Friday, January 30, 2004

Dad came out of the bathroom last night batting his own head with both hands.

"Jesus! I have ants crawling all over my head! I've always got ants on my head. I keep finding them around the back of my ears!"

Mom just laughs at him. "Lemme see," she says. "There's nothing on your head but freckles. Nothing. Not a hair, not an ant, nothing. But I know what I'm going to give you for Valentine's day. Oh, yes! I'm going to unleash an ant farm on your head. A whole bucket of ants to crawl all over you so it can finally be true!"

They are sooooo sick. On Monday, they are going to the lawyer's office to change Dad's will, because it hasn't been amended since Mom and Dad were married. This has lead to some very interesting conversations.

Mom: "What if I get breast cancer, lose my tits and lesions on my brain? You know there's a new study out that says if I have migraines, that I might have lesions on the brain and a degenerative brain disease! What if I lose my tits and my mind?"

Dad: "If you lose your mind and you still have your tits, you'll be ok. I'll keep you and wheel you around in a chair. But if you lose your tits, whether you lose your mind or not, that's it!" You're in the street. You'll have to scavenge around for bread somewhere under a bridge."

People think they are smarter than us. They're not. They worry about everything that hasn't happened yet. I just like a good nap, a good meal, a little bake in the sun. If they had one night, just one night on death row, they'd be happy now.


Monday, January 26, 2004

Ever since Mom and Dad were invited to a wig party, they have been behaving strangely. Dad has been bald since he was 23 and now, he thinks he looks good in his hair hat. "I could have had a whole other life if I had had hair! I could have been a leading man," he says.

Yeah, right.

I'm not kidding; I'm worried about Dad and how he sounds, staring at himself in the bathroom mirror: "I'm going to move to Paris and just wear hair. I'll invent a whole new persona and be an aging Irish Rock Star...No one will know!"

"We'll go to museums and restaurants and I'll "

Mom can't stop laughing, but I can tell; she's looking at him in his hair and getting all hot over the idea of Dad as an Irish Rock Star.

"Really," she says to him. "You should just start wearing it on the plane, on the way to France and start a whole new life over there."

"It kinda makes my body look different, doesn't it?" Says Dad.

"It does," coos Mom, wearing her long platinum wig. "Your head looks so much bigger."

"First thing in the morning, I'm going to renew my gym membership. I'm gonna work out. "

Dad was getting excited looking at Mom in her wig. And then I had to witness the grossest thing I ever saw: my parents fucking in wigs, pretending that they were fucking complete strangers.

I did my best to stay out of their way, but they were all over the bed. Zelda was disgusted and walked out in protest. Finley slept through the whole embarrassing thing and I tried to hide up under the shams until it was all over.

They're sick, I tell you.


Mom and Dad are a pathetic, pitious duo. This is what I had to look at last night.

Saturday, January 24, 2004

Mom and Dad are going to a party and they are wearing wigs. Mom's got a long platinum blonde one and she looks like an old stripper. Dad looks like a drugged out rock star from the 80's. I'm really concerned.


Friday, January 23, 2004

Mom sneaked me on to the Disney lot in a bag and I got to go to an audition. I had to be very quiet while we were being checked in. The security guards checked the trunk for bombs and terrorists but they missed me.

I dropped a one ton shit bomb on Goofy Lane there, next to the animation building.

Then, I had to go hide in the bag again. It's the same cozy bag with the fleecy lining we go on the plane with and it has a black net window so I can breathe--sort of like a dog burqua. I feel like an Arab woman in there. I can see them, but they can't see me, lest they become wildly attracted to me and want to rape me. I'm really glad we don't live in Saudi Arabia, where they treat Moms like I got treated at the pound, like a real nobody.

When we got inside the animation building, there were a lot of old ladies there, reading for the same role as Mom, the Joan Collins role for "Dynasty: Behind the Scenes." Well, behind the scenes of the casting for behind the scenes was pretty weird.

