thepissedkitty

On Monday, I will resume with the airing of my soiled underpants, but first I want to know what you people traditionally eat for Christmas/New Year’s. I don’t think Hannukah/Kwanzaa varies that much…oily latkes/fried chicken and watermelon, right…?

*POW*! …I deserved that lynching.

But really, what do you eat? On Christmas, my family enjoys Mexican food. You know, because we are white as driven snow, only somewhat soiled by the underlying dirt and dog pee of our ethnicity, which is none, that I know of. At least I’m half (more like three-fourths) Jewish, otherwise I would have no chin or other facial features. Some of my cousins look like Bobby Hill. But because we were whelped, puppy-like, in South Texas, we have enchiladas, tamales, and beans for Christmas. And also shrimp, but we have that for every holiday (our cholesterol is through the roof), but we have to hide some of it from the ravenous Bobby Hill Bros., or no one else will get any - including Blowhard Uncle Scott, who complains every year that it tastes “fishy” while simultaneously shoveling it into his mouth with a forklift.

IF IT TASTES FISHY, WHY ARE YOU EATING IT THEN, B.U.S.?! NO ONE IS TWISTING YOUR ARM. Besides, your family’s contribution to this meal was an anemic-looking plate of crudités (or “green thangs”, as you call them) or, maybe if you are feeling posh that year, some deviled eggs. SO SHUT THE FUCK UP. I SUPPOSE NEXT YEAR, YOU ARE GOING TO COMPLAIN THAT THE SHRIMP TASTES TOO SHRIMPY…?!

Fucking windbag.

Aherm.

Then my uncle Bob jumps on me ‘cuz I don’t eat beef every day, for every meal. And he has the gut and colon to prove it. Nice. They aren’t even kidding on “King of the Hill”, folks. But back to the food.

The tamales we have to stand in line for, and take a number (they get very busy at Christmas!) and when you come out of the tamale shop, you smell like a freaking tamale, and six short, but virile, Mexican men named Paco follow you home and attempt to impregnate you. All in all, not a bad deal.

I have heard of other families who, as befitting their heritage and/or regional specialty, have raclette or curry or even sushi, or pizza or lasagna for Christmas, and I am exceedingly jealous. Who needs all the hoo-ha with the Tofurkey and the real, dead bird and the giblets (fancy-talk for “guts”) and the stuffing, which you probably just hauled out for Thanksgiving, anyway? (Besides, Italian food is already decorated festively in red and green, and is not so likely to cause flatulence.)

Then, on New Year’s Eve (for good luck, I think), we eat blackeyed peas, but they are a bit crunchy…especially Fergie.

С Новым годом!
Er…Happy New Year…!?

TRADITION…!

Nothing much going on over here. Work has slowed to a half-hearted trickle, so I thought it was safe to come in all decked out in my fat pants with the bent pocket flaps on the ass which make it look like my butt can fly, ill-fitting Disneyland reject t-shirt, no makeup, and my favorite retarded lesbian clodhoppers, and wouldn’t you know it - the ONE attractive person in the building decides to show up, after all.

Goddamnit.

Otherwise, I’m still trying to detox from the eternal douchebaggery that is The Family Experience.

I have a perfectly nice family, actually. Except for the killings.

Other than that, I am tying up loose ends, such as:

