Quick, before she gets back from the bathroom!

Dear nice people who read my mommy's web site:

I'm a fussy gay cat who dresses better than any of you do, and I would normally consider myself "above" all of you out there, but I'm coming to you with my stylish little hat in my hand. I need your help, people.

As you can see from the picture above, my mother the bitch has had the audacity to invite a dinosaur - yes, a goddamn dinosaur - into our happy home. Now, I'm not saying I'm afraid of it, because I'll have you know that I'm a brave, brave little kitty who only runs if a person approaches me or thinks about me. But this dino follows me all around the house, harassing me, roaring at me, sticking its horns in my butt...frankly, it's got me frazzled. Is it any wonder I'm a nervous wreck and spend two hours a week on a shrink's couch?

Look at this picture. Look at what she's done to me. The bitch is chipping away at my dignity, destroying it a little more day by day with her battery-operated dinosaurs and her visitors who insist on finding me and touching me. I have to groom my fur right now just thinking about it.

Someone please help. Come and take this triceratops out of my house and let me watch Bravo TV in peace. Also, if you could bitch slap my mom, that'd be the icing on the neat little cake.

Thanks in advance!

Sincerely,

Duke Friday Aloysius Ptang Ptang Olay Biscuit Barrel Tuxbury
(but you can call me "Your highness, Friday")

Unearthed pigeon and pie

In my aimless first-thing-in-the-morning web surfing today, I happened to stumble upon a video I had never seen.

"But Katy," I hear you saying, "surely there are millions of videos on the web you haven't seen, many of them involving donkeys and urine."

Fair enough. But in this case, I found a video that I probably should have seen before now. You see, my late brother JD made his money as a musician and composer, and this video features his music. In truth, I never knew this existed before today; I'd heard the music before, but never had any idea it was the soundtrack to a short animation. The release date is a year after his death, which would probably explain why he'd never mentioned the project to us before (he did a bit of work with Nickelodeon, which I believe is where this originated).

So, dig this. It's awesomely weird; and the music...well, maybe I'm biased. ;)

Isn't that supposed to be in the attic and not on the porch?

The Pumpkin of Dorian Gray

Black Friday notes

Just a few words from my swollen, turkey-bloated self.

• I was having a brew n' view with some friends the other night, and I'd brought Sin City for us to pay half attention to while giggling like drunken teenagers. When the Manute character came onscreen, someone in the group asked, "Is that Ving Rhames?"
  
  This is where I found that alcohol + know-it-all is not necessarily a great combination. I immediately informed him, "No, that's Michael Clunk Darkin." Oh yeah...gimme another beer. It'll keep my mouth shut for a minute or two. Really, though, the alcohol is just an excuse. I talk funny when I'm sober, too.
  
  
  
• Squirl and Ichabod invited me to his parents' place for Thanksgiving dinner. Those folks know how to put on a party, let me and my fat belly tell ya. When it came time to eat, I sat right next to the kids' table, because I knew I'd just be asked to move over there if I sat too near the real adults. Ich's nephew, Tiago, was seated next to me and we had a good time chatting and he had a blast playing with my camera phone. Squirl arrived a little later than I did, and when she sat down at the table, Tiago looked up at her, then at me, then back and forth a few more times with growing confusion. He finally said, "Hey! I thought you" (pointing at me) "were her" (pointing to Squirl) "in disguise!"
  
  
  
• I think Marcia Brady said it best when she yelped "Oh, my nose!"
  
  Not to put too fine a point on how exactly it transpired, but...well...let's just say I received a very unintentional but nonetheless vicious head-butt to the nose a couple of nights ago. From my girlfriend. It's not broken but it's still tender. But it's one of those injuries that, when I feel a twinge from it, cracks me up because I enjoy the absurdity of it. Plus I can probably milk some sympathy points from the little lady (at least, until she reads this).
  

Lie to me

Sometimes, empty flattery rocks.

Your IQ Is 130

Your Logical Intelligence is Below Average Your Verbal Intelligence is Genius Your Mathematical Intelligence is Genius Your General Knowledge is Exceptional

A Quick and Dirty IQ Test

I don't care if it is a cheesy web quiz; call me "genius" and I'll make you breakfast, if you know what I mean.

What I done saw...