I was in the bag, on the floor next to Mom's legs, but I could see everything. Sherilyn Fenn was there, dressed in a floor length sequined outfit with giant pearls and she was talking on the phone about flying out of there immediately after the audition. She looked like she was dressed for the Oscars but there was no red carpet there, just some old, stained beige carpet, which had definitely been pissed on.

We were sitting right outside the audition cell, so when Sherilyn Fenn got called in there, she was shaking and she went in squealing like a Toys R Us doll being thrown in the garbage. "Wow! Great to SEE you! Well! HERE WE GOOOOOOOOO!" The walls are paper thin, so we heard the whole embarrassing audition.

Then, Sean Young walked in her orthopedic shoes. I remember in my old house, I had seen her on TV in a movie, but she was tiny and colorless. She's bigger than an Irish wolfhound--huge! I could see her back bones through her jacket, she was so skinny. And her head fur looked fried, like it was fake fur, all burned up on top of her head, which was bony and saggier than Mom's. She didn't look like you could take a nap on her without getting stabbed by the rib or hip bones. Not a cozy type at all.

There was a supermodel from the 80's there too-- Joan Severance. I didn't know who she was, but supposedly, she got her ass kicked one time by Mom's friend, the Pet of the Year, ages ago in Vancouver. She was really long and had pants that were all up in her ass crack. I don't know how she could walk around like that, with all that leather up her ass. She must like it. We heard her audition too. Mom was giggling because Joan sounded like she was half dead and it was all over for her in under 60 seconds.

Then Mom went in and I watched the casting people and the producers looking at her like who is this person? Why is she here?

Frankly, I don't know why Mom was there when we could be in the gardens at home, eating and sunning by the pool. Why does she want to be on TV anyway? It's pathetic. She doesn't need anything else and real life, this real life, is so much better than anything on TV. Believe me, I know. I was on death row and before that, I was being beaten up all the time in a dump in San Pedro.

What is wrong with people?


Thursday, January 22, 2004

Mommy is very busy today, studying for a TV MOW. She's got the BBC on, practicing her English accent. How phony is that.

She is pacing in the garden, talking to herself and imitating Joan Collins for "Dynasty: Behind the Scenes". Sounds like a seriously bad movie if you ask me.

If she had a career anymore, this would ruin it. Why can't she just be happy being a has- been?


Wednesday, January 21, 2004

A "stupid Hollywood slut" just called Mom. Mom put her on speakerphone while she was cleaning our eaty area again (kitchen).

This girl calls herself Guru X. Mom doesn't want me to give you the name but this is how Mom described her to me as she was mopping the floor:

"She is a short, young, moderately attractive slut who has been hanging around Hollywood in contorted Yoga positions, her legs thrown over her head."

I remember she came to a party here last year dressed like a little marzipan piglet in pink leather and got into an argument with a drunken writer who yelled at her and called her a "stupid cunt" because of her political views. As soon as the TV writer called her a stupid cunt, I jumped up and tried to see it under her mini skirt. She was wearing some kind of nylon thing all scrunched up in there and she pushed me away, like she hated dogs.

Anyway, today on the speakerphone, the Guru was bragging about her new Yoga video and how enlightened she became traveling through Burma with the guy who owns

I could see Mom getting pissed as she mopped up our eaty area. (We like to run into the kitchen with mud on our feet, so Mom is always mopping now, not starring in movies anymore.)

So this Guru/slut was going on and on about traveling around on the Orient Express with the and then she asked to speak to Dad.

"Oh," Mom said. It sounded like ice. "I thought you were calling me." I think Mom wishes she was traveling around Burma or starring in movies instead of mopping our floor. But I certainly wouldn't want her traveling anywhere without Dad and ME.

"Well I was, but there is something I want to talk to him about," the Yoga/slut said. Mom knows the Guru fucks a lot of married men, so she squeezed the water out of the mop violently this time, shaking the mop and banging it in the sink. She was wringing the mop head and it did kinda look like Mom was wringing the neck of the little guru piglet in effigy.

