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Even a precious kitten cannot escape the star's heartless rampage!
Wisteria Lane. Former home to the Beav, now a hotbed of chick hormones. Not that I don't have a few of those babies swimming my own stream. But I know how to keep 'em in line so they don't get the best of me. Sorry I can't say the same for a certain Ms. Luxurious. I heard she could be Hell on Wheels, so I got a press pass to Wisteria Lane to get the scoop and dish it your way. What I saw would shake you silly. Just a friendly warning, is all. Get off now if you're the queasy type.
When I got there, the whole place was buzzed: lighting crews setting up, the director coaching an extra, and everywhere actors pacing like jailbirds in an exercise yard, reading their lines from scripts fat as phone books. Only little miss Spoiled Brat was lounging in a chair, getting her makeup applied like Marie Antoinette and fussing with her Barbie dress. From my experience, which is plenty, anyone who makes you mix your metaphors is trouble -- count on it.
"Ok, take your places everyone," shouted the director. Right in the middle of the lawn, a little girl sat on a blanket blowing bubbles.
Marie Antoinette finally gets off her keister and sashays into the scene, tossing out a few uninspired lines of dialogue. Naturally the director yells "Cut!" because you and I could've done better in our sleep.
"Darnit!" shouts Ms. Languorous, but everyone knew what she meant to say. Things were starting to get ugly.
Now Eva casually approaches the little girl on the lawn and pretends to give a damn by asking the kid if it's all right to "borrow" her bubble kit. Since when is it all right to steal a kid's bubble kit? And like you can ever put bubbles back in the bottle. Ask a genie, and write it down for next time so you don't forget, sweet cakes.
Ms. Klepto starts blowing bubbles like it's going out of style. The kid looks a little upset, because now what is she gonna do with herself? There's only her and the blankie and a crazy lady skipping around the lawn.
Suddenly Eva spots a sweet, innocent robin, sitting on a low branch, just minding its own business. Sneaking up on it, Miss Dangeria blows a bubble that floats toward her prey and bursts on its beak. The robin sits stone still but drops a white poopster on the lawn below.
Nervous laughter follows, and Terri Hatcher says, "Well, Evie darling, I think it's safe to say you scared our robin sh*tless."
"EVIL darling" is more like it, I thought, but I kept mum. I wanted to see what else she was capable of. The traumatized robin just sat there on its perch of terror, pretending to sing a happy tune like nothing had happened. What a brave little soldier.
Just at this moment, a tiny tiger-striped kitty pops her head out from under the girl's blanket. The little kid, delighted, picks up kitty and starts nuzzling it. Wrong move, girlie.
"Oh, oh, kitty," purrs the robin terrorist. "Would you like to play with some bubbles?"
A fleet of menacing soap bombs heads straight for our little kitten, who manages to bat them away with her tiny paw. But more and more come, until the poor fur ball finally gets bubble-whacked right on the snout and runs like blazes into the House of Desperation, no doubt seeking emergency first aid. I tell you, I almost lost it right then and there.
Suddenly the robin flies away to warn the rest of the robin kingdom what hell had been unleashed on Wisteria Lane. Spring will never be the same, and now you'll know the dame to blame.
Hey, Bob Dylan oughta write that up. The Ballad of Evil Longoria. Because I'm not a troubadour, just a reporter, dammit. And I know what I saw. Now you know, too.
© 2009 Kate Heidel
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kate Heidel is a freelance writer living in Minneapolis. Her work includes humor essays and poetry, genres so incompatible that Kate's resulting inner turmoil can only be soothed by frequent shopping trips to Designer Shoe Warehouse.
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