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.
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.