thepissedkitty

I cannot describe to you how much I loathe K.F.C. commercials (fuck you chicken abusers if you think you can lure me in with your narsty “flavor station” spooge and your free apple pie), but this recent one they’re running to death is the worst.

First of all, they obviously hired the director’s girlfriend, or similar, to play the mom. She does not look like a mom. Okay, well, maybe in Arkansas. But anyway, she doesn’t exactly look like she’s been consuming fried chicken by the bucketful in between birthin’ them babies.

Which is not to say I think she is hot, either. Also, she could not act her way out of a used, discarded Kleenex box full of wet hair.

I hate everything about this commercial. Nothing appeals to me. Especially this so-called mom, who I find intensely irritating.

Is it her overplucked eyebrows? The cutesy little ro sham bo motion she makes with her wrists holding the felt-tipped markers? Her stoopid ponytail? The way she fakes eating the fried chicken while looking warily around at her three fake “children”, her creepy Karen Carpenter eyes just begging for the take to be over so she can yak into the spit bucket…? Oh yes. It is all of these things, plus something else I can’t quite put my finger-lickin’ (gross) finger on.

And then, her scary, Aryan Nation, Heather O’ Rourke (R.I.P.) in Poltergeist but creepier “child” reacts to “…get it? Blue? Bluebirds? Dur…?” with “Mom, what color is dinner?!” (in a smart alecky tone that would have gotten me slapped six shades of purple when I was her age), her freaky, blue-bluebirds-blue eyes riveted to The Pro-Animal Cruelty Refrigerator Magnet of Cancer-Ridden Death. Oh, how I abhor them all.

And then, with the theme song. Oh, god no. Not the theme song. If I ever even liked “Sweet Home Alabama” pre-Bo Bice, it is so, so very dead to me now. Plus, Len-nerd Skin-nerd is probably rolling over in their respective graves - they have ironed out the rock-ness into a bland, commercial ditty, save for some bizarre chicken-death-rattle type noise, and the rollicking piano part, which only serves to make me want to kill, Kill, KILL…!

I have, like, dog ears for that shit. Maybe it is supposed to make you hungry for chicken, but personally, it makes me bloodthirsty for human flesh. Like the bland, pliant, yielding, maddeningly juicy skin of that bad TV mother. (Funny…tastes like Church’s!)

Yes, I want her poultry-consuming, khaki chinos-wearing ass dead. Deader than those poor abused KFC chickens they use as basketballs. Stone. Cold. D.E.D.

Thank you, and Happy Halloween.
-Psycho Chicken Commercial Killer.

Sorry I’ve been away. I’ve been pervving on the dogcam.

One of my friend’s dogs went to doggie daycare and I’ve been captivated by their playground webcam.

Here, we see Rod checkin’ out the laydeez.

You can also see some indoor views of schnauzers being shaved, etc…which has got to be some perv’s dream. But the little dogs are too hyper (and also, I suspect, “overly aggressive tire biters” - the owner), so sometimes they just look like little blurs:

Personally, I prefer the intense, pack-like dynamic of the big dog’s playground:

Which is to say, a lot of peeing.

Then, the pooper scooper would come through.

No, I did not get a picture of the pooper scooper. You people think I have all day for this horseshit…?!

Er.

Rod was bad so he had to go to jail:

Then, to add insult to injury, one dog would come and lift his leg on his door, then another one…then of course they all had to do it. Poor Rod…

…while the other dogs were romping and playing, and hey -NO HUMPING-! But I guess he behaved himself, because later he was set free…NAKED! The End.

I think Rodney had a fun time at camp. However, if I had my druthers, I’d go here. They have a doggie Zen Den and aromatherapy massage-!

Maybe, if I convinced them I’m an Afghan hound, I’d even get a haircut for cheap.

I’ve been like Lollybloggin’ Schmee of late. Don’t know where my mind is.

Possibly up my a**.

Or somebody else’s.

How are you? I am fine.

