Tuesday, May 30, 2006
My good friends Brad and Angelina had their baby girl over the weekend and did not, as promised, name her Kukka-Maria. As a result, I am forced to declare a secret fight with them (so secret, they do not even know about it).
There is nothing I both love and loathe more than a secret fight.
To lessen the sting of the naming outrage, Brad did call and request I fly to Namibia so I could be one of the first to give Shiloh headbutts and nuzzlins (which I would have been, had my mother not demonstrated such blatant selfishness by refusing to take me to renew my passport--insisting I didn't have a passport to renew in the first place). The more I stew on this, though, the more I perceive Brad's "generous" invitation as a feeble attempt to placate me.
Boo, Brad Pitt. Boo...
Despite the fact that Shiloh is a pretty name and means "peaceful one," I just don't get why they wouldn't want to name their baby Kukka, which means "flower" and Maria, which some believe means "the perfect one," while others believe means "bitter" and "rebellious." I'm with the former.
Considering my romantic history with Brad, our subsequent strong friendship, and his admission to harboring undying, lingering love for me, I know it must be Angelina who refused to bestow my regal name on their baby. Jealousy doesn't look good on you, Ange.
Boo, Angelina Jolie. Boo...
Secret fight on!
Friday, May 26, 2006
As promised, here is a recap of my own Legends Ball that occurred shortly after Oprah's Ball in 2005. Some of the guest names have been changed to protect the innocent. The guilty? I'm not protecting the guilty! If they want to sue me for all my catnip and kibble, so be it.
After leaving Oprah's Legends Ball, I knew exactly what I didn't want my own ball to be. No pretense. No drama. No tears. No excessive fawning over the hostess (well, a little fawning never hurt anyone). The trouble is that I am not the most gifted party planner, so to orchestrate such an elaborate event required the vision of my favorite party planning duo: Patch and Fanci Farwig of "Patch & Fanci Party-a-GoGo."
Patch and Fanci are two fox terrier siblings from Chicago. Patch, the brother, has a keen eye for decor, with an affinity for exotic fabrics and rich colors. Fanci, the sister, is considered the leading canine culinary connoisseur who specializes in fine wines and exquisite desserts. Each a talent in his/her own rite, together they are a force with which to be reckoned! Long-time friends of the family, they were thrilled to support me with my Legends Ball!
Mojo (our Beagle family friend and bartending wizard) agreed to pour drinks. Sheldon (the door-to-door salescat), Stewie (my former baby hedgehog stalker) and Brach (my bratty brother) agreed to act as waiters. Everything was coming together so smoothly!
Among the squillions of honorees, were the following guests:
- Tinkerbell (Paris Hilton's dog)
- Bit Bit (Britney Spears' dog)
- Gato Grande (Jennifer Lopez's cat)
- Rustle (Russell Crowe's dog)
- Honey Child (Nicole Richie's dog)
- Martini (Tara Reid's cat)
- Sophie & Solomon (Oprah's dogs--I don't have a beef with them)
- Sugar (Elizabeth Taylor's dog)
I was so thrilled to be hosting the event and thought my guest list was solid. Boy, if I knew then what I know now...
The evening began without a hitch. The red carpet was a huge success (no one pooped or peed on it). The paparazzi were polite and only moderately invasive.
Cocktail hour began. Sheldon, Stewie and Brach began serving hors d'oeuvres and Mojo was flinging drinks like nobody's business.
"Kukka! Kukka!" exclaimed a frazzled Fanci as she trotted toward me, feet blurred with motion. "We have a problem in the kitchen. No one is able to reach the knobs on the stove and the food is still uncooked."
"Raw?" I asked, wide-eyed.
"Raw," she confirmed, tears streaming from her eyes.
"Ok. No problem. Here's my mom’s cell phone number. Call her and she will bring both wet and dry food for all of us with the hour. Can you get yourself under control and handle that?" I asked.
"Absolutely!" she replied with a deep sigh, as she turned and headed toward the kitchen.
Suddenly, I was startled by a voice from behind me. "Kukka! Kukka!"
"Patch! What is it?" I stammered, looking at the second-half of Party-A-GoGo.
"I am in love with you!" he shouted.
"I know. You and everyone else!" I laughed. Quickly getting serious and sensitive, I went on, "But listen...I think you might be gay, Patch."
Fiddling with his gem-laden collar and staring intently at his well-manicured nails, he responded, "You know, I think you might be right." After nuzzling me a moment, he scampered away to fetch the ball I threw.
Feeling a large paw tap me on my shoulder, I turned to find the bartender. "Kukka?" Mojo whispered in my ear. "We have a bit of a situation. Martini Reid, has had too much to drink and is waving her breast implants around and trying to make out with anyone who will stand still enough. I tried cutting her off, but she just swore at me and scratched my face. She keeps drinking from the bowl of the person sitting next to her when they turn their back!"
"Who is sitting next to her at the bar?" I inquired.
"Rustle Crowe," Mojo stated, worry lines plastered across his forehead.
"Shit. Ok. He can be a belligerent drunk who is especially intolerant of people swiping his drinks. If we don't act quickly, we could have a problem here," I worried aloud.
"Holy crap! Rustle's thrown a dog bone at Brach!" exclaimed Mojo, running toward my ginger brother to lead him to safety.
"Rustle! RUSTLE! YOU NEED TO CALM DOWN!" I shrieked.
"THAT LIL' CAT STOLE MY BLOODY DRINK!" slurred Rustle.
"What is going on here?" inquired Sophie and Solomon Winfrey, microphones and cameras poised and ready for action. "We should have an intervention! It would make a great segment for our mother's show!"
"Sophie! Solomon! SIT!!" I commanded. They did. At least that crazy Oprah had sprung for some decent obedience training!
Feeling someone attaching themselves to me from behind, I screamed, “Horny Sheen! Quit humping me!” I started vigorously shaking my ass from side to side in an attempt to fling him off of me. He shrugged, turned and started humping Sophie Winfrey.
Another interruption! "Kukka? I hate to bother you again," whimpered Fanci. "Tinkerbell Hilton and Honey Child Richie refuse to be seated in the same room. Apparently, they aren't speaking."
"Ok. I will not have them seated in separate rooms! Tell them I will allow them to sit on opposite sides of the room, but that's where I draw the line. And, tell them they had better get over their little squabble quickly, because this freakin' Legends Ball is not about them. It's about me!" I roared.
The room fell silent.
Looking anxiously to the television cameras, I nervously stammered, "Nothing to see here, folks! Everyone, please continue having a gloooooorious time!"
