Mom's Post-It Note Response

Found these posted by my food bowl--apparently, she was responding to my minor request. She thinks she is so tough...

"Dear Kukka...", Volume XI

We have a very special "Dear Kukka..." today! While I get squillions of letters from all over Europe, Asia, Africa, Australia, North and South Americas (not so much Antarctica...not sure why), this one stood out for me. Maybe because it focuses on my beauty and amazing modeling career. I mean, everybody knows I don't like to toot my own horn...so I appreciate it when someone else does it for me!

Enjoy this letter as much as I did!



Dear Kukka-Maria

I felt compelled to write to you to ask: do you have a new modeling contract? I ask because my human has just brought home a new supply of cat litter for me, which is the own-brand of a certain Very Well Known British Supermarket Chain, S***burys. I couldn't help but notice that the feline now posing glamorously on thousands of cat litter bags across Britain bears a striking resemblance to your royal self. OK, so the eye colour is slightly different but I know coloured contacts are often used for these modeling jobs, right?

If the model is indeed yourself, Empress, may I applaud you on the success of your latest celebrity enterprise. These bags are flying off British supermarket shelves at an amazing rate.

Alternatively, did you turn down the offer from S***burys, and are they now using a cheap Kukka-Lookalike? I feel the cat blogosphere has the right to know the truth.

Your devoted subject,

Fat Eric,
in London.



Dear Big-Boned Eric,

I am sad to say that that cat is indeed me. What a crazy ordeal this whole situation has been for me!

When I was originally approached to pose for this company, they asked to use my image on cans of gourmet cat food. I was delighted that my British fans were asking to see more of me and, after tasting the foie gras-flavored feline delicacy, I signed on to sit for a photo-shoot and sign squillions of autographs.

While I read the fine print in the contract this time, I guess, like Canadian English, I am not fluent in British English, either. Apparently, the contract said that they own all photos and are able to use them on any product they wish.

So, that's how I ended up on bags of kitty toilet material. KITTY TOILET MATERIAL!! Despite the fact that I am thrilled the bags of [CHOKE] Kitty Litter are flying off of the shelves, this is still a painful thing for me to talk about and, due to the pending lawsuit, I have probably said too much about it already.

I guess I don't understand what you mean by coloured contacts. ColoUred? This is just another incident where I am confused by the British language. I hope you don't mind, but I'm going to change your question. To colored contacts. I hope I'm not too far off! While I hesitate to disclose sacred modeling secrets, I will admit that in that photo-shoot, I wore colored contact lenses. The photographer asked that I wear them, as my brilliantly green eyes were too captivating and he feared consumers would be hypnotized by my perfect winkers, thereby causing complete mayhem across Great Britain.

I have to ask: "Winker" is not the same as "Wanker," is it? I don't know...I don't speak British.

Next time, Eric, I think I will send in a Kukka-Lookalike, as you suggested. A stunt double will not portray my stunning beauty, of course, but these are the things we super-models must do to protect our reputations.

Thanks for writing!

Always looking for second helpings,
The Empress

P.S. For those who think super-modeling is easy, I'll have you know I am still chafed from that synthetic grass upon which they asked me to lounge sexily. And I was shocked to know they had not sanitized that ball prior to me handling it. It is my understanding others had touched it--without gloves--prior to placing it in my paws. Dis-gust-ing! Clearly they did not take time to read my rider! I had to soak my paws in a vat of bleachy water for hours after the shoot to ensure my paws would remain pristinely white and filth-free. No, modeling is not easy at all!

Feline ADHD?

Over•stimulation (́ō'vәr-stim'-yә-lā'-shәn) n. 1. Increased excitement or action; animation 2. Excessive invigoration 3. Unconscionable excitement and incentive.

Used in a sentence:
"Um...what the hell is happening?! The linen closet door is open and the shower just started! What to do...what to do! Should I...wait...what should I...huh? Maybe I'll...what am I...wow...what's that again? I want to...I guess I'll...what should I...can't I sit in both? Why, I think this is what they call overstimulation!"

Open Post-It Note to my Agent

"The Talk"

**WARNING**WARNING** If you are a cat less than 5 years old, you should not read the following post. It contains sensitive information not intended for young felines. In fact, this post includes graphic images that should not be seen by anyone, let alone young cats. You've been warned.


Well, it happened this weekend. The Agent sat me down and told me it was time to have "The Talk."

"What talk?" I asked (knowing exactly the talk to which she was referring).

"It's time you learned where kittens come from, Kukka," she nervously replied.

"Don't kittens come from the pound?" I inquired, trying to stifle my giggles.

"Um...some do, but even those kittens don't originate at the pound. It's a bit more complicated than that," she said, shuffling a pile of papers in front of her.

Oh. My. Gawd! The Agent told me about sex this weekend. She called referred to "The Talk" as a story about birds, bees and cats. It was hilarious on so many levels:

• First, I am not sure why she felt she had to have "The Talk" with me. For crying out loud...I am almost 7 years old (practically 49 in cat years)! Doesn't she realize I've been around the block? Also, I was spayed when I was a wee kitten! Do I really need to know where kittens come from?
• Second, she was soooooo nervous! Her hands were shaking, her voice was trembling and she struggled to maintain eye-contact with me. What was that about? This woman will wipe my butt when I have dingleberries and scoop my shit out of a box, but she can not have a frank conversation about sex without convulsing?
• Third, she had props. Yes, props. Diagrams and charts, in fact. They were horrifying! I am posting an example and, if you think this one is bad, you should have seen the ones I am not posting! Even I have limits!
• Finally, she made Brach leave the room because he is a year younger than I am and she felt he was a little "immature" to handle such delicate information. In fact, she made me swear I wouldn't tell anyone about "The Talk" at all. "Their Agents will tell them when they think they are ready. It is not your responsibility to tell everyone what we talked about." What is this, Fight Club? "The first rule of The Talk is--you don't talk about The Talk." I figure I can justify posting it on my blog, though, since technically, I'm not "talking" about it. You should have thought to close all the loopholes, lady!

