Friday, September 29, 2006

Cough...Cough...

After reading yesterday's post (that I wrote, duh), I have decided I am sick. I had 9 out of the 13 identifying factors (with an emphasis on number 1).

Cough...cough...sniffle...sniffle.

Where are my jammies? And the heating pad? Thanks.

[Editor's note: Kukka's "illness" is not real. Well, it's real in her mind, but is not actually manifesting itself in actual, physical symptoms.

My theory? Her agent is going to the same ranch today where she found the exiled empress. This visit is very close to the seven-year anniversary of adopting Kukka and she is worried her agent may...MAY come home with a rival kitten. While her agent has assured her there will be no kittens in the immediate future (because of her own insecurities of housing too many cats and, subsequently being referred to as "The Crazy Cat Lady." She fears children will no longer trick-or-treat at her house and she will become a suburban legend and avoided by all), Kukka is insecure and playing sick to avert her agent's attention.]

I said, "COUGH...COUGH...SNIFFLE...SNIFFLE!"

COUGH...COUGH, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!

Thursday, September 28, 2006

Thursday Thirteen, Edition #6


Thirteen Ways to Tell if Your
Royal Feline/Celebrity Blogging Cat is Sick


  1. She went out drinking with "the girls" last night.


  2. While flipping throug the television channels, you stumble upon a telethon in her honor.


  3. She's lying on the couch with a pitiful face, watching The Price is Right.


  4. The exorbitant psychiatric bills.


  5. You see her "hardship" story featured on Good Morning America.


  6. You begin to receive "Get Well" cards in the mail, addressed to her.


  7. There is a film of dried Pepto Bismol around her mouth.


  8. You see "Ginger Ale" and "Saltines" suddenly appear on your grocery list.


  9. You smell the strong stench of Vick's VapoRub on your hand after petting her.


  10. She stays in her pajamas all day.


  11. The heating pad is covered with fur.


  12. She begs you to call in to work for her.


  13. The eye patch.




Get the Thursday Thirteen code here!


The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!


Wednesday, September 27, 2006

Dancing with the Empress

Many of you have asked why, with my history as a professional ballroom dancer, I was not asked to be part of ABC's "Dancing with the Stars." Shame on you for assuming I wasn't asked!

I got the call to join the show a few months ago. Harry Hamlin, who had already committed to the project, requested me as a partner. Despite our romantic past, his wife, Lisa Rinna, believed his only chance at winning the competition was to be paired with me. [Editor's note: The romantic past is with Harry Hamlin, not Lisa Rinna. No offense, Lisa, but Kukka is just not that attracted to you.]

We met for rehearsals a few days later. Harry kept saying (over and over), "Kukka, you dance like you have four left feet!" It was funny the first time, but hearing it every five minutes was just annoying. Contrary to his jokes, I glided across the wood floor with a grace unmatched by neither human nor beast. Despite the fact it had been awhile since I had put forth that much physical energy, I found myself in tip-top condition, often leaving a panting Harry in the dust.

The night came to tape the first show. Harry was riddled with anticipation--even throwing up thrice in the wings before we went on stage. "If you get barf on my fur," I threatened, "I am going to seriously kick your ass in front of the entire audience--studio and otherwise."

"HORK!" His vomitous response made me gag.

As we posed in the center of the dance floor, waiting for our music to begin, I noticed a speck of recycled foie gras on the front of my coat. Although furious, I calmly looked at Harry and hissed, "I'm not going to cause physical harm to you; I can't afford the assault and battery charge. Instead, I am going to ensure you lose this competition. LOSE!"

"What the..." he stammered.

Suddenly the music started and we launched into our routine. One and a two...lift and smile! We pranced across the dance floor, bringing applause to the audience's paws and tears to their eyes.

I knew the time had come to get my revenge. Without warning, during the hip-bump sequence, I threw myself on the floor and feigned sleep.

"SNOOOOOOORE"

"Get up, you little bitch!" whispered Harry.

"SNOOOOOOORE!" My log sawing was growing louder than the music.

"Why are you doing this to me?" pleaded my pukey partner.

I glanced up at him, winked, and said, "It was this or spew a hairball on your shoe. I decided to go with ruining your dancing career."

When the song was done, the judges shared their opinions of our dancing display.

"I loved it!" exclaimed Len. "The best of the night!"

Carrie chimed in, "Exquisite! I have never seen anything like it! You are truly talented, Empress! And you didn't do too badly, Harry. I am surprised."

"You have set the bar high, Kukka-Maria. The creative belly displey you unleashed half-way through was truly inspired! Harry, your performance was tepid, at best," Bruno said. "And what is that dribble down the front of you?"

I was disappointed that my plan had backfired. "Shit!" I screamed. "Harry Hamlin, you will pay!"

Tom Bergeron immediately called for my disqualification, citing the profanity clause in my contract. Bastard. He's just pissed off that I boycotted his home video show because of his disrespectful portrayal of animals.

Before getting the boot completely, though, I was able to sing with Tony Orlando, sans Dawn. Or I think that's who he was. Whatever. He was an old dude.

He dedicated a tune to me called, "What's New, Pussycat," but when we got to the "Whoa, whoa, whoa" part, he was terribly off-key, so I stormed out.

Someone later told me the dude was Tom Jones. Tom who? Good luck getting your career off and running, Mr. Tom Jones (if that's even your real name). You'll need it!

Tuesday, September 26, 2006

POINT/COUNTER-POINT: "Kiss" Off

I WANNA ROCK & ROLL ALL NIGHT!
by Brach

There is an unexplainable urge I get when the sun goes down. I WANNA ROCK! (ROCK!)

I wish I could quantify this feeling with scientific evidence, as I historically have done, but I'm just going to have to win this argument with my emotion and passion.

During the day and into the evening, I consistently nap. When my mother leaves for wherever it is she goes each day, I get up, stretch and get my treats. But, before her car even pulls out of the driveway, I hit the blankets on my journey to blissful dreamland. At some point during the day, I may drag my tail out of bed to get some food and drain the main vein, but then it's back to bed for me. Okay, maybe when my mother gets home again, I'll eat some more treats. But only when she insists.

In the evening I move from the spare bedroom to the back of the couch. This affords me the luxury of sleeping, while still being an active part of the evening social scene. I have had some really bizarre dreams when I've listened to the TV while I sleep. I mean, how many cats dream they are on the Amazing Race? That's just insane!

Ah, but here's the rub: At night, as soon as the lights are turned off and my mother is tucked into bed, all hell breaks loose, baby! I howl. I run from one end of the house to the next. I whip toys onto the lady's bed and beg to play fetch. I even pretend to want ear and neck scritches--just to keep her awake.

"Brach Lee..." she'll moan. It's time for bed.

"Lady," I'll respond, "Bite me!"

Night is the best. Paws down! For as long as I live, I'm committed to rockin', rollin' and what-not during the wee hours of the morning! I'm a nocturnal party animal!




NO, PARTY EVERY DAY!
by Kukka-Maria

You're an idiot, Brach. Complete buffoon.

During the day is when shit goes down! Squirrels are on the prowl. Chipmunks and birds are at the slider. For crying out loud...All My Children is on!

When night falls, I, like other normal beings, want to sleep. My agent will turn out the lights in the living room and gently coo, "It's bedtime, babies!" Before the entire sentence escapes her mouth, I'm already trotting into the bedroom to plant myself in the center of the bed. Everyone knows the rule: It's first come, first served--no matter how much bigger you are than the itty bitty cat and no matter who paid for the bed with her hard-earned money. Just try to move me!

Anyway, once the lights have been turned out, I'm zonked. I'm ready to snuggle against the small of her back and dream sweet dreams of my Tomcat Stable.