Mom told her he was at work and "what do you want to ask him?"
"I've got this new Yoga video, ya know, and I'd like him to introduce me to Jay Leno. I know he's a friend of his and anyway, I thought it might be good for Jay to do some funny Yoga positions on the Tonight show in a leotard and I could show him some of my moves and plug my new video, which was just bought up by WallMart."

These Hollywood people always astound me. They never stop plugging, pushing and clawing to appear on TV. What pathetic idiots they all are.

"Well, I'll be sure to give him the message that you called," said Mom. "Who's house are you living in right now and what is the number so he can return?"

Boy, is our eaty area clean now. We can eat off the floor again.


Monday, January 19, 2004

Mom made a delicious Pasta Puttanesca last night for me, Dad and an old friend of hers, who was a "Pet of the Year". She looked like she had giant pillows on her chest and her ass... Big dog beds that looked cozy.

While I was slurping up a particularly long spaghetti with sauce and Parmesan, Dad's chair broke, dropping him to the floor, under the table. He got all red and screamed. Then, he picked up the chair, opened the door to the balcony and hurled the dinner chair way out into the pool.

Mom begged him, "Don't throw the chair in the pool, please! Don't start throwing things around, you're scaring the dogs!"

Mom's old Pet friend was dabbing her eyes with her napkin and making squealing noises like a toy while Dad stumbled in his clogs on his way back into the dining room.

Then, Dad took off his shoes, growled like a wild beast and threw his clogs way out past the pool and into my poop area, down the mountain, under the Hollywood sign.

After dinner, Mom, her old Pet friend and Dad settled in the library to look at chateaux for sale in Normandy on the Internet. What idiots. They're never happy with what they've got. I never dreamed of having a pool and a big yard when I was on death row in San Pedro.

It was not a great sleepy night. They took piles of papers down to the bedroom and watched the opening bell of the London market on TV, really loud.

Then Dad was calling London and made maneuvers with his Euros so he "could stop the bleeding."

"I feel like a sitting duck here with the idiots from Bear Sterns. The Euro could go into a free fall. Don't these idiots know that the Forex Desk is open in London? I'm going to have to teach her how to do her job!" I think Dad was talking about the "stupid cunt" who works at Bear Stearns here in LA, who thinks that you can only trade while she is in her office.

I wish Dad didn't get so mad about his Euros going up and down. I mean, all we need is a bed and some food. I think Mom and Dad are obsessed with all the wrong things. All we really need is to be in a pack. It doesn't matter where.

Finley woke up REALLY early and made Mom take her rat hunting in the dark.


Wednesday, January 14, 2004

LouLou Belle, Destroyer of Worlds

Dogs and their balls. Or someone else's balls, evidently. The Reanimator has new work.

But I am a Kitty and am become the destroyer of worlds. I reach out my paw and crush the creature that dares to invade my domain. I scratch and sniff. I sit on the ledge and my teeth chatter with bloodlust as the bushy tailed squirrel dances on the tree just beyond my grasp. When the humans open the door to the world beyond I will escape and slaughter the squirrel and all his kind. I will use all my powers. And I will kill again, oh yes, I WILL kill again. Let the dogs have their low hanging balls. I am kitty, destroyer of worlds.

P.S. Vin Diesel should invite President Bush to his home. I hear the reception is extra-special. But there may not be any balls. Then it would be pointless.


Tuesday, January 13, 2004

Sunny, 75°, on chair by the pool in the shade. Mozart on radio, Finley lying flat under the lemon tree, Zelda stuck indoors (ha ha), Daddy on the Disney lot and Mommy typing what I dictate.

We went down to the condo in West Hollywood yesterday to sell the last of Mom's stuff from her old life before she married Dad.

We ran into an old "friend" who told us about a tragedy (but only to people)! A friend of Mom's, X, is a real mooch who has been loitering around Hollywood for many dog ages "writing" and trying to blow some air into a non-existent career. He's always hanging around the pool in West Hollywood, talking about movie deals he's got going and name dropping.