My cat scratched an Indian head nickel-sized area off his rump. My other one has bad dandruff. Can you wash a cat with Head & Shoulders? I shall find out now-!

…hrm. Don’t see it in their FAQ. But it says here that dandruff is generally caused by:

Malassezia, believed to be the leading cause of dandruff, is a naturally occurring fungus on the skin and is very difficult, if not impossible, to completely eliminate. However, consistent use of Head & Shoulders shampoo can help prevent and control the fungus and its flaky by-products.

“…flaky by-products”…?!

I think I just threw up.

Personally, I think it’s caused by lack of scrïtchy.

Er…also? On their Hungarian site, you can enjoy the following:

1) What appears to be a graphic of a man with giant dandruff flakes flying off his head, and
2) Play “The Dandruff Game.” I am just guessing this is what it’s called because I don’t sprik Hungarian.
3) I think I just threw up again.

Only trouble is, I can’t find a program to translate the instructions for play. I’ve figured out how to use the arrow keys to aim and the space bar to fire, but the dandruff buggers and gross, frowny flakes (”Mr. Korpa”) just seem to keep multiplying…oh no! How will I gonosz my gombat?! Now my korpát will never be megesemmisítetted…!

If you are a passing Hungarian, please to translate. Until then, I remain,

One Sad, Flakey Közülük.

Fejbőrén.

P.S. On the up(-chuck)shot, since I can’t understand it, there is much less throwing up-!

After reading of Anne and Sergei’s recent comic mishaps, I just had to add my own link to this flying dingleberry chain of events.

It happened the other week, while I was working out. I know, that’s what I get for even thinking about becoming physically fit.

My girlfriend and I were with this cyborg/trainer type behind her apartment building. We put all our girly goop down on this pic-i-nic table for the duration of our torture session.

Just as I opened my mouth to bitch that the guy on a lower balcony was smoking in my airspace, it started to rain, warm droplets sprinkling innocently down on our upturned faces. Or so we thought. And time, for the next half-minute or so, slowed way the fuck down, to match my molasses-like thought process:

First, I noticed that the rain cloud seemed rather confined to the area directly above the pic-i-nic table, and more specifically, on my girlfriend’s satchel.

Then, I noticed that the rain “cloud” only seemed interested in the third floor balcony.

Then, I noticed that the “cloud” had a penis.

Then, I noticed that the body attached to the penis looked rather like a dog’s.

Then, I noticed that the dog-schlong cloud’s leg was lifted.

Then, I noticed that said rain was not purple, but yellow, as the late afternoon sunlight was captured in the glow of the sudden unsolicited golden doggie shower. It was cinematic, baby.

At which point someone had the wherewithal to say, “IT’S A DOG-!” and we chuckled helplessly, watching his horse-like bladder finish doing its duty on our stuff for the next three minutes and 30 seconds. It was clear that this überdog of sorts had not been outside all day.

Then, my friend debated trying to salvage her bag, and the smoking guy tossed us a roll of paper towels while admitting he’d always wondered why his balcony ledge was sticky…

So remember, kids. If you’re a bored, resentful indoor dog, learning to lift your leg off the 3rd floor balcony = fun for the whole family.

But not so much for the guy who lives below you.

Also, it would be nice if every grey satchel had a silver rubber lining.

The End.

I just read an online article that, while hilarious, hits a little too close to the home. I can only hope it is intended as a parody, like The Onion or Poopycaca.com, but somehow, I suspect it’s not too far from the truth. People are just that stupid. (Oh, wait…it says “Right Wing News” - this explains everything!)

Ahem.

Let me explain myself.

1) Someone at work compared me to a Tasmanian Devil, I suspect because he wants to drag me into a burrow, kicking and screaming, by the scruff of my neck, where he intends to mate with me for hours at a time, for three days, thrusting his sperm into me every 20 mins. until I give birth to 20 or 30 embryos which will follow a trail of Reese’s Pieces into my pouch…ahem.

