All posts by Lambchop

Victoria’s Real Secret

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Dear Kitty Winn,

I’m all for taking a surreptitious crap on the clock, but where does one draw the line? Today I saw a middle-aged woman from the investment banking company across the floor take a newspaper into a stall and prepare to have at it, sighing mightily! I have seen her before, sometimes she talks on her cell phone while she’s peeing. Ew Ew Ew. Sometimes she goes in with a stack of photochopied handouts, which I know some lucky fucker is going to get in a meeting! Should I say something to her? It’s not any of my co-workers who will have to handle poopy pie charts, but it’s the principle of the thing!

-Disgusted at my desk

Dear Disgusto,

Kitty Winn is all for maintaining the Victorian era style illusion that females have no function of the bowel or bladder. Secretion?! You must be referring to that fine mist of rosewater at the nape of our necks. This person is throwing a massive brick of dung through our carefully constructed hall of mirrors. She should be forced to live abroad in exile and squalor. Then again, what are we even talking about? You beleaguer Kitty with such terms as “crap” and “poopy pie charts”. I have no idea what you mean, as I am Female and Perfect.

-Kitty Winn

Thel’ About Town

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thelma haney

Last week was March Madness here in Epsom Square. This year’s theme was “Diversity” so they had booths for ethnic foods like burritos, falafels and even Jumbalaya. I usually bake a marble cake or chocolate chip cookies but Flora and I decided even with chocolate swirls it wasn’t very ethnic. I did find a nice lamp at the antiques table though. It has a shepherdess sitting at the base with a lamb, listening while a shepherd plays to her with his miniature guitar. I go for the old fashioned stuff. I also bought my son a tie from Hypno-ties with an American flag on it. Come to find it has little skulls on it instead of stars. I didn’t want to make a fuss on such a fine day, so I just dropped it in the clothes drive box on the way home. People who can’t even afford ties probably won’t mind.

Yesterday brought some bad news. My daughter Jessica- she is studying to be a nutritionist over at the Epsom County Community College, called and she said something about McDonalds “losing it’s market share”. Apparently the young people are going to the coffee joints instead, which I don’t understand. They charge three dollars for a cup of coffee and if you want a roll they want another two dollars and it doesn’t even have raisins in it! That’s a darn shame about McDonalds. I think they should bring back the Lobster Sandwich. I must have had ten of those a day when they came out, must have been the summer of ’92. I know because I had the corns real bad that summer and I used to sit with my feet in a bucket of salts.

It’s a good time for that great taste!

God Bless,

Thelma Haney

Problem with Pants

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Dear Kitty Winn

My husband has this annoying habit of putting bottlecaps in his pockets. Everytime he cracks open a beer, there goes the cap in his pocket. We are talking pockets constantly full of the damn things. Usually nestled in a fat wad of filthy napkin. Sorting out our laundry has turned into a garbage pick, a lint harvest. I have tried coaxing, begging, and screaming at him. Should I sew all of his pockets shut?

-anonymous

Dear Anonymous,

Whoa, have a xanax, lady! I bet anyone who could see the crumpled receipts, cracked powder case, crushed breathmint, and stray hair clips and safety pins at the bottom of your purse would be none too pleased. Your mate suffers a bizarre form of pack rattage, I grant you. Kitty would never lay hands on someone else’s greasy serviette! Not very sexy, either, to have these things emerging from his pants during intimate moments. Sadly, a person cannot be browbeaten out of their foibles. But there are methods of persuasion. Perhaps you ought to suggest that you will be going nowhere near his pants until they are free of such items. A week or two without a) clean trousers and b) blowjobs should be enough to convince your mate to rethink his entire pants-as-receptacle model of the universe.

Trust me. No one knows pants like Kitty.

-Kitty Winn

Obla di Indeedy

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lambchop

The video of captured american soldiers was impossible to escape on television here in Europa. But tears and hours of shaking my fist at the screen, enraged at the folly of humanity, was not doing any good. My usual civic philosophy is that you cannot change people, make them less apt to failure and unmerciful behavior. That the most you can do is arrange the world to make the best of our given nature. In this case, we have the opposite- everything is giving way to hunger for dominance, fanaticism, and brutality.

To combat such lowly thoughts, Steele shanghaied me from my television and my overflowing ashtray and took me for a ride on his BMW motorcycle. Its a high powered touring bike that he got for desert racing in Dakar. Vroom vroom! We would have kept going all the way to France, but I was getting a bit of a chill, and we had an oscar party to go to! Sunday night found us in the Hollywood hills toasting with Harvey Weinstein and chuckling amongst ourselves over Nicole Kidman’s oratory skills, which go something like “the world situation is ummm crazy. and umm, uhh, I believe that people are getting hurt in other countries, for example”.