Hearing wolf-whistles, my attention was drawn to the stage where, under the disco ball, I saw Bit Bit Spears gyrating and bumping her groin against the floor. "Will someone please get that tramp off of the stage?" I shouted.
"I'm on it!" responded Patch.
Suddenly, I looked at the clock. The night was almost over and it was just about time for everyone's parents' chauffeurs to come get them! I need to make my speech--and quick! Taking the podium, and aggressively removing Bit Bit Spears from the stage...again, I took the microphone in paw.
"I would like to thank everyone for coming tonight. As you know, this evening was designed to celebrate and glorify my generosity and graciousness as I pay mild tribute to you. I will cry at my telling of your great stories, I will share how each of you have helped make me into the wonder you see before you tonight and I will honor each of you, by allowing you to take part in the amazing and wonderful event I have put together for me tonight. Oh crap! Can someone help her, please?"
Looking to the first table, Martini Reid had finally hit her bottom and had puked up some alcohol-soaked cat treats on the fabric tablecloth, her tube-top askew.
"You have got to be kidding me!" yelled Patch, who ran to cradle the silk tablecloth in his paws. "Have you no respect for fine silks, Martini Reid?"
"Uhhhhhh..." Martini moaned.
Finally resolved that the evening was coming to a close, I announced, "I guess that classy display will close our evening. If any of you have married Sugar Taylor or Gato Grande Lopez throughout the course of the night, for your convenience, quickie divorces will be available at the door on your way out. I suggest you make your way to there promptly, before the long line forms."
The overwhelming noise of clacking claws on the marble tile was deafening as everyone in the room made their way to the divorce counter. Everyone, that is, except Bit Bit Spears, who had once again taken the stage for her gyration-fest.
All in all, it was not a bad evening.
- Brach's injuries from the bone-throwing incident were minor and only required a kiss to make it better.
- Sheldon, the consummate salescat, sold three diamondesque collars, four bags of Iamz, and a Rollecks watch.
- Mojo got to dirty dance with Bit Bit Spears (but, then again, who didn't?).
- Patch and Fanci learned how to salsa dance from Gato Grande Lopez and have since given up "Party-a-GoGo" to become professional dancers. They have won countless competitions, with their specialty being the Latin genre. Patch designs and sews all of their costumes, while Fanci helps them stick to a low-carb/high protein diet to keep them in shape.
- Stewie had a romantic liaison with both Tinkerbell Hilton and Honey Child Richie (although, as I write this, the two ladies are still not speaking to one another).
- And me? I got to talk about myself all night long under the guise of "honoring legends."
Yes...all in all, a good night.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
- While she fully understood we needed to be fed regularly, she somehow managed to miss the mark by giving us nothing but Cheetos and Red Bull for an entire week.
- Late-night, long-distance calls to Madonna.
- She dropped Brach on his head because she was carrying him with a full glass of water.
- She left her luggage at our house and Mom says we don't have a need for empty Wal•Mart bags.
- She taught us specific strategies that will guarantee us a win in a bar fight against Christina Aguilera.
- Mom came home to find Kabbalah water in our bowl and red strings tied to our tails.
- She had all of Mom's clothes altered to resemble ultra-low-rise denim skirts and super-tight "wife-beaters."
- She taught us dance moves that my mother describes as "highly provocative" and "inappropriate." I don't understand! Britney called them "The Boobal Grab" and "The Hypnotic Pelvic Thrust!"
- My mom came home to find me with three-foot long, blonde hair extensions.
- She pirated a recording of my "Meow" and is sampling it for her next single.
- Britney's night terrors in which she repeatedly screams, "Suck it, Cameron Diaz! I'm going to be the real Mrs. Timberlake!"
- Britney's "Birds and Bees" talk with us in which she explained: "Y'all...be careful out there! When you invite an unemployed back-up dancer on tour with you, you'll end up getting knocked up!"
- Mom went through 3 cans of "Skank-B-Gone" in an attempt to get the toxic smells of smoke, K-Fed B.O. and Britney's signature perfumes, "Curious" and "Fantasy" out of the air.
- K-Fed put cornrows in B-Rock's fur.
- Photos of her driving with me on her lap were plastered all over the tabloids.
- She bought Brach a trucker hat with "PIMP" on the front.
- Mom refuses to sign releases for Brach and I to appear in yet another Britney reality-show exposé.
- She left the house filthy because she assumed we had a maid (thongs hanging from the light fixtures, Corn Nuts bags littering the living room, etc.).
- Tire track marks were left in the front yard from the double-wide trailer that housed her entourage.
- We had to poop/pee in her overflowing ashtray because she never scooped the litterbox.
- For some reason, Britney insists on calling us "Kukka Preston" and "Brach Preston."
- Mom didn't appreciate finding an "OVER 21" rubber-stamp mark on the top of my paw.
- She refused to wear shoes in the house, even after our mother insisted her shoes would be cleaner than her bare feet, which have been photographed walking into a public restroom.
- Britney's sleep-dancing (a.k.a. "Kick Me, Baby, One More Time").
- Britney's "Life Lessons 101" Training:
- "Y'all...make sure, when you're choosing a mate, you always look for someone who has at least two kittens with another baby mama. That way, you know what kind of daddy he'll be!"
- "Y'all...make sure you choose a talentless hack for a husband, so when you finance his creative endeavor and he fails miserably, he'll stay with you forever, because fears no one else will ever love his sorry-ass."
- "Y'all...and this is really important...you should always have a three-day, starter-marriage in Vegas, so you can get the practice you need for the real thing."
- We were forced to listen to Kevin Federline's pre-released single "PopoZao" on a loop--and isn't that really reason enough?
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Two words: Princess Genevieve is incredibly generous and wicked-awesome!
Here is what we received:
- Two...oh yes, TWO bags of treats (our favorite flavors)
- A packet of three jingly balls (that made our ears perk right up when Mom brought the box in the house because we could hear them in there)
- Two mouse/raccoon/unidentified rodent creature toys. While we are not sure what they are, they are small, fuzzy and have bushy tails, and that's all the information we require to love them!
- Mom also got a couple of bags of human candy (in which I had absolutely no interest, but it kept her out of my way, so I was happy).
Here are some photos of us opening and playing with our new stuff:
Brach stuck his nose in there first, which really pissed me off, because I was the contest winner, for crying out loud!
By the time I was able to check out the box, Brach had already pulled the card, with the fuzzy creatures on it, out of the box and was sniffing all over it! Hello...have you no manners? There is a greeting card in here that should be read first!
Mom took the fuzzy creatures--one black and one white--off of the display card and Brach immediately grabbed one and started tossing it around. He whipped it into the living room. He chucked it under the chair (and then came close to spraining his armpit as he miraculously retrieved it). He hurled it by the scratching post and then took it in his mouth to rest awhile.
