Tag Archives: makeshift chamber of horrors

Come away with me… to Erotic Ireland

Pointless search terms clip show, past month or so:

bea arthur

girlhood

john currin

kitty winn

a magzine about littering

boymeat

brazillian flip-flop

conway savage

cowgirls

curlers

dior ipod cover

green tea anal leakage

guatemalan ponchos

hello my honey hello my baby

how to get lizzie mcguire hairstyles

how to papasan chair problem cushion slip

carson kressley horse

marabou christmas tree

pink marabou tree

nine layer dip recipe

snake and jake’s

pop you in the pooper

3 dots on knuckle tattoo

fair spanish ladies

a list of all the lipsmackers

boston cat lady heidi erickson

amex centurion card picture

If there is a rumor about Carson Kressley and a horse, please send me detailed mail. I am all a-twitter, does it mean Catherine the Great style cavorting, or a heroin problem? Although I doubt Carson would do anything so bad for the complexion. If you find out how to do your hair just like Lizzie McGuire, let me know that as well. If your papasan is slipping all over the place, try not having sex in it. And remember, we are tops in anal leakage.

-xxoo

Leaving on a jet plane

Well, not really. Not at all. But Mr. H and I are fleeing thickly settled Somerville at long last! We’re moving to beautiful downtown Lowell. Yes, that’s right, Lowell. We just put a deposit on a loft in an old factory. And don’t get me wrong, this is a yuppie loft. It might sound all industrial, but I have no interest in sledge hammering out my own breakfast nook. There are people to do those things, and those people thankfully already did them to this place. Nothing to do but figure out what art to hang on the walls and enjoy paying less than $1 a square foot per month because it’s LOWELL. Also, there is a surveillance system. I’ve always wanted to hover my finger over the button marked “hounds” when various relatives pitch up. Or to be fair, my own relatives as well, although they are easier to anticipate because they are usually blowing on jugs.

I’ve noticed there’s a baseball series of some sort going on, and it seems to involve a Boston-New York rivalry. How quaint! I don’t really follow the sporting world aside from hating figure skating, but I have heard the strident hooting in the streets.

The fact is that I don’t think Boston cares that it’s not New York, and that infuriates New Yorkers infinitely. People who enjoy Boston enjoy it for what it is. It’s city-lite, with just enough historical nonsense tossed in to feel legitimate. I’ve lived in Boston for about seven years now, sticking around after college like everyone else. I’ve lived in the Fenway, in Brookline, in Beacon Hill. I’m an around the way girl. It’s been good, and I am lucky.

So I must recognize some of the acceptable things about Boston. It’s so cute and manageable, so clean. Ridiculously easy to get around, provided you keep your intended use of public transportation to civilized hours. We have adorable miniature similarities to New York things without all the fuss and bother of muggings and traffic. They have Central Park, we have the Boston Common and Public Garden. They have the Statue of Liberty, we have…um…that phallic thing in Bunker Hill. They have the Empire State building, we have (oh jeez) the Pru. They’ve got Chinatown, we have the Fung Wah bus drop off and a stone lion or two. Hey, we’ve got a bridge and a tunnel. We’ve even got hipsters and eurotrash, for chrissakes!

Essentially Boston is like a cunning little souvenir snow globe filled with people with hilarious accents. A snow globe with lucrative employment opportunities and overpriced real estate and bars that close shockingly early. Don’t make it out to be something it’s not, be ye Bostonians or flatland touristers. Boston is forever doomed to be irritating Scrappy Doo, but New York is doomed to be Bluto. Pick on someone your own size for a change.

And…I’ll be in Lowell, opening a Sushi Samba rip off. Hahahahahahahahaha.