1) Trying to get Stupid (foster) Kitty back from being boarded at a chihuahua rescue (don’t ask.) Yes, my second job is pussy farming. What’s it to you.
2) Getting refills on the neighbor’s cat’s eye medication, which she let run out. By the way, my “incentive” for this, since she’s never around to take care of my cats, is the use of her car, except a) she needs an oil change, and b) she “forgot” to leave me the keys. Plus the feline is a cat asshole. Periodically, he bites me out of nowhere just for not being his mom.
3) Trying to manage my mom and grandma’s feral cat colonies. Cranky’s mom gave me a page-a-day cat calendar. I even can’t look at it. I have nightmares about kittens.
4) Feeling overwhelmed with my mom’s situation. Haterading my dad.
5) Looking for a hippie cure for arthritis.
6) Trying to explain to Mom the concept of unlimited mobile-to-mobile minutes and general cell phone usage, which she’s not quite grasping. It’s cute.
7) Fighting with Cingular about not being able to change her number to a TX area code while retaining her on my family plan. FAMILIES CAN LIVE IN DIFFERENT STATES, ASSHOLES.
Buying embarrassing iTunes.
9) Contemplating decorating anyone’s office who is still on vacation with pink Hello, Kitty streamers regardless of age, gender, or sexual orientation. Then eating their holiday gifts which keep arriving, anyway.
10) Ignoring my burgeoning belly and consuming my mom’s brownies in the bathtub in a depressed manner.
11) Reading a book about being the fat chick and plotting violent retaliation on the next person who pokes me in the belly like The Pillsbury Doughboy (DIE.)
12) Bidding on a crystal butter dish on Ebay because my grandmother wants one for some unknown reason. Christ, but some of them are ugly. It looks like the Queen shat on a UFO or something.

Now try to beat that for uninterestingness. Go on, I dare you fudgesniffers.

Trip was a disaster area, but not a total write off. For example, I got stuck in Greyhound Fuckdom/shuttle bus hell/South Texas drug bust/high speed chase nightmare. I did not project venturing out of L.A. only to deal with worse traffic.

So the day was shot to hell but I was nonetheless pleased to see my family and grandparents. They make me laugh.

Everyone is old, and seems to have aged exponentially in the past 8? months since I’ve been home - especially my maternal grandfather and the dog, who are both semi-blind and incontinent. (I know, I am making this sound like a dream vacation.)* Two of my aunts have been exerting pressure on my grandmother to put Nicky (they call him “Icky”) down for no offense other than being old and smelly. Okay, so he looks a little like a cross between Jenner from The Secret of NIMH, Gollum, and a min-pin, but still…

The next disaster area was when I traveled to South “Drug Bust” Texas, and was about to haul my generous ass all the way back up north to see my father, only to discover that the wayward sperm donor had flown to L.A. recently and didn’t even call me. Again. My cute ex-nun aunt laughed that last time the bastid did this, he told them all specifically not to tell me, but “this time he didn’t say.” What a massive ass he is. Now my grandpa, the good father, is irate with my sweet aunt. This is not logical. I am glad she told me, because I am tired of feeling like a chump. I just don’t know what to do about him. I have tried and tried to have some semblance of a relationship with him (after all, he appears to be actively parenting my half-sister) but it is completely one-sided, and I am sick of being dissapointed and hurt time after time. And by the way? He came out to visit my douchebag cousins - one of whom is - get this - a therapist.

I guess her so-called therapeutic advice was for him to ignore me like the red-headed stepchild I am. Nice.

Well, if any of you have any ideas of what would be truly therapeutic for me - I cannot care about him at this point as he clearly never takes my feelings into consideration - let me know. Cranky’s suggestions all involve violence, and as I’ve told him before, you cannot go through life punching people in the face. It’s just not realistic. However, I have been enjoying a “therapeutic” fantasy involving a carefully worded note, a piece of my ex-cousin’s furniture, an axe, and the obstruction of her driveway. Sigh.

Anyway, thank you all in advance for helping me laugh about this utter bullsh*t. I hope your holidays were better, and if they were worse, I want to hear about it. Hell. I’m just thankful nobody wound up in the hospital this time.

*I read an article which counseled, “stop thinking of your trip home as a vacation.”

Good idea.

What the hell did I think I was doing, staying up half the night before my departure scarfing esophagus-raping spicy Chinese and buying iTunes until my eyeballs feel like they’re about to pop right out of my head…?

Barring any eye-poppage, my head may explode tomorrow upon reaching cruising altitude if I don’t take a decongestant now, which will probably knock me out so that I don’t wake up in time for the flight, anyway.

