Kate and Cate
Kate Winslet and I are rolling around in bed, a little bit of slip and dip. It’s nice. She’s very beautiful you know. And easy. Not in a slutty way, but in a to-hang-out-with way. She’s always got some sort of craft activity to do or she’ll bring up the desert island again and my favorite three albums are scrutinized a new. She powers our relationship, like a little lustful ball of fission she shines surely. Without her we’d sit around in silence, drinking beer and whiskey and watching TV on the internet. There wouldn’t be a relationship. Just two people sitting around in relatively close proximity to one another.
Kate Winslet likes a good pint of beer. Stouts mostly, but she’ll settle for a porter. She pulls hardier than I on a pint glass held high, frothy head all over her lips.
Then one day all drunk up, who should I see but Cate Blanchette. “Hello Matthew, long time. How have you been?”
“Very good Cate, very good. I’ve been seeing Kate Winslet. She really is a peach. How’s Andrew?”
Sounding like Kate Hepburn: “Well he’s fine, just swell. With the kids right now in the south of France.”
“That’s nice. I really must be going now, too-ta-loo!”
“Too-ta-loo to you too Matthew!”
But just then I remember that I wanted to ask her about London this time of year so I shout: “Kate! KATE!”
But there’s Kate Winslet, standing behind me a few feet to the left of my right shoulder. Where the hell did she come from? “I heard that you son of a bitch.” Her whole humming body a deep dark frequency. “You thought she was me. You thought that I was Cate Blanchett. You thought she was Kate Winslet. Well she’s not. And I’m not. I’m Kate Winslet. She may have nicer tits than me, but I’m a far better actor than that no-good bow-riding cunt of a slut! Do you hear me Cate? DO YOU HEAR ME YOU FUCKING DYKE!”
Without thinking the following escaped my lips: “She’s also much more beautiful than you are. In the face and what not. Maybe. It’s actually hard to tell you’re both so damn beautiful. And the tits, sure, the tits too. But your ass is spot on honey. Really fucking spot on.”
“Don’t ‘spot on’ me you lousy fuck. You’ve got a tiny little prick. Ha. Hahahahahahaaha.”
The bottom line of this story is that I have a hard time with the difference between Kate Winslet and Cate Blanchett.
5 comments:
I tended to confuse them, too
I enjoyed your piece!
Cesare
Thanks Cesare. You're the man. Glad to see you back here. Your absence has been long, cold, and bleak. A single dead tree on a frozen field of mud I have stood without you alone as the bitter winds railed against my ears until they were numb and snapped off like so much brittle candy. Little dandy. Alone on a spoon around nigh near noon a cowboy swaddled in leather sauntered in. "A done sar that thar tree out in the middle of the field. It's ears were broke clean off! Like so much brittle candy."
this is so sad. I didn't notice your new ears were fake.
Greetings. A recent article (‘Follow that bishop!’ http://www.guardian.co.uk/religion/Story/0,,1975851,00.html) reminded me of your “How do you over cook soup?” post. It starts out innocently enough:
“As someone who once fell asleep, inebriated, on a train from Edinburgh to Glasgow, waking up a couple of hours later back in Edinburgh, I have pint pots of sympathy for the Bishop of Southwark.”
But it ends with an old citation that made me think of what is really important, in this case beer, and it conveniently echoes (somewhat, at least in form) what Deepak Chopra told you. The author writes:
“He would just do well to remember the words of Benjamin Franklin: ‘Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.’ Amen to that.”
-C
C-
That link doesn't work.
Very best highest regards good luck,
Matthew D Dunn, Esq.
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