Occasionally, I get completely exhausted from all the pressures of my celebrity life. On recent weekends, I've enjoyed disguising myself as an “average citizen” and working a job at a local bar. I deck myself out in a long, black wig, two pair of crotch-high Ferragamo stiletto boots and vintage Gaultier corset (cut-down and especially tailored to fit me by Jean-Paul himself).
What is my “common-man” job, you ask? Ah, dear fan...of course I cage-dance, under the stage-name "Puss in Boots" (or occasionally, "Kitty VonWigglebottom"), for a stellar local band named Dutch Henry.
This last Saturday night seemed like any other Saturday night. I was perched on my pedestal, in my cage, getting my swerve on as one of my favorite covers, "I Wanna be Sedated,” filled the room. I wrapped my front paws around the steel bars and whipped my tail back and forth with fervor. I was not at all surprised when herds of men, in various stages of inebriation, gathered around the cage to ogle my hypnotic gyrations.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her. To protect what is left of her pride, let’s call her “Soccer Mom.” Based on the sloppy dance-walk she used to transport her from the door to the dance floor, it was clear she had begun her relationship with wine spritzers early in the night. She looked like she had just stepped out of her Land Rover at a photo-shoot for the L.L. Bean catalog. Her brown leather All-Day Comfort Clogs bopped to and fro, upstaged only by the almost-empty wine glass she thrust into the air to the rhythm of the music. The pristine French manicure on her free hand grasped the lapel of her navy Wool-Blend Peacoat as she threw her head back, praising the alcohol gods.
[Editor’s note: While I have caught her perusing the L.L. Bean Christmas 2006 Catalog, Kukka would never admit she knows the All-Day Comfort Clogs appear on page 265.]
“Whooooo!” Soccer Mom exclaimed, waving to a baffled group of people standing by the bar. Shrugging, they looked over their shoulders, hoping to discover the target of her drunken greeting standing behind them. Not noticing their clear brush-off, she sipped her drink and bellowed, “Rock and roll, bitches!”
The band ended their set and we all took a well-deserved break. I stepped down from my cage and headed to the ladies room to hit the litter box, do a bit of personal grooming and get a few laps of water. As I strolled by Soccer Mom, “You Shook Me All Night Long” began playing through the bar’s sound system.
“That’s my jam!” she exclaimed, setting her drink on the closest table, occupied by a stunned woman and her husband. Quickly stripping off her peacoat to reveal a classic navy, mock turtleneck sweater, she turned to her friend and exclaimed, “Come on, beeotch! I need to get all up in that shit!" She grabbed her friend’s hand and led her to what was sure to be their social suicide.
You had to admire her friend’s commitment. Evidenced by her denim capris and sandals, it was clear she was not letting the 52-degree weather outside squash her enthusiasm for summer. Brava, Miss Indian Summer...Brava!
As they stumbled around the empty dance floor, you could see a wave of recognition move through the crowd. Whispers, jabs to the shoulder and laughter were present at every table as all eyes focused on the dance floor.
Enter Mr. Persistent from stage left. He was wearing a salmon and periwinkle striped golf shirt, tucked meticulously into his pleated-front, stone-washed Z. Cavaricci jeans--sans belt. Below his delicate tight rolls, the white soles of his deck shoes illuminated the dance floor like Michael Jackson’s sequined glove. Despite having wowed the crowds earlier with his white-boy break-dancing (or so he liked to tell himself and anyone else who would listen), he somehow managed to strike out with every woman in the bar—married, single, divorced, lesbian, post-menopausal, and trans-gendered. Squinting to focus on the grooving fresh meat on the dance floor, you could almost see the saliva pooling at the corners of his mouth.
Turning to unleash his signature “Moon Walk Sneak Attack,” he slithered across the dance floor to the unsuspecting Soccer Mom. Grabbing her boyish, size 0 waist, he pulled her flat ass to his groin. Stunned, but not repelled, she turned to look at Mr. Persistent. You could almost feel the muscle strain as she squinted through her spritzer goggles in an attempt to assess the sex factor of her suitor.