We staged this shot about seven times because each time I flawlessly leapt and flicked, my
mom amateur photographer wasn't ready with the camera. Don't I look athletic and not at all fat? If I thought I loved the toys before, after seeing this shot and how slimming these toys are, I would marry them if they would have me!
Thank you again, Princess Genevieve! For someone who claimed to not know what to buy for a cat, you certainly have a great deal of beginner's luck! The generosity you showed in honor of your birthday made a couple of cats (and a chocolate-covered mother) extremely happy!
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Making room for a new stove, she moved the old one away from the wall. Along with loads of dust (isn't that what the broom is for, darling?), a gaggle of milk jug rings was revealed.
"Holy crap! Look at the milk jug rings under here!" she exclaimed, upon seeing the first five or six.
Yes, I said first five or six.
As the stove moved further away from the wall, more rings were exposed.
"Oh my gosh...this is unbelievable! BRACH! Haven't you been looking for all of these?"
Brach, napping on the back of the couch, lifted his head, let out a squeak and went back to his slumber.
"I can not believe this! I guess it makes sense. I give Brach the milk jug ring every time I open a gallon of milk. I throw many of them away and there are one or two more in their toy basket, but I never really thought about accounting for every single one!"
There were twenty milk jug rings under the stove. TWEN-TY!
And seven hair bands (the kind that pull your hair back, not the 80's rocker variety...if Ratt or Quiet Riot were under the stove, I would really criticize my mom's housekeeping abilities!).
Fortunately, Mom is not known for her cooking. Or baking. Or even her ability to make Jello. If she were, those rings may have melted to the floor!
(Mom's note: There was adequate room between the bottom of the stove and the floor, allowing for proper ventilation, Empress)
Mom gave the hair bands to Mojo's mom (because she doesn't have long hair anymore) and spread the milk jug rings on the couch so she could obtain photographic evidence of this marvel. Within seconds, Brach was there, sniffing, because milk jug rings are one of his favorite toys. Twenty rings soon became nineteen, as Brach flicked one on the carpet and took off with it in his mouth.
Brach...finding twenty milk jug rings under the stove is not enough to stir you from your nap, but the capture of a single milk jug ring is?
Monday, May 22, 2006
When I received word that I would be one of the 25 women honored (by way of a gold-encrusted invitation), I was both thrilled and not at all surprised. After all, why wouldn't I be honored by Oprah? I did briefly question whether she realized I was not, technically, African-American, but decided not to make a big deal about it.
I arrived at her Montecito palace in my Gas/Electric Hybrid Hummer Stretch Limo (which gets 50-60 mpg, if I don't run the hot tub while going uphill). What happened on the red carpet should have tipped me off that the night would be a bust. Instead, I chalked it all up as an unfortunate accident. I was being interviewed by E!, when Della Reese stepped on my tail. Stepped on my tail!
"Excuse me..." I said.
"Oh, it's you," she snottily replied.
"Yes, it's me, you cranky ol' bit..." I responded as Halle Berry interrupted us.
"Kukka-Maria? The Empress? Is that really you?" fawned Halle.
"Yes, it's Kukka," Della cattily (no pun intended, of course) interjected as she stormed away.
"What is with her?" Halle wondered aloud.
"She's upset that I was the mastermind behind the cancellation of Touched by an Angel," I laughed.
"That's enough to set that woman off? Crappy shows get cancelled every day!" Halle joked.
"No. I suppose what really soured her was when, after the cancellation was announced on the last day of filming, I shouted, in front of the entire cast and crew, 'Della Reese, you will never work in this town again, you freakish ogre!' Apparently, she was a little miffed at that."
"Well, I don't blame you, Kukka. Her hair, alone, is enough to terrify small children. Let's continue down the red carpet together and be photographed looking so stunning! We'll make everyone jealous!" soothed Halle.
When I got inside, I saw Oprah, standing out in her brightly-colored frock, amid a sea of white gowns. You see, Oprah had specified that everyone wear white, so she could stand out. I chose to wear red. Just to piss her off. It did.
Upon seeing me, Oprah offered a curt, yet outwardly polite, greeting. "Hello, Empress."
"What up, O?"
Glaring at my red gown, she sarcastically stated, "I see you were so kind to honor my specific fashion instructions on the invitation. You can read English so well, can you not, my darling feline friend?"
At this point, she turned to her BFF, Gayle King, and whispered something in her ear. Despite my extraordinary feline auditory skills, it was difficult to make out what she was saying over the deafening cult-like chants of "O-PRAH, O-PRAH, O-PRAH!" from the other guests.
"I'm on it, Oprah," Gayle responded quickly, as she scampered away.
"Why don't you take a moment to walk around and visit with the other honorees before we get started, my dear," Oprah growled.
"Gladly, my dear," I sweetly, yet fiercely replied.
As I brushed through the room, I was greeted by many of my admirers: Diana Ross, Tina Turner, Aretha Franklin, Patti LaBelle, Janet Jackson (I used to date her brother Tito...don't ask), and Mary J. Blige, among others. Due to the sheer volume of my fans trying to greet me, I politely asked that they make an orderly line in front of me. My assurance to everyone that they would get a chance to interact personally with me was met with a profuse outburst of applause.
Oprah took the microphone and asked, "Will everyone please find their place cards and be seated so we can get started?"
Upon hearing many of them would not get to meet with me, a collective "Awwwww..." from the lingering queue of my fans overpowered the last half of her sentence--which didn't sit well with The Winfrey.
"Sit! Down! Now!" shouted our hostess.
The room fell silent and guests started milling around, looking for their names on place cards.
I headed to the front of the room, assuming I would be seated next to the "big names," but didn't find my name anywhere. I searched table after table, until I found a small table in the back with my name pristinely calligraphed (or is it "calligraphied?") on a tiny, folded card.
I scanned the table to see with whom I had been seated. This was the last straw! I looked to the front of the room at a smirking Oprah Winfrey, high-fiving Gayle King.
I was seated with Oprah's dogs!
"Hi, Kukka-Maria! We are so glad you could sit with us tonight!" Sophie cheerfully offered. She, Solomon and the other dogs seemed oblivious to the fact they were sporting unflattering white bows around their necks and relegated to a disgraceful "pet table."
"That's it, Winfrey!" I shouted as I rose from the tiny table in the back of the room. "I will not be treated this way!"