Because she was so genuine and had such honorable intentions, I couldn't very well tell her that not only was I familiar with the concept of where kittens come from, I was also known around town as a slut.
But a slut in the classy way...

19 Reasons Katie Couric is No Longer Allowed to Cat-Sit for Us

1. Such a high dose of her "perkiness" in the morning had me bound up for the entire week she was with us.
2. She had a standing coffee date each morning with one or both of her best friends, Jack Daniels and Johnny Walker. Actually, they hung out for most of the day--not just breakfast!
3. She wore stage make-up 24 hours a day--leaving foundation schmutz on all of the furniture and pillow cases.
4. UGH! That fake and whiny interview voice and over-enthusiastic smile!
5. She would constantly interrupt my incredible stories, look into an imaginary camera, and throw to commercial.
6. Her personal assistant actually did the cat-sitting, while Katie made long-distance phone calls and practiced signing autographs on grocery store receipts.

7. She scheduled and conducted interviews with prominent entertainment and political super-powers in our livingroom--and you know how Hilary Clinton has that reputation for destroying hotel rooms and interview sets...
8. She refused to let me try on her collection of red carpet dresses (I think she knew they would look better on me).
9. Brach caught her sifting through our dirty litter, claiming she was focusing on "hard-core investigative reporting," now that she is going to be a serious journalist.
10. She constantly gave me hairstyle advice. She gave me hair advice? Puh-leeeeeease!
11. She spent hours and hours practicing potential sign-off phrases for her new gig at CBS and seemed offended when I suggested, "That's the news for tonight. I'm Katie Couric and I'm a whore." So sensitive!
12. My sphincter is still chapped from all of the colonoscopy check-ups she insisted on performing.
13. She would hide behind the furniture and not come out until we yelled, "Where in the world is Katie Couric?"
14. The late-night drunk-dialing to Al Roker. Not pretty.
15. When she would fill our food dish or give us treats, she insisted a camera follow her for what she called a "cooking segment."
16. She arrogantly believed the paparazzi camped outside our home were for her and not for me. Foolish and naive Katie...
17. She demands a cat-sitting salary of $15,000,000, vs. the $10 the neighbor kid charges.
18. When Matt Lauer popped in for a visit, they got in an ugly slap-fight, which ended with bloodied faces and a bucket-full of tears.
19. Every time Katie leaves the room, she expects weeks and weeks of tearful goodbye tributes to send her off. Barf.
    

Way too tired to blog...

Must.
Nap.
Now.

TREATS 101

Welcome to "TREATS 101," your comprehensive guide to finding and acquiring snacks of all kinds. I am your instructor and world-renown expert in human manipulation, Empress Kukka-Maria.

For this lesson, let begin by defining the term "TREAT." A treat can be known by a squillion other names including, but not limited to: SNACK; TASTY DELIGHT; SWEETNESS; DELECTABLE NIBBLET; and my personal favorite, PARTY-IN-MY-MOUTH. Because humans think they are clever, you may have to listen closely at your own house to determine what term your human uses. They are often known to mix it up at times, so don't get too attached to a certain term.

Let's get to the bones of the operation: How does one acquire said snacks? I have created a simple, 37-step process that will guarantee at-will treat acquisition and subsequent consumption. Considering time/space constraints (and that I charge $49.95 for the entire 37-step process), I am just going to highlight three key steps here:

1. "WHAT TIME IS IT? OH, WAIT! I DON'T FREAKIN' CARE!"
   This step is a tough one and will be met with resistance. However, when executed properly, it is key to establishing you as the dominant force in the home. For some reason, humans believe they are in charge of deciding when and where treats will be distributed--and they will tell you that any chance they get. DO NOT succumb to this bullshit propaganda.
   
   POP QUIZ TIME!! Question: When is it wrong to ask for...nay, DEMAND treats? Answer: There is no bad time to ask for and/or demand snacks. NO BAD TIME. If you are given treats at 5:30pm and then you find you want more at 5:45pm? Ask! If it's 4:02am and your stomach is asking for snacks, it is your responsibility to demand them.
   
   If your requests are met with resistance, unleash your hostile demands. My recipe for success is simple:
• 1 part sensitive and loving meow.
• 1 part extended and loud purr.
• 1 part rubbing against the leg (manipulation tactic through which I receive no pleasure--it's just business)
• 1 part "Lassie Technique" (running to the treat location in the hopes they are following you).

If you find these "sweet" steps are not yielding the desired results, turn up the heat a bit by:
• 1 part angry and terse meow coupled with throwing yourself aggressively against their legs.
• 1 part tackling and swatting at your brother/sister/couch.
• 1 part pathetic meow with a side of sad eyes.

I find this works every time--without fail. While I know my mother is weak, I am confident she is no weaker than your humans. Weakness is a universal human trait (from my experience).


2. "WHERE DA TREATS AT, BEEOTCH?"
   This step requires sharp observational skills. You must learn and memorize the location of the treats (or locations...some humans try to be especially deceptive by hiding them throughout the house). A great time to observe your humans is when they come home from the store--as indicated by the bags they carry in the house with them. If you see anything that resembles: PETSMART or PETCO, keep your eyes locked on those bags! That is where many humans buy the treats. When they remove them from the bag, do not--I repeat, DO NOT allow them to distract you! Your humans may say things in an attempt to send you to your treat-reception-area and away from the treat storage area. "Do you want a treat?" Caution: Words like this are designed to sidetrack you and keep you from your goal--knowing the source of the treats. Stand firm. Do not break. This battle of wills is just a precursor to the struggles to come.
   
