Squawk Radio
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Connie Brockway turns the tables and Interviews KITTY
Some of you have written asking who Kitty Kuttlestone is, what her qualifications are, her history, what makes her such a cantankerous old biddy, etc. Well, in a rare (very rare) moment of cooperation, Kitty agreed to be interviewed by me. The fifth of Johnny Walker on the table between us didn't hurt either. It was ... interesting.
Squaw Radio makes no allegations about the legitimacy of Kitty's claims. Frankly, I think she's a stoned out of her gourd old kook. But then, with Kitty you never know. Be advised, anyone with a sensitive nature might be offended by the following interview. Kitty practices "offensive" as an art form.
CONNIE: So, Kitty, how old are you?
KITTY:
CONNIE: Okay. Where were you born, raised? What was your early life like? Where was Kitty Kuttlestone shaped and molded?
KITTY: In the den of the she-wolf that suckled me.
Fer Chrissake, Brockway, do the world a favor and stick to scribbling your little stories and leave the reporting of news to the experts. Gimme that bottle! This better be a damn short interview because if I have to listen to any more asinine questions like that this bottle ain't gonna last longs and when the bottles gone, so is Kitty.
CONNIE: Fine, you nasty old--Fine. Okay, maybe you'll deign to answer this one.
KITTY: Go for it.
CONNIE: Rumor has it that you worked for the AP in the late 50s and early 60s but got drummed out of the corp when it was discovered you were sleeping with Castro. True or false?
KITTY: False. It wasn't sleeping with Castro --who got me started with the old Partagas Corona Grande habit as well as a few others--it was sleeping with Castro during the Bay of Pigs that ended the old Associated Press career.
CONNIE: Hold on a second. You're telling me you were in Cuba during the Bay of Pigs?
KITTY: Not only there, but I might have had some hand in how the whole mess went down. Jack was jealous. Not that I'm taking the blame, mind you. How was I to know he was planning on some major male posturing? Fidie and I had snuck away for a little R&R on the beach at some place called Playa Giron and whoop! whoop! JFK to the rescue.
Like, "Hello! Did you hear me say S.O.S, Jack? No!"
After that it all became about the two of them struttin' their stuff. Men.
CONNIE: That's not how the history books say it happened.
KITTY: Chrissake. Aren't you a little old for wide-eyed naivete?
CONNIE: Fine. You single-handedly caused the Cuban Missile Crisis.
KITTY: Actually I used both hands.
CONNIE: Ugh! Hold on. I think I threw up in my mouth. Okay. Okay. Aren't you done with that bottle yet?
KITTY: Huh? Nope. Not yet. Go on keep asking questions. This is kinda fun.
CONNIE: Okay, so it's the sixties. What happened next?
KITTY: Geez, Brockway. Ever hear of a little something called THE SUMMER OF LOVE? The Doors? Jim Morrison?
CONNIE: You knew JIM MORRISON?! Too cool! I put flowers on Jim Morrison's grave! Tell me, tell me all about him!
KITTY: Wow. You put flowers on his grave. How do you live with the excitement?
CONNIE: Just shut up and tell me about Jim!
KITTY: Hand me that lighter, will you? And, fer chrissake, stop bouncing up and down in your seat. You look like a fat lap dog with a caffeine buzz.
Jim Morrison. Not much to say really... just another Irish guy going to fat and grabbing every opportunity to whip out his schlong in front of a crowd. Can we say "overcompensate much?"
CONNIE: Noooooo! Jim Morrison was the poetic genius of his generation! I still get chills when I hear "Light My Fire."
KITTY: Thank you.
CONNIE: Huh?
KITTY: Let's just say Jimmy had a little help. The poor kid was booked for this big concert thing and he'd promised the rest of the band to come up with some great new tune but nothing was happening and, let me tell you, nothing was happening ANYWHERE, if you know what I mean.
Some of you have written asking who Kitty Kuttlestone is, what her qualifications are, her history, what makes her such a cantankerous old biddy, etc. Well, in a rare (very rare) moment of cooperation, Kitty agreed to be interviewed by me. The fifth of Johnny Walker on the table between us didn't hurt either. It was ... interesting.
Squaw Radio makes no allegations about the legitimacy of Kitty's claims. Frankly, I think she's a stoned out of her gourd old kook. But then, with Kitty you never know. Be advised, anyone with a sensitive nature might be offended by the following interview. Kitty practices "offensive" as an art form.
