DavisMcDavis's Xanga

Tweet Tweet, Muthafunker!

Mon, 22 Jun 2009 12:18:31 GMT

My friend Toddles gave me an idea I'm going to try out:

That is all.

Soylent Kirstie

Mon, 11 May 2009 19:27:50 GMT

Concepcion cut the engine and shifted into neutral as she pulled into the driveway, but it was no matter: Kirstie had heard. In the same way a person's other sensory abilitlies heighten when deprived of sight, Kirstie's hearing had become disturbingly acute as her hunger had grown to its present ravenous proportions. The door to the mansion flew open, and Kirstie burst forth, hair waving in the wind, like a double-sized Birth of Venus, but wearing stained Juicy Couture sweatpants and flip flops.

"Did you get them?" Kirstie squawked to Concepcion.

In a flash, Kirstie's features became eerily evil and doglike, her slavering jowls dripping with saliva, her canines visibily lengthening until they stuck out of her gaping maw, and as she galloped out of the doorway she morphed into a werewolf, running full tilt towards the driver's side of the Escalade in which Concecpion sat cowering holding a thick stack of People magazines.

Concepcion was returning from her daily run to Kirstie's P.O. Box in downtown Burbank, where she had picked up what scant fan mail Kirstie got these days, a residuals check from Star Trek: The Next Generation, and Kirstie's magazine subscriptions.

Concepcion was quite a sight in full daylight. After all these years of working for Kirstie, she resembled nothing more than a Podling from Jim Henson's The Dark Crystal, only even more potato-like, if that was even possible. She had a body shaped like an apple, a skull like a yam, and a face like a mocassin.

But strikingly, above all this old, starchy dried-up womanhood sprouted the most luscious mane of jet-black wavy hair, the one small source of joy in Concepcion's tortured life with Kirstie. She had arranged her hair, as she did every day when she went to the post office, in a remarkable set of beribboned double braids in an exact recreation of the cover photograph her most favorite record album of all time, Linda Ronstandt's Mas Canciones. It was also this selfsame CD that she blared on endless repeat as she made the daily journey to the Post Office, remembering, of course, to turn down the volume well away from Alley Mansion, in order to avoid...well, in order to avoid what was happening to her right now.

As the werewolf that used to be Kirstie reached the window of the Escalade, Concepcion shut her eyes tightly and began reciting the rosary in heavily-accented English, awaiting the moment when the werewolf would, most assuredly, smash its paw through the driver's side window and rip her still-beating heart from her chest with its razor sharp claws and devour it whole.

But this did not happen.

Concepcion opened her eyes to see Kirstie, perfectly normal, smiling brightly outside the window of the vehicle.

Of course, it was ridiculous! Concepcion had imagined it all. She'd been under a lot of stress these last 20- or has it been 50? - years with Kirstie, and clearly, she must have cracked. At least, that's what she told herself. There was no way Miss Kirstie could have turned herself into a werewolf. Absurd!

"Yays, Mees Kirstie. I have them for jew, " she said, swiftly recovering. "Here, you have just one for now." Concepcion peeled a copy of People off the top of the stack and Kirstie pounced on it hungrily. Concepcion shuddered and ran into the mansion without a backward glance, not seeing if Kirstie even realized it was she herself on the cover, and made her way to the kitchen to prepare Kirstie's lunch.

If only Kirstie hadn't gone on Oprah, she wouldn't have promised to lose 70 pounds by November, but she had.

Kirstie, you see, couldn't control what came out of her mouth much better than she could control what went into it, and, having been eager to distract viewers from looking at the extra weight she'd come onto the show on the Oprah show to display, she had unfortunately just as eagerly promised to lose it in a staggeringly short period of time using a new, secret weight-loss method that she had just researched herself.

It was, Concepcion reflected, almost entirely true, but that didn't mean she approved of it.

She grapped another copy of People from the mail stack, and, ripping each leaf out one by one, shredded it in the crosscut shredder that now occupied the center island of the food prep area of the kitchen. She then arranged the shreads in an artful haystack on a large chilled salad plate, and drizzled it with balsamic vineger.

"DINNER, MEESES KIRSTIE!" she yelled out.