   
3. "I WEAR YOU OUT AND YOU GIVE IN!"
   This is where knowing the source of the treats is critical. When you find yourself without treats--after hours and hours of asking, you will need to take things into your own paws. In our house, the treats were first stored in the kitchen cupboard above the stove. She thought it was a fool-proof plan because we were unable to reach it. How cute is she for even trying? It became clear to us that we would not be able to get up there, so we decided to focus our energy on the lower cupboards. SLAM! SLAM! SLAM! We would do that over and over all evening--which drove her crazy!! She would remind us the treats were not in the lower cupboards. DUH...It's not about actually getting treats, it's about driving you crazy enough that you serve them to us on a silver platter! Frustrated, she moved them to the refrigerator. That posed more of a challenge, but I found a way to get to her. While I can not open the door, I can constantly rub my face against the edge of the white fridge door and leave all sorts of schmutz for her to clean. So I do. And she does. Bring on the games, lady. I've got nothing but time and energy.

In conclusion, class, acquiring treats can be a difficult, but rewarding process. Once you master these techniques, you will find the mind control you have over your humans will be handy in getting other things you want (scritches behind the ears, a prime sleeping spot in the human bed, fun and exciting toys, etc.).

Class dismissed!

Open Letter to my Agent, Vol 6

Dear Slut,

Sigh...

Because I've not discovered the most gentle way to ask you this, I'm just going to lay it on the line: Who is my daddy?

While I've wondered about this for years now, it especially bothers me when Father's Day comes and goes without so much as a nod in our house. Nothing. No mention of a daddy--past, present, nor future. I wish you would just be honest with me about the situation. I can handle it! Brach may be a year younger than me and, subsequently should be shielded from our harsh reality, but I am gutsy and strong.

Dish it up, lady!

I hear you say it's tough to find a "good one" and that other men in the past have been "idiots." I'm going to honest here...I think you're being a bit over-dramatic. I've inspected many of the men who have come to visit (via smelling them, rubbing my face against them and receiving scritches and pats) and I think you are letting a lot of the good ones slip through the cracks.

I know you don't appreciate it when I throw myself at these men. "Will you be my daddy?" I purr as I walk back and forth under their hands. "Come live with us!" I see the glares you give me as you hiss, "Kukka...shut it!" Look, lady. (Hang on, I need to get my finger-quotes ready) I understand your "pride" and how you are "embarrassed" that I put it all out there, but someone has to! You are not going to find a good man if you don't lay it on the line!

Do I think you are unable to give me sufficient love and care on your own? Absolutely not. You have always done well by me.

Would I still wake you through the night if you had a man in your bed? Absolutely. See? Some things don't have to change if you were to find a good man!

I do think, though, that Brach needs some male influences soon. He is a little too much of a sissy for my taste. A good man who will rough him up a bit, teach him the serious art of insect hunting, and coach him on his belching and farting (while I have the skill, I find I just don't have the time). This is crucial for him to develop a strong sense of masculinity (because right now the most macho he gets is batting his eyes at you right before he drifts off to sleep).

By next year, I want to have a man around to whom I can offer an enthusiastic "Happy Father's Day." If you want some dating advice, I would be more than happy to recap my Hollywood romances for you so you can get tips on how to bait the hook, catch the man and reel him in. Very easy. In fact, I think I nabbed Brad Pitt in my sleep!

Get on it, lady.

Affectionately,
The Fatherless Empress

POINT/COUNTER-POINT: Chipmunk Acquisition

CAN I KEEP HIM? PLEEEASE?!
by Brach

There is this chipmunk I met recently. I named him Beans. I want him to come and live with us--inside--forever and ever and ever.

First, he is so sweet! He will come up to the screen at the sliding glass door and stare inside at me. His plump, little cheeks will be packed with sunflower seeds almost to the point of exploding. He will stand there and dance for me. Back and forth he will run, causing me hours and hours of amusement. Sometimes he gives me tips on the best way to steal food and, when I tell him I have no need to steal food because my Mom feeds me well, he will stare at me with sad eyes and sigh. "Must be nice..." he will mutter. Doesn't that just break your heart?

Secondly, he is so polite. When he raids the bird feeder, he always yells to the birds with such a direct, yet very harsh tone. "Get back, you filthy birds. I'm eating here!" I think it's wonderful that he considers their safety and well-being while he is sifting through their seed to find the prime nuggets.

Finally, I have always wanted a little brother. Kukka gets to have one, but I don't? What gives? She is mean, bossy, inconsiderate, demanding, selfish and mean and bossy! I would be so kind to Beans if he were to come inside to live with us. I would love him and play with him and share my toys. It would be so delightful!

To conclude, I need a baby brother who is a chipmunk and whose name is Beans. I happen to know someone who fits this description, Mom. You only have to invite him inside to fulfill my every dream!

ARE YOU SERIOUSLY THIS DENSE?
by Kukka-Maria

Oh for crying out loud! We're talking about that stupid chipmunk that steals food from the birds?

Seriously?

Alright...

Brach, you really need to get your head examined! You want this scallywag coming inside of my house, eating my food and playing with my toys. You know I'm not one to point out your faults...all the time, but in this case, you are being ridiculous.

First, he is a dangerous brute. He is huge! Mom says she has never seen a chipmunk as large as this one. This morning, when she was walking to her car in the garage, "Beans" physically assaulted her. Yes, attacked her! Right in broad daylight! He charged her right shoe, causing her to do what any, normal and red-blooded woman would: She kicked at him. From what she told me, the impact of her shoe slamming against Beans' ribs was very dramatic. While she says she lightly kicked him a couple of feet away from her, I know that woman's strength, so I'm kind of doubting her story. I believe she flung him 6 feet in the air and, as he plummeted back to earth, she picked up a baseball bat and knocked him clear out of the garage. But it also could be like she said...