Then you start. Howling. Running. Playing. Jumping. I usually try to ignore it for about 20 seconds, then I bitterly leap down from the bed and go to kick your ass.

"Brach Lee..." she'll moan.

SLAP! SLAP! I swat you with my paw. "Shut the hell up, you evil little boy! It's time to hit the hay!"

Listen. Seriously, knock off the night-time hijinks. By evening, after a long day of lying in the sun and threatening forging strong friendships with the visiting wild life, I need my beauty sleep.

Partying Every Day is the new Rock and Roll All Night. Look into it.

Monday, September 25, 2006

Carmukka Amazing Race, Leg Two

For those of you who enjoyed reading about Team Carmukka's (Carmen and Kukka) first leg of the Amazing Race, check out the second leg at Carmen's site!

We are dominating!

They Shook Me All Night Long

Occasionally, I get completely exhausted from all the pressures of my celebrity life. On recent weekends, I've enjoyed disguising myself as an “average citizen” and working a job at a local bar. I deck myself out in a long, black wig, two pair of crotch-high Ferragamo stiletto boots and vintage Gaultier corset (cut-down and especially tailored to fit me by Jean-Paul himself).

What is my “common-man” job, you ask? Ah, dear fan...of course I cage-dance, under the stage-name "Puss in Boots" (or occasionally, "Kitty VonWigglebottom"), for a stellar local band named Dutch Henry.

This last Saturday night seemed like any other Saturday night. I was perched on my pedestal, in my cage, getting my swerve on as one of my favorite covers, "I Wanna be Sedated,” filled the room. I wrapped my front paws around the steel bars and whipped my tail back and forth with fervor. I was not at all surprised when herds of men, in various stages of inebriation, gathered around the cage to ogle my hypnotic gyrations.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her. To protect what is left of her pride, let’s call her “Soccer Mom.” Based on the sloppy dance-walk she used to transport her from the door to the dance floor, it was clear she had begun her relationship with wine spritzers early in the night. She looked like she had just stepped out of her Land Rover at a photo-shoot for the L.L. Bean catalog. Her brown leather All-Day Comfort Clogs bopped to and fro, upstaged only by the almost-empty wine glass she thrust into the air to the rhythm of the music. The pristine French manicure on her free hand grasped the lapel of her navy Wool-Blend Peacoat as she threw her head back, praising the alcohol gods.

[Editor’s note: While I have caught her perusing the L.L. Bean Christmas 2006 Catalog, Kukka would never admit she knows the All-Day Comfort Clogs appear on page 265.]

“Whooooo!” Soccer Mom exclaimed, waving to a baffled group of people standing by the bar. Shrugging, they looked over their shoulders, hoping to discover the target of her drunken greeting standing behind them. Not noticing their clear brush-off, she sipped her drink and bellowed, “Rock and roll, bitches!”

The band ended their set and we all took a well-deserved break. I stepped down from my cage and headed to the ladies room to hit the litter box, do a bit of personal grooming and get a few laps of water. As I strolled by Soccer Mom, “You Shook Me All Night Long” began playing through the bar’s sound system.

“That’s my jam!” she exclaimed, setting her drink on the closest table, occupied by a stunned woman and her husband. Quickly stripping off her peacoat to reveal a classic navy, mock turtleneck sweater, she turned to her friend and exclaimed, “Come on, beeotch! I need to get all up in that shit!" She grabbed her friend’s hand and led her to what was sure to be their social suicide.

You had to admire her friend’s commitment. Evidenced by her denim capris and sandals, it was clear she was not letting the 52-degree weather outside squash her enthusiasm for summer. Brava, Miss Indian Summer...Brava!

As they stumbled around the empty dance floor, you could see a wave of recognition move through the crowd. Whispers, jabs to the shoulder and laughter were present at every table as all eyes focused on the dance floor.

Enter Mr. Persistent from stage left. He was wearing a salmon and periwinkle striped golf shirt, tucked meticulously into his pleated-front, stone-washed Z. Cavaricci jeans--sans belt. Below his delicate tight rolls, the white soles of his deck shoes illuminated the dance floor like Michael Jackson’s sequined glove. Despite having wowed the crowds earlier with his white-boy break-dancing (or so he liked to tell himself and anyone else who would listen), he somehow managed to strike out with every woman in the bar—married, single, divorced, lesbian, post-menopausal, and trans-gendered. Squinting to focus on the grooving fresh meat on the dance floor, you could almost see the saliva pooling at the corners of his mouth.

Turning to unleash his signature “Moon Walk Sneak Attack,” he slithered across the dance floor to the unsuspecting Soccer Mom. Grabbing her boyish, size 0 waist, he pulled her flat ass to his groin. Stunned, but not repelled, she turned to look at Mr. Persistent. You could almost feel the muscle strain as she squinted through her spritzer goggles in an attempt to assess the sex factor of her suitor.

As they dirty-danced their way around the floor, you could see a steady stream of people entering the room from the other side of the bar to witness this spectacle. Within mere minutes, the determined couple unknowingly reenacted 14 of the 36 chapters of the Kama Sutra. While many people were inspired by their erotic undulations and were quickly retrieving camera phones and note pads from their pockets and purses, I was not impressed. It takes more than some pelvic thrusts to catch the attention of the author of "The Kama Sutra for Super-Sexy Cats: Let Your Fur Down and Wave that Freak Flag!"

As ACDC faded out, Tom Petty’s “American Girl,” began as a petite figure appeared at the door. The crowd parted as “Timeless Redneck Chick” stumbled into the room. She was about 5 feet tall, unless you add the five inches of magnificence that was her frosted hair precariously perched on top of her head. Contained only by a satin scrunchy, her hair loomed high, less the sweaty wisps that clung to her face. The acid wash of her denim jacket and skin-tight jeans glowed under the stage lights as she skipped across the dance floor, her pink pumps clicking to the rhythm of the beat.

The intensity of her love for all things Tom Petty created a force field that pushed everyone to the perimeter of the dance floor. Pausing for a moment to gather herself and to make sure she had the crowd’s full attention, she launched into a routine that can only be described as a perfect replica of the Kevin Bacon barn dance from the hit movie, “Footloose.” Flailing her arms, whipping her head and pumping her knees in a spirited skip, she thrashed around the dance floor in a blur of motion.

Amazed, I turned to the drummer of Dutch Henry and said, “Isn’t it great that her lofty self-esteem allows her to dance in public as she would if she were 14-years old in front of her bedroom mirror?” We laughed hysterically at the keg of awesomeness that is my sense of humor.

Hypnotized by her manic movements, and weighing the probability of who would most likely put out, Mr. Persistent saw a sure thing and left Soccer Mom on the sidelines in pursuit of Timeless Redneck Chick.

Unleashing his standard move, he moon walked toward her, but could not seem to penetrate the barrier that had been generated by her crazy choreography. He tried. He failed. Amping his efforts, he dove to the floor and prepared to infiltrate her sanctuary of insanity with “The Worm.”

Growing more agitated by the moment, Soccer Mom glared at her competition. Walking onto the dance floor to win back her man from the dancing tornado, she entered my cage and locked the door behind her.

She gyrated.

She flailed.

She removed her khakis and top to reveal a sensible, white bra and panty set. She sang loudly to the music and whipped her blunt, blonde bob back and forth. As she reached to remove her bra, Dutch Henry’s singer, John, turned to me and said, “Look, Puss, I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to let you go. We’ve been asking you to strip for months now, but you’ve refused.” Looking back to the cage he said, “Looks like we have our new cage dancer!”

Was I upset at being fired? No. I mean, yes, I refused to strip, but not because I'm a prude. Dutch Henry is a great band, but unless they can put up the $10,000 per night I require to show my multiple nipples, I'm going to keep my fur on.

