Friday, February 27, 2009

You People Know Me Scary-Well

Either you have no life, or I have the biggest mouth in the fucking world. I'm pretty sure it's a combo of my tendency to over-share and your addiction to my thinly veiled references to penis. (Fine, so I don't even thinly veil them. It's called "artistic license", jesus you people are a buzz kill.) I'm probably going to steal portions of ALL of these bios and create one hybrid-bio for the Haute Dish submission.

Here is the lame-ass bio I threw together for myself. Clearly I was hoping you kill-joys would come up with something better so I wouldn't have to use this:

Catherine goes by "Cat". She spells it with a "c" because she does not like the letter "k". She works as little as possible as an accounts payable specialist, she has her own office, and frequently suffers from third degree paper cuts . She is undergoing treatment for cynicism, but doctors believe it's a terminal case. Cat spends most of her time blogging and watching reruns of Jon & Kate Plus 8 to remind herself that her life is empty and meaningless. She has no ambition and is content to let opportunities pass her by. Her only interests are bacon and Schell's beer. She is probably drunk right now. Trust us, it's better for everyone that way.

My Jill - Michelle from Confessions of a Desperate Housewife - decided to go the direct route and get right to the crux of it:

Cat is a nut from a very twisted tree. The end.

Teri at Cold Lemonade (she is such a slut) took a break from stalking me on AIM to send me this on Myspace:

Cat writes in metaphors and drinks vodka. Cat is crude and crass yet still manages to wear her heart on her sleeve and all that that entails. Cat misses Alaska but she curses the cold of Minnesota; somehow that sounds hypocritical, but you don't see Eskimos living in MN, so I guess there must be some merit to her cold-hate in that state.Yadda yadda zombies, coins for laundry, driving in snow, stealing cute babies, accusing people of being drunk if they say weirder things than her, staying in budget, loving the fluff out of Gray, detesting frozen snot balls....these are Cat's daily thoughts and considerations. Cat is funny & lazy at home, caring & calloused, and entertaining while bored. Hopefully, Cat will become a good friend of mine, someone I would actually pay money to come visit.

Chris from My Cat Ate My Brain was the only one brave enough to leave her submission in the comments. She gets my Purple Heart medal (it's a pretend medal, so don't hold your breath Chris):

Cat is a transplant from Arkansas. She left before she was forced to breed with her first cousin and have babies with nine heads. She came to Minnesota for the Mall of America, thinking this was the Disneyland of the Midwest. Her happiness was quashed when she realized that Wal-Mart was not a flagship store. She lives with Gray, who she is desperately trying to litter box train. Although the winter weather is harsh and she can’t feel her toes, she is enjoying the area even though everyone talks with a funny accent, don’t cha know.

And last (because it's so fucking long)((seriously, you could make a screenplay out of this bio)), C.S. Perry from Rooked:

The Illustrious career of young author Catherine “The Husk” Campbell began in her eleventh year when she went through the trauma of Menarche. Using the emotional pain and disconnectedness she felt as a result of this premature flowering as a springboard, she decided to turn her talents and attention to the written word.

Towering a mere a five feet, four inches, Catherine used her diminutive stature to her advantage by writing a series of short stories which were collected under the title “I Never Get to See the Parade.” This series was refused, unfortunately, by every publishing house that saw it for gratuitous profanity and unnatural sexual content.

Not letting this get her down, Catherine then embarked to write a novel based loosely in her own personal chagrin at never having been molested as a child. That book, “Why Don’t My Uncles Want me?” was shelved once she realized she would have to wait for the deaths of several family members before publication could even be attempted without fear of any litigation ensuing. It remains her “long, lost” novel.

After her failure with a novel, Catherine fell into despair and was hospitalized for a time for a “nervous condition” that caused her to self-mutilate the inside of her mouth by incessantly chewing on her inner lips. And this despite the long secret congenital defect she had struggled to keep quiet; namely: a missing right incisor that remains a mystery as her Birth Records were sealed by the court when she was only nine days old. Many suspected incest as the culprit but the answer may never be known.

Upon her release from the “Spa,” Catherine set about a memoir tentatively titled “Why Do I Smell Like Fried Food?” She once again abandoned a project in process when she realized that the odor she gave off was the direct result of a constant diet of deep fried Funnel Cakes which she obsessively purchased at country fairs and roadside stands. She insisted later that she only ate the cakes to relieve the “inner tension” she felt that caused her to chew her lips almost into non-existence. Luckily, a renowned plastic surgeon was able to perform a labial transplant using Catherine’s labia majora to replace the damaged facial lips. This gave Catherine a bizarre appearance and she hid from the public eye for many long months.

After the discovery of a therapeutic lipstick, Catherine emerged from hiding to write her next piece, “Snuff the Torch.” It was a geopolitical rant about the Evil nature of the Olympics which she felt were destroying morale around the world and causing too many problems between the Superpowers and rogue nations. She also hated the colors used for the rings. It was not well received.

After this debacle, Catherine went into a recording studio to cut a spoken-word album. Working long and tedious hours on the project, Catherine fell too easily back into old habits and was found late one night wandering the streets and offering to prostitute herself for the price of a funnel cake. She was arrested and her now infamous mug shot shows her replacement lips caked with powdered sugar. The album, which she titled numerically, having been inspired by 867-5309 Jenny, was called “559-63-6669.”

The record remains out of print and is considered the Holy Grail of obscure record collectors since the title is rumored to be Catherine’s social security number.

After another brief stay at her favorite “Spa,” Catherine is now getting back to literature and is planning a triumphant return to Letters later this spring.

She currently lives at undisclosed address with her common-law husband and they share their home with 37 cats and one goldfish named “Lucky.”

I want to hump you all. Instead, I'm going to mess around with these killer submissions, and replace my Blogger profile bio with my New & Improved Reader Bio. It's like I'm a really awesome democracy now. HEIL CATHERINE!