I decided to take the scenic route as I made my exit. I rushed the stage and shredded Oprah's gown with my freshly manicured, "Siren Red" claws. From the stage, I leapt to the front table and onto the lap of Della Reese, where I purred and peed. All over her white gown. I stopped to have a sing-off with Mariah Carey (she so lost), and helped Patti LaBelle administer some insulin (she's a really nice lady). Despite the fact I tapped, tapped, tapped Tyra Banks' water glass across the table until it crashed to the floor, she never noticed because she was going on and on about how "important" and "informative" her new talk show was going to be. I waited until she called herself "the voice of the new generation," before I hissed, and pooped on her shoulder.
When I finally made my way outside, my Gas/Electric Hybrid Hummer Stretch Limo was nowhere to be found. "I think your driver went bar hopping," said the valet.
So, to add insult to injury, I had to call for a cab to the airport--where I would have to fly cargo...again. "Ma'am, it is first-class cargo," the woman at the counter tried to reassure me.
"Oh, bite me."
The Legends Ball will air tonight on ABC at 8:00 pm, EDT. I wonder if any of my footage will be aired...
UPDATE: Friday, I will be recapping the hijinks that occurred at my own Legends Ball that was held shortly after Oprah's. Needless to say, Oprah was not invited.
Friday, May 19, 2006
How to Use the Brand-New Cat Tent That You Circled in a Catalog and Your Mom Finally Bought You With Her Hard-Earned Money
Update: You can find/buy this cat tent at Ikea.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
How dare you call me last night and ask me to be a "Flower Kitty" at your wedding to Keith Urban. How. Dare. You.
When you called last night, I knew it was to talk about the upcoming nuptials. I expected you to ask me to be your Maid of Honor, sing, or even perform the ceremony (I was ordained as a minister on the internet). You ask me to be the Flower Kitty? Really? You may have well asked me to clean toilets at the reception.
I know it makes you uncomfortable that Tom calls me every once in awhile. Keep in mind, I met you through him--he was my friend first. Having said that, though, you have to know I have always liked you best. When the two of you broke up, who was there drying your tears? The Empress. Who let you cry on their shoulder? The Empress. Who helped you throw eggs at his gate? The Empress. Who even convinced him that jumping on the couch on Oprah would do nothing but make the public see him as a giddy romantic and not at all a fool? You got it!
And you do me like this?
We've done everything BFFs do! We've stayed up late at night talking about boys, done one another's hair and make-up for red carpet appearances, lunched at The Ivy, shopped Rodeo Drive, and anonymously called Page Six to report erroneous celebrity gossip--just for shits and giggles!
I don't know what to say, other than I am hurt. I don't understand your thought process. I thought we were closer than Bride and Flower Kitty. I mean...seriously, Nicole! You expect me to walk down the aisle with a basket of flowers tied to my back? Come on! The tabloids will have a field day with that!
I ask that you reconsider your position on the Flower Kitty deal. For our friendship. For me. Please. I don't want to drag this conflict into the media--I don't think either of us needs the bad press, but I may have to in order to save my reputation.
Consider yourself on notice.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
In case you are just joining us (or haven't been paying attention), I'm talking about my ridiculous brother, Brach.
Last night, my mom opened the linen closet--which I love...LOVE! I, of course, made a dash in there and sat, looking up at her as she tried to coax me out. "Come on, Kukka," she pled. "I need to close the closet door. You don't want to spend the night in the dark closet, do you?"
Yawn. Is that all you've got, old lady?
Thinking herself to be oh-so-clever, she tried a different angle. Not wanting to reward me for insubordination, but knowing the key to getting good behavior from me is bribing me with snacks, she started an idiotic little routine.
"Do you want beets?"
"Do you want meats?"
"Do you want feets?"
"Do you want streets?"
"Do you want pleats?"
This game went on for about a minute--I think a solid minute of hearing her brain churning to try to come up with new and unique consonant combinations was more than enough for both of us. Plus, I was rearing my stubborn head and not falling for her vile trickery.
Brach, who was lying on the back of the couch, like a good little boy, wasn't so sharp. If I remember correctly, we lost him around "meats." He perked up his ears, jumped down from the couch, and headed toward the kitchen.
Seriously, Brach? She had you at "meats?" Is there no reward for all of the intensive training I've provided you?
Realizing her ingenious plan was not enough to persuade me to leave my dark and safe linen closet, she decided to pull out the big guns.
"Do you want treats?"
I darted from the closet and made a beeline to the kitchen. I'm no fool!
As she sprinkled tasty treatlets on the livingroom carpet for us, I heard her justify the fact she was giving me treats when I had so blatantly misbehaved. "I'm not giving you treats because you left the linen closet. I'm giving you treats because you are a genius and can recognize subtleties in the English language."
Damn straight! Now give me my treats!
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
When you look one way, you can see an old woman, looking down and to the left, with a bonnet on her head.
When you study the photo further, you can see a young woman looking to the left and away--her back turned to us. The old woman's mouth is now the young woman's necklace and the wart on the old woman's nose is now the young woman's nose.
The same thing can be done with this image I've been seeing all over the place. It is the logo for VPI Pet Insurance.
If you look at the logo one way, you see a dog, looking to the right (his left...I may only be a cat, but I know my right from left) and a cat sitting in front of him, looking directly at us.
On second glance (or first glance for me--every time I see this logo), you see a dog eating a cat. The left side and top of the cat's head become the outline of the opening of the dog's mouth as he devours the pretty, ginger kitty.
Bad dog! Bad!
DISCLAIMER: While VPI Pet Insurance has never come out and stated such, it is probably safe to say they do not encourage consumption of felines by canines. And it's not just because they don't want to pay out benefits when this does happen. It's because they are, by all accounts, good people.
Monday, May 15, 2006
I know! I was shocked, too!
They told me that, because the role required me to do so many stunts and because I am, by feline standards, a smidge "rotund," they felt I was a health risk that would cause their insurance to skyrocket. Can you say, "Bullshit?" Because I can. And did. I don't think the risk of doing stunts had anything to do with me not getting cast at all. At all!
This situation is just another example of the double standard that exists in Hollywood. Cats are supposed to be thin as a rails and dogs are admired when they pack on the pounds!
For example, when people see a Rottweiler who is 100+ pounds, they marvel at the power, strength, stamina and force the statuesque animal possesses. Yet, if they were to see a domestic feline that was 100+ pounds, they would criticize the owners of the cat for allowing it to get so tubby (and they would probably call the Guinness World Records people because, come on...a 100-pound cat is pretty shocking).
When people see a large dog, they feel safe. "Protective" and "Watch Dog" are the types of phrases you hear as they moon over their portly canine. When they see a large house cat, they feel sick. "Lazy" and "Chronic Napper" are some of the things you'll hear about us!