Secondly, he is a bum. He's been living in our garage--rent free, for almost a whole year! Who the hell gets to live rent-free for a year? Even we have to pay our way around here. You have to constantly adjust the blankets on the bed to accommodate your napping body and I have to tell you to "move it" because it's my turn to sleep in the bed you just made. Exhausting stuff! Beans also steals food from the birds! And, Brach, I don't think he's worried about bird safety when he demands they step back from the feeder to make room for him. I'm pretty sure I've even seen him give them the finger (notice I didn't stoop so low as to use a lame pun like "flip the bird") when he's yelling at them! How rude...

Finally, I suspect he is not a real chipmunk. With his size, his command over the English language, the fact he walks solely on his hind legs, and the long zipper that runs from the nape of his neck to his tailbone, I am thinking he might be human.

In conclusion, he is a homeless, violent assassin who dresses in a chipmunk costume, steals food from defenseless birds, mooches off our mom and cusses out anyone who gets in his way. Mom will never go for allowing him in the house, Brach.

Wait! Maybe she would. This guy sounds a lot like her ex-boyfriend!

Great News for All Celebrity Druggies!

WOOOOO-FREAKIN'-HOOOOO!

Oh, happy day one and all! It seems the word has been passed down by the Great and Powerful Oz (or Queen Elizabeth...I can't remember which) that Kate Moss will not face charges regarding her "alleged" drug use.

That same "alleged" drug use that was caught on camera and published in The Daily Mirror.

About which, she issued a formal apology.

And, after said apology, checked herself into rehab.

Apparently, the drug lords and ladies of Great Britain could not determine what kind of drug she was snorting...and snorting...and snorting. Just not enough evidence! Not even a single eye-witness account of what happened in that nightclub bathroom that night. Not a one!

I guess this is just another "Damn, I wish I would have had a camera moment."

Oh, well. Instead of criticizing (or, since I'm speaking English, not American, would it be criticising?) the British due process, I think I need to examine and embrace the true message here.

There is good news and bad news for me.


Good News:
AS A CELEBRITY, I CAN NOT BE CHARGED FOR MY EXCESSIVE CATNIP USAGE!

I can barely keep myself from leaping up and performing a nip-induced stumble/jig!

Kate, call me! We've got some serious partying to do!!


Bad News:
Burberry, Chanel, Nikon, Virgin Mobile and Calvin Klein...what does this mean about the negotiations regarding me taking over some of that coke-head's work?

The Ol' Stink Eye

Last night, after basking in the afterglow of all the positive comments about our wrestling skills, Mom decided to rain on our parade by setting up some ground rules. As is typical when she goes on a rant, I secretly recorded the entire conversation so Brach and I could laugh and laugh later...when she went to bed.

I'll transcribe it for you now:
Scene: Living Room
Atmosphere: Television on (at a deafening volume, thankyouverymuch) with old "Sex and the City" episodes on HBO On Demand (which she insists she loves so much and would marry...if it would only have her).

Rising from my carpet barging stint, I crossed over to the sliding glass door. Brach, from his slumber on the back of the couch, joined me. Blatantly disrespecting my personal space, Brach stood in front of me and bird-blocked.

ME: (Clearing my throat) Uh...hello?! What do you think you're doing?

HE: (Turning his head toward me slowly--for dramatic effect) I'm lookin' out the freakin' window! That's what I'm doing!

ME: (Squinting my eyes into a menacing glare) Well, son, if I could make a suggestion--purely for your own safety...STEP OFF!

MOM: (Not understanding Meow and only hearing growls and low hisses, she pauses her show and turns to us, glaring) Do you not see that I am watching a very important show (that I've already watched a squillion times and could probably recite every line, in unison, with the characters)?

(Editor's note: The small print is the embellishment of Kukka-Maria and does not represent reality in any way, shape or form. There is no question we agree with Kukka that there can be a lot said in a pause. We part company, however, when she insists she could prove her conversational perceptions in a court of law. We firmly believe The Empress could not differentiate between a "court of law" and a bathtub, therefore rendering her argument null and void.)

ME: (Looking at Brach, back to Mom, then back at Brach again) Did she just give me the ol' stink eye?

HE: (Nodding furiously) Oh, I think she totally did! (Turning to Mom) You totally did!!

ME: (Looking at Mom) Oh no you di'int! Are you ready to throw down?!

MOM: (Pausing the TV one more time) Seriously, you guys! Quit bickering! You have food. You have fresh water. I scooped tonight. Oh, I get it! No, I am not giving you T...R...E...A...T...S! (Spelling as if she believes we can not read. For crying out loud!)

ME: (Standing and poising to pounce) It's on, now! You should prepare to get your ass handed to you in a litterbox, lady!

Brach, in a panicked state, fearing I might hurt his mommy and, more importantly, jeopardize his prospects for treats in the future, trips me.

TRIPS ME!

ME: (Turning to my trembling brother) Oh...you'd rather I take you down first? That's fiiiiiiine. I've got a whole keg of whoop-ass to serve up. It doesn't matter to me which of you goes first!

HE: (Scampering away, yet trying to sound oh-so brave) You'll have to catch me first!

ME: (After catching him in 2.5 seconds, pinning him to the ground, and threatening to spit on him by letting a stream of saliva drip just above his face, then slurping it back up at the last minute) I'm pretty sure you should know not to mess with me by now. Why must I have to repeatedly dole out lessons to you?

MOM: (Pausing Carrie Bradshaw for the third time and getting (more) premature wrinkles due to her severe scowling) I will not tolerate your fighting and wrestling anymore! I want to watch my show, not referee your battles! WOULD YOU TWO PLEASE STOP IT RIGHT THIS MINUTE!!