Kirstie swished into the room a short while later in a floor length washed cotton skirt with an elastic waist, picking a staple out of her teeth. Due to her current large size and skittishness around the paparazzi, Kirstie had been having difficulty making her way into the real world to shop for clothing, and so had fallen into the frequent habit of subsisting around the house in outifts sewn by Concepcion. Naturally, Concecpcion simply made larger- and larger-sized clothing of the one simple pattern that she knew how to make: an colofully embroidered top and full-length washed cotton skirt in recreation of the cover photograph her second most favorite record album of all time, Linda Ronstandt's Canciones De Mi Padre.

"Mmmmm! Looks yummmy" Kirstie enthused throatily, looking up from the balsamic-soaked magazine shreds at Concepcion with a frightenly insane stare.

"Mees Kirstie, you know this is no good for jew. Why you do this to jew? Hyou must eat food, Meeses Kirstie. "

"Concepcion, I told Oprah I'd lose 70 pounds, and if I want to get back on there, I'd better lose 70 pounds."

"Oh, Mees Kirstie, let me call Jenny for Jew. She is so nice, the Jenny! She give you the good foods!"

"Shut up, Concepcion," Kirstie snapped, flicking a staple at Concepcion's eye and narrowly missing it. "I rode that horse and now it's dead."

"Whores, Mees Kirstie? I no understan'."

"Never mind, Concepcion - I've got it all figured out! Balsamic vinegar has 15 calories a tablespoon and a copy of People is just one gram of carbs; the rest is fiber and minerals. I'm going to lose ninety pounds by October!" Kirstie boasted. She picked up her fork and picked up a massive forkful of shredded paper dripping with vinegar, and shoved it into her mouth.

Concepcion looked at Kirstie in shock. With the thick patch of shredded magazine paper in her mouth, the grayish fibers stuck out in a mound that looked not nearly as dissimilar to Kirstie's own graying pubic hair as one might hope. With a pubic thatch where her mouth should be, Kirstie resemsbled nothing more than a eye-nippled, living tableau of Magritte'sThe Rape, but even more rapey.

At least, that's what Concepcion most assuredly would have thought, had she been given the opportunity to go to art school, and she had not. Raised in a convent by Spanish nuns, she'd been purchased by Kirstie after her first menses and thenceforth had subsisted on whatever education she could gather from television programs during what brief downtime Kirstie allowed her, none of which had thus far contained even the briefest mention of Magritte.

Kirstie gulped the paper down and stabbed another forkful. "I'm going to lose so much, I can start eating ice cream on Hallowe'en, and even if I gain 20 pounds back I'll still be down 70 pounds by the time I on Oprah's Thanksgivinging Eve Special!"

Kirstie swiped a lock of hair behind her ear, adding, "Hey, maybe instead of a bikini, this time I should do my 'reveal' totally nude!"

Concepcion shook her head sadly. "Oh no, Mees Kirstie - not again!"

Kirstie Strikes Back

Wed, 06 May 2009 19:11:34 GMT

It's not important what you weigh, what's important is that you get on the cover of People Magazine.

She was on Oprah and she was so awesome - she basically said everything I wanted her to say, in that she admitted was jealous of Valerie Bertinelli, and also that she ate everything she wanted without control starting the exact second she stopped the Jenney Craig program and blew up to bigger than when she started. Poor thing!

What's interesting about Kirstie is that she's got very good self-esteem because she's been pretty most of her life and then gained weight, so she doesn't seem to feel like it "owns" her and she doesn't mind yapping about it constantly. She's still under the impression that fat people did it to themselves and losing weight is easy. It was funny watching Oprah look at her, thinking, "Gurrl, you just on the first hill of the rollercoaster, and I been on this track for years! You have NO IDEA how many more hills you have before the ride's going to be over...."

Anyway, sorry that I can't work up a better pic for you but I'se got work to do...

-David

Miss America Carrie Prejean Wants You To Read The Bible

Fri, 01 May 2009 13:09:35 GMT

Alley Mansion: Kirstie's Conundrum (Episode 1)

Sat, 25 Apr 2009 13:00:34 GMT

I'm trying to use Xtranormal.com to add some more to the Kirstie canon:

Thursday, April 16, 2009

Thu, 16 Apr 2009 18:18:43 GMT

Overcoming Adversity

Wed, 08 Apr 2009 15:07:17 GMT

I got the below email, which is related to our upcoming big sales meeting. You know, that annoying yearly meeting that frequently includes some sort of costume party or something equally awkward.