By the way, the Sudafed is behind the counter these days, so once you fork over $10, you have to promise the pharmacist you’re over 18 and are not going home to cook it up in your under-the-sink meth lab.

Merry, merry Critmas.

I’m not spell checking this puppy, either.

You people are on your own.

Someday, little children, soon, I will be going to a land far, far away, with no electricity, indoor plumbing, or internet access…a land that smells of beer and sawdust…a land called “Texas.”

Aiiieee…!

…so I hope to give you enough jackoff material to tide you over until my return (or imminent demise) from this fearful place. I hope it won’t be long.

To this end, the bashful and demure Toxic Twat (who came to us through that even more blushing, shrinking violet, Nugget Maven) reminded me of the beloved Pornolizer, so I just had to go and chuck some Xmas carols through it. You know how much I love Xmas (horrid clanging) carols. Also, I am lazy and immature.

Here are some of the best corruptions:

The “Sniff-my-Ass” Twelve Fucks of Christmas, also known as The “Son of a Whore” Twelve Muff Sniffs of Cuntlicks, don’tcha know:

My true love gave to me:
Two turtle doves,
and a partridge in a titty fucking pear tree. Now that’s useful-!

On the third day of Christmas,
My true love gave to me:
Three french hens,
Two turtle cuntlicks,
and a sex fighting partridge in a pear tree. Everybody was pigeon sex-fighting…

Six geese a-aardvarking, “Aardvark” is a bad word? This is news to me.
Five golden cocksucks! Update: now the turtles are sex-fighting.

On the felching seventh day of Christmas,
My true love gave to me:
Seven sucks a-thrusting,
Six geese a-fucking,
Five golden sex fights! I am so glad there is now a word for what I do with certain men.
Four browning fingerfucks, OH…!!!
Three French fucks,
Two turtle doves,
and a entering partridge in a dripping pear tree.

Four calling unclefucks… (!!!) Doesn’t everybody have a dirty uncle, though…?

Eight spews a-smooching,
Seven barfs a-swimming,
Six geese a-dripping, OK. This is getting too graphic for me now. Let’s move on to the next carol, shall we…?

Two turtle felchs, (Shouldn’t that be “felches”?)

Eight ballbusts a-milking… I said, NEXT-!

Eleven pipers wad pulling… Um, why are they still here?
Ten lords a-sucking,
Nine ladies asslicking,
Eight maids a-cuntlapping,
Seven licks a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
FIVE GOLDEN COCKRINGS!!!!
Four creaming birds,
Three French bims,
Two turtle farts,
and a partridge in an ass tree.

On the jerking twelfth day of Christmas,
My true love gave to me:
Twelve drummers aardvarking That’s it. I’m leaving.
Eleven wanks a-smooching,
Ten assfucks leaping,
Nine ladies dancing,
Eight dicksmacks a-milking,
Seven fistfucks a-swimming,
Six geese a-laying,
FIVE GOLDEN COCKRINGS!!!
Four call girls,
Three French balls,
Two turtle asswhacks,
and a partridge in a wanking pear tree. PEAR TREES DO NOT WHACK OFF…!!!

Fuck this. I’ll finish tomorrow. All this horny poultry and plant sex is pissing me off.

Since when do we let super (-mutant, space alien) models talk?

This was a very bad idea.

I hate these damned Victoria’s Secret commercials worse than anything else about this holiday season. Plus they run during freaking prime freaking time, which is not that late, and I fear generations of little warped girls and boys will see them and grow up to think that this is what human bodies are supposed to look like, fueling yet another era of self hatred and slice ‘n dice plastic surgery in filth-encrusted operating rooms in Mexico.

Wasn’t it bad enough they had to run their giant skank panty parade runway show on network television, as if they haven’t already toilet papered the world with their soft-core porn-alogues?!? And as if it was really high drama when some 14 year-old bim named Natasha lost her shoe on the runway? Do even the men beating off to this for free care about a goddamned shoe? Okay, maybe the foot fetishists, but honestly, people - again, with the sacril-icious “sexy” angel wings, and A BRA MADE ENTIRELY OUT OF CANDY?! You can’t tell me they’re not trying to corrupt the impressionable youth of America.

