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.
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.