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.
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.