Tag Archives: ack

bodies, rest, and motion

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I’m taking a break from packing, my face blackened and smeared from newsprint. I make a great guttersnipe. In other fashion news, I accidentally dyed my hair burgandy. Does “Brazillian Bronze” sound like burgandy to you? Me neither. The picture on the box looked frigging chocolate brown to me. This is my karmic reward for taking matters into my own hands. I thought I’d save a few bucks (now that I’m unemployed in the future) and cover my sadly grown out highlights. I just never expected to turn into Shannen Doherty! I know this is a highly prized color amongst filing secretaries and teenage girls, but it’s just not right for me. So back I shall slink to my colorist. She will twit me mercilessly and leave me under the dryer a bit longer than necessary. Spiteful witch.

We’re down to the pile of strange wires and incomprehensible electronic bits and discs, so I’m letting Mr. H take over. I already packed 6 million pounds of glassware. You know how we roll. Like Crate & Barrel, apparently, with a sheet of butcher paper on the diagonal. Speaking of rolling, I also found a long forgotten bong! And my highschool yearbook! I’ve been throwing things away ruthlessly, because I realized my number one favorite pastime is trading stuff in for better stuff. Even Mr. H has caught the fever;I just saw him fling a framed baby picture of his neice into a Hefty bag. “I know what she looks like.” Applause! Applause!

-xxoo

Failure to thrive

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Overheard, stomach competition between two grandmothers. “Your pictures are AFTER UTERO, hers are better because they are IN UTERO.”

So, Thanksgiving, as we do in my family. A lot of deep breathing, counting to one hundred, drinking, and stepping out into the bracing cold, usually to find another family member out there, cradling his or her head in hand. For Christmas, I hope to be on a plane to a place with umbrella drinks and cabana boys. Or I will beat someone to death with a bottle of rum.

-xxoo

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

Botox Baby

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A scandalous report is apparently being circulated abroad concerning yours truly. From Providence to Boston, it is being whispered

“She’s had plastic surgery!”

For the record, this is the grossest falsehood. I am quite satisfied with the size and relative situation of my features. I can’t seem to find out what miracle procedure I am supposed to have undergone. A little botulism here, a bit of a peel there- giant inflatable pillows inserted neatly into my bottom lip perhaps? Cushions of molded plastic nestling in a pad of fat to give desperately needed shape!

Sorry to disappoint all my little hens, but my cheekbones and worry lines are all my own. If I do decide to staple my face someplace behind my ears or get my tail clipped like a young Doberman, you wee nattering pigeons shall be the first to know. I will send you each a bar of soap rendered from my own fat. Now quietly continue envying me at a distance, please.

-xo

It looks like a porcupine

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This morning at the mini mart, treat I almost got knocked over by a woman trying to haul her brood of monster children out the door.

“Bioré, prescription get OVER here!” she shrieked.

“Bzzzt!” went my cerebral cortex. Yes, medicine it really sounds like a bug zapper. Did I just hear that correctly? Bioré was busy ripping open packets of Fun Dip at the counter and had to be hollered at again and again. Yep, there was no way I misheard a more “traditional” name.

By the time I got my card out of the ATM, acid-washed mommy had succeeded in getting the kids back to the truck. Luckily Nivea, Olay, Almay, and Little Max Factor were better behaved.

-xxoo

Fashion Police

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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

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!

>

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

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

tuna walls?

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I got take out sushi from Shino Express on Newbury today. On the wall there is a painting of a silhouette of a woman, sort of a teal color, looking very much like a Duran Duran album cover. Her lips are bright pink, and she’s hosting a hefty piece of tekka on her chopsticks. And swirling teal letters read: Tuna as fresh as your lips.

Needless to say, that set me off but good! I walked back to work humming “lips like tuna/tuna kisses…” My friend S speculated that this was a translation from Japanese that was actually more meaningful than the orginal thought. Infused with a hearty significance.

Anyway, life is sheer dada at this point. I’ve decided to solve the wedding problem by hiring a stand-in. I am picking out Lambchop’s dress….it’s going to be a good one! Can’t wait to see you tooling around the floor doing the chicken dance!

Last night I watched the State of the Union address. Of course I really set out expecting American Idol to be on, but alas and alack, there was my least favorite winged monkey, in full becufflink’d regalia. I shouted lustily at the screen for the first fifteen minutes, then I feel asleep. And when I woke up, the Democrats had trotted out a God-honest Chinaman to give their rebuttal! I expect this was to counter all the tight shots of the one female Reublican and the one Black Republican in the audience. Anyway, Governor Locke managed not to start frothing at the mouth with rage (which is what the Democrats probably SHOULD do for a change), and he navigated the moderate waters valiantly and even concluded with a rousing “God bless America!” Oy. The subtext of the whole affair seemed to be “at least we all agree we are not down with Allah.” And before I feel asleep, the Shrub had managed to tout a Hydrogen Car and condemn abortion and any research involving cloning. I think I conked out right after faith-based initiatives. The human mind can only withstand so much torment! What a sense of defeat. I’ve voted my bleeding heart liberal conscience in every election since I turned 18. But what good does it seem to do? There’s all those states in the middle of the country to contend with!

I think my only hope is to move to Canada. I’m going to call up the Prime Minister, whatshisname, and see if I can come for a visit. Surely they’ve never encountered the situation of someone WANTING to move to Canada before? This could be one for the history books!

xxoo