For the rest of the night, Mr. Persistent tried to get to Timeless Redneck Chick. Barely dodging her flying fists with half-closed eyes, he finally gave up when "New Tourist Girl" walked by him, blissfully unaware of his deck shoes, horrifying dance moves and annoying come-ons. I think they ended up going home together.

Timeless Redneck Chick, taking a quick five-minute break from her promenade around the floor, passed out peacefully in a puddle of her own saliva and sweat.

Soccer Mom danced the rest of the night in the cage, until she vomited down the front of her training bra, causing the little pink rose in the center to come loose. The band asked her to leave and her summer-lovin' friend helped her to a cab just as Dutch Henry packed the final pieces of equipment.

I'm pretty sure Dutch Henry will be calling me--begging me to reclaim my pedestal, but when they do, they better know I won't set a single paw in that cage until they can assure me it has been thoroughly cleaned and decontaminated.

You know I'm allergic to all things L.L. Bean!

Friday, September 22, 2006

Care to Suggest a Caption?

After an intense Amazing Race Adventure this week and having my weight criticized in the tabloids once again, I'm more than a little exhausted.

Can you please blog for me today?


Thursday, September 21, 2006

Thursday Thirteen, Edition #5


The Only Thirteen Words/Phrases
my Agent Thinks I Know
(Clearly, she doesn't read my blog)

1. NO! This is her favorite. Sometimes, I think she says this over and over because she likes the sound of her own voice! "NO, Kukka!" "Kukka, NO!" When she does this, I will stop doing whatever it is I am doing and look at her, causing her think she has blocked my actions. Then, after about 2.5 seconds, I begin again. Making it a little game is the least I can do to enhance her otherwise boring life.

2. Kukka or Kukka-Maria. Despite the fact she often misuses it by coupling it with "NO," "STOP," and "You evil little cat," I find this word to be music to my ears. I have to admit, though (and I will totally deny ever saying this if you breathe a word of it to anyone), when she pairs it with phrases like, "My beautiful, beautiful, precious baby" and "Who's my baby girl...who's my little pumpkin," I melt.

3. Do you want treats? Um...yeah! Every minute of every day! The only thing that made learning this phrase difficult was to try and hear it over all of my crunching.

4. What's that?! Most of the time, this is loudly whispered phrase, used as a trick. A car door (at the neighbors' house) will slam and she will say, "What's that," causing me to run to the door or window. Bitch.

5. Do you want some lovin'? This one is tricky. Most of the time, she means petting and loving from her. I still maintain that one of these days she is going to present me with a hot, hard-bodied stud that will do the job for her. A cat can dream (as she falls asleep while being petted and loved by her agent).

6. We do not bite our feline brothers in this house, young lady! The "you" part of "we" may not, but the "me" part of "we" is all over that shit! (These, of course, are "finger quotes.")

7. Kukka, I'm trying to sleep...please let me sleep! This phrase is typically muttered at 3:00 am, while I am __________________ (fill in the blank with one or more of the following: Knocking things off the nightstand, Knocking things off the dresser, Flicking at the blinds, Plucking at the carpet, Walking on her head, Whining for treats, Rubbing my face on the silk lampshade, Licking said lampshade, Leaping onto the corner cabinet which makes the glass candle holder quake as if it will come toppling down, etc.). Isn't she sweet for thinking she deserves sleep?

8. Knock it off! This follows #7 after about 5 minutes of my antics.

9. For crying out loud! Mother-Effing STOP! Like clockwork, this little beauty comes barreling out of her mouth immediately following #8. I love it when she whispers sweet nothings in my ear...

10. Brad Pitt called for you today. This is usually followed by a yawn from me, a quick roll of the eyes and a sigh. Yes, mother, he always calls for me. Tell him I'm "unavailable" until he stops insisting I change my name to Kukka-Maria-Jolie-Pitt, thankyouverymuch.

11. Magoo. This is short of Kukka-Magooka. I am not proud of this. I am horrified I am choosing to share this with you. When she refers to me by this idiotic moniker, I only come running to make her feel good (and because, 42% of the time, there are treats involved).

12. You are NOT going outside! How many times must we cover this? With all due respect, woman, we will cover this one eleventy-four times per day until you finally realize you are unjustly containing me in a prison-like domicile that only offers me a bottomless bowl of food, treats on demand, loving strokes on my chin and a litter box scooped daily. FREE KUKKA! FREE KUKKA!

13. I know you insist on "hunting" insects that somehow get into the house--and I thank you for that, but must you leave dismembered cricket carcasses scattered on the floor? Yes, ma'am. Yes I must.



Get the Thursday Thirteen code here!


The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!


Wednesday, September 20, 2006

Is She Fertile or Just Fat?

US Weekly is reporting Kukka-Maria, exiled empress and celebrity feline blogger, is possibly pregnant. Based on recent paparazzi shots of the starlet and suspicions from friends and former love-interests, Kukka-Maria has been placed on US Weekly's "Bump Watch" so the world can closely monitor the growth or lack thereof in her baby-baking region.

"She has dodged our requests for interviews for several weeks," explained US Weekly Reporter, Karen Avery. "I've called her home repeatedly, even disguising my voice in an attempt to get The Empress on the telephone. She has been very evasive, further hinting to the pending birth of her litter."

Rolling her eyes and sighing, Kukka's manager and agent offered an insider's perspective. "This is complete crap," she insisted. "The cat eats too much. Whether hungry or not, she begs for treats all day long. She will even steal snacks from her brother! Furthermore," she continued, "Kukka-Maria was spayed when she was only a tiny kitten! If she is pregnant, I really would like someone to explain why I paid $200 for a surgery that still makes it possible for me to get another half-dozen little mouths to feed! Riddle me that, Mr. [expletive]ing Wizard!"

"Normally, when we receive a clear and adamant denial of a pregnancy suspicion, we think twice before publishing it," noted Lois Fuller, US Weekly Editor-in-Chief. "In this situation, despite the angry and...irrationally violent phone calls from Kukka's agent, we just could not ignore the growth in the waist of The Empress. I mean, if she's not pregnant, what could possibly explain how incredibly rotund she has become?"

It is reported that radical PETA and ASPCA members have waged a war in the media with Kukka-Maria. Citing paparazzi shots that depict the potentially pregnant princess indulging in exorbitant amounts of catnip, an online petition has been started, claiming Kukka is an unfit mother and that, upon their birth, the alleged kittens should immediately be removed from the home.

"There are no [expletive], mother-[expletive]ing kittens!" insists Kukka's agent. "Should I put her on a diet? Yes. Should I encourage her to get off her [expletive] every once in awhile instead of lying around all day? Abso[expletive]inglutely! I suggest, you crazy sons of [expletive]es, that you leave us alone and quit printing lies before I take you to court. This is just ridiculous!"

Have the tabloids gone too far this time? Perhaps.

"On a side note, however," Empress Kukka-Maria's agent continued, "If you want to catch up with the screwball shenanigans of a silly, little housecat, be sure to check out Kukka-Maria's blog! It's fun, frivolous and completely factual!"

Way to plug, lady. You are one great, mother-[expletive]ing agent!

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

Carmukka and The Amazing Race

For those of you who are familiar with "Gone to Plaid," my human friend Carmen's blog, you already know that yesterday she posted an invitation for me to join her in the next season of The Amazing Race--and just in the nick of time, as we started filming the next season last night! Team Carmukka was going on an adventure!

I was so excited to arrive at the local airport in West Michigan, even though my agent refused...REFUSED to allow me to ride outside my travel crate, causing me a whole world of embarrassment when I got out of the limo and met the squillion CBS cameras waiting for me there (not to mention the eleventy four paparazzi swarming about). Carmen was waiting there for me with her pink back-pack and signature hat; she was more than raring to go! My agent, fearing I would run off and get lost in the airport, allowed me out of my crate only if Carmen would put me in her back-pack for safe keeping. Seriously, woman! I have my pride!