And that was just the tittyfucking fashion show, and now these blueball-inducing commercials. Like anyone would really be walking down the butt-cold street in a bra and panties, on fire.

Please, just gas me if I have to watch that strobe light flash in Gisele’s crotch one more freaking time, or hear her so-cute-it-is-impossible-to-hate-her hipless mutant voice.

Or that one in the Santa suit (who thankfully isn’t allowed to speak) fellating her Victoria’s Secret gift card. Not too subtle, adver-teaser schlongs.

Plus this whole, “give me sexy” thing has got to go.

I cannot presume to speak for all women, but I’ll tell you what I really want.

Give me money.
Give me bangs for Tyra Banks’ giant, bulbous forehead.
Give me canoes for her giant pontoon feet.
Give me flying buttresses for her massive, sagging, natural (racial slur) boobs.
Give me a blindfold so that no man ever sees this commercial and compares my body to those of these genetic flukes.
Give me a heterosexual boyfriend for Gisele Büüündchen so she will get knocked up and go away, already.
Give me your wallet and a passport so I can go to darkest Africa deep butt-loving Latin America, where I will seem skinny and exotic like these stupid ass women whose noses are bigger than their brains and whose legs are longer than their life spans, who should all be sent back to their respective countries of origin immediately and forced to work in the fields until their nails break and their backs hunch over and they have to wear a babushka and marry the local pipefitter just to have an actual meal that they actually need now to do actual work which requires energy and half a brain.

I know, I know. “Settle down, Fatty.”

Okay, FINE. Give me sexy.
Give me a tarp.

Now that I’ve spent a considerable amount of time shopping for holiday poo for people who are suddenly not coming to Xmas, much to my mother and grandmother’s dismay (they already bought a buttload of food and etc.), I’m a little over it.

Also? I am not even a Christian, so what the hell.

In light of all that, and the current push towards non-denominationalism, I would like to propose altering the names of the following “festive” holiday carols accordingly:

“Silver Bells” = Sister Hell
“We Wish You A Merry Christmas” = We Wish You Would Go Somewhere Else.
“Away in a Manger” = Where is My Wallet?
“Have a Holly, Jolly Christmas” = Self-Medicating With Food and Liquor
“Angels We Have Heard on High” = Here Comes Your New White Coat.
“O Come, O Come, Emmanuel” = Manuel Goes to the Company Christmas Party.
“O Tannenbaum” = Her Tan is Fake.
“In Dulci Jubilo” = Good Night, Julio.
“It Came Upon A Midnight Clear” = RU486
“What Child Is This?” = Oopsie.
“I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus” = Adultery Time
“Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” = Perverted, Drunk Uncle Bill
“Do They Know It’s Christmas?” = We Are Not Aware of More than One World Religion.
“All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth” = Redneck Christmas
“Ding Dong Merrily on High” = Drop Your Dong on Heather’s Head, For She is Drunk.
“Babes in Toyland” = A Hooker for Xmas
“I Wonder As I Wander” = Where’s the Designated Driver?
“Here We Come a-Wassailling” = We’ve Got to Whiz.
“While Shepherds Watched their Flocks by Night” = WTF?
“Do You Hear What I Hear?” = Is Something on Fire?
“We Three Kings Of Orient Are” = The Chinese Food is Here.
“The Little Drummer Boy” = What Kind of a Sadistic Bastard Would Give a Percussion Instrument to a Small Child?
“Last Christmas” = Guess What? I Am Gay.
“Deck the Halls” = Don’t Punch the Wall
“Carol of the Bells” = Festival of Smells
“Jingle Bell Rock” = Single Hell Crock
“Silent Night” = Silent Fart

Fun, food, and overextending of ourselves and our wallets, then getting severely annoyed. The true meaning of the holidays.

I think we can all agree on that.

(Well, it is to me, but I’m not well.)

