Bless Me Father, For I Have Watched
Like repentant Lent observers following Fat Tuesday, I confess this, after gobbling turkey, apple-cranberry-sausage stuffing, sweet potatoes, corn something, sorbet and two glasses of bubbly.
There are two television shows that I cannot stop watching. The first is well written, well acted and well produced Big Love on HBO. It's about a Mormon man, his three wives and their countless children. The husband is attractive, sincere, hard-working and likeable; and his wives, interesting and alluring in very individual ways. There's the loyal, pretty, intelligent first wife; the modest, traditional, ideologuish second wife; and the young, emotional and exuberant third wife.
The characters are complex and believable, and the wives seem to me to be the kind men would pick if they could have whomever they wanted on a committed basis. It's intriguing to watch their honesty, their interaction, frustrations and family structure. I love all the women, too, and wouldn't let go of any of them either.
The other is my shameful voyeuristic vice. It's The Girls Next Door reality show on E. It's about Hugh Hefner, the 80-ish, sniggering, creative force behind the Playboy brand. Now with his magazine, tv show, soft porn videos and a club at the Palms in Vegas, Hef and his three girlfriends - pretty, blonde, silicon breasted Holly; sultry, smart, blonde, natural breasted Bridget; and athletic, young, blonde, silicon breasted Kendra - all live smiley and partily at the Playboy Mansion.
The characters are simple and unbelievable, and the girlfriends seem to me to be the kind dirty old men would pick if they could have whomever they wanted on a committed basis. They're always happy, flirty, ditzy and perky. They're little blonde drag queen Uncle Toms and Hef is Massa. I can't look away.
Hi, I'm Kitty.
I'm a deeply closeted multi-relationship voyeur.
There are two television shows that I cannot stop watching. The first is well written, well acted and well produced Big Love on HBO. It's about a Mormon man, his three wives and their countless children. The husband is attractive, sincere, hard-working and likeable; and his wives, interesting and alluring in very individual ways. There's the loyal, pretty, intelligent first wife; the modest, traditional, ideologuish second wife; and the young, emotional and exuberant third wife.
The characters are complex and believable, and the wives seem to me to be the kind men would pick if they could have whomever they wanted on a committed basis. It's intriguing to watch their honesty, their interaction, frustrations and family structure. I love all the women, too, and wouldn't let go of any of them either.
The other is my shameful voyeuristic vice. It's The Girls Next Door reality show on E. It's about Hugh Hefner, the 80-ish, sniggering, creative force behind the Playboy brand. Now with his magazine, tv show, soft porn videos and a club at the Palms in Vegas, Hef and his three girlfriends - pretty, blonde, silicon breasted Holly; sultry, smart, blonde, natural breasted Bridget; and athletic, young, blonde, silicon breasted Kendra - all live smiley and partily at the Playboy Mansion.
The characters are simple and unbelievable, and the girlfriends seem to me to be the kind dirty old men would pick if they could have whomever they wanted on a committed basis. They're always happy, flirty, ditzy and perky. They're little blonde drag queen Uncle Toms and Hef is Massa. I can't look away.
Hi, I'm Kitty.
I'm a deeply closeted multi-relationship voyeur.
posted by Kitty O'Keefe at 6:13 AM
1 Comments:
SOME ANONYMOUSE COMMENTS
During the literary creative hiatus between chapters two and three of The Mouse In The Clock (also, Greatgran has la grippe but is expected to recover her ancient voice and her Voice Of The Ancients momentarily) I want to say some things.
I like the pumpkins. The lilywaver pumpkin is, as you humans are so fond of saying, a hoot (though believe you me there is nothing funny about owls) though his penal green root seems a bit truncated for a lilywaver. (As any urban policeperson will tell you, lilywavers are usually in the full up-and-
ruddy, as the brits like to say when the london fog or burburry or mac is flung open.)
I don't understand the
pumpkin submerged in the
tupperware at all...the vomiting pumpkin I understand but as Redd Foxx's best friend used to
say, it don't signify..?
The big green mean pumpkin with the tiny terrified orange pumpkin in
its teeth...now that I can
relate to. There was this
Manx who had been dyed
green by some vicious boys
and took out his bile over
this indignity on the mice
in his neighborhood. He used to parade about with
mouse heads in his teeth
facing out, so those who had recently missed a relative could bear the full brunt of his cruelty.
With a collective sigh,
finally (we really aren't cruel by nature) we powdered up some Warfarin
anticoagulant from the D-
con traps and mixed it in
with Manx's kittigourmet
bowls. In a rather short
time, all his small blood
vessels exploded. Some wag
among us observed the corpse and said, "Really..
the humans ought to keep
it 'round for Christmas..
see how festive the staring
red eyes look with the green fur?" Instead, of
course, they quickly mulched the manx under a
rose bush in the back garden which died the following spring.
This neatly brings us to
what I shall sniggeringly
call the butt of the argument. Is the pumpkin a
human female spreading her
plump thighs to show her
vulva? or a human of either
sex spreading the derriere
to show clevage-et-culo?
(Why do things always seem
more delicate in french??)
Why the question at all,
you ask? Thumbs. The thumbs are only right if it's a vulvar display. If
it's a mooning, the human
has its hands on backwards. Go ahead. Try it yourself in front of a
dressing mirror. You'll see what I mean. Whoops.
Gotta go. Someone down in
the kitchen dropped a cheese and I have the duty
with the scavenge crew.
Must scurry (haha).
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