Why I Hate Kate
Friday, July 17, 2009
It’s time for me to weigh in on the Jon and Kate saga.

I’ve kept my mouth shut because there are more important things happening in the world right now like Islamic terrorists targeting American hotels in Indonesia. (Take note, Mr. President, no matter how lofty your ambitions are to make nice, they don’t want to be our friends, Period. Period.).

Korean Crazy Dictators are playing with missiles.

Marion Barry has been charged with stalking a woman. Seriously? How many more illegal things can this dude do and still keep getting elected to public office?

And most importantly, the smokin hotness that is Johnny Depp is back on the big screen.

But then this hit the newsstands . . . 
And now, all bets are off.

Here I am, 7, that’s right, 7 months pregnant with one baby.
I know, you thought I was 12 months pregnant with a dozen fetuses. Tell me about it. I was the one dragging myself to the potty five times a night, absolutely certain that baby was going to drop out onto the bathroom floor at any second. I remember crying loudly (so as to wake my snoozing hubby up), all the way to the toilet, “She’s coming out! I know it! I can feel her head between my knees.”

In my non-pregnant life, I eat what my body can accommodate. During pregnancy, I turn into a ravenous ogre, downing anything that crosses my path.

True Story: We were driving down the road, me pregnant, The Hubby just trying to dodge my hormones. I saw the McDonald’s marquee advertising Big Macs—Buy one, Get One Free.

In my non-pregnant life, I don’t eat Big Macs.

There’s the whole fat and calories part of it. But, mostly it’s because of that teenaged, pimply boy behind the counter touching my burger with the same hands that have been in dark places (I’m sure, many hormonally crazed times a day) that I don’t care to know about.

But my pregnant brain saw that sign and went into a Shrek frenzy. I grabbed my husband’s arm and ordered, “Pull into Mickey D’s. Big Macs are buy one, get one free! NOW! NOW! NOW!”

We were on our way somewhere and he said, “OK, maybe later. We just had breakfast. Remember, you ate 3 eggs, your stack of pancakes and mine?”

I watched that sign whizzing past us and thought about those 2 all beef (riiight) patties, special, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles onions, on a sesame seed bun. And before I knew it, I was wailing uncontrollably. “I NEED A BIG MAC! I NEED A BIG MAC! RIGHT NOW!”

The Hubby whipped it into an illegal u-turn, without a word and drove up into that blessed drive-thru.

He was unable to reap the benefits from his act of generosity though, since I ate both of those delicious Big Macs and the double order of super-sized fries.

So, I know a little somethin', somethin' about stomachs being stretched to ungodly proportions. And I know they don’t go back without evidence. My stomach wall is separated, two halves of muscle. And I have a neat party trick where I can poke my finger through the separation and feel my intestines. My skin, unlike a rubber band, did not snap back with a pop after stretching to its full extent. Shriveled skin, with nowhere to go, bunches up in ugly little cliques around my belly button.

I should have thought about these things before the Two for One Big Macs.

Now, I know Kate got a tummy tuck and I’m cool with that. In fact, I think she deserved it. She bared her post pregnancy stomach on TV to all the curious viewers. She lifted her shirt, picked that empty, deflated hot air balloon of a womb off her knees and sheepishly let the cameras zoom in.

I could have never been that brave. I get embarrassed when my dog sees my stomach. I apologize to her as she watches me dry off from the shower, staring with shaded disgust at my stomach. It’s true. I can see it in her eyes.

So, after Kate showed the stomach that my brother-in-law so eloquently described as, “looking just like a fat man’s ass” which, strangely it did, she got some free surgery and I was all, “Yo Kate. Well played. You go on and get your tummy tuck.”

But she has eight, freakin kids. Eight. And here she is, baring that bikini body, knowing full well the “P People” (as she tells her kids to call the paparazzi), are there snapping away, ready to spread her photos all over the Internet.

She didn’t even bother with a little sarong or a big t-shirt or the most appropriate for a mother of eight, a flowy cover-up that goes to the ankles.

She doesn't need a flowy cover-up.

And that is why she deserves my deepest hatred.

She claims she’s on her elliptical for at least an hour and a half every day or until she hits something like 5,000 calories burned. Then she goes on to her personal trainer. I think after they’re done, they work out. Ahem.

Doesn’t she realize she’s not Gwyneth Paltrow? She’s a Z lister, a reality show whore, on TLC nonetheless. She ain’t no NeNe of Real Housewives, BAM!

And her reality show is entitled Jon and Kate Plus 8. Has she forgotten the plus 8 in all her newfound 15 minutes of celebrity?

She needs to be teaching those little cutie pies the alphabet and making macaroni necklaces and paper chains with them. She needs to be giving that mini bitch Maddie a good old fashioned spanking and reassuring the other twin, whatever her name is, she is just as special as the rest of the brood even though she gets no attention at all thanks to the cuteness of the little ones and Maddie’s bitch tirades. She needs to be a mother instead of working out for hours, spray tanning daily and getting her hair cut in the worst style ever seen this side of the Mason-Dixon line and that is saying a lot. We Southerners invented the mullet, remember?