-xxoo

Office Space

Fresh from a relaxing sojourn in more troubled parts of the world, say hello once again to your favorite unwholesome helpmate, the Miss Manners of the massacre, Stella Nuance.

from the vault of Stella Nuance

Listen up, ya mugs, I’ve been busy. I scored a pretty sweet consulting gig with Idi Amin. Crazy coot was trying to make a “comeback,” as his people put it. Comeback, what, now he’s Jamie Lee Curtis? What a piece of work. Couldn’t complain about the service at the villa, but try making a suggestion to that guy! I was nice as pie, “Aw, Idi, baby, you hired me for MY expertise, right? And my expertise says you should wear an ascot. NO, it doesn’t make you look chubby.” That sonofabitch wouldn’t know “avuncular” if it bit him on the ass. Needless to say, I had to extricate myself from my contract a bit early. Stella doesn’t take any guff.

So after hiding out for a few days, I’ve been thinking a lot about how a good lair really is the foundation to most of villainy. It’s the seat of professionalism, after all. Who’s going to believe you’re worth the dough if you’re still using a cell phone the size of a brick and loitering in the back of a rusted out Suburban? No way, we’re doing it up right. You need business cards so thick you could use one to slit a man’s throat (I recommend a nice brushed metal), and enough furniture to convince the boys from the IRS that it’s an actual working office.

First stop: a new computer.

Now I fancy this one not just because it’s illegal to export it to certain countries. I’m a sucker for packaging, and this new G5 is clearly a product of an Evil industrial design team. It could also be camouflaged as a microwave oven if one were to be raided for one’s files. Either way, don’t put a cat in it.

I must turn my attention to décor. Crate & Barrel really knows their stuff. Check out these keen desk accessories.

Form AND function! Never miss another message, and no more fumbling around for poultry shears when you really need them, during, say, negotiations with an independent contractor. And those clips have many a use “in a pinch.”

What could be more evil than Pottery Barn? Try keeping one these phones around for an air of legitimacy.

Never plug it in though, the feds will be on that like flies on pig shit. Yeah, I know, “80 clams for a phone, Stella?” It’s a bit steep, but have you ever tried cold-cocking someone with one of those receivers? Effective and unexpected. And the red one also keeps the Cold War excitement alive.

So now that I’ve covered the Do’s, let’s get to my favorite part: the Don’ts. Don’t work too hard. That’s what the help is for. And ergonomics are so very important. Experts recommend avoiding repetitive motions. To that end, for office discipline problems, choose a taser over a flail or a cat o’ nine tails. Don’t skimp on a good chair either. The help can make do with kneeling on the floor, after all, their childish bones are softer! But you should go ahead and spring for the Aeron for yourself. If mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.

Now, now, no need to thank me for this wealth of advice, I’ll have my assistant prepare an invoice. Pepito! Take dictation!

Ciao,

-S.N.

Public service

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

Bodies in motion

Licketysplit

Is this week over yet? We done been busy. Our Lambchop is preparing for a transcontinental move in a few weeks, and I’ll be moving from Hip, Happenin’ Boston to thickly settled Somerville on Monday. Needless to say, we are thrilled to be able to rampage around the greater Boston area together again. It’s been a while! We’ve readied little director’s chairs and megaphones, and we’ll be donning puffy directing pants to bring all sorts of exciting developments to Vomitola.

Finally, the Beacon Hill Cat Lady is at it again. This Boston Herald article, Fur bawl: Cat woman: I’m not nuts, I just miss my kitty clan, should prove illuminating. People DO start to look like their pets! Her other Makeshift Chamber of Horrors was raided, and 52 cats were removed. There’s a sidebar on that article listing all past coverage. I’d just like to point out that they said “Deja mew.”

xxoo

Just…ew

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.

Trading dungeons

Lambchop: oh my, we truly are damned
Lambchop: we are headed straight for a fiery pit

Licketysplit: yipes: http://www.boston.com/dailynews/118/region/City_finds_dozens_of_dead_cats:.shtml

Licketysplit: a posh fiery pit at least

Lambchop: to be assaulted by satan’s little wizards who offer us champagne that is a little “flat”

Lambchop: ACK!

Licketysplit: if you were going to rent an apartment for nefarious purposes, why not pick a more reasonably priced neighborhood??