Am I hideously wrong for thinking this is funny…? (In the more extensive coverage I saw on the news, the girl claimed she merely wished to write “Merry Christmas” in snow on the windshield; the neighbor thought she was vandalizing his car. And who can blame him? Damn miscreants.) I mean, just picture it:

GIRL: Tra la la la la, Merry Christmas everybody-!
PAINTBALL: Whack…! SPLAT.
GIRL: Ow…my eye!

Sorry. I’m already starting to o.d. on holiday spirit.

Also, I spent 3 hrs. at the vet last night, reading People magazine - a surefire way to cause brain death - during which, I reaffirmed the following:

Rich white trash is gross.

She scares me. Yeah, I dig her chili, but if she could just…calm down a little.

MySpace is creepy.

(What did they really expect to happen? Gun and knife enthusiasts who are also religious whackos who also have angry, kidnappy teenagers in the house = bad mix. Not that anyone deserved to die here, but Jesus. (Exactly.) And as for the girl’s poor parents…well, they baptized her in a hot tub. Of course she was going to pubertate too soon. I’m not sayin’ she’s a skank, but she gives a whole new meaning to “Amber Alert.” Sheesh.)

Come on in, the hellwater’s fine…!

I am sick, but rather than staying in bed (like an intelligent person), listening to Mr. Mucus rattle around in my chest, I’m swigging NyQuil, getting all hopped up on cough syrup, and singing deviations of “Jingle Bells” everywhere I go. This is extremely stupid, and results in junk like the following.

Regarding the cat:

Hairy ass-!
Hairy ass-!
Hairy, hairy ass…!
Hairy, hairy dingleberry
Hairy, hairy ass…HEY!

and, hiking in the park:

I really hate L.A.
what cruddy, smoggy mess
We only have three seasons:
Fire, Ant, and Dirt

Slipping on the rocks
skidding in the crud
What fun it is to slip and fall and skin my knee in dirt.
O! Jingle smog, sidewalk hog, won’t you curb your dog…?

And later, back at the office:

Jingly crock!
Big, fat, cock!
Fuck me in the ass…!
You’re a big fat corporate whore
and you have bitch tits…tweak!

Jingle crick,
Corporate dick
Someone call HR
The bastid’s whack
Showed me his crack
And now I’ve got to barf-!

What am I, twelve…?

You may either have my apologies, or just make your own, you sick holiday fucks.

More like nuclear fallout, but I’m trying not to exaggerate so freaky-damn much.

Attempting to cram too many social obligations into one week has only resulted in bloodshot eyes, muscle aches, a piss-poor attitude, and my throat feels like I’ve been forcibly facefucked by King Kong and all his pals (Mothra, Godzilla, The Jolly Green Giant, The Abominable Snowman, and Arnold Schwarzenegger.)(Whoops, there goes that exaggeration thing, but yeah, it’s not good.)

Someone actually flipped out on me last night because I begged off of going to their gathering which I had never promised to attend, anyway. Pray tell, what’s so hard to understand about “I’m sick“?! Fucking obnoxious.

As for the company party, the ever-so-slightly undersized blouse was pretty much totally ineffectual. Not being from fake-assed California, I’m still unaccustomed to this sort of lukewarm male response (except for Julio), and am ready to move to Alaska or somewhere men notice you’re a woman even if you aren’t semi-falling out of your top. In fact, they’d probably go batshit over a shapely ankle - let alone someone wearing a dainty garment as a shirt.*

Pack your bags, girls.

*Beware of wardrobe malfunction: lace and beaded items do not mix. Some tarted-up bleach blonde got caught in the lacy ties on the back of my blouse with her skankadelic silver-beaded stripper shirt from Clothestime. “Excuse me, I’m caught…in your ass!”**

**Sadly, not the first time someone’s said that to me.

One more week, folks. Uno (1) week until my “vacation”*** starts, just in time to avoid a complete mental meltdown in public.

***For fun, I think I’m going to start a rumor that I’m going to Canada to have my vagina removed.