But, Kate seems to have swallowed all the bullshit that money and fame can bring and in the process she and Jon have wrecked the life their family once had.

I used to love the show. My Victoria and I watched it religiously, a family just trying to make it through the cacophony of each day. But, then the rot of celebrity began to change them.
It started out with the little things creeping in, free teeth bleachings and hair plugs. Then, Aunt Jody was banished, their tans were getting orangier and comped vacations began popping up, becoming grander and grander with each episode.

I stopped watching when they went to Hawaii for the whole ultra-staged second wedding.

I knew the moment Kate stepped into the free guest suite at the Grand Wailea, she had officially crossed the threshold of Diva Bitch of Egomaniacal Proportions Without the Real Creds Required to be a Diva Bitch of Egomaniacal Proportions. She looked around at that sumptuous suite and sniffed, “This’ll do.”

You see, I have had the privilege of staying at the Grand Wailea, courtesy of those wonderful funsters at AIG.

As I’ve said before, I have been the benefactor of some great AIG vacations.

And if I had one wish, it would be that every taxpayer in America could go on just one AIG sponsored convention. Perhaps then, the world wouldn’t be so angry at them.

Once you’ve been riding on the back of a camel and dancing directly in front of Huey Lewis at a private concert, you too would think: Hey, these AIG folks are awfully darn nice!

I’m pretty sure AIG isn’t run by corporate brainiacs. I’m pretty sure it’s headed up by party planners because these folks sure know how to throw a great bash. It’s why I love AIG, so.

At the end of each great party convention we would have a private concert with some faded 80’s rocker. And the best part about the concerts was the ages of the other conventioneers. Most of them were old, like too old to know that you don’t sit in the chairs at concerts.

My first AIG private concert, I looked at all those old farts sitting placidly in their chairs waiting there like Frank Sinatra was about to come out and croon them silly and I thought, “This is a concert, man. I am NOT sitting. I know it’s Huey Lewis and all, but still!”

We got up close and personal with many an 80’s rocker that way. Jon Oates, of Hall and Oates, even handed me his guitar pick after their fabulous concert.

Boy, was he short, like shockingly short. Like if he’d ask me to go hang out and whatever back stage with him after the concert, I would have probably had to say no. And I like short. Ask my Hubby… and Bono.

But the point of this is, that the Grand Wailea is so stunning and beautiful that I cried every morning as we sat out in the open-air restaurant having breakfast, overlooking the depthless blue of the immense Pacific Ocean. I was so grateful to be there, I would have French kissed the head AIG dude to thank him. I was too busy though, singing with Huey to “The Power of Love.”

It is a paradise unlike any other paradise and Kate was not impressed, not even the slightest. 

I’ve never seen two people allow money and z-list status to change them so drastically.

Jon with his diamond studs. Somebody needs to tell him the bald spot mixed in with the plugs, totally disqualifies him for the rock star look.

And the Blue Tooth! Why, Jon, Why? Dude, wake up in, it’s 2009. Blue Tooths were as fleeting of a trend as fanny packs. As soon as people realized how douchey they looked, Blue Tooths disappeared from the big, stupid spot they took up on people's ears that said, "Look at me, I'm a Blue Tooth Douche!" And I’m not even gonna start on the whole, parking my rice burner outside the Holiday Inn Bar to pick up chicks, part of things.

What has happened to these two? If Kate believes her own hype, that she’s doing this all for her kids, she needs to cover up, invest in some sensible mom jeans, lose the trainer, grow a muffin top, fade out the orange tan, stop being an asshole to the fans stupid enough to buy her book, finger paint with her kids, cancel the show so the kids don’t grow up to become a break-out star on Dr Drew’s Celebrity Rehab and for the world’s sake, grow that shit style out!

Jon needs to lose the Bluetooth, man up, buzz the hair, stop pretending he knows how to smoke cigarettes in the south of France, lose the 20 yr old before she dumps his ass when she finds out what shared custody means, get a job, and go back to being the hen-pecked, beaten down husband that he was. He was really good at it.

That’s all I’m sayin’.

Now does anyone know a good assassin? There’s an Asian midget who starves his people and rules with fear tactics, jails our journalists in his Hell Camp and is playing with weapons of mass destruction. I think we need to focus on him for a while.

Today’s Download: The fabulous, fabulous “Freedom 90” by George Michael. Not only is this one kick-ass song from the 90’s, it was one kick-ass video with all the gorgeous super models of the decade mouthing the words and George all gay and damn, he’s-so-hot-I-wish-he-wasn’t-gay, singing to the world, his not really yet out of the closet song. Jon, remember these wise words, with your Ed Hardy t’s and wannabee ass-crack jeans -“I just hope you understand, sometimes the clothes do not make the man.” Enough said.


allie said...

oh my, i LOVED this post! FUNNY!

Angel said...


You could possibly be the funniest woman I know.

For real.

My pregnancy meal of choice for #1 was a double quarter pounder with cheese. I ate one as a reward for each doctor appointment. (If I can endure this v-exam, I can have my burger!) I only gained 40 pounds but I can now compare myself to a raw chicken... not only does the skin hang, but it ain't so pretty either!

Thanks for saying what I've been thinking everytime I see Kate in her bikini!

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