After briefly meeting some of the other teams (yawn), we were almost immediately met with our first clue: "Make your way to the airport and fly to Virginia." Boy, were we pissed! Especially Carmen. First off, we were already at the airport, making this race boring to start. But to add insult to injury, Carmen had just gotten off a plane moments before that brought her from her home in Virginia! Not wanting to lose our drive within the first two minutes, we opted to see the martini glass as half-full (then shared it until it was empty).

Our fiercest competitors made themselves known to us right away. The man was somewhat attractive, but sported a confused and bewildered look on his face. The woman, assumed to be his wife, had glassy eyes and a saccharine smile. "Let's get these suckers," he yelled, following it up with what could only be described as a "hollar." Carmen and I took off for the ticket counter as fast as we could. The team we were now calling, "Texas Hold-Up," were hot on our tails. Well, my tail, since Carmen is human.

Upon arriving in Virginia, it was a race to exit the plane. Because I was caged and, technically, was considered a "special needs passenger," we were allowed to exit before Texas Hold-Up. That pissed them off. I suppose it didn't help that Carmen and I kept yelling, "Yee-Haw, Mother Effers!"

We found the flag at the airport in Virginia and opened our clue: A DETOUR! [Phil's voice-over: "A Detour is a choice between two tasks, each with its own pros and cons. Teams must successfully complete one of the tasks described on the clue in order to receive their next clue. In this Detour, teams must choose between KITTY and TITTY. In KITTY, teams must herd twenty four rabid kittens into a 12"x12" crate and deliver them to a veterinarian office, 3 miles away, by rickshaw. In TITTY, teams must milk 300 cows (some of whom are actually bulls) by hand and carry at least four gallons of milk to a farm, 1 mile away, on a unicycle."]

Carmen and I looked at one another and, instantaneously, shouted, "TITTY!" We both laughed hysterically because we knew we would be doing KITTY, we just loved shouting the word, "Titty." Plus, we thought it might distract the other teams who, by this time, were modeling their races after ours. The other teams scrambled to the cow pasture--but not Texas Hold-Up. They [believed they] were too savvy to fall for that ol' trick.

We headed off to the rabid kitten field. Texas Hold-Up, desperately wanting to keep us on their radar, followed closely behind.

I won't bore you with the details of our domination in the cat herding arena. I will just say this: Rabid or not, kittens speak "Meow." Uh...so do I. All I had to do was ask them politely to climb into the crate as a personal favor for me. Because they all recognized me as a celebrity, royal and world-renown blogger, they eagerly complied. Plus, Carmen tapped into my stash of reserve cat snacks and distributed them to the kittens. Blam. Easy.

Upon delivering the rabid kitten crate to the vet's office and grabbing our next clue, we glanced back at Texas Hold-Up. "Gawd damn it, Honey! Wrasslin' these cats into this crate is the hardest thing I've done in the last six years! I mean, HOLY HELL! Even my job don't stress me out like this here cat wrasslin'!"

Carmen and I giggled, while we opened our next clue: Travel to Fort Myer to receive your next clue.

Far ahead of everyone, we arrived at the military base and received our next clue: A ROADBLOCK! [Phil's voice-over: "A Roadblock is a task which only one team member may perform. In this ROADBLOCK, you must ask yourselves, WHO IS HORNY?"]

"Well, you know I'm always horny, Carmen," I calmly explained, while licking rabid kitten stank off of my fur.

"Come on, Kukka! Between the two of us, you think you're hornier?"

"You're right. Go to it, Carmen! You can do it! TEAM CARMUKKA! ME-YOWZA!"

Carmen opened the rest of the clue to learn she had to meet with a hot, sexy military man, while he taught her how to play the trumpet. Her task was to play reveille--one time--without error.

I think this was the only time Team Carmukka had some conflict. Carmen, a talented musician, already knew the basics of the trumpet. And, because of her highly successful burlesque show, in which she played reveille in the nude, I was sure this would be a simple task.

Uh...it wasn't. At least she made it seem as though it was challenging. Which set me off.

"Um...Mr. Hotty Bo-Body, can you wrap your strong arms around me and show me the fingering for this song?"

"CARMEN! BLOW THE DAMN TRUMPET! COME ON! THIS IS A RACE!"

"Oh, are you sure I'm getting this right, Sexy Soldier? I mean, my race partner is counting on me to do it correctly...and I'm counting on you and your rock-hard abs."

"ARE YOU EFFING SERIOUS, CARMEN? HORNY WAS A PUN! ALL YOU NEED TO DO IS BLOW THE HORN! BLOW THE MOTHER EFFING HORN, CARMEN!"

Seeing Texas Hold-Up arrive at the military base (amidst thunderous boos and hisses from the soldiers), Carmen snapped to attention and played reveille better than I had ever heard her play before (at least with clothes on).

We received our next clue: "Make your way, by taxi, three miles to the pit stop for this leg of the race, where Phil Keoghan will be waiting, in a loin cloth, to french kiss you."

Carmen and I looked at one another, eyes as big as saucers. "I'll race you there, cat! There is no way I'm letting you kiss him first!"

"Oh, it's on Carmen!"

We shared a cab, but that was the last thing we shared on that leg. The taxi had no sooner slowed to an idle when Carmen and I leapt from the car and began our sprint to the mat.

Carmen ran, blonde hair streaming behind her. "I...am...going...to...beat...you..." she puffed.

"You...and...what...army, Carmen?" I gasped, trotting as fast as my four little legs could carry me.

We met on the mat in front of Phil. He stood there, in his loin cloth, the sun glimmering off of his moist skin.

"Carmukka...you are the...FIRST team to arrive at the pit stop for this leg of the race."

Carmen hoisted me up in her arms as our tearful laughter joined the gusts of wind.

"As the winners of this leg of the race, you have won an evening of hot tubbing, champagne and naked Twister--WITH ME!"

I wish I could tell you what happened next, but Carmen and I both fainted dead away. I guess we'll all have to wait until it is aired on The Amazing Race: 11, next season.

I can tell you what happened to Texas Hold-Up! They were eliminated in that first leg of the race. Apparently, when they learned they were the last team, the man tried to throw his weight around, saying, "You can't eliminate me! I'm the most powerful man in the free world!" His wife, still glassy-eyed and seemingly dazed, just nodded in agreement. In fact, by that point, CBS was suspecting she was a robot and was pursuing their disqualification anyway.

"Crap. Now I have to go back to my job," he exclaimed, shuffling his feet in the dirt. "I don't want to go back to my job! No one likes me there! Can't I go wrassle some more kittens? I'm good at that!"

In the end, Team Carmukka dominated! Thanks, Carmen! I am honored you wanted to race with me!

Monday, September 18, 2006

Flip That Litter Box!

Discovery Home Channel Press Release:

With the rage of house-flipping burning across the nation, it should be no surprise that Discovery Home Channel and Kukka-Maria would combine creative forces to introduce what is sure to be the most exciting and challenging decorating show on television! "Flip That Litter Box" will take its viewers on a roller-coaster of sights, sounds and smells that no other show can!

"Flipping has become the rage in this country. While buying distressed properties, refurbishing them and placing them back on the market for extreme profit can be a risky investment," explained Discovery Home's Connie Scott, "we are glad to put our money behind Empress Kukka-Maria. It's not enough that everything she touches turns to gold...from what we've heard, she craps platinum turds with diamond baubles!"

"I can't wait to start! I've already purchased my first litter box. Right now, it's located in the spare bedroom of the home in which I currently live," the excited celebrity feline exclaimed. "It's a real [expletive]-hole! I mean a mother-[expletive], piece of [expletive]! You think I'm kidding, but I would rather eat a bowl full of piping hot [expletive] than [expletive] in a [expletive][expletive] like that! I mean, holy [expletive]!"

