really cheezy corporate-owned bars in The Alley have a singles flirt-fest where there will be incredibly drunk incredibly lonely people looking to have incredibly awful guilt-wracked fear-of-dying-alone sex with strangers. The various titty bars in town will be full of incredibly drunk, incredibly lonely guys and very distant, mildly disgusted strippers who don’t quite have to think about what they’re doing since they’re coked out of their minds.

But what can a single Boston boy do this friday? I’m a human male with a pulse. Surely someone has lowered their standards enough for me!

-Pine Fresh

Dear Pining,

Human? Male? That’s always been good enough for Kitty! I don’t know what’s wrong with girls these days. Or do you need a boy? You didn’t specify. If it’s boymeat on your mind, there’s always the Ramrod (it’s military gear night!), or Jacque’s.

If it’s females you’re after, I’d stake out Victoria’s Secret. Look for the girl buying sexy undies. And then talk to her less comely friend who’s been dragged along for the ride! Or you could camp out next to florists and the Godiva store, noting who peers in longingly. Because good boyfriends have already sent flowers and candy to work by now, so chances are they’re single. Finally, who says all strippers are coked out of their minds? There are plenty of nice ladies who are strippers. Of course they won’t like you if you have a negative attitude like that! Judge not lest ye be judged, Kitty always says.

Of course that’s a rotten lie. Kitty loves to judge people!

Realistically? Does it have to come to that? I’d suggest going somewhere non-date-y with a group of friends. Scorpion bowls in Chinatown can’t be beat. Scamming on friends of friends is always a good bet anyway. Or I can open up the floor to readers. Provide me with some vital statistics, and maybe we can palm you off on a lucky Vomitola fan!

warm-heartedly yours,

-Kitty