CONNIE: So, Kitty, how old are you?
KITTY:
CONNIE: Okay. Where were you born, raised? What was your early life like? Where was Kitty Kuttlestone shaped and molded?
KITTY: In the den of the she-wolf that suckled me.
Fer Chrissake, Brockway, do the world a favor and stick to scribbling your little stories and leave the reporting of news to the experts. Gimme that bottle! This better be a damn short interview because if I have to listen to any more asinine questions like that this bottle ain't gonna last longs and when the bottles gone, so is Kitty.
CONNIE: Fine, you nasty old--Fine. Okay, maybe you'll deign to answer this one.
KITTY: Go for it.
CONNIE: Rumor has it that you worked for the AP in the late 50s and early 60s but got drummed out of the corp when it was discovered you were sleeping with Castro. True or false?
KITTY: False. It wasn't sleeping with Castro --who got me started with the old Partagas Corona Grande habit as well as a few others--it was sleeping with Castro during the Bay of Pigs that ended the old Associated Press career.
CONNIE: Hold on a second. You're telling me you were in Cuba during the Bay of Pigs?
KITTY: Not only there, but I might have had some hand in how the whole mess went down. Jack was jealous. Not that I'm taking the blame, mind you. How was I to know he was planning on some major male posturing? Fidie and I had snuck away for a little R&R on the beach at some place called Playa Giron and whoop! whoop! JFK to the rescue.
Like, "Hello! Did you hear me say S.O.S, Jack? No!"
After that it all became about the two of them struttin' their stuff. Men.
CONNIE: That's not how the history books say it happened.
KITTY: Chrissake. Aren't you a little old for wide-eyed naivete?
CONNIE: Fine. You single-handedly caused the Cuban Missile Crisis.
KITTY: Actually I used both hands.
CONNIE: Ugh! Hold on. I think I threw up in my mouth. Okay. Okay. Aren't you done with that bottle yet?
KITTY: Huh? Nope. Not yet. Go on keep asking questions. This is kinda fun.
CONNIE: Okay, so it's the sixties. What happened next?
KITTY: Geez, Brockway. Ever hear of a little something called THE SUMMER OF LOVE? The Doors? Jim Morrison?
CONNIE: You knew JIM MORRISON?! Too cool! I put flowers on Jim Morrison's grave! Tell me, tell me all about him!
KITTY: Wow. You put flowers on his grave. How do you live with the excitement?
CONNIE: Just shut up and tell me about Jim!
KITTY: Hand me that lighter, will you? And, fer chrissake, stop bouncing up and down in your seat. You look like a fat lap dog with a caffeine buzz.
Jim Morrison. Not much to say really... just another Irish guy going to fat and grabbing every opportunity to whip out his schlong in front of a crowd. Can we say "overcompensate much?"
CONNIE: Noooooo! Jim Morrison was the poetic genius of his generation! I still get chills when I hear "Light My Fire."
KITTY: Thank you.
CONNIE: Huh?
KITTY: Let's just say Jimmy had a little help. The poor kid was booked for this big concert thing and he'd promised the rest of the band to come up with some great new tune but nothing was happening and, let me tell you, nothing was happening ANYWHERE, if you know what I mean.
What a Drama Queen! Whine. Whne. Whine. Like I had all night to wait for him to prove his worth. Finally I told him that "the time to hesitate was through" but then I felt kinda bad for the guy so, in the interest of encouraging him, I say, "Come on, baby, light my fire."
What happens but he starts scribbling stuff on my cocktail napkin, which is not what I had in mind at all so I say, "Let's try to set the night on fire" and he just takes off.
The d*&k head never even said thanks.
CONNIE: You wrote "Light My Fire."
KITTY: What can I say? Hey, what you doing with my Johnny Walker? You can't just-- You better watch it, Brockway. Oh, man, you are going to be SO sick!
CONNIE: Scotch is gone. Interview's over.
KITTY: Huh? Oh. Never mind that. Ask me some more. I don't mind. Go on...Hey. Where are you going? I'm not done yet. Don't you wanta hear about Gahndi? You gotta hear about the Berlin Wall thing. How about the "moonwalk?" Brockway? Brockway!
Connie Brockway, 11:00 PM
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