Lambchop: is there a market for dead cats?

Licketysplit: perhaps!

Lambchop: some great boon in dead cat futures we were not aware of?

Licketysplit: the tv news last night said they suspected this was experimentation to breed a better show persian

Lambchop: YIKES!

Lambchop: I thought healthy, live animals generally entered those things

Lambchop: but its nice that they give an equal shot to those stinking and decaying

Licketysplit: at least *I* still have a chance!

Lambchop: after all, when I am a gaseous soup in my coffin, I would hate to think I can no longer be on TV!

Lambchop: you and I simply MUST have a talk show from the grave!

Licketysplit: ho ho, i will make sure your urn is polished to a fare-thee-well

Lambchop: awww, after you lovingly pile my dusty remnants in there- no pyre necessary!

Licketysplit: “my career was going so well, until my stinking hellhole of a cat tomb was discovered!”

Lambchop: her Makeshift Chamber of Horrors!

Licketysplit: “It’ll do in a pinch!”

Lambchop: i am sure she is rueing the corners she cut in the design of her chamber of horrors!

Lambchop: do you suppose they assist you in such matters at the Home Depot?

Licketysplit: “I am looking to construct a chamber of horrors, but not a shoddy one.”

Lambchop: “I need real know-how about the proper installation of duct tape, heavy plastic sheeting, burlap and sturdy rope.”

Licketysplit: “where are your higher quality trap door mechanisms?”

Lambchop: “how do i insure these meathooks will not rust or flake?”

Licketysplit: “i am looking for drainage!”

Lambchop: “i require adequate storage and composting!”

Licketysplit: “ventilation is a must, but i am concerned about sound”

Lambchop: “how can I construct a crawlspace that will really stand up to the test of time?”

Lambchop: hee, i was imagining us having a real DIY guy on our show, telling us in his dry workaday way how to build this stuff

Lambchop: that guy from this old house would do anything for a few shekels!

Lambchop: we would be handling weatherproofing and sealants and nodding sagely!

Lambchop: interrupting at just the right moments with penetrating questions like “how will this affect the health of my family? For example, a mother living in the attic”

Dog Mahal

Licketysplit

My mother never met a project she didn’t like. These frantic digressions frequently involve some sort of amateur carpentry. She went into labor with my sister the night she and my father finished building a room extension onto our trailer. That woman once dug a storm cellar. Her solution to most things involves a circular saw, some chicken wire, and a gleam in her eye as she crows “We could jury-rig it!”

Once we moved to a real house made out of bricks, there was a lot less damage she could do. At least to the untrained eye. She cut a hole in several doors to make catty and doggy doors. That’s how we inherited Ricky, a spare cat, but that’s another story for another time. The back yard provided a new challenge. She had been accustomed to acres and acres of land, but now — how to despoil just a few thousand square feet!

First, she erected a fence around the back yard. Not a chain link fence, that would be too typical and durable. No, some sort of wire monstrosity. Did she hire someone to do this? That would violate the fundamental principle of “never pay anyone to do something unless you are in a full body cast.” This directly violates my principle that “there are people to do those things,” but again, another story. She painstakingly sunk every post herself. How many people do YOU know who own a post-hole digger? A tamping mallet?

The fence was ostensibly to contain the dog. We had a black border collie-lab mix, named Sparkie. “-ie,” my mom insisted, “because she’s a girl.” Sparkie was a peach, with fur like a Pat Benatar hairdo, and my mom saw fit to honor her with a dog house. The best dog house in the world. This dog house could safely house two children. It was insulated!

Inside it was finished with faux-marble waferboard paneling.

It also had a removable roof. I don’t know why anyone would need (or build) a convertible dog house with a marble foyer, but some things are not meant for me to understand. The dog pretty much refused to go in it. My sister and I would sit in there now and then. It smelled of caulk and fuzzy pink insulation. It was always sweat lodge hot, due to in the insulation and the fact that we lived in the South. My mother would be so pleased when we’d come home in the pouring rain to find the dog lying in the house, mournfully hanging her head out the door to avoid asphyxiation. “Look, she’s using it!”