Lunch is served, America, and it’s a giant shit sandwich. But darned if Steele didn’t look marvelous in his oscar night suit.

smooch

Thel’ About Town

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Thelma Haney

You probably all know that our boys are about to go to war, God Bless ’em. Licketysplit and Lambchop want to know, “what is America thinking?!” And darned if they didn’t ask me, Thelma Haney! Now I don’t know much about politicking, but I can tell you all about life here in Epsom. Even with Mr. Haney gone (God rest his soul) life here is pretty exciting. Just last week my niece wanted to take me to dinner, and I had just seen an advertisement for a shrimp platter at the Ground Round on the TV! I don’t normally go in for a fuss, but I like to spoil myself now and again, so off we went. As I was driving home in my Buick Skylark, I passed the neighborhood arcade, where all the youths go to play the pinball, and it looked like the whole P.T.A. was out there protesting. Apparently, the young people of this town use the arcade as a meeting place to go out into the woods and drink alcohol! I am not really clear on what became of the matter, but my good neighbor Flora said it had something to do with Heavy Metal music.

This afternoon I was down the beauty shop to give Rosie all my soda can pull tabs for all those poor kids with leukemia, and I decided to have my usual wash and set. And she told me that George Clooney would not be present at the Oscars this year because he is a terrorist. I was shocked! Handsome Dr. Doug Ross, I told her it can’t be true. He’s a Kentucky boy! So I was out in the yard reading my papers (Flora gives me her Enquirers when she is finished with them), and that was no baloney. Rosie is known to exaggerate, but it said right there, George Clooney to be barred from the Oscars. It’s a shame when a handsome boy goes bad. I better call up my son and make sure he is keeping up with his studies.

Good day from Epsom,

Thelma Haney

He’s got the whole world in his hands

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It hasn’t been all cocktails and soda crackers for yours truly. The fate of the world has been laying heavily on my mind. Just yesterday I was in a French restaurant having medallions of monkfish and a salmon carpaccio drizzled in this wonderful creamy mustard, and i was thinking “damn those french, pass me another slice of that lovely lovely bread”.

I am afraid that I side with Michael Moore, on being a great fan of the french, if not Chirac. And “freedom fries” is a concept that makes me shudder. Our president is the only person buffoon enough to think that changing the name of that particular snack is a slight against the french. Freedom fries must have something to do with every american’s right to get fat while our government dupes us out of our own rights and brings down its imperialist fist wherever it chooses.

The pope has branded this war a Sin. I am no Catholic, but I agree. And so Steele and I went to Rome to ask the Pope personally if maybe it would be possible to dust off the Rack for Mr. Bush. Or perhaps at least some thumb screws.

pleading our case with the pope

smooch

Oh Baby, just you shut your mouth…

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lambchop

Starboy (me!) was asked to come out and DJ at the Subversiv, a punk dive bar, on saturday. Last time this meant an assault upon my person, but this time it went swimmingly. The party was lovely as an umbrella drink! That dress came with a fortune cookie, which i have just cracked open now, and it reads.

“Rely on your Intuition.”

My intuition. Right. Well, I am concentrating very hard, getting in touch with myself. I will let you all know when my intuition divines something other than- “My, what a tasty cookie!” and “wouldn’t it be great to wash that down with another drink?”

Cunning linguist, eh? Shove some of that over this way, pronto!

smooch

These are a few of my favorite things

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lambchop

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!

Steele

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

Happiness Song

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lambchop

Am I the only person that imagines, when i walk past a hair salon, that the stylists are turning their heads and wondering who my hair designer could be and are gagging to have a crack at my locks? I hoist my pixie nose in the air and march on by, as if to say “No! Never!”

Vanity is truly a consuming hobby.

My darling Stu sang me the Happiness Song because he hates to see me all mopey trousers.

“Whenever I’m feeling down and blue

And sorry for myself

I get some staples and some glue

And I’m happy as an elf!”

smooch

Chim Chim Cheree!

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I cheered myself up last night swizzling champagne leftover from some party and listening to joy division. Depression, sales like doing your hair, viagra is easier when you are a kid. When I was little, all it took during that bleak half hour on a sunday visit to my father while he still slept, to send me careening into hysterical giggling, was playing the Beatles “Honey Pie” on his stereo. (go run-on sentence! go!) One is easier lifted from doldrums in grade school, too. After failing for the Nth time to tackle and smooch jason simonetti in the school yard, I could pocket my bus money and walk home, so i could get a greasy slice of pizza and a frozen coke when I got to Journal Square. You got these long straws with a scoop at the end. Fine, fine! Even with all that high school Weltschmerz, shoplifting would pick a girl right up!

Perhaps I ought to test against disappointment and spleen the power of chewing on a Fun-Dip stick and some Duran Duran.

smooch