Asking Kukka's brother Brach, who was hanging his head across the room, what he thought of the current litter box, he mumbled, "I sure didn't stink it up by myself!"

"I think the term 'purchased' is being used improperly," explained Kukka-Maria's agent. "If by 'purchased,' she means I, as her agent, paid my hard-earned money for it, then it's accurate. If she thinks it is hers to renovate, I think we may have some trouble."

When asked about the budget and timeline for her flip, Kukka explained, "I am going to be challenged on my project timeline. Because of her irrational resistance to the whole project, I will have to do my work only when my agent is out of the house. With my extensive napping schedule, and the added constraint of my agent's schedule, it's going to be tough. The budget, though? That's the best part! With Discovery footing my bills, my budget is wide open."

Kukka cited the following list of "necessities" for her first flip project:
  • New litter box ($25.00)
  • Fresh litter ($15.00)
  • Rose petals to be spread across the litter surface ($50.00)
  • Imported Venetian plaster for the inside of the litter box hood ($5,899)
  • Glitter disco ball to be hung over the box for "ambience" ($79.95)
  • Autographed photos of Kukka-Maria to be displayed by the box, as well as gifted to fans who stop by to view the project progress--as well as distributed to the countless Discovery Home Channel crew members who are avid Kukkites ($4,792.99)
  • Daily manicures/pedicures for Kukka ($54.99)
  • Petty Cash for Miscellaneous Purchases ($10,000)

As for how the upgraded litter box looked when it was unveiled at the taping? You will just have to wait until the show's premiere episode! "Flip That Litter Box" is set to air this fall on the new Discovery Home Channel/Animal Planet hybrid: Discovery Animal Home Planet Channel.

Watch your local listings for dates and times.

Friday, September 15, 2006

Perspective is Everything

The following are two separate accounts of a single event occurring Wednesday evening, September thirteenth in the year of our Lord, two thousand six. The first is offered by Cooper, Kukka-Maria's canine uncle. The second, from The Empress, herself.

Who is accurate? You be the judge.



I Was So Scared!
by Uncle Cooper

The sky was weary from pouring rain upon the earth for four days. While the night was clear, a tender mist hung heavy in the air. Despite the moon's resplendent glimmer, I had requested the porch light be lit as I roamed the yard in search of an acceptable spot on which to relieve myself.

I had no sooner emptied my bursting bladder, when Kukka's agent opened the door and beckoned to me. As is typical, yet not malicious, I ignored her calls. I still wished to explore the yard, monitoring it for trespassers--in the form of squirrels, chipmunks and rabbits.

I found myself sniffing along the fence in the hindermost part of the yard, when I was jarred from my predatory adventure by shrieks of "Crap, Kukka! Oh, shit! I can't believe...COME BACK HERE!"

Sensing danger, I immediately sprinted to the patio to assess the apparent drama.

What I found haunts me to this very moment. Upon seeing the unobstructed door, Kukka-Maria had darted through to obtain what she believed was her rightful freedom. What she found upon escaping was more chaos than she could ever imagine. Wanting to please her agent, I launched into action, engaging Kukka in what can only be described as a fierce and frantic chase.

To and fro. Back and forth. We ran around the yard. I eagerly pursued my niece in an attempt to protect her, while she dodged my every lunge, fearing I wanted to eat her.

Eat her? I love her!

She dodged under the square, wood table whose surface looms roughly 21 inches above the patio, making it an ideal place to hide. I stuck my nose beneath the surface and, with a loud and stern voice, tried to convince her to surrender. Her agent, taking her cue from me, lifted the table and watched as Kukka scampered away to the other end of the yard.

She was ruthless! This scene repeated itself thrice and it was clear her agent and I were the only ones growing dog-tired from this game.

Finally, the quest reached its climax and I, from one side of the table, and her agent, from the other, trapped the vicious empress.

"HISS! HISS!" I had never heard hissing as loud and menacing as this. In fact, the memories of her angry words assault my heart and mind even now, as I recount the horrifying experience! She savagely hissed at me, causing me to wisely retreat. As her agent reached toward her, she even hissed at her!

The very woman who caters to her every need!

"You take that back!" her agent forcefully hissed, using the lowest and most threatening version of her voice. "You take that back, you ungrateful little bitch!"

Despite my appreciation for her anger and frustration, I was reeling from the foul and hurtful words escaping my human sister's mouth. Staggering from the profanity, I briefly considered tattling to my parents about their daughter's impure vernacular--especially since all I ever hear from Mom and Dad is, "Why can't you be more like your human sister?"

Realizing now was not the time to worry about curse words, I eagerly jumped back and forth in anticipation of how this drama would end.

Kukka's agent swiftly lunged toward The Empress and grabbed the back of her neck, dragging her from beneath the table. "Bad, Kukka! You are a naughty, sinister, diabolical, evil and wicked little cat!" Reinforcing her anger, she swatted the remorseless Kukka on the hindquarters as she walked toward the house. "Swat! Swat!" The smacks echoed into the night as if they were yelling, "Bad! Kitty!"

Exhausted from the ordeal and relieved my niece was now safe and sound in the house, I trotted out into the yard to alleviate my bowels from the burden of resurrected dog kibble.



It's the Effing Back Yard, Idiots--Not a Crack House, for Crying Out Loud!
by Empress Kukka-Maria

I got out.

I deserved the opportunity.

They all freaked out and chased me.

I was all, "Bitch better step off!"

She was all, "You are so in trouble, little missy!"

He was all, "Drool, drool, bark, bark...I'm a really cool dog!"

Gag.

She finally got me, but not without a fight.

I still got treats later in the night, so who really won?

Word.

Thursday, September 14, 2006

Thursday Thirteen, Edition #4


Thirteen Reasons I'm Glad I'm Not a Dog

1. Dogs are dumb. While I think we can all agree there are some really stupid cats out there, as a rule, dogs are complete idiots. I mean, what is life if you can't do long division?

2. Dogs crave attention from their humans. Have some dignity, canines! When your human says "Jump," you say, "How high?" When your humans say, "Crap," you say "What color?" Cats believe it's the other way around.

3. Dogs beg for food and treats. Wait. I sort of do that too, when it comes to snacks. Next!

4. Dogs drool. I think that is why they are always seen with those stupid bandanas around their necks--to catch the dripping saliva. Gross!

5. Dogs love water. No drinking it from the bowl or dripping from the faucet--like I enjoy. They like running through it, swimming in it, drinking rain puddles, etc. All I know is that, if I were to do this, my fur would frizz up and I would be featured in the "What the Hell is Wrong with Her Hair?" section in US Weekly. Also, I think this is why dogs' fur has that rank smell!

6. Dogs' fur has a foul smell. It's no coincidence you often hear a human exclaim to their canine companion, "UGH! You smell like dog!" The fact that "smelling like dog" is naturally associated with stank, it's not a good thing.

7. Dogs love car rides. Um...the only time I ride in a car is when I'm going to the vet! Why am I going to rush to the car to load up when that is my destination? Yes, a lot of the time, dogs get to go on joy rides, but there is still a chance they will end up at the vet. Do the math, dogs! Are you really willing to gamble with those odds? Wait. You're dumb and can not do math. Nevermind.

8. Dogs' tongues find their way into some questionable regions. I know I have been photographed cleaning my nether-regions, but I am not about to stick my nose in my buddy's butt! You disgust me, dogs!

9. Dogs lick their humans' faces after their tongues find their way into some questionable regions. And yet humans call them "Man's Best Friend." Maybe humans are the dumb ones!