How nice-!

2) I used to work for a wildlife refuge, where we dealt with rescues from asshole exotic animal owners all the time (including Baylor University, which unceremoniously - and with no supporting donation - dumps a new beer-swilling bear every time their “mascot” gets too large/ferocious/alcoholic/old; and some insanely evil prick who thought it would be “cute” to have a jaguar cub to go with his Jaguar car, until she, being a wild (translation: WILD) animal, decided to tear up his interior leather seating. At which point, he hit her over the head with a lead pipe, crushing her sinus cavities, and deposited her with us to live out her sad, very un-wild life with severe breathing difficulties.

So I think we’ve established THAT I HATE THESE FUCKING ASSHOLES who keep wild animals as pets in some twisted quest to transform their failing, withered egos & sex organs into jungle beasts. I suspect they do this because these wild and wondrous creatures make them feel “special” by proxy when in reality THERE IS NOTHING SPECIAL ABOUT THEM AT ALL. This never ends well. Plus I will fucking kill them. Someday…sigh.

In the meantime, please enjoy John T. Hawkin’s (hopefully mostly fictitious) article on Tasmanian Devils. Like myself, they are apparently the IDEAL pets-! Except for the following:

*they can bite through steel “if startled” and “have jaws so powerful, they could crush an elephant’s skull like a coconut in a vise”
*they will leave a slimy, greasy green trail of “ooklaboocha” all over everything
*Ooklaboocha?
*they hate water and baths
*they will go into a psychotic, Gremlin-like rage if exposed to water, bright light, or fed after midnight
*if they do get wet, they break out in “huge, festering green rashes” that “take months to heal”
*Ooklaboocha?!
*They may become “confused” and run in circles endlessly and smash into walls at full speed
*They will eat garbage (good)
*They will eat corpses (bad)
*They will eat your brat sister (good) and also your grandmother (bad) and your cat, dog, iguana, elephant, unborn child, etc.
*They may be “startled” by anything such as “turning on a tv, flipping on a light switch, talking, standing up, children’s laughter, or looking at them.”
*Ooklaboocha?!?!!!

You fucking exotic “pet” owners all deserve what you have coming to you. I mean, how many squirrels do you have to have chewing off the buttons on your remote control before you finally see the light?! George Bush, Jr. sure left ooklaboocha all over everything, and you people still love him-! DO YOU IGNORANT DUMBFUCKS NEVER LEARN?! Apparently not-!

I hope you all die horrific, mangled deaths, covered in ooklaboocha. But please, do not take these beautiful, innocent creatures with you out of your warped sense of wonderment.

YOU DIE NOW. Ooklaboocha. I mean it-! Don’t make me take off my belt.

Poor Cranky…today:

1) He’s 44
2) He got not one, but two parking tickets
3) He is sitting on a grapefruit
4) We got rear-ended just now.

This is the second time I’ve been rear-ended when someone was giving me a ride.

If you would like to be rear-ended, you may take me for a ride in your car.

Birthdays suck. If you go out on your birthday, you should do so in a bubble.

It still amazes me…the variety of oddball and sometimes inflammatory items I receive in the mail. AT WORK. Somehow, even in the orifice, this stuff finds its pervvy way to me. And yet the packages I send never seem to arrive at their destination. Go figure.

Yesterday, for instance, I received this “free gift”:

Hey, thanks, Herb Wesson. I actually needed a potholder.
This is almost as good as the late, great Jake Pickle’s squeeky pickle handouts.

Thanks for all your work with Planned Parenthood, too. You definitely have my vote, providing no drag queens or Anna Nicole Smith are in the running.

Then, there’s this:

I find the pricing of this seminar rather ironic.