Even some cats betray their own! Most of the cats that appear in commercials are dangerously thin. I'm going to say the taboo word here, folks: ANOREXIC. I honestly don't blame these cats. There is not a support system out there for felines with eating disorders. If no one is offering you help, you get non-stop praise and admiration for your bony body, and you are fed a minimal amount of food when your humans deem it necessary, what else is there for you to do but starve yourself and act in commercials?
Am I upset to learn they hired a Golden Retriever for my movie role? Yes. A little bit. You know, though, if the only roles I will ever be able to get are my Rubenesque rolls, I'll still be a happy cat.
Because, really...why would I want to risk my manicure on stunt work?
Friday, May 12, 2006
Can you believe it? I never win anything! Well, except Academy Awards, Grammys, Tonys, Golden Globes and a single Daytime Emmy for my captivating portrayal of the teenage runaway, "Tawny" on All My Children. That Emmy took me by surprise--especially since my scenes ended up on the cutting-room floor! I didn't think you could win an Emmy for acting work that was never actually aired.
I can not wait to receive my prize! Rumor has it (my mom told me, but we all know what an unreliable source she is) that the prize might be cat treats. Holy crap! I totally hope so!
Thank you Princess Genevieve! The fact that you give presents to other people on your birthday puzzles me, but I think you are especially cool because of it! (Having said that, I hope no one is expecting me to give out presents on my birthday...)
It went down like this:
I was lying on the floor, dozing, when I heard him approach. He crouched and stared at me for what seemed like hours (but was probably only 1 minute). I glanced his way, saw the aggression in his eyes, and casually turned away like I was bored with him. I thought that would encourage him to go away. Apparently, it only enraged him further!
Without warning, he darted toward me. I quickly turned from my side and crouched, prepared for an attack. He froze as he got near me--staring intently into my eyes. His tail was fluffed up, which is a sign that he is ready to rumble.
"So...I have no balls, huh?" he muttered under his breath. "I'll show you balls, you ungrateful skank!"
Mom heard his meowing and got up to get the camera. I'm beginning to think this woman is mentally unstable. A good mom would leap to my rescue, not capture the onslaught on film. I heard her saying something like, "Well, Kukka-Magooka...you reap what you sow, huh?"
Whatever. I didn't have time to take up that issue with her. I had a crazed lunatic poised to kick my ass!
"You are going down, Kukka. Down to China Town!" Brach hissed at me. Based on his tone of voice and demeanor, it was clear he was doing his best impression of Robert De Niro in "Meet the Parents." I like that movie. It was consistently funny and did nothing but reinforce my secret crush on Ben Stiller. While De Niro was great in that movie, Brach's impression was severly lacking lustre.
Wait! Get back on track! Where was I? Right. Brach hissing in my face.
"You don't have the guts to make a move, sissy! I dare you!" I replied.
What happened next is sort of a blur to me. It involved Brach leaping, me meowing, Brach swatting, me dodging, Brach's tail getting even larger, and me running away.
Yes. When faced with a "Fight or Flight" situation, I fled. I'm not ashamed to admit that!! I was doing him a favor! Not only did I protect him from the wrath that is Kukka-Maria, I also stroked his ego a bit by letting him think he intimated me.
I'm a good big sister who was not scared at all. At all!
For the record, I stand by what I said about Brach. I think he is a baby. I think he is a wimp. And, had we not had the risk of having little Brachs running around, I think he should have kept his testicles because they were the only "manly" thing about him.
DISCLAIMER: Kukka-Maria endorses neutering your Tomcats and is not implying that ALL "altered" boys are wimps, babies or effeminate. Only Brach. She finds most clipped Tomcats sexy--especially those in her Tomcat Stable.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
I never wanted a brother. Mom decided I was too...how did she put it..."needy," so getting another cat would be a good solution.
Listen, Brach. I have tolerated you for over 5 years and have never made a point to tell you how annoying you are, but I've got to go there now.
You annoy me in the following ways:
- When Mom puts her hand out and wiggles her fingers, it is my signal she wants to give me some scritches and pats. Not your signal. When she does this and I am moseying over to her, it is unacceptable that you bum-rush me and get under her hand before me. You bank on the fact that I'll back off and let you have your love-time, but one of these days, brother, I'm taking you down.
- You drool! When you are on Mom's lap and she's scratching your neck, you will get 1-3 spittle drops around your mouth that will, after a good deal of time, release and soak the pillow. You may think the soaked pillow is my issue, but it's not. It's the fact that Mom thinks this is so, incredibly precious, that truly chaps my ass. When you set the cuteness bar that high, it puts me in a tough position. Could I drool? Yes. Will I drool? Come on! I'm an Empress. Don't you think that's a bit beneath me?
- You are not an attention hog, which makes me look like one in contrast. When Mom comes home from work, my standard procedure indicates I meet her at the door and immediately begin whining for treats. While I'm working to procure snacks for us--yes, both of us, you will just stretch out on the carpet and give Mom the irresitible "Doe-Eyes." So, while I pace back and forth in the threshold to the kitchen, whining for treats, Mom makes a beeline over to you and says, "How is the sweetest little boy in the world? Brachy is my baby...my beautiful, beautiful, precious baby!" Gag. Your behavior causes me to have to amp up my efforts. I begin whining louder and rubbing against her leg--even as she walks to the kitchen, usually causing her to stumble and snap at me, "Kukka! Seriously! I am getting treats. Can you please give me some breathing room?" How do I go from adorably devoted feline who meets her servant at the door to crazy, demanding psycho-cat who risks her servant's life in pursuit of snacks? I blame you.
- You stink up the litterbox. 'Nough said.
- You monopolize the prime sleeping spots. I know what you're going to say: "But, Kukka, there are several prime sleeping spots! I am physically incapable of sleeping in all spots at one time!" True. But, you always seem to anticipate which sleeping spot I want...and you take up residence. Boo, Brach...Boo! What annoys me more is that, when I make it clear to you the spot is mine, you look at Mom with those pathetic eyes and she jumps to your defense. Brach is the victim. Whatever, Mom...
You know, Brach, there are more reasons to loathe you, but I don't want to be rude, so I'll stop here. I'll admit, you do some good things, too, but it's important you know you are 92% evil.
THAT'S TOO BAD, BECAUSE I LOVE YOU!
Oh, my dear Kukka...how I love you so.
When I was newly born--fresh from my mother's hoo-ha, I knew my desire was to one day have an older sister who was as beautiful as she was intelligent. Only hours after my birth, I remember telling my biological mother, "Can you please give me up for adoption so I can go live with a woman who has a domineering, yet extremely lovable, royal feline?"
