Many of you have asked why, with my history as a professional ballroom dancer, I was not asked to be part of ABC's "Dancing with the Stars." Shame on you for assuming I wasn't asked!
I got the call to join the show a few months ago. Harry Hamlin, who had already committed to the project, requested me as a partner. Despite our romantic past, his wife, Lisa Rinna, believed his only chance at winning the competition was to be paired with me. [Editor's note: The romantic past is with Harry Hamlin, not Lisa Rinna. No offense, Lisa, but Kukka is just not that attracted to you.]
We met for rehearsals a few days later. Harry kept saying (over and over), "Kukka, you dance like you have four left feet!" It was funny the first time, but hearing it every five minutes was just annoying. Contrary to his jokes, I glided across the wood floor with a grace unmatched by neither human nor beast. Despite the fact it had been awhile since I had put forth that much physical energy, I found myself in tip-top condition, often leaving a panting Harry in the dust.
The night came to tape the first show. Harry was riddled with anticipation--even throwing up thrice in the wings before we went on stage. "If you get barf on my fur," I threatened, "I am going to seriously kick your ass in front of the entire audience--studio and otherwise."
"HORK!" His vomitous response made me gag.
As we posed in the center of the dance floor, waiting for our music to begin, I noticed a speck of recycled foie gras on the front of my coat. Although furious, I calmly looked at Harry and hissed, "I'm not going to cause physical harm to you; I can't afford the assault and battery charge. Instead, I am going to ensure you lose this competition. LOSE!"
"What the..." he stammered.
Suddenly the music started and we launched into our routine. One and a two...lift and smile! We pranced across the dance floor, bringing applause to the audience's paws and tears to their eyes.
I knew the time had come to get my revenge. Without warning, during the hip-bump sequence, I threw myself on the floor and feigned sleep.
"Get up, you little bitch!" whispered Harry.
"SNOOOOOOORE!" My log sawing was growing louder than the music.
"Why are you doing this to me?" pleaded my pukey partner.
I glanced up at him, winked, and said, "It was this or spew a hairball on your shoe. I decided to go with ruining your dancing career."
When the song was done, the judges shared their opinions of our dancing display.
"I loved it!" exclaimed Len. "The best of the night!"
Carrie chimed in, "Exquisite! I have never seen anything like it! You are truly talented, Empress! And you didn't do too badly, Harry. I am surprised."
"You have set the bar high, Kukka-Maria. The creative belly displey you unleashed half-way through was truly inspired! Harry, your performance was tepid, at best," Bruno said. "And what is that dribble down the front of you?"
I was disappointed that my plan had backfired. "Shit!" I screamed. "Harry Hamlin, you will pay!"
Tom Bergeron immediately called for my disqualification, citing the profanity clause in my contract. Bastard. He's just pissed off that I boycotted his home video show because of his disrespectful portrayal of animals.
Before getting the boot completely, though, I was able to sing with Tony Orlando, sans Dawn. Or I think that's who he was. Whatever. He was an old dude.
He dedicated a tune to me called, "What's New, Pussycat," but when we got to the "Whoa, whoa, whoa" part, he was terribly off-key, so I stormed out.
Someone later told me the dude was Tom Jones. Tom who? Good luck getting your career off and running, Mr. Tom Jones (if that's even your real name). You'll need it!