...over at my brother's place on Sunday night.

I'm not the only one in my family who is bonkers for critters of the feline persuasion. Check out the menagerie at Tardist's crib:



This is Missy Mouse. Isn't she fancy in her purple collar? She actually enjoys wearing it, too. She knows she's one high-class bitch.





Here's Rascal, known more commonly to his friends as Buddy. He's the old man in the group, and definitely the boss of 'em all.





This is Jesse. She is normally the most photogenic of the cats, but the night I had my camera out, I couldn't get her to hold still for me.





Last, but certainly not least, is RC. He's Tardist's little grey guy and every attempt I've made to steal him has been thwarted. He comes from the same school of gay elegance as Friday and Wobbles.


That's right. At the Cotillion, it's all about the pussy.

Reliving my youth

I went to the bar with some friends a couple of weeks ago, which, believe it or not, is a rare occurrence for me. The last time I spent any appreciable hours in a bar was when I was in a band, so I didn't really have much downtime with my drinking (actually, I didn't have much drinking with my singing, either, unless you count all those pitchers of water). But this last time, I did something I haven't done in ages: I grabbed a pen out of my purse and started to draw all over the cocktail napkins.

You have to understand, I did this under the influence of about two hours' sleep the night before, and none since, so I was already punchy before the punch began to flow. I let my friends drink deeply from that well; I was already having mild hallucinations without a lot of help from Mr. Corona. Sleep deprivation is a freaky thing, but it can also be amusing or embarrassing for one's companions in a public place.

For the first time since my days at the gone-and-likely-forgotten Checkpoint Lounge, and that was in my early 20s, I not only drew on the napkins, I defiled them with a veritable marching band of penises. I was on a roll, and I was takin' requests. Who'd have thought a table full of seemingly nice girls could start shouting out suggestions like "Draw one that leans to the left!" and "Draw an uncircumcised one!" But shout they did, in a completely ladylike fashion, of course, and I made an entire storyboard peopled by penises. I believe one of the napkins did feature the slogan "It's a Penis Parade!" And it was. There was the thick, veiny rascal, over here the one cowering in his turtleneck with the caption, "I'm shy." Large, small, crooked, proud, and each one in full squirting action. Why didn't I take pictures? That's a legitimate question, and I can only plead extreme exhaustion coupled with tipsy stupidity.

Of course, we spread it out on the table so that the waitress charged with picking up after our mess might enjoy the glory of our sparkling personalities long after Elvis had left the building.

Nowhere did I ever promise to grow up. I'm just making sure I keep that non-promise.

Gonna eat your brains and gain your knowledge

I had a real grump going on today, and had even begun the outline of a very bitchy post. But then I was pulled out of the muck by a long-overdue conversation with my bestest undead buddy, Zombie Flyboy.













Yes, speaking with the undead is one of my talents. Of course, it helps if the undead know your phone number. Zombie has been AWOL from the blogger world for far too long now, and I am starting the demand, right here and now, for at least a return to his famed Photoshop hijinks. You have to love a man who was able to edit me into a cast picture from Hee Haw.

So, my advice to you is: when you feel like a sullen pile of crap, whip out that cell phone to the Other Side and hook up with your favorite Zombie. While he may or may not eat your brains at some point in the conversation, he will undoubtedly also soothe your soul and probably make you laugh until pieces of your lungs fly all over the room.

Dork, er, work in progress

I've made a few slight changes to the page...I'll be messing with the layout and content for a while, fiddling until I play the right tune. But at least you get a different masthead to look at now.

Also, you should look at this:

Birdhouse in your soul

Sorry I've totally slacked here the last few days. I managed to get myself into some really teenagery mischief/trouble today, but I'm not sure I'm at liberty to discuss it in detail. Let's just say that I have not made perhaps the best possible impression on "The Parents." And you know I don't mean my parents. Oops.

On a less anxious note, I'm off tonight with Tardist and Theirzal to see They Might Be Giants at the Intersection in Grand Rapids. It's sure to be a night of delightfully nerdy fun and great tunes. As far as I know, it's okay for me to bring my good camera to the show, so hopefully I'll have some better-that-usual photos for you tomorrow.

Here's wishing that the next time you see me here, the shit I'm in will be slightly less deep. ;)

Holy back combing, Batman!

