Well, it's started. With all of the recent celebrity splits, it was inevitable my phone would be ringing off the hook with men seeking a rebound chick.
And it has been ringing, indeed!
First, there was Sir Paul McCartney. "Kukka, you know I have always loved you! You knew it when I secretly dedicated Ebony and Ivory to you. You know how your shiny, ebony fur drives me mad!" I'm so sorry, Sir Bedroom Eyes. When you chose Heather Mills over me and left me to explain our break-up in the media, I swore I would never fall into your love-trap again (for dramatic affect, again is pronounced AH-GANE). And I shant. Goodbye.
Then, it was Nick Lachey. He and I were supposed to marry at one time, but I told him I would never display our relationship in an MTV reality show. Desperate for the publicity, he chose to hook up with Jessica Simpson. Um...gag. I was not surprised, though, when he called earlier this week. "Love Bunny...do you miss me? Do you love me? Will you ever forgive me?" No, Nick. I will never forgive you--no matter how many times you try to woo me by singing I do (Cherish You) to me over the phone...and on my voicemail...and via email...and in messages through my agent...and during your radio interviews...need I go on, Nick? The message is clear: I am not interested.
Dave Navarro...Dave Navarro. You are just embarrassing yourself. I got the bouquet of Goth, black roses. I received the diamond collar. I even saw the airplane, toting an "I HEART KUKKA" banner fly over my house. Stop. Just stop. My disinterest is not due to the fact that Carmen Electra has publicly called me "The Other Kitty," nor the fact that you've ogled Brooke Burns during the entire season of "Rock Star: Supernova." I'm not jealous. Would a jealous cat keep a Tomcat Stable full of suitors? I think not. Stop sending me gifts. I have a feeling you are going to need your money for your divorce.
And what of Travis Barker, from Blink-182? I received your hand-written letter, Travis--complete with the cologne-spritzed floral paper and kissy marks next to your signature. Yes, I was flattered when you tattooed my likeness on your left butt cheek. Yes, I get your secret signals for me--blinking repeatedly throughout your many appearances on MTV's TRL. Don't get me wrong, I like the attention; however, I refuse to hook up with a man who names his daughter "Alabama." It's a notoriously racist state! (Editor's disclaimer: Not all residents of Alabama are, nor have been, racist. One should never assume that the narrow-minded opinions of a few people living in a single location define the entire state. Kukka would not know this, however, as she refuses to be bothered with what she calls "poopy national news.") I know I've been spayed and will never have kittens with you, but I just can't take the risk you would name my kitten "Mississippi." Or, for that matter, "Louisiana!"
Charlie Sheen, QUIT CALLING ME! It's just getting creepy now!
Kate Hudson, I've told you I don't swing that way and, based on your own statements and history, I didn't think you did, either! When I lunched with your mother the other day at The Ivy, she told me you've woken from fitful nights of sleep, calling my name. Whatever. I call out "Rush Limbaugh" in my sleep and I am confident (hopeful) this doesn't mean anything. While I'm not into you, I wouldn't mind having one night with your soon-to-be ex, Chris Robinson. The Counting Crows make me hot! Wait? What? I'm being told he is with the Black Crowes. Nevermind. Do you have a phone number for Adam Duritz?
Finally, Brad Garrett of TV's Everybody Loves Raymond. You're too tall and your voice is in a register so low, that cats can not hear it. When you call me, all I hear on the other end is, "Mmmmnnnph, blah blah, hrumph." Not sexy. I would be open to receiving some tummy rubs from your huge hands, though! I hope you don't confuse this intimate act, for a long-term relationship, Brad. The sweet ones always do. It's not love. It's just giving hand. And some wiggling fingers. And maybe some...yeah, call me.