10. Dogs fetch things. How demeaning. You might as well have your human make you a "chore chart!" At least then you may have a chance at earning an allowance!

11. Dogs are whores who engage in indiscriminate humping. Legs, friends, friends' legs, boy butts, girl butts, kids crawling on the livingroom floor, blankets being dragged, stuffed animals...do I really need to go on? They are hell-bent on humping anything that will stand still enough for them to mount. What tramps...

12. Dogs cock their heads when you talk to them. I think humans believe dogs understand them better when they do that. But then again, humans think the same thing when their own peers nod their heads during conversations. "Uh-huh...yep. I get it." All it means is that they don't understand a word you are saying, so they tilt their heads to get a better look at the booger hanging from your nose.

13. Dogs will never tell you about the booger hanging from your nose. "Man's Best Friend?" The last time I checked, my best friends are the first to tell me when I have a caveman peeking out of the cave. Humans, take note: I think they are purposefully allowing you to walk around town with an exposed boog so that people will laugh at you. And yet, you'll go hoarse telling them, "Good boy! Who's the good boy? Who's my good dog?" Gag.



Get the Thursday Thirteen code here!


The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!


Wednesday, September 13, 2006

22 Reasons Lindsay Lohan is No Longer Allowed to Cat-Sit for Us

Lindsay Lohan is a sucky cat-sitter! A few weeks ago, when my mom spent the weekend away, Lindsay spent time at our house, taking care of Brach and I. I use the term "taking care of" very loosely. Despite the fact Lindsay was eager to take the job (calling incessantly until my agent finally gave in), I think we would have been better off on our own.

Joining the growing list of people no longer allowed to cat-sit for us, Linsay Lohan has now been banned from our house.
  1. She lost her luggage and spent the weekend accusing Brach and I of thieving. She swore we stole a million dollars worth of jewelry and insisted on performing full-cavity searches. Admittedly, Brach sort of like it. I found it very invasive.
  2. At meal times, Lindsay was no where to be found. She consistently showed up late, excusing her tardiness by insisting she was dehydrated and no one would bring her water. Not cool...I've gots to have my chow! I had to release a public letter reprimanding her, calling her "immature" and "irresponsible." I'm sorry, but I just don't have time to publicly reprimand her.
  3. She left empty bottles of Cristal behind the couch, in the piano bench and in the toilet tank.
  4. The late-night prank phone calls to Paris Hilton.
  5. She was drunk 2.5 out of 2 days.
  6. She turned our living room into a night club--and would not let me into the VIP room!
  7. She cried when I called her "Fire Crotch." I thought it was a term of endearment!
  8. Despite the fact I kept shouting "NO ANIMAL TESTING," Lindsay insisted on lathering my entire body with Proactiv. Where I did not have zits before, I am now riddled with pimples!
  9. Due to her own rivalry with younger sister, Ali (who is set to release her first album later this year), she kept instigating family feuds between Brach and I. "He always wants to write on your blog, Kukka. Doesn't that just piss you off?"
  10. The late-night prank phone calls to Jessica Simpson.
  11. Those damn, red Kabballah strings tied on our tails, again! She and Britney have got to stop the evangelizing!
  12. Her crazy father showed up drunk and loud, threatening to beat up anyone who would stand still. The cops had to be called and now our neighbors have labeled us "White Trash." I'm not even white!
  13. She criticized everything I put into my mouth, saying I was too "fat," and that, like her, my body idol should be Nicole Richie.
  14. She got pissed when I received the call to replace her in her new movie "Georgia Rule."
  15. Former flame, Wilmer Valderrama, came over and got all "handsy" with me, telling me, "You know I like 'em young, Kukka-Baby!"
  16. She "accidentally" exposed one of her breasts...for a whole 13 minutes.
  17. The late-night prank phone calls to Hillary Duff.
  18. She gave me some questionable advice on my body: "Get implants and deny it Kukka. Britney and I have done it. All the cool kids are doing it!"
  19. Her drunken verbal diarrhea over all of her celebrity crushes: Brad Pitt, Ashton Kutcher, Jude Law, and Johnny Depp (all of whom I've dated...which totally set her off).
  20. The ear-splitting sounds of her purging after every meal.
  21. She kept trying to slather my face with foundation, arguing that covering my freckles is the only way to make it in Hollywood. What freckles?
  22. She has more paparazzi trailing her than me--and that is just unacceptable.

Tuesday, September 12, 2006

Diva vs. Divo

My agent is a traitor.

This week, my Uncle Cooper is visiting. Apparently, Gram and Grand-dude went on vacation and my agent volunteered to take on this incredibly grotesque mutt. This fact, by itself, isn't the issue. It's the fact he refuses to follow the code of our home.

First, it is understood that anyone visiting my domain is never--ever--allowed to make eye contact with me. It's a matter of respect. In fact, Brach lived with us for six months before I allowed him to look me in the eye. This bastard dog stares me down every chance he gets. From afar, he eyeballs me. Up close, he eyeballs me. I hiss in an attempt to address the issue, but it seems there is a language barrier, so his behavior doesn't change. My agent's answer to this blatant display of disrespect is to get the camera and snap away! "You know I have your back, Kukka." Whatever.

Secondly, there are places in the house that are just mine. Mine. The couch, the chairs, the floors, the bed, the kitchen (especially next to the refrigerator, where the treats are kept)--basically every square inch of the house. He doesn't seem to comprehend this, so he has spent much of his time sleeping on the couch next to my agent. WHILE SHE PETS HIM! The bitch encourages his behavior, which is further proof of her disloyalty.

That brings me to my third point: My agent's loving caresses are mine and mine alone! It's bad enough I occasionally have to share her paws with my brother, but a dog? And what is up with petting me immediately after petting Cooper (if that is his real name)? Your hands stink and have dirty dog residue that dulls my coat. I don't spend three hours a day grooming just to smell like a filthy dog. If you must pet him, the least you can do is use a little hand sanitizer before laying hands on me.

Fourthly (is that a word?), my snacks are my snacks. I realize that I am uncharacteristically leaving treats on the floor (when he disturbs my goodie gluttony), but that does not entitle him to eat my little nuggets of heaven! What is worse is that my agent doesn't seem to acknowledge his consumption of cat snacks and gives him treats of his own! I think I need to fire her.

Fifthly...oh yes, there is a fifthly! HE HAS BEEN SLEEPING IN MY BED! You know the one--with the cat blanket on it, clearly marking it as a cat bed. I am going to have to have my agent launder that blanket thrice to get the stank and dog hair off of it!

Finally, my food and water have been displaced. Granted, my agent has made a feeble attempt at honoring me by creating a "panic room" in the spare bedroom, but why am I relegated to eating in there while my placemat in the kitchen houses bowls of dog food and dog-spit-water? I appreciate the fact she has propped the door open with door stops so that only cats can fit through (and not huge, canine half-wits), but I can't help but feel imprisoned.

My agent tells me he is nice and I should get to know him. Bullshit. I would rather lunch with the pesky paparazzi permanently camped outside our house! At least they admire and idolize me. "Good Boy" or not, that dog is just trying to antagonize me.

It's a good thing he wears what I refer to as: "The Stink Clink." His necklace is adorned with bling that jingles when he is on the move. When I hear The Stink Clink, it allows me to prepare for our inevitable stand-off by arching my back, fluffing my tail and getting my hisser ready.

For now, I'm just hanging out on top of the piano. Don't you dare think I'm scared! I am not! I am just tweaking my strategy on how to make this dog sorry he ever crossed my path.

Nobody messes with The Empress!

He is supposed to go home on Saturday. I am counting down the days!

Monday, September 11, 2006

Five Years Later

"But the greatest menace to our civilization today is the conflict between giant organized systems of self-righteousness--each system only too delighted to find that the other is wicked--each only too glad that the sins give it the pretext for still deeper hatred and animosity."

