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.