It's a fact that I've arrived at the station in Fogeytown, and sometimes I miss out on pop culture and consumer items simply because they are marketed to a younger demographic and I'm just not paying enough attention. One of these items has recently come to my attention: Sparx, an energy drink with alcohol in it. Malt liquor that keeps you on the borderline between passing out and feeling compelled to knit lavender tuxedos for all the sumo wrestlers in Japan. The stuff makes me think of Drew Carey's Buzz Beer.

I wasn't drinking that last night, but Molly was. It was late, we were both drunk, she was also kept aloft by excessive amounts of caffeine and guarana and taurine, and somehow the subject of Amy Winehouse came up. Now, remember that Molly is a hairdresser. In fact, I'm convinced she's only dating me to get to my hair. So, you have hairdresser + alcohol + caffeine + my long hair and you get two silly-ass bitches laughing their fool heads off at 4 in the morning because of this:



They TRIED to make me go to rehab...




The elven queen will hear your requests after her daily glitter douche.

Let this be a warning to you

Just remember, folks:



Every time you masturbate...



...Eeyore has to hide in my suitcase until it's over.

What, the "Lazy Bucky" thing didn't tip you off?

It's really time for a housecleaning/redesign around here. No, I take that back. It was time for that several months ago, and now it's past due. Ouch, I don't like that phrase. But any way you slice and dice it, I really need a new look here.

I'll miss the Barbarella masthead, which I probably like so much because I totally ripped off the design of a European promo poster for the movie. Speaking of space pussy, I hear that my future husband (though he doesn't know it yet) Robert Rodriguez is doing a remake of Barbarella with his (temporary until I get there) honey Rose McGowan (actually, I think the three of us could come to an agreement) in the title role. Is that just scuttlebutt or is there substance to the rumor? IMDB won't cough up the goods unless I pay for a pro membership because it's an in-development project.

And speaking of (well, writing of) Robert "HoneyJizz" Rodriguez, I want to know when filming begins on Machete. The fake trailer for the film was so good that the movie is actually supposed to be made now.




Don't you wanna see the actual movie now, too? HoneyJizz calls it a Mexploitation film. I call it good, gory fun.

Now I'm not sure if there was an actual point to this post, other than the fact that I'll be changing my masthead soon, I promise. And my drawers. You have my word. I swear on a stack of laundry that needs to be folded now.

Now I wish I'd taken that scholarship to Mime State

Finally, I come to you with news you can use (and enjoy): I have no voice.

Oh, sure, my critics have been saying that for years, but today it's unarguably true. The wretched cold that settled into my haunches and gullies last week has ceased to make me feel like a sunken tugboat, but it felt the need to de-voice me today. I don't even get a gravelly, sexy morning voice; it's more of a boy in the throes of puberty crossed with that guy who's just had his vocal cords snipped.

It hasn't stopped me from making ugly-sounding phone calls to my brother and sister. Hell, I've been sick and bitchy to my poor sister so many times over the weekend that I probably owe her dinner. At least I wasn't bitchy today; just not very pleasing to the ear. It's days like this that make me grateful I'm not still a singer or a phone sex operator. I mean, ummmmmm, shit. Don't want to embarrass my family. Deny, Katy, deny. Okay. I take it back. I was never a singer.

It's also a good thing I teach online and not in person, because my lecture methods tonight would be limited to:

• Writing my lecture notes on the whiteboard and gesticulating wildly
• Playing charades with my class, which is always fun when dealing with UNIX
• Using mute puppets to illustrate the high points of the week
  
  

At least the other drivers didn't have to be assaulted first thing in the morning with my face earnestly in mid-song as I drive with my karaoke songs blaring on the iPod. Really, it was a blessing for me, because I didn't have to hear myself earnestly in mid-song. That's okay; I was still obnoxious and white-girl head grooving to a block of Beastie Boys as I drove side-by-side with the stony-faced sons of bitches on their way to work this morning. That's okay. Next time they all see me, I'll be back in full voice, and I'll roll my window down and let them know just how badly I can belt it out when the northbound lane of my throat isn't closed to traffic.

For now, let me just whisper that one little word that makes my heart skip a beat: Ricolaaaaaaaa *cough cough cough cough*

Well, DUH!