That by itself isn't the problem. The problem is that he loiters in the Sunset Marquis (the hot hotel bar in LA) and the pool at the condo in very thin silk pantaloons with his exceptionally long dick dangling and no underwear. His penis almost reaches his knees and his balls are almost as big as my squeaky balls, huge. Like I could barely get my mouth around either one of them.

Well this X character has been living with a notorious call girl who has a drug and jewelry dependency problem and in his sweaty efforts to feed his hoor's addiction, he pitched a movie idea to Vin Diesel, the action star.

He must have had a good high concept one liner because Vin Diesel invited X to his house to pitch. As soon as XL entered the house, Vin Diesel's Rottweiler bit his dick and balls. You gotta give this dog credit. He acted out what most of us canines wish we could do. This is something I have been fantasizing about my entire life. I don't know how serious the physical damage was, but X was rushed to the hospital and then to the litigator's office.

Then it hit the trades. Mom says that if Vin Diesel's rottweiler munched off a vital artery or if he altered the looks or shape or inhibited the function of X's dick or balls, then X is going to own Vin Diesel's house and private jet. Mom says that this case is a no-brainer because X's dick is his only asset and he makes his living by having a big, long dick.

Mom thinks that if this doesn't go to trial, X's settlement could be worth more than Michael Jackson's little 11 year old sex partner's, which is reported to be around 20 mill.

This X, according to Mom, could easily take the case to trial if he doesn't like the settlement and he would win, because good litigators love high profile cases, especially ones involving movie stars and sexual organs.

Vin Diesel's dog is the one who should be getting 20 million a picture. He’s the action star to me.


Friday, January 09, 2004

Below is my wife (arranged marriage) Finley. She is fat, stubborn, willful, delinquent, fickle, greedy and unapologetically lazy, like all wives.

I love her. She's the Anna Nicole Smith of dogs. A big, fat, sexy, dumb blonde.


Thursday, January 08, 2004


We took the Z4 with the top down through Nichols Canyon to Mom's condo. It's a fancy doorman building and Angelina Jolie's brother lives there. George Hamilton is always baking his leather face around the pool there too (I've tried to bite both of them in the elevator).

I peed in the garage on a Mercedes 500 sl. Reached the upper hubcap and part of the door.

Mom had to make sure that the Back Street Boy (the balding teen idol who has been renting my mom's condo) hadn't broken the bed or stained anything so that he can get his security deposit back. Well she found some stains, all right! Stains on the bed and stains on the couch.

Mommy told me to smell the stains to find out what they were, exactly. She trusts my nose, which is highly accurate. I was never formally trained like the search and rescue dogs that Muslims didn't want in Iran to help with the rescue operation (because they are dicks and think that dogs are unclean), but I have educated myself.

In the condo, I detected human urine (slut and stud) and some very weak semen--the kind of semen that is diseased and at the same time, has low sperm count. Also, the way the stains looked, the vital fluids hadn't been shot out, leaving a splash sort of stain, no; they had sort of seeped out, spreading out slowly, without much thrust.

This can only mean 3 things:
1) The Back Street Boy is a bed wetter and a couch wetter.
2) He has wet dreams and/or masturbates on his stomach.
3) Whoever he is cuming in or pissing on just sits there for a long time. Maybe they're unconscious.

As long as these stains can be washed out professionally, the stains do not preclude the Back Street Boy from getting his security deposit.

Mom sold the bed to a female impersonator/dog walker today. She told him about the queen wrought iron bed over the phone and when she/he came in to see it, he/she cried. "It's so beautiful," he/she cried. "My sister was murdered on Christmas day by her boyfriend and I have her 4 kids at my house! They're gonna love jumping up and down on this bed!"

It was so sad, Mommy took $940 in small bills from him and she cried too. She hugged him and talked to him about his/her mom who is in heaven and his/her dog sitting business. Thank god Mom takes us on the plane and never, ever leaves us in LA when she leaves.

I liked him, but I would be embarrassed to be walked by a fat guy dressed up like Liz Taylor.