ME: (Laughing out loud with Brach) Uh, Mom? I think it's HI-LA-RIOUS that you just asked us a question, but said it as an exclamation! Shouldn't it have been, "Would you two please stop it right this minute?" If you wanted to phrase it as a command, you should have taken the "would" out. And, quite frankly, the "please" should have gone out the window, too, in order to give it the intimidating tone I believe you desired. Now, you know I'm not one to criticize, but...

MOM: (Shaking her head in despair and returning to her lame show) Kukka-Maria! Stop whining! I am not giving you treats right now. You've had plenty today!


I wish that woman would get a good "Learn Meow" curriculum on CD-ROM. It would just make correcting her grammar so much easier.

Open Letter to Vince McMahon, WWE CEO

Dear Mr. McMahon,

As chairman, CEO, and majority owner of World Wresting Entertainment, I would think you would have a bit more pride in yourself and would stop calling our home to beg Brach and I to join the elite forces of RAW and Friday Night Smackdown.

It's downright pathetic!

The phone rings. I answer. You beg. I refuse. You cry. I insult your masculinity. You beg some more. I lay the phone down, walk away, and take a nap. You, not knowing I've left, continue sobbing about your need for us to boost your ratings, the excitement you feel at the thought of creating action figures of our likeness and the thrill we will have when we can buy catnip as far as the eye can see with our ginormous paychecks. Or at least I think that is what I make out of your words, with the phone being as far away as it is, me sleeping, and you sobbing.

Yawn.

Look, I know Brach and I are talented. We are, arguably, the best wrestlers on the face of the earth. What I don't think you understand is how humiliated your current crew of wrestlers would feel at getting a beat-down from two tiny cats! Are you willing to put Triple H in the ring with me and watch him fall like a ton of bricks after I unleash my signature move, "The Pussy Whip?"

Please.

Let's be honest here. Brach and I will always...ALWAYS be victorious--be it a vicious cage match (Brach spent the first several weeks of his life in a cage at the humane society, bitch, so bring it on), a folding chair brawl (I have surprisingly profound upper body strength) or a tag-team event (my brother and I have ESP, making us quite the unbeatable force).

To fuel your frustration at not succeeding in convincing us to put our paw mark on a wrestling contract, I want to show you what you are going to be missing, sir (if that is your real name).

Grab your tissues, Vince. The talent captured in these photos is sure to make you cry (although, the excessive collection of shoes The Agent insists upon storing at the front door, rather than in her closet, can bring a tear to your eye, too). If you want to see these photos up-close and personal, you just need to click each shot (or, if as an egomaniac, you feel that is beneath you, have one of your paid minions do it for you).















And, though I feel I shouldn't need to say this, you are not authorized to teach these patented wrestling moves or use the clever titles of said moves in any WWE initiative. My lawyers may be uneducated and ill-qualified feral alley cats, but they are mean sons of bitches! Don't test me, Mr. McMahon!

Now stop calling us, creepy man!

Respectfully,
Empress Ass-Kicker and B-Rock, The Bloodbath Brute

Brach,Imperial Guardian of the Royal Cat Grass

GRRRRRROWR!

(lick, lick, lick...rub my belly and I'll give you anything...purrrrrrrrrr...)

How COULD She?!

I had some extra time this weekend, due to my mother spending an exorbitant amount of time outside and locking us in...again. I decided to surf through some of her personal blog entries from her now-extinct blog (apparently, she doesn't have the staying power I have).

I was appalled...APPALLED to read the following. Unfair and unjust? I think so! You be the judge. Here is what I read:

Queen Kukka's Wrath

My cat is sooooo needy, but I love her.

Every once in awhile, we have a battle of wills. She believes she is running the show, while I know I am. This weekend, she passive-aggressively tried to solidify her position as queen.

I'm not a morning person, so weekends are my time to sleep until I naturally wake up. No alarm clock, no scheduled morning obligations. Kukka knows this and sees it as an opportunity to prove her strength.

Saturday, 6:49 am:
Kukka climbs on my nightstand and proceeds to rub her face against the lampshade. I've given up fighting her on this. While it slightly discolors the bottom border of the lampshade, it's not the end of the world and, unless I pointed it out to you, you probably wouldn't ever notice. When I hear her start licking the burgundy silk of the lampshade, though, I'm awake and irritated. "KUKKA! NO!!" I hiss, sleepily. "Lick, lick, lick," goes her scratchy little tongue. I reach out and physically remove her from the nightstand, roll over and attempt to rejoin my dream--already in progress.

Saturday, 6:52 am:
Kukka repositions herself on my nightstand for "Round 2." She lifts her paw and swiftly swats the half-drunk bottle of water to the floor (thankfully, I had remembered to put the cap back on). "CLUNK!" goes the bottle as it hits the floor. I open my eyes and look at her. She stares me down. I can almost hear the "Old West Gun Fight" music playing in the background as the wind blows the dust around and a tumbleweed rolls by. "Let's do this, bitch!" her eyes say. "Kukka...come on, stop it..." I plead and close my eyes again. I do not have the energy to take my ten paces, turn and shoot this morning.

Saturday, 6:55 am:
Kukka amps her efforts up a bit and jumps from the bed to the corner cabinet that houses my running fan (Yes...I'm one of those who has to have "white noise" while I sleep). The corner cabinet only has room for the fan and is top-heavy. In fact, the corner cabinet used to have a glass door until "someone" climbed up on it and, when caught, tried to push off, causing the cabinet to tip and crash to the floor--broken glass everywhere. I sit up as I feel her leap off the end of the bed toward the cabinet. "KUKKA! NO!! YOUGETDOWNFROMTHERE!!" I exclaim in the deepest and most threatening version of my voice. The volume of my voice is rising right along with my pulse. She stares at me, not budging. I decide to feign getting out of bed to heighten the threat. I throw back the covers, move my legs over the side of the bed and begin to [look like I'm going to] get out of bed. Believing I am going to come over there, she jumps from the cabinet to the floor. Feeling especially victorious (because my feet didn't actually have to meet the floor to prove my point), I pull the covers back up to my neck and sigh deeply, trying to find my lost sleep.