Herbert Butterfield

Saturday, September 09, 2006

Associated Press? Or Ass Press?

Unfortunately, the Associated Press will not return my phone calls (claiming they have never heard of me...yeah, right), so I have to correct the horrendous error they put in their article that was posted on my blog on Friday.

I did not receive a 2.7 million dollar advance.

That would be ridiculous!

I received a 27 million dollar advance. No decimal.

Come on! I don't get out of bed for under 3 million.

Friday, September 08, 2006

Celebrity Feline to Pen Autobiography

Associated Press (AP): Feline Empress and Celebrity Blogger, Kukka-Maria, has reportedly received a 2.7 million-dollar advance to write and release a collection of her memoirs. The tell-all book, with a forward written by Shiloh Jolie-Pitt, is tentatively titled “You Don’t Have to Work That Hard to Get Into my Pants—I'm Not Wearing Any!” The literary world is abuzz as publishers, authors, and celebrities, alike, speculate which people and events will be named in the Empress’ Memoirs.

“I hope she talks about the time when we got drunk and skinny-dipped in P Diddy’s pool. That was one of the best nights of my life!” exclaimed Mary-Kate Olsen. “Well, that…and the night I horked up my dinner and found I lost six whole pounds in one sitting. I mean, seriously! That was almost 10% of my entire body weight! Good times…”

Other celebrities were a little more concerned. “We swore we’d keep the details of our brief sexual relationship a secret. I hope she honors the sanctity of our affair,” confided a nervous Maury Povich. “If Connie ever found out, she would shit a brick! By the way, if you or anyone you know has unresolved paternity issues or is the parent of a morbidly obese two-year old, give my show a call. We would love to make a mockery of your situation...I mean, help you."

There have been countless demands for a tell-all book from The Empress and, until now, everyone assumed she would never agree to write one.

“Having begged her for years,” Peter W. Olson, CEO of Random House Publishing, explained, “I was shocked when I received the call from her agent telling me Kukka-Maria was now ready to talk.”

“I have no idea why she wants to write a book—nor why now. I rarely know why she does what she does,” explained her agent in a telephone interview. “Normally, her policy is to abstain from any activity or event that interferes with her napping and treat-eating schedule. Apparently, she has determined the few hours per day--that are not tied up with snacking and sleeping--are enough in which to write her autobiography. That, or she is planning to cut back on the napping and trea…no, that doesn't sound right. She just must be overestimating the amount of writing one can do in 2.61 hours of free time.”

Random House has released an excerpt from the empress’s first draft manuscript:

I had never seen Brad Pitt look as luscious as he did that night. The sweat glistened on his muscular shoulders as he tenderly, yet purposefully scooped the litter box.

“Kukka, my love, I have never seen such exquisite turds! Each one is more beautiful than the next and smells of such…such sweetness”’

“I crap gold nuggets, Brad. Gold nuggets and flower petals.”

Setting the litter scooper down, he slowly turned to me and licked his lips. “Kukka, you make my loins burn with passion. I must pet you. I must pet you now!”

He swiftly scooped me into his arms and began rubbing the back of my neck. He knew where my erogenous zones were and was prepared to assault every one. My body betrayed me as it instinctively responded to his touch. My tail swayed to and fro…mirroring the rapid rhythm of my heart. He carried me to the bed, laid me down and began gently petting my chin. My purring was labored and shallow. I had to tell him what he meant to me. I had to tell him now!

“Brad. You are a phenomenal litter scooper. And, for the most part, you are attractive. I want you to know, though, that our relationship can not live past the sunrise. You and I…we are different. You are a struggling actor who makes merely $20 million per film. I am a royal feline—a celebrity with an enormous fan-base and extreme popularity among both man and beast.”

“But, Kukka…” Brad whispered, a deep and passionate growl escaping his throat.

“But nothing, Brad," I murmured, gently rubbing my face against his. "Tomorrow, we can not be together. But tonight…tonight we will express our love fully as I lie here and let you pet me for the next few hours. Start with my ears and work back...and be careful not to pet my stomach for too long in one sitting. I hate that and will probably bite you. And not in the good way..."

My skin was ablaze as I raised my head to meet his waiting palms. Back and forth, his fingers flicked playfully at my ears and traveled up and down my arched spine. I rose to my four feet slowly, my eyes never leaving his gaze, and flopped onto my back. My belly begged for the steady stroking of his warm hands.

“Kukka…I have never felt like this for a woman before. Is it because you are a cat? Because you are 2 feet tall with four legs? Because you have more nipples than I can…”

I interrupted him, gently placing my paw against his lips. “It’s because I am more woman than you can handle, Brad Pitt. Now massage my belly while I unleash some hot and sexy flatulence on you!”

Based on this excerpt alone, critics have already predicted Kukka-Maria’s book will be a best-seller. “I think this scathing autobiography will be considered a must-read for book enthusiasts of all ages. I would not be surprised to see middle school children all over the country writing book reports on this instant classic,” offered Cordelia Lambert, book critic from The New York Times.

While an official release date has not been announced, it is speculated the book will hit store shelves sometime in the spring of 2007. Until then, the world will anxiously await with “labored and shallow” breath!

Thursday, September 07, 2006

Thursday Thirteen, Edition #3


Thirteen Reasons I Can't Do
Thursday Thirteen This Week



1. I am still in bed. A regal empress rarely lifts a head or tail before noon (although, I have been known to lift my tail after midnight...).

2. Brad Pitt is still in bed with me. Would you be in a hurry to get out of the sack and write a silly blog entry, either? I thought not...

3. I need to get new headshots done. My public is sick of looking at the same photo of me day in and day out. Annie Leibowitz is coming today to take some artsy-fartsy shots of me. One on a horse. One with me nude, covered in rose petals. And one of me spooning with Brad.

4. I have hysterical arthritis that is preventing me from typing. The doctors say it's "hysterical" because it's completely fabricated. My agent says it's "hysterical" because she can't stop laughing at me. As I tearfully gaze at my mangled claws, I realize they are all idiots.

5. I have to go pick up my check from Wal-Mart. Granted, I didn't work there long, but they still owe me money! (Editor's note: Kukka actually owes Wal-Mart money. The damage to her vest, the sexual harassment suit brought against her by a customer and the fact she ate her own weight in cheese-fries, really put her in the rears.)

6. I need to black out my house on the "Map of the Stars' Homes." Even though my house is the only one on the West Michigan Edition Star Map, I feel better knowing it will keep the riff-raff off my doorstep.

7. I have a headache. Or hangover. I can't remember which.

8. I am ovulating. You can still ovulate after you've been spayed, right?

9. I have treats for which to beg. All day. Every day. More treats. Gimme, gimme!

10. I need to lift weights. Wait. I mean I need to lift my weight (belly) as I hoist myself into the litter box to unleash some serious damage!

11. I need to answer fan-mail. I use a rubberstamp, though, so it shouldn't take too long. "Dear Kukka, do you know how terrific you are?" "Dear Empress, I think you are supa-fly! Are you the most amazing being on the face of the earth?" "Dear Kukka-Maria, I want to be just like you, do you think it's impossible?" YES. YES. And YES.

12. I have to balance my checkbook. Or, rather, I need to supervise the servant I hired to balance my checkbook.

13. I have to slee...ZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.





Get the Thursday Thirteen code here!

The purpose of the meme is to get to know everyone who participates a little bit better every Thursday. Visiting fellow Thirteeners is encouraged! If you participate, leave the link to your Thirteen in others comments. It’s easy, and fun! Be sure to update your Thirteen with links that are left for you, as well! I will link to everyone who participates and leaves a link to their 13 things. Trackbacks, pings, comment links accepted!