And last, but not least…

The recipient of this glossy brochure would like to remain anonymous. I think the face here says it all:

Er…I will just say that I am now having difficulty in passing my male co-workers without thinking about the size of their prostates (”did you know that the prostate is the power switch that turns the penis on and off?! Well?! DID YOU?! BUY!!! THE MOST POWERFUL RELIEF for men since Adam took his first pee-! PROTECT THIS FAMILY JEWEL! DID YOU KNOW?! there’s a spot on your prostate gland that triggers an instantaneous erection when your partner tickles it? All she needs to do is find a tiny area located just below your testicles…and that’s just one example of how a healthy prostate POWERS YOUR PENIS!!!” Uhh…yeah.

I’m wondering if I can sue this brochure for sexual harassment in the workplace. Or perhaps this potholder…er…prostate holder?

Squeeky, squeeky.

I’ve always been fascinated by food stylists. Used to live with one.

However, I did not mean to stumble upon this “recipe”.

We’ve all heard that to simulate puke for television & film, vegetable soup works fine. Preferably Campbell’s Extra Chunky.

However, in order to make it smell like 3 day-old puke in a college frathouse (for atmospheric realism, or just plain evil), do the following:

1.) Concoct a bowl of papier-mâché.
2.) Make a giant donut out of the poo, an inner tube, and some chicken wire.
3.) Step 2 is totally unnecessary, but this is what he did.
4.) Conveniently forget the bowl in the back of your habitation, on top of the dryer, for one week.
5.) Then, ask your girlfriend, “what smells like puke?”

I’m just sayin’.

Anyway, we cannot be held responsible for any foul (har) play which stems from the use of this vile formula.

Enjoy.

Is this the puss of a cold-blooded killer…?

…no. Too stoOpid.

But what about this sketchwad?

Possibly…also too stoOpid. But…

BUSTED!!!

You do the crime…

…you gotta do the time.

Unless…

One of my highly skilled, heavily compensated responsibilities here at the H’wood (that’s Hollywood, for short) Insane Asylum for Entertainment Types Who Have Snapped is putting out the dailies. The dailies are Industry speak for little rags like Variety and The Hollywood Reporter which detail who was hired for what project and who is funding what flim (yes, I said FLIM, that’s drunk-editor-at-4-a.m. speak for film), like the Wall St. Journal of entertainment, except with better pictures.

They also report on how various FLIMS are doing at the box office, or B.O. for short, because there’s only so much column space available, you see. And also because it sounds like gangsta rap. Chill.

Here are some examples of the headlines about the B.O. (does your ‘wood have o’seas B.O.? Thas’ yo’ problem.):

Big B reigns at the BO! I wouldn’t be so proud of that, if I were him.
BOFFO AT THE B.O. I thought Socko had the B.O.
Heads roll at the B.O. That bad, huh.
Weekend B.O. Apparently, a lot of people don’t wash on the weekend.
Titanic’s B.O. grosses…me out?
The good and bad about the B.O. There’s good B.O.? This is news to me.
Binge And Purge at the B.O. Well, that’s one way of doing it…personally, I purge after smelling dog business.
“Torrente 3: The Protector” broke Spanish B.O. records - if only Torrente The Protector were an underarm deodorant…
$80 million, that is still fairly low considering the BO…for $80 mil, who cares about the B.O.?
A Less Than Heavenly Weekend at the B.O. Well, I should think so.
Gigli’s failure at the B.O. That J.Lo bitch can’t even stank right.
Matrix didn’t do so well at the B.O. One would think this would be a good thing, but no.
Why isn’t The Hulk doing well at the B.O. Surprising. I always thought that green, sweaty dude would stink up the place. Why is he green, anyway? Is there a slime mold growing on his junk or what…?
B.O. heating up for Wallace That’s what happens when Wallace wears those hairy sweaters.
Greeks unleashed at the B.O. Bad idea. Everyone knows Greeks are notoriously smelly, and should be kept on leashes.
OH GOD NO!: Kangaroo Jack is #1 at the B.O. Kangaroos: also smelly.
‘Van Helsing’ makes a killing at the B.O. Vampires are even smellier. Undead B.O. is the worst.

I hope you all have a good weekend in your box. Er. O.