Remember when you were innocent and unspoilt? Remember when you were fermenting your Gerber apple sauce into prison wine via a sippy cup crammed into the radiator, and the lockdown siren went off and you had to crouch under your bunk like some kinda wayward hobo? No? Well KDD does. She hasn’t forgotten the pact you made when she slipped that razor blade under her tongue to keep the screws offa your newbie muhfukin butt when they tossed your cell. So when you see THIS face, youngblood–you better get to steppin’. ‘Cuz the alarm coming out of Kitty DrunkDrunk’s loose-hanging jaw sounds a little like this: WIIIIIiiiiIIIInnnNNNNE!! WIiiIIIINNNnnnEEEEE! She’ll take a nice Chardonnay with overtones of murder please, sommelier.
Can you hear it? Wafting gently like a syphilitic nightingale’s gin-perfumed song adrift on the breeze of sour disapproval? It’s the tinkling melody of exactly ZERO jaws dropping at the news that K DD has returned unaffected from her stretch at the “deprogramming center”. Wherein burly felons were reduced to weepy, girlish hysterics as a result of their failed attempts to inflict “tough love” on our girl K DD, vis-a-vis her brobdignagian alcoholism. Or as she refers to it, her “nicey nicey”. Thrusting helpful pamphlets under her liquor-drenched moosh only served to whip her up into an unfocused rage. Has anyone seen “Mad Dog” Jenkins (aka Prisoner # 112542) from cellblock C recently? No? Really? Well don’t go digging around in K DD’s litter box any time soon. You may just find a scrap of convict-scented buttock skin with a prison tattoo of K DD’s paw print a-mouldering under the Fresh Step. Don’t be squealing, ya stool pigeon. Or you may be next. She will stone cold SHANK you.
Well, that’s what we told Kitty DrunkDrunk at her last intervention anyway. A colossal waste of time, as usual. She spent the whole time putting the moves on what turned out to be a sofa cushion and kept referring to the counselors as “Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch”. The seemingly endless list of people she’s offended with her slatternly escapades had no effect so we’ve started telling her that even celebrities are appalled by her sloppy drunkenness. K DD’s long-term memory is so riddled with blackouts that she has no idea how old she is and we’ve managed to convince her that Beethoven composed this piece in her honor. Just LOOK at how devastated Richter is about the whole situation–and HE went through the Russian Civil War for godssake!. Unfortunately she thinks it sounds “all classy-like” so now she goes around shrieking “That’s MIZZ Pathetique to you!” before slapping your gin and tonic onto the floor and then rolling around in it like Ann-Margaret on that bed full of baked beans from “Tommy”.
You’d think the fact that K DD only has ONE outfit (consisting of her hashish-matted pelt and some grotty “accessories” from the dumpster behind that strip club) would preclude her unwarranted advice regarding the fashion choices of others. THINK AGAIN, CITIZEN! She gets all kinds of queeny when god forbid you should don a festive lounging outfit to watch the Super Max Jail marathon with your hand down your bloomers and try to have a little breather from scrambling about plucking up the glitter-studded dingleberries that K DD leaves around the house like a urine brick road to abject despair. She claims that she used to be a Project Runway consultant but we all know it was just another one of her vodka-induced delusions. Like when she thought she was on American Idol when in actuality, she was just staggering through the car wash again singing “It’s Raining Men” in her “bold soul sister” voice and gesturing grandly to passing hobos as if she were Patti LaBelle.
As if it’s not enough that K DD has trouble working the bottle opener, and her dewclaw gets snagged in the corkscrew– NOW you have to go and make it hard to spark up her morning doobie. I mean, REALLY. You know what happens if she remains lucid for more than a few minutes. Before you know it there’s a “zen garden” on your bedspread made of pee rivulets and cleverly placed piles of litter. It’s because she is “artistic”, or so she keeps telling me. I’m considering a round-the-clock IV drip of box wine just to keep her manageable. You simply have no idea of the daily horrors I endure–being forcibly subjected to endless “pageants” where she attempts to perform adult contemporary hits of the 70s but can never remember anything except for that one ABBA song so she just sings it over and over again until you end up weeping blood.
Every morning is an adventure when you start the day by extracting an unconscious cat from the toilet with a pair of barbecue tongs. Just follow the whimsical trail of lukewarm vomit plops trailing down the hallway and the eye-watering stank of drugstore knock-off Brut cologne. K DD is under the (mistaken) impression that if she douses herself with enough, it will mask the odor of cannabis steaming from her Coors Light-encrusted pelt. Well I can guarantee she will suddenly not be so drowsy when she hears me open the fridge and then she will come tumbling in, waving the sopping toilet brush like a smiting wand, bellowing for chardonnay, which she refers to as “wet food”. Disgraceful.