"Yes," she replied.
Kukka, I don't think I can express in words how much you mean to me. But I'll try.
Kukka-Maria, lovely sister, mentor, friend...how do I love the? Let me count the ways:
- You are persistant. I don't know that I would ever get treats if you didn't ask every minute of every day. Even though my desire for treats is just as strong as yours, I find it difficult to verbalize my request. Thanks for being my voice.
- You are fun. There is nothing I like more than hiding around the corner of the hallway and unleashing a silly surprise on you in the form of leaping on your back and riding you through the living room until you violently buck me off. Pure bliss!
- You are sensitive. You understand that I don't like visitors and prefer to hide under the bed or beneath the covers until they leave. You only tease me mildly--and occasionally--about being a scaredy cat. Having said that, it does hurt me deeply when you say things like, "Brach, get some balls, son! The guests won't hurt you!!" You know I had an operation that took my testicles. I would never say anything that mean to you, like, "Kukka, get a uterus and some ovaries!" That would be so cruel. But, I forgive you, sister.
- You are generous. I love how you allow me to blog, on occasion, and only ask that I submit my posts three days in advance, for your editorial approval. You are sweet to have only rewritten 75% of my posts. So kind.
- You are loyal. Even though you will give me crap 23 out of the 24 hours in a day, when someone else insults me, you are quick to come to my defense. Your personal policy: "I can be as mean to my brother as I want, but if you have anything bad to say to him, you have to go through me!" Having an older sister and brutish protector is so reassuring!
I could go on and on, my darling sibling, but I would only be telling you things you already know. I love you, Kukka-Maria, and am glad you are my big sister.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Bitterness doesn't look good on you, Mom. Are we a bit jealous that I get fan mail and you get bills?
Anyway, it's been a huge month for fan mail. Due to my extreme modesty, I won't post them here, but there were squillions of letters telling me how beautiful I am. Squillions of letters telling me how smart I am. Squillions of letters telling me how talented I am. And, before you ask, smart-ass...none of them were written in my handwriting!
Without further ado, let's get to the letters!
Q: It was recently reported that your BlackBerry was stolen and that private phone numbers of many of your famous boyfriends (past and present) were in there--including Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise, William of Mass Destruction, Moose of Les Trois Cats, Buddy The Cat and Zeus of The Zeus Excuse). Has the backlash from your famous friends been hurtful? Did you have any ideas as to who may have stolen it?
A: Oh, I know exactly who stole my BlackBerry. I don't want to publicly embarrass him, so I'll just say this: His name starts with an "S" and ends with an "HELDON." Yes, that door-to-door salescat ripped me off! The reason I know this is true, is that he tried to sell it back to me the other day! UGH! Anyway, about the private numbers--that has been a nightmare. Sheldon claims he "found" the BlackBerry and called everyone in my phone book so he could "determine who the phone belonged to." Right. Brad called the house the other day, wondering why a persistent little boy cat was calling him repeatedly from my cell phone, asking to "hang out." I haven't heard any complaints from my Tomcat Stable, so my guess is Sheldon steered clear of them. He has seen what William can do to a toilet part, so he probably knew he shouldn't impose on my feline boyfriends. Ugh! It would be so much easier for me to keep an eye on my personal affects if my mom would just buy me a purse!
Q: Can I get your autograph, Kukka-Maria?
A: No. I used to give autographs, until I started seeing them popping up on eBay. I was flattered they were selling for exorbitant amounts of money, but still...unless I'm getting a cut, I'm not having it.
Q: Kukka, my friend and I have a bet that we need you to settle. She says, because you are so beautiful, your mom must spend 2 or 3 hours per night doing nothing but petting you. I say it must be closer to 5-6 hours! Which is it?
A: First off, thank you for the compliment! I think you'll find I'm not only beautiful, but I'm gracious to those who think I'm beautiful, too! I think you will both be disappointed to learn that neither of you have won the bet. Despite the fact that I am as beautiful as you say, my mom spends very little time loving on me! I know! It is shocking! I'll wait while you get a tissue because I am sure this news has brought tears to your eyes. Are you back? Ok, get this: My mom pets me for about five seconds when she gets home from work. Then, after many minutes--maybe a hundred or so, she will pet me again for about 30 seconds. Later, when she is watching television, she'll let me sleep on her lap (on a pink pillow, thankyouverymuch), but she will pet me for only a couple of minutes! And, when she tries to pet me with one hand and Brach with the other...I'm done-zo! I want 100% of her attention or none at all. Apparently, she thinks that is acceptable! Also, it seems she pets me only when she feels like it! I think that's incredibly rude. I would never do that, and to prove it, I make myself available for her to pet ALL DAY LONG--whether I feel like it or not. That's how I roll...
Q: You have done so many amazing and exciting things in your life, Kukka. What, if anything, is left for you to accomplish?
A: You are so right! I've dated some of the sexiest men and cats in the world, I was born in an exotic land, and I have been to some of the best parties on both coasts! I guess, if there were one thing I look forward to doing, it's hosting Saturday Night Live. I love that show! They've asked me to host several times, but it's never worked out with my busy schedule of napping, eating treats and answering fan mail. I don't understand why my mom laughs at me when I tell her that, while I love the current cast, the old-school cast of Ferrell, Shannon, Oteri and Kattan are my favorites. "Old school?" she'll laugh. "That isn't the old-school cast! The old-school cast is Carvey, Hartman, and Myers!" Then, my grandma will laugh and tell us we are both on drugs. "The old-school cast is back when Belushi, Akroyd, Martin and Chase were there!" Uh...Gram? I've seen "According to Jim." Jim Belushi is not the golden goose of comedy. You just focus on your old lady stuff, ok?
Q: Who would you like to star as you when they make the story of your life into a movie? What about your Tomcat Stable? Who would play William, Moose, Buddy and Zeus?
A: Um, is this a trick question? I would play myself! There is no other actress as talented as me when it comes to portraying me. But, if I had to choose someone else because I was neither available, nor interested in doing the role, I would have to choose...Natalie Portman. She is very talented and beautiful, but not quite as talented as beautiful as me. I figure she would do a great "impression" of me without causing people to forget that there is nothing like the real thing. I have some thoughts on who I would like to play my boyfriends, but I would, of course, defer to their desires on this one.
Q: Empress, you talk a lot about your past amorous relationship with Brad Pitt, yet we've never seen any proof of this affair. How do we know you're not just exaggerating?
A: You have a point. But that might be because you've never seen the tattoo of my likeness on his ass. Game. Set. And match.