Wednesday, September 06, 2006

For Crying Out Loud--FINALLY!

Some say she looks like Tom. Others say she looks like Katie.

What say you?


Tuesday, September 05, 2006

Always Low Ethics. Always.

Do I have great stories from my vacation? You betcha! I will be sure to regale you with tales of Greece, but for now...I have more pressing issues of which to speak.

I really think it's time to fire my agent. To remedy what she is calling my lack of respect for the “real world” and the “common man,” this weekend, she required me to get a job.

A job as a Wal-Mart Greeter.

I won’t talk about how I had to take the city bus to my new job and how it took two whole days to get the stench of the “common man” out of my every pore. Nor will I talk about how horrifying it was to hear the deafening clicks of the paparazzi cameras as I descended the bus stairs.

Instead, I’ll start with the disgust I felt when I arrived at my job post and my trainer, Roy, handed me a blue vest with a “Kooka-Marie” nametag. To say the smock clashed with my designer duds is an understatement! Plus, and I mean this in the nicest way, Roy practically melted my fur with his fierce coffee breath!

“Kukka, I really need you to wear your vest. I understand you find it unattractive and you are upset it has a smiley face on the back and not a photo of you, but it is your required uniform, and needs to be worn during your entire eight hour shift.”

“Wait! What do you mean…eight hours?!

“Let’s get you to the door, Kukka.”

Shit.

Leaving me at the door, Roy explained that it would take only a little while for me to acclimate to my new surroundings.

“The stank of the bottle return won’t bother you in a few minutes,” Roy said, while gagging violently. “Do you remember your line?”

“Yes. Welcome to Wal-Mart, dirty loser, have a nice day!”

“Kukka…”

“Fine. Welcome to Wal-Mart. Have a nice day!”

I must have greeted eleventy-three people, when I noticed a little, gray-haired man standing on the opposite side of the entrance way. His crisp, blue vest gleamed in contrast to his black, polyester pants. Along with his nametag, he sported several photo buttons of his grandchildren and a pin that proclaimed him the “Best Grandpa in the World!” The real marvel was that his arthritic knees didn't crumble under the weight of the countless smiley face pins and star-spangled necktie! As customers entered the store, I noticed he would rush up to them and exclaim, “Welcome to Wal-Mart! Watch out for falling prices! Is there something I can help you find?” They seemed impressed with his enthusiasm and I heard more than one, "What an adorable old geezer!"

Gag.

Customer after customer, he would scurry and greet. Scurry and greet. He was like a blur, only coming to a brief rest against the “DVD’s RELEASING THIS WEEK” display as the sliding doors closed behind the guests.

He was totally greet-blocking me! I shot him a glare and confronted him.

“What is your damage, gramps? You want a piece of me?”

He smiled sweetly and said, “Welcome to Wal-Mart! Have a nice day, bitch!

Taking my cue from the Britney/Justin dance battle of 2000, I knew what had to be done. “Bring it, old-timer! It’s a full-on greet-off!

Barely taking the time to read his name-tag, I began my quest to make Bernie the sorriest Wal-Mart Greeter in the entire history of the company.

I greeted the next customer with an exaggerated version of the standard Wal-Mart smile.

Bernie made the next customer feel welcome with the standard smile and a friendly wave.

That bastard!

My next customer received a hearty dose of a gleaming smile, an exuberant wave and a bouquet of helium balloons I had cleverly nabbed from the photo center.

Bernie upped his game by adding a wink and some air-sucking sound effect he made as his lips curled into a side-winding grin.

I rebutted with a firm, yet warm and welcoming pat on the ass for the next customer.

“I believe you are in violation of the Wal-Mart code of conduct, Kukka-Maria. I am going to call Roy and ask that we refer to the handbook on what type of customer touch is appropriate and inappro…”

Bernie stopped quickly as he drank in the sight of my middle claw that was, by this time, waving violently in his general direction. That’s right. I flipped him the state bird of Arkansas…the middle finger.

“If you mess with the bull, you'll get the horn, old man!”

I would have continued flipping him off, even adding my other three paws to the mix, but I needed all my digits to help undo my vest and expose my many nipples. Once customers entered the store and saw my multiple nips, I would beat Bernie—paws down. That would have been the ultimate strategy, but Roy, our trainer, quickly approached and addressed me.

“Kukka! Please put on your vest and come with me.”

I followed Roy into the employee break area, where he asked me to have a seat. Offering me a soda to lessen the sting of what was to come, Roy laid it on the line for me.

“Kukka…I know how passionate you are about this job and how excited you were to join the Wal-Mart Family. I know you wanted to do a great job and that when you took the Sam Walton blood-oath during your corporate orientation and swore on your mother’s life you would be loyal to the company as long as you lived, well…the desire to be a stellar Wal-Martian was strong within you. Having said that, exposing your nipples at the front door of our store is not conducive to the image we at Wal-Mart force down the public's collective throat. I am afraid I am going to have to fire you.”

“Fire me? Are you freakin' serious? So I flashed a few nipples at the front door! Big deal! Would it have been better if I had exposed my nips amidst the severely wilted produce or next to the sweat-soaked clothing hanging by the dressing rooms?”

"I don’t appreciate your attitude, Miss Maria. I’m sorry, but you are fired.”

Roy swooped me up with one hand and held me to his chest as he “escorted” me to the front door. I don’t know what was more awkward: The weight of the silence between us, the potential of a sexual harassment suit for where his hand was supporting my body, or the fact I had just urinated on his clip-on tie.

As I turned to leave, Roy called my name. It was clear to me he was already having regrets about my dismissal.

“Um…Kukka? You can not take the vest with you. It is Wal-Mart property and must be returned.” Noticing I was still nude under the vest, he continued, “You know…just have your mom send it back to us—freshly laundered, please.”

Behind Roy, I could see Bernie. He was parking one of those “Little Rascal” scooters—complete with the metal basket on the front. To ensure it would maintain a depleted battery life of no more than 3 minutes, Bernie left the vehicle unplugged. A bead of sweat trickled across his temple from the untidy heap of gray hair on his head as he glanced over at me, swiftly grabbed his crotch, and mouthed the words, “BITE ME.”

Bite me, indeed, old man.

I should have known that working at Wal-Mart would be a miserable experience! After all, due to their “family atmosphere” and “moral code,” they refuse to stock any of my books, DVDs, clothing, and CDs. Come on, Sam Walton! What is the problem with a little nudity, trashy talk, and raunchy debauchery among friends? Maybe, if I launched a line of Kukka Firearms, they would be more open to peddling my wares!

I guess I can respect your commitment to your "moral code." I mean, I admire the fact you can sleep so soundly knowing the very next day, you’ll bully thousands of mom and pop stores, forcing them from their communities because they know they can not compete with you! You’ll build and open a brand new mega-store each day, yet 390 of your empty stores sit on the market because you build them so close together, once you become your own biggest competitor, you close one down! And, I suppose priding yourself on being one of the largest employers in the United States is enough to off-set the fact that even your full-time "associates" are paid wages that place them below the poverty level. I am sure the John Q. Taxpayer thanks you for your employee commitment as he helps subsidize the wages of your crew.

Yes, profane books, CDs and DVDs are truly your biggest moral challenges.

If you continue working to devour our country with your Super-Stores, plan on seeing me flashing my multiple nipples in protest. Despite what you’ve heard, my exhibition will be in anger, not in pleasure.

Oh, who am I kidding? I love to publicly expose my many nipples!

And, by the way, I think you'll like to know that I've lined my litterbox with your precious blue vest. Now, every time I take a crap, I say, "Welcome to Wal-Mart! Take a shit and have a nice day!"

I think I have my paw on the pulse of the common man, my dear agent. Can I please go back to loafing in the sunshine while I watch you polish my tiara?