I have to take a moment and comment on the use of spray bottles to deter bad cat behavior. I've read in numerous books and talked with many other cat owners who swear that spraying a cat with a stream of water will show them who's boss and stop the unwanted behavior. Riiiiight. Let me say this: Kukka loves water. Every morning, she gets in the bathtub while I start the shower. When I turn on a faucet, she runs to get into the sink. And, when I turn it off, she is right there, drinking any
residual droplets. I tried the spray bottle when she was younger, but she would just sit there drink water while I sprayed it into her mouth. I realize now that I probably shouldn't have let her get too familiar with the water bottle--it sort of took the fear out of the "consequence." Spraying delicate streams of water into her mouth because it looked so damn cute while she lapped it up probably wasn't the best thing to do. It is sort of like the Wizard of Oz...when Dorothy & Co. were afraid of the wizard, but then realized it was just this tiny guy, standing on a stool behind a curtain, making himself seem larger than life.

ANYWAY...back to our story...

Saturday, 7:03 am:
She means business now. She jumps from the bed, to the top of my armoire. This is the holy land of cat leaping. Not only is it tall, it has lots of breakable items with which to have flinging fun. I immediately sit up and glare at her. She sits and stares as me as if she dares me to make a move. I try to fake her out again by ripping the covers off of me. She doesn't budge. I move my legs over the side of the bed and look to see if she feels threatened. She doesn't flinch. I stand and make a sharp move toward her. She lifts her paw (this almost plays out like it was in slow motion) and swats a CD case into my hamper. Without missing a beat, she turns and takes another swipe--this time at a stack of papers that are now fluttering to the ground. I dart toward the armoire just as she bounds to the floor and runs into the hallway. I shut the bedroom door and fume as I return to bed. "How can something that cute be so diabolical?" I wonder.

Saturday, 7:13 am:
I lie awake--up for the day--and listen to her throw her body against the bedroom door, hoping to bump it open. When that fails, I listen to a vulnerable, whiny meow escape her throat. I sigh as I recognize her "love tank" is empty and she just wants some affection. I laugh at the morning's events and think to myself, "Gee, Courtney, it really sucks to be loved this much, huh?" I get up, open the door, and pat the bed. She jumps up and "power-purrs" as she walks back and forth under my hand, pressing her body into my waiting palm.

I decide there are worse ways to wake up...

OMG! A Whole Bowl of TREATS!!

Last night, the craziest thing happened. Our bowl was empty and my mom realized we were out of food.

So she filled our bowl with TREATS!

We both chomped down so frantically, I started to gag. But that didn't stop me!

(Mom's Note: What they don't know is that those "treats" are really cheap food nuggets! I've been feeding them cheap cat food as treats for months now! It's cheaper because I can buy it by the large bag. I just keep filling their treat jar and they don't know the difference. I liken it to feeding my kids spinach and tricking them into thinking it is dessert. I think I'm brilliant, but I'm sure the cats would disagree--if they ever discovered my scam...)

Mom? I can read. You suck. Scam, indeed! I would rebel, but as long as you keep giving that delicious spinach to me (whether in the bowl or on the livingroom carpet), I'm going to let it slide.

Tick...Tick...Tick...

That's the sound of my biological clock.

I know what you're thinking: "But, Empress Kukka-Maria--the greatest and most sexy cat alive, didn't you have your biological clock surgically removed when you were a mere 2.5 pounds and under 10 weeks of age?"

Yes.

But, listen...I'm a woman. I have needs. And, despite the fact society believes cats are not this reflective, I regret not having a litter or two.

When Brach first came to live with us, after the initial wrath I unleashed on him, I found myself mothering him a bit. I'm not made of wood. I have instincts. Anyway, I would clean him and snuggle with him, almost as if he sprung from my own loins.

Now that he's older, I still occasionally bathe him and snuggle with him, but since he is now a grown-up, I am feeling a sort of pseudo "empty nest syndrome."

I blame my mother for these disturbing feelings I am experiencing. It was she who decided to have me spayed. It was she who said she didn't want to bring more cats into the world when there are so many who need homes. It was she who actually sliced me open and ripped out my woman-parts!

Ok. She didn't actually perform the operation. I just threw that in for dramatic effect.

This is not the first time I've had to deal with the repercussions of my spaying. When Brad Pitt and I were dating, it was a hot point of contention.

"I want to have kittens with you, Kukka-Maria!" he would cry (with real tears, by the way).

"You knew I was unable to produce offspring from our first date, Brad," I would sob.

"Isn't it possible to have your spaying reversed? Can't they transplant another cat's lady bits into you?" he, with such desperation in his eyes, would ask. "I just love you so much and I know that our offspring would be so super-sexy! With your vertically pupiled eyes and my strong nose. Your four lucious legs and my firm ass. Our kittens would be extraordinary!"

"I know...I know..." I replied, head hanging.

Brad left me shortly after that conversation. He decided to marry Jennifer Aniston, who promised to make a family with him, then proceeded to focus on her movie career and put kids off. Who knew it would be so difficult for Brad Pitt to find someone with whom to procreate?

My spaying caused me to lose a man. I've lost my reproductive organs. I've lost my femininity.

AND, I've lost sleep from the sound of that damn biological clock ticking!