UPDATE: Zeus has chosen a few actors who may be able to play him in the movie of my life. Maybe...if they try hard enough! I'm not sure just anyone could play that feisty ginger cat as well as the real thing!
Friday, May 05, 2006
She confronted us about the book and, before I could deny anything, Brach confessed it all. How we've been reading Gone With the Wind for months. How we've started rehearsals this week for our own production. How he feels he is miscast as Rhett Butler because he doesn't want to have to kiss me and feels Margaret Mitchell's death is not reason enough to avoid a re-write. I can't believe he is willing to deny his craft just because he doesn't want to kiss his adopted sister! He says he gets "sicked out" by it. I told him that I get sicked out when he feels compelled to sniff my ass, but I press on.
But I digress...
I know what you're thinking: If cats can perform Gone With the Wind, why keep that a secret?!
I guess you've never met my mother/agent. When she heard Brach tell her how we had a tailor come to the house to measure us for costumes on Monday, she giggled with glee and clapped her hands. "I want to direct! I want to produce! I can't wait to tell everyone I know that we are going to do a summer stock performance in our own back yard of Gone With the Wind!"
Yeah. Great. I can see it now...
Scene: Back yard.
Characters: Mom (director/producer), Kukka-Maria (Scarlett O'Hara), Brach (Rhett Butler)
Mom: Okay, babies! Let's get going! We have only 2 days until we open. Kukka, can you please stop rolling around in the grass in your gown? I really need you to focus right now. Let's take it from 'Sir, you are no gentleman.' Places! And...ACTION!
Kukka O'Hara: Sir, you are no gentleman.
Brach Butler: And you, Miss, are no lady.
Kukka: (Breaking character) Ok, see...I don't like that at all. Why is he insulting me?
Mom: Scarlett insults him first. He is just responding to what you have said to him. Kukka, if you keep interrupting the scene, you will be restricted from treats again. I'm the director. I'm the boss. Quit questioning the script. Quit questioning my direction. Oh, and I got your memo, requesting a private dressing room. DENIED! Let's scrap this scene and move on to where Rhett leaves Scarlett.
Brach: That's my favorite! I get to cuss!
Mom: Places! And...ACTION!
Kukka O'Hara: Rhett! Rhett, where are you going?
Brach Butler: I'm going back to Charleston, back where I belong.
Kukka O'Hara: Please, please take me with you!
Brach Butler: No, I'm through with everything here. I want peace. I want to see if somewhere there isn't something left in life of charm and grace. Do you know what I'm talking about?
Kukka O'Hara: No! I only know that I love you.
Brach Butler: That's your misfortune. (Brach turns to walk away)
Kukka O'Hara: Oh, Rhett! Rhett! Rhett!! (Watching Brach walk to the gate. Running after him, she catches him before he leaves.) Rhett... if you go, where shall I go, what shall I do?
Brach Butler: Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.
Mom: And...CUT! That was good. Let's try it again! The squillionth time is the charm.
And...VOMIT! We were doing so well on our own and now Brach's mouth got us in trouble. We are going to be in rehearsals all summer! No time for snacking. No time for napping. UGH! We've now given the nazi stage mother directorial power.
Oh, well. I can't think about that right now. If I do, I'll go crazy. I'll think about that tomorrow.
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
The problem with this task? I don't really know the names of the birds. I mean, I know their names (Howard, Gertie, Hank, Bob, Carolyn, Steve, Eric, etc.), but maybe not their race.
I'll try my best:
- Howard & Gertie: Cardinals. He's bright red with a regal tuft on his head. She is brownish-orange, with some pale red on her head. Great couple! Always so polite when they feast at the bird feeder--and very talkative. They always find time to fill me in on the best bird gossip...like how chipmunks have over-run the neighbors' feeder and that there are scandalous nude shots circulating the internet of several local geese. Good stuff!
- Hank: Cardinal. He is Howard's twin brother. He is a bit more stand-offish, so I don't know much about him. I know he's single, so if there are any chick birds out there trolling, take note!
- Bob & Carolyn: Finches. Bob worked as a substitute carrier pigeon during the big pigeon strike of 2001. Retired now, he and Carolyn come by often to dine at our bird feeder and tell me all about their grandchildren. Little Sarah and Matthew flew from the nest for the first time last week. Even though I know Finches can not hold a camera, let alone work one, Bob & Carolyn always feel the need to apologize because they have no photos of the grand-babies with them. Sweet couple.
- Steve & Eric: Gay Woodpeckers. Eric is a neat freak! He is constantly tidying up the bird feeder before and after he eats. Steve is very vocal about his desire for gay woodpeckers to be able to marry. Before you go on an "anti-gay marriage" rant, know the reason they can not marry is not because they are gay. It's because they are Woodpeckers. Apparently, the bird community feels that if you let Woodpeckers marry, pretty soon all animals will want to tie the knot--and where do you draw the line?
- Bruce: Little Yellow bird (race unknown). Bruce is a newbie this year. I think it might be because he wears very thick corrective lenses and couldn't find the feeder in years past. Regardless, Bruce seems to be getting along with everyone. And everyone seems to be willing to mentor him in the ways of the feeder. Only a couple of birds have nicknamed him "Four Eyes." Those damn Chickadees can be so insensitive.
- Lenny & Benny: Ruffian Black-capped Chickadee brothers. Ah, Lenny & Benny...these two tend to be territorial bullies! When Lenny & Benny approach the feeder, the rest of the birds will vacate--and if they don't, the Chickadees will force them out. While Benny has a foul mouth, Lenny is quite a physical threat. Most of the day, you will hear Benny verbally intimidating the rest of the birds with taunts like, "Alright...move it or lose it! You birds know the drill. When the Chickadee brothers come to feed, you had better leave!" We have reason to suspect Lenny may be on steroids, due to his "'Roid Rage." Lenny gets so physically riled up, he will often attack his own reflection in the window, thinking it is a rival bird!
- Big Bastard: Crow. I know what you're thinking, but I didn't give him the name. He introduced himself to me as "Big Bastard." He is a scavenger. He sits atop a tree near the bird feeder and caws snidely to the other birds. It never appears he is there to eat--just to be a big bastard by disrupting the other birds' meals! Kukka says he reminds her of the pesky paparazzi who want nothing more than to hang around, bothering her when she's trying to do her everyday tasks (napping, eating, napping, eating and napping some more). This morning, Mom told us she saw Big Bastard picking through the neighbors' garbage at the curb! What a big bastard...