From Weeds, a conversation I could absolutely see happening somewhere at my brother Timmy's house:

Andy: Risk is all about Kamchatka; it's your gateway to the west.
Biker chick: Think you're tellin' me somethin' I don't know?

****************

Speaking of Weeds, did anybody see last week's episode where they showed Romany Malco completely naked from behind?























Man, I love Showtime...



Weeds ref.

Risk ref.

It's high-beam time

I didn't think much of it when the hailstorm kicked up out of nowhere this afternoon, though it had Friday glued to the window in fascination for at least 15 minutes. Those can happen at any time of the year here, so the weather didn't receive a second thought.

Then I decided to walk down to the mailbox, and I threw on my grey velvet jacket. I was already in a long-sleeved shirt, so I figured I'd be plenty warm. I figured plenty wrong. BRRRRRRRRRR! My nipples are still making a mockery of my best bra.

All that unseasonal warmth had me lulled into a false sense of security and a genuine sense of dumbassedness. But now, yes, it is November in Michigan, and suddenly it feels like it out there. Time to admit the velvet jacket is only decorative and dig out the Official Winter Coat. I still need to get a pair of boots, because somehow I don't think my slippers or my Skechers with the gaping holes in the sides will cut it once the snow begins to fall and so rudely stick to the ground.

Soup Season has begun in earnest. Please bring me some. Help these wretched nipples thaw.

Like pees in a pod

These things are only supposed to happen to mothers, right?

There I was, standing in the produce section of Meijer, yellows and reds and a hundred shades of green spread out around me. Visually and olfactorily pleasing, to be sure, but nothing overly exciting or stimulating about the surroundings (unless you count the ginger root, which strikes me as vaguely sexual, and I always have to resist the urge to bring one home for a little "me time").

Suddenly and without the customary warning, a sneeze erupted from deeper than a sneeze has a right to be born, a full-body sneeze, if you will. Now, I was able to get my hand in front of my face quickly enough to contain any potential collateral damage to the people and products in my snot radius. I was fully expecting a nasal explosion, but what I was not at all counting on was...

squirt

And before you get happy for me, let me give you a big dose of TMI and inform you that I am not a squirter, so this was no spontaneous kumquat-induced mid-store orgasm. If that were true, I would most certainly not be writing this post, but would instead be spending roughly 20 hours of each day lingering by the avocados.

No, in true Katy fashion, it was the much more humiliating possibility for non-nasal moisture. I peed myself, slightly but surely, in Meijer.

Pretty fucking sexy, huh? Just wait 'til you see me strip down to my support hose and thong-fit Depends.

Lazy Bucky's quickies

• Got talked into a flu shot today. I know it's a good idea, but I usually feel like shit for a couple of days after I get one. Yes, I know, roughly 9,000 people have told me it's simply impossible for me to be sickened by a dead strain of the flu. Person 9,001 gets a gets a screwdriver in the tender bits.
  
  
• As I sat in the waiting room at the doctor's office today, I realized that I still had the traces of a face drawn on my hand. On the bright side, Molly's grade school-age kids think I'm one of them.
  
  
• I'm planning on another long bath tonight. What are the chances that Thirteen has learned his lesson since going into the water on Wednesday? Rest assured that I will report back if he has not, probably with more pictures.
  
  
• Hallowe'en was super lame again this year. I am hereby promising myself that I will actually make some effort next time.
  
  
• Too much History Channel. I was too lazy to change the channel when they showed a program about the history of saws. Twice. I'm watching a show about kung fu right now and I honestly don't give a fuck. Oh, look, a program about sea monsters. Time to go see if there's any gratuitous nudity on Showtime.
  
  
• General Hospital notes: A big "What the fuck were you thinking?" to Lucky for breaking up what could have been a magnificent bitch fight between Sam and Liz at the Black and White Ball. Two hot chicks in formal dresses are about to rip each other's clothing to shreds out on the veranda and you put a stop to it? I maintain that Lucky is a closeted homosexual; there can't really be any other explanation for his actions.
  
  
• Dear fans of Reverend Horton Heat: Seriously, get over yourselves. The next one of you who feels the need to "educate" me when I speak the name "Brian Setzer" gets a crotchful of that screwdriver I used on the flu naysayer.