I prefer our dux king sized bed up here in the Hills. It has millions of springs in it, and the only stains on it are from Mom and Dad...And where Finny threw up a couple of times.

And there is one spot where I dragged my ass across the under-the-pillow-area one day a few months ago when I was ill and had yellow, runny poop stuck on my ass hair.


Mom and Dad are seriously considering converting everything to Euros. They talk a lot about a day of reckoning for the dollar. Today, my squeaky ball costs 37% more US$ than it did a year ago.

It's pretty scary to think that the value of my yard and Finley's rat hunting areas will collapse with the implosion of the housing market and the radical devaluation of the dollar.

I'm worried that the department of homeland security is going to make it impossible for us to go to Europe. What if they start searching us and weighing us? What if our travel bags aren't accepted anymore? Already, starting in June, we have to have new rabies exams, more detailed testing and we have to have international chips put under our skin. We're going to be scanned like illegal aliens.


LouLou Belle Kitty posts a Post-Script:

Nice photo, Jinky!Ol' blue eyes is back!Was that taken before or after you threw up? Just wonderin'-


Jan. 8, 2004 Feeling Superior

Dear Jinky, Do you still use the New York Times to collect poo? Yesterday there was an article about how women wear fur to feel superior to their mothers. I feel superior to the person who wrote that. I put my fur on Mom's black cashmere to make her feel superior, too. Some marketing guy said that women under 35 are very unaware of the complexities of the fur issue. I guess he thinks they're really stupid. Mom still loves the New York Times even though we don't use it to collect poo. We should.


Wednesday, January 07, 2004


We just came back from a big Hollywood meeting.

I'm going to throw up.

I threw up.


It's not the tree we're mourning here, hot dog, it's the skirt, the skirt. Just how self-aware can you be out there on the tottering ledges of Los Angeles if you do not value getting under a good skirt. Even without the tree. My Mom understands, cause sometimes she wears a skirt, but I can't get under it the way I did that red Christmas tree skirt.
Anyway, who's whining. I'm a cat.
As for pets, I'm still confused. I know your Mom writes music because we sing one of her compositions cleverly entitled "Don't be blue, I'll wear my funny underpants for you." No wonder Sammy ran.
Mom read Bud Schulberg when she was in the 7th grade and still enjoys using the term "reptilian tribe" when referring to informants. She may read it again. Politics is politics and there are plenty of people who are willing and able members of that reptilian tribe. If I see one I'll bite the tail off and see if it regenerates. It will.


Yes, yes, Mom was a pet. Old news. Mom thinks that when she dies, noone will remember anything about her except that she was a pet. No movies, no TV shows, no records, nothing.

I don't see what the big deal is. I see her naked all the time. I'm naked right now. People are perverts.

By the way, in case you were going to start whining about it, we are not interested in your mourning of your Xmas tree. I will chase you into the Hudson river.

Did you ever read What Makes Sammy Run? Did you ever read? This is Hollywooddog. Get with it, Louloufuck.



Dear Jinky, Let’s not be coy. Cats are not epistolary by nature. We are given to interior monologue. It’s more like “:Hey, what’s that. What IS that? I’m chasing it, but what IS it? WHAT?”

Mom decided a pet pen pal would be nice and since she has been in the same litter as your mom since your mom was a pet and UNIVAC was THE personal computer you’re it.

My name is LouLou Belle Kitty. I was named after a French perfume our Moms wear. I am a Felinus Reclinus Domestikitty Catus. Mom and her teenager adopted me from Forgotten Felines but we bear a striking family resemblance. We are very opinionated. Some guy once told my Mom that she had an opinion about everything. He thought that was a bad thing. She thought he was getting in touch with his inner fear of vagina dentitis.

Mom knows a lot about your Mom’s crazy life before she met your Dad and became a Hollywood Wife. Really a lot. And I have heard things. What things? Oh, things. Just things, y’know?