- Recently, there has been a new race of bird that has been visiting the suet cake. I am unclear as to what kind of bird he is--especially since he completely ignores me when I try to talk to him. I am posting his picture here, hoping someone may be able to help me identify him. If you know his bird race--or his name, please let me know. I'm wondering if it is an ex-boyfriend of Mom's, since every time he comes around, she starts cursing and knocking on the window angrily. I thought he may be part of the tough Chickadee gang, but even Lenny & Benny flee when he comes around. For now, if he's reading this, know that I'm watching you, big bird! If you want to mess with the other birds and their food, you'll have to go through me. And Kukka (if she can tear herself away from her mirror long enough).
Thanks for the invitation to participate, William! If anyone else would like to play, feel free to do so. I'd tag some people myself, but I have some birds to observe...
Monday, May 01, 2006
That decision lasted all of 2 minutes.
The neighbor cat, Shmuley, is a junior this year. His mom, concerned that, due to his crippling shyness, he was still dateless 2 days before the dance, brokered a deal with my mom for me to accompany him. I always suspected my mom's pimp hand was strong! Saturday morning, when she came to deliver the news, this was confirmed.
"Kukka, isn't Shmuley a great kitten? So cute and cuddly! What would you think about going to his senior prom with him?"
Rolling my eyes, I responded, "Whatever."
"You'll have fun! Shmuley's mom has already bought your corsage and they will be by to pick you up at 7:00 pm."
"7:00 pm?!" I shouted. "I have only 10 hours to get ready! Have you called Jonathan Antin to do my hair? What about Stella...can she design something for me on such short notice?"
"Um...listen. You've been a little enthusiastic lately with my credit card, so we're going to go the budget route for this prom. No professional hair stylist, no make-up artists, no custom-designed gowns," responded mom.
"I don't understand."
Mom opened the closet and pulled out a pink taffeta gown, purchased at the local mall. I was furious! If I was going to have to attend this thing, the least she could do is provide me with some haute couture! The gown from the mall had feathers, fringe and a built-in bra for only two nipples! What the hell was I supposed to do? Let my other nipples flap in the wind?
"I'm not going."
"Yes, you are. I've already made the commitment to Mrs. Lipshitz--you are not backing out of this."
With that, she picked me up and carried me to the bathroom, where le makeover de la maman began. Simply put: When it comes to feline beauty, my mother is clueless! I said nothing when she put the hot rollers in. I stayed silent as she meticulously applied the sky-blue eyeshadow and "Fresh as a Rose" rouge. I did, however, draw the line when she took false eyelashes out of the drawer! The last time I wore false eyelashes in public, the tabloids had a field day when they thought they were made of mink! "Kukka-Maria Kills Minks for Fashion!" was the headline in every reputable gossip magazine and paper. I will never risk that again! The hate-mail from Pamela Anderson, alone, was enough to give me an ulcer!
Promptly at 7:00 pm, the doorbell rang. When my mom opened the door, there stood Mrs. Lipshitz, holding a tuxedo-clad Shmuley in a pet carrier. She came inside, set the carrier on the floor and opened the metal door. Timidly, Shmuley emerged with a corsage in his paw.
"You look beautiful, Kukka-Maria!"
"Thank you, Shmuley," I said, offering an obligatory ass-sniff.
"I need to get my camera!" exclaimed my mother.
After what seemed like hours, and squillions of contrived poses, Shmuley and I get into the pet carrier and were on our way to the prom.
When we pulled up to the school, Shmuley pled with his mom, "Mom...puh-leeeease! Please drop us off here! If my friends see me and my hot date being let out of a pet carrier in front of the school, they will never let me live it down! Please, Mom! I have a reputation to protect!"
"It's true, Mrs. Lipshitz! The president of the Science Studs is the most revered member of the student body!" I mumbled sarcastically under my breath.
She let us out a block away. I made Shmuley carry me so my dress wouldn't drag on the sidewalk. Plus, contrary to what one might think, it is not easier to balance in dyed, satin heels when you are walking on four legs!
We danced all night long! While Shmuley may not be the most popular, attractive, or outgoing cat, I've never seen anyone do a better Robot than he did! We were having a great time, until we stopped for a water and kibble break. Things got a little awkward then.
I had just come out of the ladies litterbox, when I was approached by Stewie, my former stalker.
"Whatsgoinon, Kukka?" a drunk Stewie stammered.
"Uh...hi, Stewie. How are things?"
Gesturing toward an obviously pregnant tabby cat in a gown made of the gawdiest yellow satin I have ever seen, Stewie asked, "Have you met my super-sexy date? Her name is Kukka-Maria."
"My name is Dawn, Stewie. If I have to remind you of that fact one more time, I am going to call my boyfriend and ask him to come get me," she curtly replied, rolling her eyes.
"Shaddup, Dawn!" exclaimed Stewie. "You're nothing but a slut! We all know this is your third litter in the last year!"
Dawn took off crying as Stewie vomited down the front of his rented tuxedo. "Crap! Now I won't get my deposit back!" he exclaimed as he stumbled down the hall.
Turning to Shmuley, I said, "Well, there is a lesson learned! Mixing hairball remedy with wine-in-a-box is not a good idea."
"That's what you learned?" Shmuley chuckled. "I thought the real lesson was that it's probably not the best idea to bring a date, in her third trimester, to the prom--and call her by another woman's name!"
"Word!" I exclaimed, laughing.
Doing The Robot again, Shmuley suggested we get back out on the dance floor. I grabbed his paw and we headed toward the large, mirrored disco ball in the center of the room.
At 10:30 pm, Mrs. Lipshitz arrived to pick us up. "Mo-o-o-o-om..." Shmuley whined, as his mother opened the door to the pet carrier. "Can't we just ride in the back seat without the carrier?"
"Schmoopy, you know you are too small and precious for Mommy to just throw you in the car--unrestrained! And what would Kukka's mommy say if something happened to her beautiful baby kitty?" Mrs. Lipshitz crooned sweetly as she guided us into the carrier.
When Mrs. Lipshitz opened the carrier at my house to drop me off, I turned to Shmuley and thanked him for a lovely evening.
"I had a good time, Shmuley," I coyly meowed.
"Word!" exclaimed, launching into what could, by now, be considered his signature move--The Robot.
"Uh, Shmuley? While the lessons we learned from Stewie earlier were valuable, I think the real lesson of the night is to know when to retire The Robot," I advised.
"You're probably right..." he mumbled.
I gave him an affectionate head butt and exited the pet carrier quickly. I couldn't get that atrocious make-up and hideous dress off of me fast enough!
While I would never admit this to my mother, I did not hate the prom this year. And, while Shmuley isn't boyfriend material for me, the boy can get down! I will have to teach him some new moves, though, before his senior prom...