As they dirty-danced their way around the floor, you could see a steady stream of people entering the room from the other side of the bar to witness this spectacle. Within mere minutes, the determined couple unknowingly reenacted 14 of the 36 chapters of the Kama Sutra. While many people were inspired by their erotic undulations and were quickly retrieving camera phones and note pads from their pockets and purses, I was not impressed. It takes more than some pelvic thrusts to catch the attention of the author of "The Kama Sutra for Super-Sexy Cats: Let Your Fur Down and Wave that Freak Flag!"
As ACDC faded out, Tom Petty’s “American Girl,” began as a petite figure appeared at the door. The crowd parted as “Timeless Redneck Chick” stumbled into the room. She was about 5 feet tall, unless you add the five inches of magnificence that was her frosted hair precariously perched on top of her head. Contained only by a satin scrunchy, her hair loomed high, less the sweaty wisps that clung to her face. The acid wash of her denim jacket and skin-tight jeans glowed under the stage lights as she skipped across the dance floor, her pink pumps clicking to the rhythm of the beat.
The intensity of her love for all things Tom Petty created a force field that pushed everyone to the perimeter of the dance floor. Pausing for a moment to gather herself and to make sure she had the crowd’s full attention, she launched into a routine that can only be described as a perfect replica of the Kevin Bacon barn dance from the hit movie, “Footloose.” Flailing her arms, whipping her head and pumping her knees in a spirited skip, she thrashed around the dance floor in a blur of motion.
Amazed, I turned to the drummer of Dutch Henry and said, “Isn’t it great that her lofty self-esteem allows her to dance in public as she would if she were 14-years old in front of her bedroom mirror?” We laughed hysterically at the keg of awesomeness that is my sense of humor.
Hypnotized by her manic movements, and weighing the probability of who would most likely put out, Mr. Persistent saw a sure thing and left Soccer Mom on the sidelines in pursuit of Timeless Redneck Chick.
Unleashing his standard move, he moon walked toward her, but could not seem to penetrate the barrier that had been generated by her crazy choreography. He tried. He failed. Amping his efforts, he dove to the floor and prepared to infiltrate her sanctuary of insanity with “The Worm.”
Growing more agitated by the moment, Soccer Mom glared at her competition. Walking onto the dance floor to win back her man from the dancing tornado, she entered my cage and locked the door behind her.
She removed her khakis and top to reveal a sensible, white bra and panty set. She sang loudly to the music and whipped her blunt, blonde bob back and forth. As she reached to remove her bra, Dutch Henry’s singer, John, turned to me and said, “Look, Puss, I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to let you go. We’ve been asking you to strip for months now, but you’ve refused.” Looking back to the cage he said, “Looks like we have our new cage dancer!”
Was I upset at being fired? No. I mean, yes, I refused to strip, but not because I'm a prude. Dutch Henry is a great band, but unless they can put up the $10,000 per night I require to show my multiple nipples, I'm going to keep my fur on.
For the rest of the night, Mr. Persistent tried to get to Timeless Redneck Chick. Barely dodging her flying fists with half-closed eyes, he finally gave up when "New Tourist Girl" walked by him, blissfully unaware of his deck shoes, horrifying dance moves and annoying come-ons. I think they ended up going home together.
Timeless Redneck Chick, taking a quick five-minute break from her promenade around the floor, passed out peacefully in a puddle of her own saliva and sweat.
Soccer Mom danced the rest of the night in the cage, until she vomited down the front of her training bra, causing the little pink rose in the center to come loose. The band asked her to leave and her summer-lovin' friend helped her to a cab just as Dutch Henry packed the final pieces of equipment.
I'm pretty sure Dutch Henry will be calling me--begging me to reclaim my pedestal, but when they do, they better know I won't set a single paw in that cage until they can assure me it has been thoroughly cleaned and decontaminated.
You know I'm allergic to all things L.L. Bean!