Today I opened the bathroom cabinet to find that a shitfaced KDD had shoved out all of my toiletries. She said she was working on her “method acting” by reenacting the trash compactor scene from Star Wars but I suspect she just passed out in there thinking it was her old bunk from rehab. Apparently she’s decided to resurrect her community theatre “career” after getting PLOWED on wine spritzers at the sing-along piano bar. Now all she does is practice her appalling cockney accent just in case they decide to do “Oliver”. She still hasn’t figured out that being a groupie is not quite the same as being a cast member and keeps believing that her name is never in the program because of a typo. And P.S. most of her “method” involves pounding a liter of gin and drunkenly hollering show tunes into the corner of her litter box because she claims it has “marvelous acoustics”. Oh PLEASE. This coming from the cat who once did an ear-mangling rendition of “Like A Virgin” from inside a port-a-pottie because she was so wasted she thought it was a go-go cage.
Now whose brilliant idea was it to invite K DD to Karaoke? All she did was pound Kamikazes and fling litter-encrusted poo wads at the other singers. Then she commandeered the microphone and insisted on making up filthy lyrics to that Chuck Mangione song. Guess how many times can you cram the word “twat” into a 3 minute song? I’ll give you a hint: A LOT. Guess who now thinks every flat surface is her personal stage and forces you to watch impromptu “numbers” consisting of her slurring along to EVERY SONG on the soft rock station? I’ll give you a hint: It rhymes with Shitty FunkFunk. The love songs are the worst–she puts on her “tender” face and tries to gently stroke your cheek but she’s so wasted she keeps toppling over, shredding your face to ribbons.
K DD has been staring in dismay at these “wine eggs” she bought from that guy at the bus station for HOURS but they haven’t hatched yet. She’s starting to lose her buzz, dammit! I told her maybe she should try stomping them but she just got indignant and accused me of trying to have an intervention. Don’t tell her but I’m secretly planning one anyway with my support group, “People Who Love Cats Who Love Booze More Than They Love People”. It’s going to be an absolute bloodbath. The last time we tried an intervention she was so wasted she thought it was a Kitty DrunkDrunk celebrity roast and just kept tenting her fingers and smiling and nodding as if our complaints about her horrible behavior were actually amusing, affectionate anecdotes.
You know, all I asked was for Kitty DrunkDrunk to sweep up that mini-desert of spilled Fresh Step surrounding her litter box like a pee pee-soaked alluvial fan. You can see for yourself how far along she got. Apparently her hangover is so severe that slowly decapitating oneself on the edge of a dustpan is preferable to putting paws to broom. She said she was exhausted from spending the entire day at the swim-up bar at the country club but I happen to know that all she did was flail about in the public pool with a 40 of malt liquor shoved in her trunks. Not really the same thing, K DD. And then she tries to tell me that her nose is red from “sunburn” . Oh PLEASE. she’s got more burst capillaries on that shnoz than W.C. Fields.
No, Kitty DrunkDrunk, you’re supposed to tilt your head back and touch your nose with your OWN finger, idiot! Look at her! She can’t even SIT a straight line, let alone walk one! If you look out the window you will see K DD’s purloined scooter which she curb-jumped onto the sidewalk after a full day of pounding tequila with her enormous ex-cellmate from lockup. Apparently she thought she could keep pace with a 400 pound Samoan with a liver the size of K DD’s entire body and you know what? She just mighta done it if they hadn’t been kicked out of JoJo’s Paradise Lounge. It’s not HER fault that dilly broad behind the bar can’t take a joke. I mean, it wasn’t a REAL gun. They were just having a little contest for old times’ sake to see who could carve the most realistic revolver out of soap like they did back in the pokey. You don’t even want to know where the little paper umbrella was shoved when K DD came lurching in the door, singing sea shanties and doing a vulgar little hula.
Apparently K DD’s spirit animal is a nice Chardonnay. She went staggering into Sears to get her head shots done because some guy at the TGIFridays at the mall told her she could be an actress and said to meet him behind the Home Depot for a “screen test”. By the time she left, the poor Sears guy was in absolute TEARS. Nothing in his community college photography class prepared him for the ghostly wine glass shaped aura that appears around her in EVERY SINGLE PICTURE. Eerie, oui?