Submit one hurdle you (YOU and ONLY YOU) have overcome in the face of adversity (it can be life in general or work related)?

Answers must be SHORT, SIMPLE and to the point.

Okay, first of all it takes me several minutes to get over my seething anger that the first sentence, which is not a question, includes a question mark at the end. And then after that, all I can think about is that I haven't really overcome any adversity, or at the very least, none that I'd really like to talk about with my coworkers. What is not mentioned is that these answers are very likely going to end up in some sort of Powerpoint presentation with our names next to them that we're all going to watch together, so anything too private or personal will be super awkward.

Like, I was a fairly unpopular fat gay high school student, but I'm still pretty darn gay and I'd like to be thinner, so I'm not sure if that's really something that I've overcome, technically speaking. The only other thing I can think of - putting up with George W. Bush for 8 years - is something that all of us, unfortunately, did together. What a quandary! What's quandary mean?

That is all.

When God Closes A Door, He Opens A Window

Wed, 08 Apr 2009 13:21:21 GMT

He also does the same thing when he farts, though, so don't get too philosophical about it.

That is all.

A Question For iPhone Users

Tue, 07 Apr 2009 16:24:25 GMT

A male couple of our acquaintance recently broke up from their 7-year relationship. In all likelihood, we'll likely be seeing less of each of them than we would have when they were together and we could see the two guys at once.

I was kinda bummed about it, just because they seemed like nice guys, although when Handsome Mister Goats mentioned it I had to say to myself, "Well, on the other hand, I really haven't managed to have an actual conversation with Monsieur L____ ever since he got his iPhone, if I had to be frank about."

It made me wonder, since I don't have an iPhone, if those of you who have once could answer a question for me - do you think that

I can't see your iPhone,
I don't see you typing on your iPhone
It's somehow not rude to type on your iPhone when I'm talking?

I'm sure it's got to be one of those three, but I'm fairly certain #3 hasn't happened yet, and 1 and 2 are both unlikely due to the nature of reality. It's a puzzlement!

That is all.

Holidays With Kirstie Alley: The Ides Of March

Tue, 31 Mar 2009 14:15:49 GMT

She’d been so careful, and yet still - it had all fallen apart.

Kirstie’s maid, Concepcion, rocked quietly in the dark, her fingers skittering over the beads of her rosary, muttering prayers to a god she was no longer sure even existed. She’d locked herself into a small cupboard underneath a staircase in Alley Mansion, and through the door she could hear the muffled, broken sounds of Kirstie’s anger as she raged through the house. Kirstie had stopped screaming almost entirely by now, and what sounds that did come out were unintelligible, weepy screams, snot-covered wails of insufferable torment. Soon she would quiet down and, unable to find Concepcion, make herself a bowl of the specially-prepared ice cream Concepcion left in the freezer compartment for just such occasions, as it was the only meal that Kirstie was able to prepare for herself.

Music, it is said, hath charms to soothe the savage breast, but Concepcion found that a quart of her homemade Klonopin-Bubblegum Crunch ice cream was far better than mere music at soothing a savage Kirstie.

Concepcion had known she was going to be in deep trouble the moment she got the call from Kirstie’s agent last week. The phone did not ring frequently these days, and never with work. Kirstie didn’t need work, of course – she sat on a mound of Cheers money so vast that even a brief, Hooverific cocaine habit in the 80’s had failed to squash it, and once it was buoyed with the residuals from the Look Who’s Talking franchise it could support her in vast, red velveteened comfort for decades. There was some small shame, of course, in being a successful voice-over actress, someone better heard than seen, but the money would be enough to comfort that small hurt, or one would hope.

But it actually hadn’t been enough for Kirstie, and she’d then set her throaty-voiced sights on Jenny Craig. Why bother paying for Jenny Craig for her food when Jenny Craig could pay Kirstie to lose weight? It seemed like such a great idea at the time: she’d be rich and thin again, just like in the 80’s!

But Kirstie had forgotten one thing that her many hours spent holding tin cans in Scientology training was never going to teach her: saying something does not make it true. After fudging her goal weight and a brief swinsuited turn down Oprah’s studio runway, Kirstie had been swiftly retreated to her cool, dark mansion to lick her wounds and several ice cream cones.