Signed, your pet pen pal from tony Westchester County, bedroom suburb of Manhattan, the capital of the world.

P.S. Give my regards to poor snotty kitty.



Tuesday, January 06, 2004

Finley sneaked into the laundry room earlier and had some delicious kitty poop. Dad calls it the Almond Rocca for doggies because the kitty poop all rolled in litter looks like the candy rolled in nougat.

Finley loves the stuff and tries to get it hot out of the oven/ass if she can, but Mom has a kiddy gate at the door of the laundry room so that Finley can't get in to eat those snacks.

Finley also likes her snacks old and hard and chewy. I can tell, because the kitty tootsie rolls stick between her teeth and she looks very happy about it.

After a delicious kitty poop snack, Finley likes to climb on top of Dad and make out with him. She sticks her tongue deep into Dad's nose and sometimes she slips it into his mouth. He seems to like it. I don't kiss. It's gross. Nor do I eat Zelda's poop.


We have to go to the post office now and send some rubies to New York. I have no idea why.


Mom's all excited today, she's "directing." She's running around like a mad woman getting ready to direct some teenaged star named Frankie Munoz from a stupid TV show called Malcolm in the Middle.

Frankie adopted a one eyed pit Bull and Mom is going to make a public service announcement for Last Chance for Animals with him about "the cruel sport of dog fighting."

I know they don't mean the kind of arguments Finley and I have over the best down pillow on the bed nearest to Dad kind of fighting.

No, this stuff is way more serious. This is gambling, crazy, trailer park people watching pit bulls killing each other for money. If I could, I would bite these people (who bet on dog fights) in the scrotum, really hard and then pull, to tear the scrotum up real good and let their balls fall out and bounce down the 405 freeway and then the balls would get crushed by a Hummer with bling wheels.

Uncle Belz (Richard Belzer) just called and wanted to talk to Dad about the new movie they're writing. He can't believe that Dad doesn't have a cell phone. "What do you do if you get shot?" he asked Mom. "I call Disney and they pull him out of the writing room to tell him his wife's been shot," Mom answered.

This is the homicide capital of America.


Sunday, January 04, 2004

We went to Montecito to visit Grandad and went to the BEACH! It's absolutely incredible that there is such a thing as sand. It's soft and you can run on it all day without hurting your feet. And there is a gigantic water that keeps moving and chasing you back and forth. you can't drink it or Mommy screams at you but I've never had so much fun, ever.

Finley had a blast too even though she's a fat, slow moving bowling ball with hair. She got into the rat hunting in the rocks.

Mom and Dad got a new camera and took movies of us running around. They talked about getting a house in Normandy, wherever that is, just so we can go to the beach.

I had a 'breakthrough" and made a connection with my grandad. I usually don't like anyone but Mom and Dad, but Grandad is ok. He's got lots of great food up there like cherry pie and whipped cream and good couches.

I like the grandad's dog too. He's got a Kelpie, an australian sheep dog, that Mom found in the street. His name is Shadow and he had been shot before Mom found him. He's much taller, darker, and better looking than me. He pees higher and shits bigger. He keeps kissing my mom and he better stop.

Shadow can run faster than any dog I've ever seen. I think he runs faster than birds fly. I saw him outrun a seagull.

It was fun getting out of Hollywood for the day. The poor snotty kitty had to stay home. Zelda the cat "has a respiratory disorder", which makes her snot all over the walls, counters and wood floors. Finley thinks her snots are like gummy bears and she runs whenever kitty sneezes. She runs over and licks them right off the wall, or wherever they land. Her snots are huge, greenish, viscous gooey things that she shoots across the room through her nose.

The kitty yelled at us good and loud when we got back from the beach. I like to chase her and stick my nose up her ass. It pisses her off and makes Mom laugh.

Dad has to go back to work tomorrow and he's been whining about it, which drives Mom crazy. "I'll trade with you," says Mom. "I'l go and make $900 an hour sitting around with my friends, writing a hit ABC show and you stay home and pick up shit and hair balls and wait for the agent to not call."