All posts by Lambchop

She’ll Drive a Big Car

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Oh God how I hate the motherf@#$ing B. (For those of tuning in from a safe distance from Boston, the B is a hulking, train-like object that crawls down the street crammed with the dense folk that populate Boston University). I thought it was bad in the summer, all those chunky college girls in low slung spare-tire-pushup pants. Rolling bare guts everywhere. When I got a seat they would surround me at eye level. I felt like I was trapped ina bag of marshmallows.

Oh but winter promises a crushing of the soul. The morning train is packed and its all elbows and humongous backpacks and cellphones. It fills me with hatred for my fellow humans. It laces my inner monologue with a frenzy of “motherf@#$er” I take deep breaths- its not their fault they are two human sizes too large and they have to read Lord of the Rings with their elbows planted in the small of my back. Of course one must flip their waist length hair with one’s hands, even if it lashes into my eyes and mouth.

I wish I were a Woodsman by trade. Then I could board the train with an axe slung over my shoulder (and a jaunty feathered cap!)

I took a taxi twice this week. What bliss! I sail into work on time with well-groomed fingernails and a broad smile. I talk to Greeks, Haitians, Dominicans, Trinidadians. We laugh and agree that life is short so fuck it. I admire the skyline, I tip well.

I can’t help it that I was also born a human, but I just can’t take Satan’s Herd!

-xo

Bowie has the flu and so do You

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Of course, in YOUR case, you do not have a nine foot tall african to spoon feed you chicken broth with little dumplings. YOU are sitting and wheezing in a crusty bathrobe, wishing for death. Not so our lovely Licketysplit. She bravely endures countless rubdowns with Vicks and drinks tea with garlic and salt.

In spite of the fact that I have been drinking enough to retard a fetus, not sleeping much, and riding my bike around at night in a blizzard in hot pants, I have not been struck down. This kind of madness is its own reward- the city of Boston is gorgeous on a clear wintry night, sailing (ok, skidding) over the Charles River on the MIT bridge with no other traffic.

The postponement of the Bowie show and perilous hangovers are not my only woes. I have lamps in my room that hang too low. I lived with them without incident until someone pointed out that they were too low. Then I started hitting my head on them every time I came into the room.

It has been very cold and just the other day a friend was describing the nirvana of waking up, laying under six blankets and feeling very warm, but knowing that the world outside is treacherous and bitter and that you can’t stay. And it feels so delicious because you can’t hold on to it for more than a few minutes. To me thats the greatest thing in the world.

-xo

Bottom’s Up!

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Last night I had a fine time at Alvin and Jenny’s house. We played a rousing round of Dr. Quack. According to Alvin, one can suffer mightily from Driver’s elbow, a heartbreaking condition of the joint of the arm that does nothing while one is driving. I am in a dire state of vomitola. My poor Tract has been bothering me and I am finally going ’round to the doctor today. I do hope I have to swallow barium or have a colonoscopy, as I know there is nothing you eager little piranha will appreciate more than pictures of my supple bottom. The other good thing is that I will be granted entrance into Jenny’s new religion, The Diagnostics. But I have a long way to go to rival the founding members, who have suffered allergies to snail larvae, and a syndrome that paralyzes half your face in a stroke-like manner, but is easily treated with two days of antibiotics.

Here’s hoping I have Crone’s Disease!

-xo

All I could eat

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We consumed our portion of a 30 pound turkey in a home that looked like something out of Yankee magazine.

We had flaming ambrosia and volcanos next to the big fountain at Kowloon while the band played Tiny Bubbles. We gorged on nine-layer dip and tequila, recipe followed by a wake-up call of Rock Star punch (a disgusting mixture of every energy drink in stock at the store 24. Congratulations to my pals for discovering the recipe for anger, generic hatred of mankind and instant colossal headaches.)

We showed Herr W. our side of the Atlantic on this crisp November day in the lovely and salty town of Marshfield.

Then we introduced our foreign friend to Robby the lobster, pictured here steamed.

Now if you will excuse me I have to go slip into a coma….

-xo

Vomitola offers you Meat

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Dear Kitty Winn, health

Someone made this photo-collage of me and sent it to my email account. Should I imagine that I have enemies? Or is it in good humor? Paranoid in Montana…

Thanks, decease

“Richard”

(Note to the dear, malady gentle Reader- the photo-collage in question in question actually depicts a great, tumescent Schlong, so be warned if you are tuning in at work, or simply do not like to look at great, tumescent Schlongs.)

Dear “Richard”,

I see you are wearing some sort of sports cap. Apparently a Boston Red Sox cap. So humiliation and loss is something of a badge for you. You also admit to being both paranoid AND living in Montana- I could spend all day on this complex little nugget, but I will stick to your question, as I have a mimosa turkey brunch. So your face appears as a dainty cap, a Jimmy Hat as it were, on a massive Schlong. But this is not so much of a “letter from a foe”, as a friendly reminder that you are a Big Weenie.

gobble,

Kitty Winn

You can be NEW

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Gone are the days of me eating cheese and sucking down tequila, falling into some paranoid dream with a full belly and my boots still on.

Well, not OVER. Can’t I be gin-sodden and be FIT? Science is about to tell us this. Last night was my first appointment with Thunder, my personal trainer. It was great! “Feel the burn!”, he said, “Are you sure you have never done this before?” Oh my god, if I had a nickel for every time…

-xo