Following a brief announcement that she was going to promote her own line of diet products – an announcement issued via press release and not in person, as Kirstie’s current physical presence would belie her ability to help anyone lose weight, or anything other than their lunch – Alley Mansion had gone dark to the outside world. Within the house, stillness reigned as well….until that fateful phone call.

Kirstie’s agent had called Concepcion in a panic, warning her that Valerie Bertinelli was going to be on the cover of People magazine the following week. Concepcion had known it would be trouble even before the agent finished the sentence with the four most terrifying words in Kirstie Alley’s dictionary: “…in a string bikini.”

The closest Kirstie had come to a string bikini was the one she’d eaten when Concepcion had made a vain attempt to cut off her caloric intake after a particularly binge-y binge just two weeks before her Oprah bikini debut. Now, two years out, Kirstie had fallen so far off the Jenny Craig wagon that the wagon had long since made it to the balmy California coast, leaving Kirstie stranded somewhere in the metaphorical Utah of obesity. Kirstie would be lucky to fit into a flattering muumuu at this point, and it had become their custom to disguise Kirstie as a particularly devout Muslim woman clad from head to foot in a vast, tent like black burkha that Concepcion had fashioned by dyeing their late gardener’s beekeeping helmet and a set of Pretesi sheets.

Kirstie and the gardener had had a brief, passionate affair in 1992, but shortly after asking for a raise he had an unfortunate accident: stung by bees that found their way through a surprising, unexpected hole in his beekeeping outfit, the gardener stumbled blindly through Kirstie’s backyard, and – with perhaps a slight push, who could say? – fell into maw of the Sarlacc in Kirstie’s back yard, where he found a new definition of pain and suffering as he began slowly digesting over a thousand years.

Concepcion had an “arrangement” with the grocery store that she and Kirstie frequented on their weekly food shopping excursion. The store would pretend not to notice Kirstie as she grazed her way through the store, ripping open boxes of Oreos and sucking them up under her veil a full sleeve at a time like an anteater, and the storekeeper would discreetly add the eaten items onto the bill when they checked out. She called ahead, and had the store clear out all the People magazines, and as it was the only time Kirstie left the house, Concepcion was sure that she could avoid catastrophe. The crisis would be averted, and everything was going to be okay.

It had all gone just as planned, and Kirstie was snuffling through her final box of Oreos as they neared the checkout counter, and that’s when it happened: there, on the end of an aisle, someone had carelessly discarded an issue of People on top of an end-of-aisle display of Nilla wafers stretching up towards the ceiling.

The moment Concepcion saw the magazine, several things happened in quick succession: Kirstie, to her left, inhaled her final Oreo and looked up for more, her gaze drawn to the bright yellow boxes, and – catching a glimpse of the green of the People cover – tilted her her head ever-so-slightly before whipping around to face Concepcion. Her eyes, hidden behind the screen of the burkha, were unreadable: was it pain? Anger? Sadness? But in the agonizingly slow second as Kirstie turned back to the magazine, the rise of the slow, keening wail that emerged left no question as to exactly what emotion Kirstie was feeling: it was rage - rage with perhaps some jealousy and envy mixed in, and no small dose of sadness and hurt - but rage nonetheless.

“Oh no, Mees Kirstie! Not again!” Concepcion cried out, but of course it was already too late.

The next several minutes of time were a blur in Concepcion’s memory, in contrast to those strikingly clearly remembered three seconds as Kirstie saw the magazine. Certainly there had been some damage to the store, and the magazine had naturally been shredded on the spot, the portions that weren’t physically chewed up and spat out were urinated on instead. Suffice it to say, they’d need to find a new grocery store to shop at, and Concepcion was already so tired. But she wasn’t going to worry about that now.

Right now, she was just going to sit there, in the dark, and say her rosary. She would say it over and over, not sure if anyone was listening, or even if it mattered. In time, when the house finally fell quiet, she would let herself out of the cupboard; she would go and look for Kirstie.

She would discreetly avert her eyes as she draped Kirstie’s unconscious frame in a towel, carefully pulling the Oprah bikini off Kirstie’s cankles, where it had become lodged as Kirstie tried to pull it up, unable to even get it over her knees, and then Concepcion would begin the long slow process of cleaning ice cream off of….everything.

Perhaps, if she was lucky, sometime in the middle of the cleaning, she would forget about the time she’d spent hiding in the closet, and the terror would fade away from her memory as she sponged the stains from the curtains.

Perhaps.

That is all.