from the NY Times:
“While pretending to teach a lesson in compassion, it wallows in the perks of privilege. Its real message is that beauty, wealth, a shrewd fashion sense, expensive bed clothes and, above all, an ironclad sense of entitlement can help a girl conquer the world. That’s all it takes.”
They say that as though it were Wrong!
-xo
Light the candles, physician delicately scented of hydrangea, health sip a manhattan and nibble at some hot pepper chocolates! In between all the delighted squeals of praise for the Fab Five, I have heard complaints that “Queer Eye” is enforcing the stereotype of homos as refined, attractive, youthful and creative people. Heavens no! I urge anyone who finds this an ill-applied and offensive distinction to march in protest. Please choose a remote location so that I may safely ignore your bloated visage, painful body odor, and the misspellings of your poorly handwritten sign.
Lambchop fully supports myths of beauty. Feel free to assume that I, being female, am perfect in every way. That violets blossom in my tiny footprints as I emerge from the bath like a silken Aphrodite.
The only drawback to being female that I can see is that Carson Kressley will never take me shopping!
-xo
Saks have big sale. You go too, doctor hurry. Hulk buy new dress. Hulk LOVE dress.
Now Hulk look like proper harlot, not Little Bo Peep.
Sexy Hulk, need Jimmy Choos.
-xxoo
Poor Licketysplit is floundering in a sea of tulle and chintz! Bridal fittings are not for the faint-hearted. They require the desire to stand for hours in the center of a puff-pastry-like object, facing the mirror, and barking orders in manner of Leona Helmsley to the fawning sprites with mouths full of pins. Our Lickety has that sort of courage…screw it, we are calling on Gaultier! Then she can sit on a sofa eating chocolate cherries while Heidi Klum manxes around in various outfits until lickety has found the one that rings her bell.
I attended a wedding on Sunday in Andover, the place where White People were invented. This was my first voluntary wedding, and I was only on my second drink when I was surprised to be overcome by a feeling of joy and pleasure while watching my friends shake hands with their guests, looking happy but confused. Who knew there was something else to be done at a wedding besides cringe?
Congratulations, J&J!
While others are joyfully uniting, I am afraid I must part from my daytime swain, Mr. James Rockford. I have finally wormed my way into some kind of job. It requires trousers with a crease and non-threatening footwear. It also requires punctuality and attention to detail, so I hope you will all include me in your prayers or bag-waah or whatever the hell it is you people all do when you aren’t watching people humiliate themselves on tv.
-xo
Hulk go to bridal salon. Hulk try on dress again. Hulk HATE dress. Who will make Hulk pretty now?
Hulk cry.
Why Hulk ever eat carbs? Hulk looking for love in wrong place.
Hulk watch Oprah. Hulk feel empowered, online call other bridal salon who better at fawning in English.
-xxoo
Murphy’s Law #421: right after you go try on your backless wedding dress and decide, “eh, it looks good but I have absolutely no muscle tone whatsoever,” and vow to do nothing but eat protein and do lat pulldowns til the wedding, there will be a free Herrell’s ice cream buffet in the lobby of your workplace.
But I resisted! I am SUPER HUMAN. In another month or so, I will look like a SUPER MODEL. Yes, I’m shallow. Whatever gets you through. My inner bridezilla has ripped through my chest like one of those acid-drooling aliens. I had one woman down at my feet pinning my hem, and another woman with the most incredible face lift plying me with tiaras and yards of tulle, while still another clucked in indeterminate Eastern European at the one hemming my dress, no doubt commenting on the junk in my trunk. I gazed lovingly at myself in the gigantic mirror, tossing my hair this way and that, pausing only to kick Magda when she slowed her rate of pinning.
My bridezilla is tap dancing with a cane now, “Hello my honey, hello my baby….send me a kiss by wire, baby my heart’s on fire.” It’s oozing a trail of slime behind it as it goes off to form a kickline. I’m sunk.
-xxoo
Dear Kitty Winn,
Is thong underwear ever suitable for a man?
–anonymous, via internet
Dear Anonathong,
No. No. No.
And No.
Hyper-spanning fabric tucked between a man’s buttocks is something no man or woman wants to see, even if he is in prime physical condition. Which most of you are not. In the worst cases we must picture the sagging, sallow, or thin pancake variety of bottom with this unholy cloth divider. It stares us down like a highway’s no passing lane. Out of the question! Nor do we want our lover’s lovely giblets lazing in a hammock. We want them housed carefully, as though they might be worth something someday.
Crucial as these considerations are, I must return to your question, which does not specifically inquire about the appeal of this offensive undergarment. You ask if they are ever suitable. And there are exceptions, ninety-nine percent of which have to do with gay male pornography. Kitty is at a loss to explain this, the whys and wherefores of gay porn not really being my area of expertise. The remaining cases are as follows:
1. You are a Sumo Wrestler (technically, not a thong, but the aesthetic result is much the same)
2. You never ever ever want intimacy to progress beyond the moment this ghastly sheath is unveiled from your trousers.
There can be no two opinions on this point!