Big was a later dog addition, a stray who just showed up and stuck around. He looked like a St. Bernard, with the saddle markings of a German Shepherd. He would sometimes stuff himself in the dog house, Clifford style. But mainly he preferred to stay in with us, watching Fresh Prince of Bel-Air reruns, my mother’s television show of choice. She’d leave the TV on for the dogs when we weren’t around, but Big liked it best when he could climb in someone’s lap. He’d happily pin you to the chair with his 120 pound bulk, and he would growl if you attempted to move. Much in the manner of his arrival, if he chose you, you were stuck with him.

The Dog Mahal sat unused, slowly decaying. We pleaded with Mom to tear it down, and she finally gave in. Eventually Sparkie and Big passed on to Cher’s dog house in the sky. In another act of stealth euthanasia, she had the vet come to the house and put them both down at the same time. Sparkie had lung cancer, and Big was in the advanced stages of a thyroid disorder. She didn’t tell us about it until it was all over, just like she saved the news of our cats being put to sleep for when we were within a block of our house on the car ride home from school. “Oh, I had Misty/Silver put down this morning.” She buried the dogs in the footprint of the dog house, in a deep hole she dug herself.

But my mom has a new dog now. She stole it from the neighbor. It looks, as my sister puts it, like a jackyl-headed bat dog, with pointy Egyptian dog ears and murder in its eyes. Murder in its soul, to be exact. It runs around inside the rusty fence, always on the same maddening path. I see frothing, snapping jaws, my mom sees pure doggy love. It comes and goes as it pleases, through a giant hole in the door to the basement. No need for a place of its own.

It is always tough to admit defeat. Sometimes a dog will spurn the Barbie Dreamhouse of mutt accommodations. Sometimes your children won’t understand that you’re just trying to do something nice, damn it, no matter how borderline insane the gesture may be, no matter how unsightly the outcome.

My dad always used to say “Dreamers build castles in the air, psychotics live in them.” And some people just stick to the back yard.

where have all the flowers gone?

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

Heartbreak and Halitosis

Dear Kitty Winn:

I was sitting home alone worrying last night, wondering what to do, when it occurred to me that what I needed was help from a purveyor of tawdry advice. After all, I have a terribly tawdry problem. I can’t seem to get over my ex-girlfriend. I’m beginning to annoy my friends, and even my therapist, by talking about her constantly. I’ve tried the usual techniques — moving to another town, drinking heavily, sleeping around like a two-bit whore– but none of them work. It just feels like additional betrayal: I’m not staying true to the girl I love, and the rebound girl knows what’s going on because I call out the wrong names. I just can’t achieve, how you say, release, without thinking of my lost love and the taste of her sweet, sweet anus. What can I do to get her off my mind? Also, can you recommend any good breath mints?

— Darren Hungus

Darren Hungus, I feel for you. I have been consumed with giving your problem the proper attention. It was hardly off my mind while I was watching a 60’s go-go film and having a Charleston Chew. You pose a difficult question, but without a doubt, use Fisherman’s Friend to expunge the foulness of your mouth. Those babies pack a wallop! Oh right, and your ex-girlfriend…clearly you have let the girl of your dreams slip through your fingers and will never ever be happy again ever.

Never ever.

You could endeavor to be satisfied with your lot, but Kitty Winn believes in setting things right! You don’t have a shred of existence without this woman, so you must dedicate your life to having her back. Write her, call her, lurk beneath her window- don’t let the girl have five seconds in which thoughts of you do not intrude. Give her no rest from professions of your unabated love! Praise her back door beauty! Erect a shanty in front of her door, where you live, unshaven, eating little snack foods and denied fresh air solely for a daily glimpse of her angry face in passing. No woman can resist such romantic heroism- you will be plumming her annals and hating her stupid laugh again in no time!

Good Luck,

Kitty Winn