Stinky Uncle Tucker COOPER

He's a dog.

No need to wipe your eyes and read that again...you read it right the first time.

My new uncle is a dog!

My Gram has wanted a dog for what seems like for-ev-er. Grand-Dude was determined to obstruct every step of her plan to get one (I would like to believe it is because he has a stronger affection for cats--namely me, but I'm sure it has more to do with the dog turds strewn across the back yard).

"I can walk him," she said.

"You won't walk him," he said.

"I'll do 'Poop Alert' (our family's name for picking up turds before mowing the lawn)," said she.

"Riiiiiiight..." said he.

This battle has gone on for about two years. Finally, Grand-Dude conceded, claiming that he still didn't want the dog, but he loved Gram so much that, if a dog would make her happy, he would support it.

YOU CAVED THAT EASILY AFTER ONLY 2 YEARS, GRAND-DUDE?

And, to add insult to injury, I've heard through the grapevine that Grand-Dude adores the new dog, calling him "Good Boy" and other sickening terms of endearment. Apparently, the dog follows him around and craves his attention more than Gram's (much to the delight of Grand-Dude).

So now I have a canine uncle. Tucker Cooper (they named him, but changed his name a week after he came to live with them because they couldn't remember "Tucker." Old people!!). He was found as a stray and rescued from the local pound, just hours before they were going to euthanize him. He was rescued by Noah Project and, after diligently searching for his original family, was placed for adoption.

So, I agree he is cute. And, I've heard he is gentle and kind. But, seriously...a DOG? I can't help but feel forsaken. Will Gram and Grand-Dude love him more than me? Will they not have time to cat-sit anymore? And, if they do cat-sit, will Tucker Cooper come with them?

Oh. My. Gawd. Will WE have to dog-sit for Tucker Cooper?

As a Drama Queen, I think I am obligated to faint now.

Feline Celebrity to Release Greatest Hits

June 6, 2006 (Associated Press) Celebrated blogger and all-around adored cat, Empress Kukka-Maria, is said to be releasing a CD of her greatest hits sometime this summer.

While the Empress was reluctant to get back into the recording studio, it is reported she was growing tired of the pressure from fans to deliver. In a phone interview, her mother/agent explained, "I had to coax her into the studio with promises of treats, catnip and a tomcat gigolo in order to get her to lay down tracks. She can be a stubborn little diva at times. Kukka has always valued the affection of her fans, though, and was committed to honoring them by releasing many of their favorite hits--as well as some previously unreleased material."

The Empress counts many celebrities among her greatest fans. In an interview last month, Sir Elton John named Kukka as someone he is "dying to record with." Madonna, in a recent Hello! Magazine article, stated, "I am ready to pick up and fly to West Michigan in a moment's notice--if only Kukka would call and invite me..."

Despite the fact Kukka has done extensive touring to promote prior platinum CDs and holds the record for most units sold--by man and beast, she has never actually recorded a song. Never. Not one song.

Her mother/agent explained this conundrum, "I know it seems weird that she would get so much acclaim for never having recorded a single song, but in order to understand this amazing phenomenon, you really need to understand her fans."

At a recent Kukka concert, part of her "Kukka-Maria, Fresh & Feisty" tour, some enthusiastic "Kukkamaniacs" (members of her official fan club) shared their perspective on the revered feline. "Kukka rocks!" exclaimed one sobbing fan. Another yelled, "Oh. My. Gawd! I can not believe I'm going to see The Empress! That cat's talent touches something deep inside of me. I can't even explain it! WHOOOOO!"

The passion of her fan-base is overwhelming. During the interview with the president of her fan club, Kukka's limo approached, causing mayhem. The screams and chanting were riotous! Hundreds stomped their feet and pumped their fists in the air, a dozen or more fans fainted, while many, so overcome with emotion, wept so intensely, they vomited down the front of their clothing.

In a rare interview with The Empress, herself, she disclosed what can only be described as the secret to her success. "I am genuine. What you see is what you get. I'm down to earth and in touch with my fans. They sense that. Oh, and I'm super-sexy."

"Super-sexy." That must be the key to selling out stadiums and releasing blank CDs for huge profits. Never in the history of popular music has there been a star like Empress Kukka-Maria; one who compels fans to pay top dollar to see her do nothing but lie on a stage and sleep!

While one may question her methods, no one can question her success. Kukka's popularity is astounding and growing by the minute! "Super-sexy" indeed!

How can you NOT let me outside when I look this freakin' cute while I'm begging?

It's not fair to me...

"Dear Kukka...", Volume X

The collective chanting outside my window of "WE WANT ANOTHER DEAR KUKKA" has become deafening, so I have no other choice than to appease you, dear readers.

This edition of "Dear Kukka..." is the Xth volume.

X!

Upon realizing this, I weeded through the mail bag and retrieved every tasteless, pornographic, and horrifyingly immoral letter I could find. You would be surprised at the magnitude of mail that qualified!

Or maybe you wouldn't be surprised...

My mother nixed the idea of me featuring X-rated material, reminding me that I was a "lady" and that "ladies exude class." Pbbbtttth. Or, would that be EFFING Pbbbtttth! (She even made me edit that!)

No matter. I can pretend I am a "lady" by responding to the following "classy" letters I received from my fans. Game on!


Q: Kukka, if you could have any super-power in the entire universe, what would you choose and why?
A: Actually, as "The Tamponator," I already have some incredible powers! I can climb awesome heights (over the pile of toilet paper under the bathroom sink), I can carry dangerous, cylindrical objects in my mouth without dropping them (tampons wrapped in super-slippery wrapping), I can run extremely fast (when Mom tries to get the tampon from me) and, when push comes to shove, I wield a highly absorbent sword past which nothing can leak (I've seen the commercials with the blue liquid). Aside from those very important powers, I guess I would like to obtain treats at will. Over the 6.75 years I've lived with my mom, I've gotten very close (read: she's wrapped around my little claw), but I have yet to master that power.


