Kitty Litter
As I begin this first column, I think back to the days when I was a little girl growing up in Beaverlick, Wyoming, and to what my mother always used to tell us. “Don’t put that in your mouth.” Words to live by. Mom was right. Be careful what you put in your mouth. Also be careful what comes out of your mouth. Are you listening Monica Lewinsky? Opinions are like assholes. Everyone has one.
Some Republicans are one. They’re driving around in Humvees while the President is getting a hummer, and all America thinks is ho-hum. Let’s get on with our lives. I’m tired of my daytime television programs being interrupted by News Flashes that are nothing more than updates that nothing is happening. How the hell am I supposed to see how many pounds Nell Carter added this week on the new “Match Game” when Cokie Roberts is clotting my television screen? And what kind of name is Cokie anyway? I feel sorry for her brother Pepsi.
Now there’s a taste test I wouldn’t mind failing. Anyway, I was talking with my butch girlfriends Pat and Mike, who work at the lesbian chic punk biker hair salon “Dye Bitch Dye.” Pat and Mike are a couple of swell people, and we were discussing this whole Ellen DeGeneres-Anne Heche thing. Are they really taking a year off from their careers? Or are they abandoning Hollywood all together to sell scented candles next summer at the Lilith Faire? As Pat gave a customer a Mohawk with a pink rinse, I complained about Heche’s exposure this year in movies.
Thanks to films like “Girls in Prison,” “Return to Paradise” and “Psycho,” I’ve seen Heche naked more times than Ellen. When she slumped over the tub at the end of her shower scene in “Psycho,” not only did she crack a smile, we got to see her mustache. Please! It’s not that I mind seeing Anne Heche naked, but even I’m tired of her little perky breasts. They’re worse than laser pointers. I remember seeing her in that Harrison Ford film, “6 Days, 7 Nights,” and all I remember is that her nipples kept playing peek-a-boo through her knit top. I wonder if Ellen has to wear safety goggles when they have sex.
I’m not kidding. At least they’re real. I was watching the Golden Globes last night, and I’m not talking about the awards show. Well, they were at the awards show, and they were being handed out. Are big boobs back in fashion, and I’m not talking about studio heads. The bust-lines on some of the dresses at the Golden Globe show should have received an award for best support. At one table was seated Christian Slater, Gloria Stewart and Pamela Lee. It looked like a reunion for the film “Mother, Jugs and Speed.” Lee’s breasts have gotten so big that Playboy Magazine had to separate her recent spread into two issues. She’s not the only one. More and more,
I’m seeing women with breasts that look like they’ve escaped from Woody Allen’s “Everything You Always Wanted To Know About Sex…” I mean, I was at the gym the other day, and this pre-fab blonde was sitting next to me on the rowing machines. I had to ask her three times to keep her breasts on her side. She apologized and said that her husband bought them for her for his birthday. I asked her if he got his penis enlarged for her birthday, and she ran off crying, slapping herself all the way to the locker room. It’s a cruel world.
If a pretty girl is like a melody, then this tune sucks, baby!