There comes a time in most evenings, usually after her ninth or tenth cocktail, when K DD’s judgement goes from merely faltering to outright preposterous. It’s somewhere in between the “leaning on the windowsill gazing meaningfully into the rainy evening while sob-singing along to the Annie soundtrack ” portion of the night and the part where she ends up unconscious in a tattered negligee, dangling off the drapes from that one errant claw that never seems to retract right and always gets caught on your sweaters. You know you’re getting close to the danger zone when she turns the lights down low and starts suggestively swiping her margarita salt-coated tongue over her ENTIRE FACE while staring meaningfully into your horrified eyes. I ask you, K DD, what exactly do you think that will accomplish? Time to hang it up, sister.
Quite frankly, Kitty DrunkDrunk resents the implication that she had anything to do with the devastation in the china cabinet. ANYONE could have left that heap of shattered glass in a steaming puddle of Jack Daniels-and-Meow Mix upchuck. I mean, it’s a PINK hammer, for godssake! How much damage could one possibly do with such a gentle tool? Cobble some delicate silk shoes, or mend some gossamer fairy wings, perhaps–but destroy that entire shelf of porcelain “I wuv you THIS much” cherubs? Come ON. Those things would send any reasonable person into a blind, whiskey-fueled rage. Look, she’s even wearing her “sweet” face! Yes, it’s eerily similar to her “DUI” face, but still.
Well that’s just great. Kitty DrunkDrunk has collapsed in my underwear drawer again, mistaking it for the upper bunk of her permanently reserved room at Woozy Puddy Last Chance Rehab. Oh SORRY, I mean, “Rejuvenation Spa”. Like anyone’s going to believe that. Now she’s drunkenly singing the entire Highway to Hell album in an off-key falsetto and periodically hollering for someone to “bring her a fucking cigarette, willya?!” This is why I keep the second drawer empty because it will inevitably be filled with horrid K DD bodily fluids trickling from above like a pungent, gin-and-urine scented spring rain. It’s going to be a great Saturday.
You know, Kitty DrunkDrunk is as patient as the next gal after a gravy boat or two of Wild Irish Rose, but she’s been staring at this blank screen waiting for the movie to start for like, hours now. At first she thought she was getting a preview for some 3-D disaster flick but it turns out she was just repeatedly passing out and bashing her hobo wine soaked muzzle against the “screen”. Which is really the “creepy broken massage chair in that loamy alley behind the hand job parlor”
Well well well. Looks like Kitty DrunkDrunk got herself ahold of some absinthe today. She’s feeling all kindsa funkytown and has spent the last hour going “Have you ever looked at your paws? I mean REAAALLLY looked at your paws?” God! Shut UP, K DD! Your paws are a horror show! There’s like some kind of liverwurst rind perpetually stuck to your dewclaw and I know for a FACT your paw pads taste like pee because you keep shoving them in my sleeping mouth to inform me that it’s breakfast time. Guess what? Breakfast time is not 3 am and doesn’t consist of Jagermeister drizzled over a slab of Fancy Feast.
Hey K DD! Just because my shoes have “air pillow insoles” doesn’t mean you can go passing out in them after a noontime bender at the sailor bar. And guess what? YOUR feet don’t smell all that great either! In fact, they reek of pee-soaked Fresh Step, dollar store knock-off cologne and Wild Turkey which makes me wonder just WHO you’ve been “making the dough” on?! Seriously. Get your drunken moosh outa my kicks and go wash those nasty paws, you tramp.
She’s pretty sure you didn’t mean to reach for her bin of leftover Pad Thai. She’ll just sliiiiide it back over here, ‘kay? Is that all right with you, pretty boy? Hmm, tough guy? See those scraps on the table? Those are patches of skin from the last fool who put their hand out. So don’t even step to her noodles or she will muhfuckin HAVE you. And that’s not just drunk talk. Like when she sings the lyrics to “Ease On Down the Road” to you all sexy-like. Eew.
Kitty DrunkDrunk did some hard time in the pokey and her thousand-yard stare recommends you back away from her stash of radiator wine or she will CUT you, man! Seriously, you have NO IDEA how much contraband she can fit up her “cavity”. One time an old Betamax machine came flying out of there while she was flailing around doing some wasted Riverdancing in the kitchen. Followed by DOZENS of switchblades and packs of Newports. It’s like she’s forgotten how to live on the “outside”.