Q: Kukka, I read recently that you contributed a question to Moose's sister in her "Dear Turtle" column. What is up with that? If you are all-knowing (as you have claimed), why couldn't you just answer your own question?
A: What makes you think I didn't answer my own question? (I didn't) Perhaps I sent the answer, along with the question, so Turtle could just print it as her own! (Yeah, I so didn't) Sometimes it's about helping another blogger feed their self-esteem and help them realize their potential! (It might be, but I wouldn't know anything about that) Maybe, as I have, you should take a lesson from the wondrous Mark Twain, who said, "Keep away from people who try to belittle your ambitions. Small people always do that, but the really great make you feel that you, too, can become great." Or...maybe you should just SHUT IT!


Q: You attended the season finale of American Idol, Kukka, but I didn't see you on camera! I read you were seated next to the weeping David Hasselhoff. What happened to your camera time? Do Cowell, Jackson, Abdul and/or Seacrest have something against felines? Bastards...
A: Listen...I will not have name calling. You need to understand that those horses' asses meant no harm when they shouted insults to me during commercial breaks, whipped red Coca-Cola glasses at me while the cameras were not on them, and refused to let me be a back-up dancer, even when Prince demanded it. Each of them has latent issues surrounding their success (or lack thereof) in their original fields. When I told each the truth about their painful past and their limited shelf-life, they just couldn't handle it.
Paula, who recently had me listen to a new album she was recording, was very upset when I made retching noises, pooped on the rug and told her, "Straight up, now tell me do you really want to ruin your already-pathetic career?"
Randy, a former session musician and composer, has performed with more famous people than you can count. But, did you know who the hell he was when Idol first started? Exactly. When he told me he was considering posing as a member of the Jackson Family (the Michael variety), I told him that even as crazy as that family is, I was confident they would reject him. He cried.
Ryan and I have come toe to paw on several occasions when I've refused to give him advice on his hair and outfits. As a radio personality, Ryan has always claimed he had a face for TV and thought he would be robbing the world of "Seacrest Pleasure" (his phrase, not mine) if he were to stay on radio. Knowing he is always fishing for compliments with me, I always respond to his whining with a thunderous fart, which makes him cry and me laugh.
Simon and I...well, Simon and I have always had an overwhelming attraction to one another. We typically can not stay in the same room with one another without succumbing to our heated passions. He, petting my stomach. Me, licking his face. Bliss.
I hope that answers your question about my lack of camera time. While I think you posed a great question, I think the more pressing inquiry is, "Why in the hell was David Hasselhoff crying at the end of American Idol and what is up with his hair helmet?"


Q: Kukka, I notice you have a lot of gray hair. Does this mean you are old? Have you considered touching up those grays with hair dye?
A: What the...?! You can not seriously be calling me OLD! I'll give you a five second head start before I chase you down and beat you silly.

One...two...three...four...

That is all the questions I have time for. I have some whoop-ass to serve on a silver platter!!

FIVE!!!

Open Letter to my Agent, Vol 5

Dear Self-Serving and Judgmental Woman,

Yes, I'm talking to you! I need to air some grievances and there is no better time than the present.

What's with changing the rules about me licking the satin lampshade in the bedroom? When you first got it, you thought it was cute that I was loving on it, but then, when you saw the layers of schmutz on the edges, you got pissed. What did you think was going to happen when you let a cat rub her lips, face and tongue over satin? As intelligent as you claim to be, you sure didn't show it on this one!

I appreciate your frustration and I appreciate the determination you show as you attempt to guard the lampshade throughout the night. In fact, I think it's sort of cute how, when you hear the scratching of my tongue against the shade at 3:12 am, you snap, "KUKKA! STOP IT!" With that adorable, sleepy face, how can you not understand that I am completely unable to resist jumping on top of you and licking your cheeks as you try to get back to your slumber?

Note to you: My determination to lick the lampshade is much stronger than your determination to stop me. And, you should know that when you go to work every day, I have full reign of the house and I'm licking it anyway! I am allowed to do as I please...you're not the boss of me!

That brings me to my next point: Don't grow cat grass in a pot in the house unless you intend for us to graze on it at will. We didn't even know that pot was in the house until you introduced it to us last night! Then, when we saw you place it atop the stereo speaker, you had to know we would be obsessed with getting at it.

I guess you thought we would eat the grass and leave the dirt, huh? Ah...so naive! Of course we would eat some, but it stands to reason we would rip most of it out of the dirt and fling it on the carpet. I mean, come on...have we just met? You can't predict my next move yet? Good night! It's tiring that I have to lead you every step of the way.

So, when you awoke this morning to find that during the night I had leapt from the couch, onto the CD/DVD shelf, and onto the speaker, it shouldn't have surprised you in the least. Yes, I littered grass and dirt all over the speaker and all over the floor, but at least I didn't push the pot off of the speaker and dump the entire thing on the floor! Why must you be such a "glass half empty" kind of girl?

Let's see...anything else? OH YES! You've conditioned me to expect treats when you come home from wherever it is you go (work, social events, etc). Understand something, please: I have no concept of time. If you go to work for 8-10 hours, I expect treats when you get home. If you go to the store for 1/2 hour, I expect treats. If you take out the garbage for 3 minutes, you had better expect me to whine for treats when you come back through that door.

I am a product of your conditioning and, I guess, this is just a harsh lesson you must learn. I commend you on your efforts to reprogram me, but as your boss, I need you to realize the sooner you get with the program, the happier we will all be.

That's how I roll, lady, and I make no apologies.

Respectfully,
The Empress