-Kitty Winn
Steele’s favorite hobby might be bouncing the pectoral muscles of his well-oiled torso, but he is a man of culture, too. The other day we went to see the Malevich show at the Guggenheim. Which day? Wednesday, the free day!
I was trying on dresses at the Chinese shop down the street. He does not have a changing room, but he set a wooden screen in the middle of the shop for me. I happened to be wearing stockings and garters as I slung my dress over the top like a james bond villainess. People were swanning in and out, to buy tea or ask for change for the tram. I have a feeling I should have gotten paid for this.
I am feeling underrated, underappreciated. Except by the panhandling punks in front of my door. They trail their sticky pink-eye up and down my body as they holler for change and snigger for me to take them with me. I tell ’em to fuck off and sing the happiness song to myself:
“Whenever I start to mope and pout
And there’s nothing left in my soul,
I check the toilet paper and if we’re out
I buy another roll!”
oh! Here is something else that really makes my day. Flopsy mopsy and some hardcore midgets! Rockin’!
smooch
Dear Kitty Winn:
My problem is my new girlfriend. Now that the honeymoon, everything-swell phase is nearly at an end, we are spending a lot more time together with our clothes on. And it is slowly dawning on me that she dresses like a real geek. It’s like she had this whole wardrobe I was not allowed to see while we were casually dating. Suddenly I am seeing khaki pants and panty lines and white tennis socks and ill fitting jeans. I really like her very much, and I want to keep her. How do I get her to leave that horrible raincoat at home?
-Mr. Suave
Dear Rico Suave,
Listen to me, don’t listen to me, talk to me, don’t talk to me, dance with me, don’t dance with me — wait, were you saying something? Kitty was too busy adjusting her Dior iPod case to better display the logo.
Now why are you even bothering to waste Kitty’s time with this precious little problem? If you as stylish a guy as you say, just take her out for a Pretty Woman-style shopping spree! And call Kitty before you go, she’s got friends in the shoe department at Barney’s.
Your relationships are a reflection upon you, and it’s a good thing you are so sensitive as to realize this. Sounds like it’s time for an “I love you…but…” speech. Ellipses central! Either she will realize she’s been letting herself go and make more of an effort, or she will howl and weep and look even more unattractive with a puffy red squinched-up face. And that will make you feel much better about dumping her when you see just how vile and soggy she can look! Why, this problem practically solves itself!
Of course this is assuming that you are all that much of a much yourself. Please send Kitty a head shot and a close up of your torso. And no cheating with a 3/4 view on the headshot, Kitty wants to see profile! Also supply your shoe size.
Beep beep,
-Kitty
Dear Kitty Winn,
I was sorting through my wardrobe today and looking over my snazzy collection of miniskirts — leopard, glitter, pinstripe, houndstooth. But then I got to thinking: I just turned 31 and I don’t want to end up like one of those garish middle aged hags you see on the subway in ankle boots, dripping mascara and showing off leathery, sagging thigh. When do I know when to say when with flashy clothes and glittery makeup? I am a tramp with Dignity!
-hot diggety
Dear dig dug,
Kitty thinks you’re barking up the wrong tree on this one. You’re never too old for glitter! Sagging breasts? Just think of that as feature-length cleavage. Kitty looks forward to seeing the old whore who lives down the street waiting for the bus, as do the neighborhood school kids. You should hear them call out in their cheerful childish tones!
Really, cupcake, you should dress in a way that makes YOU feel good at the time. Damn the feelings of others! Vogue magazine might tell you to invest in a closet chock-full of Escada and a platinum Rascal scooter, and these harpies will tell you What Not to Wear. They firmly decree that “No woman over 35 should wear skirts above the knee.” So you have a grace period of about 4 years! Problem solved?
But Kitty feels confident that there are no definitive rules, with the one exception being that VPL is déclassé at any age! Pull up your pants, Paris Hilton!
That old whore from the bus stop is happy, and that’s good enough for Kitty. Kitty personally can’t wait to age another 20, er, 40 years so she can really work the “whatever happened to Baby Jane?” look. Scarlet lips lined outside the natural border, eyebrows plucked off and drawn back on? The stuff of legends. Add an ivory-tipped cane, and you’ll be rapping the knuckles of orphans in no time!
You might try to pick a role model for your impending golden years, someone you feel oozes class and style, and hop that train. Joan Crawford? Debbie Harry? How about the Queen Mum or Mrs. Hannigan? Loni Anderson? Ah, or Vegas Ann-Margret.
Anyhoo, dignity, schmignity. After all, you don’t want to cheat your loved ones out of a Jenny Jones appearance? See You’re Too Old, You’re Somebody’s Mom, That Sexy Gear Is NOT The Bomb!
Once more into the bleach,
-Kitty
