Pyat, cheteery, tree, dva, odeen … You’re on, Kate!
Kate Mustard: (dressed in a rubber chicken costume, replete with red rooster comb hood) Good evening, everyone, and welcome to another edition of “Meet the Bitch” with me, Kate Mustard. Tonight’s guest is Rico Soiree, founder and director of Kyiv’s Silver School of English. Rico, it’s my understanding that you came to Kyiv to open a premium venue for instructing Ukrainians in the finer points of the world’s most widely spoken second language.
Rico Soiree: That’s right, Kate. But I’m also not opposed to stretching my generous pension from the New Jersey Board of Education to play hotshot to the gallery of self-important post-Soviet provincials and opportunistic cling-on sluts that abound in this fair city for as long as any of us can maintain the charade.
Kate Mustard: No kidding? And have you had much success?
Rico Soiree: Well, you know, there are good days and bad ones. But I’m an optimist. Certainly, things looked much easier when I was still surfing sex sites back on the East Coast. But I don’t have to tell you about the difficulty of maintaining a proper hard-on in the face of those very same gold-digging tarts, whose expectations of my sexual prowess have been artificially inflated by my ample and regular use of low-cost hair coloring.
Kate Mustard: No, you don’t, Rico, especially as I am more interested in your pedagogical pursuits.
Rico Soiree: Yes, of course. Well, competition is stiff in the English-teaching business here, but advertisement helps, particularly the tactical use of photo opportunities…
Kate Mustard: (interrupts him by smartly raising a recent issue of What’s Off magazine opened to the Valentine’s Day issue, in which Soiree poses on a couch with the still unemployed Zippy Zamazda in the company of two lovely young women) Like this one?
Rico Soiree: (blushing) Ahem, yes. That’s one example, although not my first choice.
Kate Mustard: Nor mine, but you see, this particular example attracted my attention not because of my professional admiration for Sweaty Tank Top’s paparazzi press, but because I received it in the mail along with a handwritten anonymous letter that reads like this: ‘Hello Kate. Uh, you don’t know me, but everyone else does, because I’m an expert, albeit temporarily unemployed, English-language journalist with a strong patriotic commitment to Ukraine. Anyway, I’m writing you to slag off Rico Soiree, who promised me a partnership at his Silver School of English only to then try and make me into his personal servant or waiter, which is way below my education and former experience…’
Rico Soiree: (visible angry but composed) Well, I must say that you’ve caught me off guard with that one Kate…
Kate Mustard: I try, Rico. I really do.
Rico Soiree: You see, my relations with Zippy – the presumed author of that mischievous missive – were strained from the very moment he plopped his fat ass down next to mine on that fateful St. Valentine’s Day evening.
Kate Mustard: I see.
Rico Soiree: No, you don’t see, Kate. Possibly because your eyes are still impaired from that live pissing you took from The Hunched Cornish, or whatever he’s called, right on the air.
Kate Mustard: Now, I’m afraid that you’ve caught me off guard, Rico. Because, in case you haven’t noticed, I am dressed in this rubber chicken outfit, replete with the red rooster comb hood, as part of my new public image (so timely suggested by the producers of this program) so as to make a clean break with that humiliating experience that you have so tactlessly recalled.
Rico Soiree: That’s truly unfortunate, Kate, particularly as I am a true fan of your sour-pussed approach to Kyiv’s English-language talk-show scene. You virtually emasculate your exclusively male line of guests, seemingly with the sole purpose of justifying your sexless existence on this planet.
Kate Mustard: (primping feathers) I’ve had my share of cockerels.
Suddenly, a condom filled with what appears to be mayonnaise bursts on the set, splashing Kate and Rico with its contents. Two tiny-titted teeny boppers, bared to the waste, appear in front of the camera in the company of Bret Boner, now fully converted into a topless Fem Girl protester.
Fem Girls and Boner in chorus: Fuck English language, Soiree go home! Say no to the illegal Viagra trade!
Rico Soiree: (indignantly wiping the mayonnaise off his tie) Now see here, Boner. I’ve got a six-month advert in that paper of yours.
Producers from backstage: Quick, switch to a commercial.
News Broadcast: The Kyiv Marathon is underway, and Steve Slimbut from New Hampshire is leading the pack. Our man, Pony Boy RatshitCaveitch is at the bend running alongside the cash-rich American entrepreneur turned sexy bachelor abroad.
RatshitCaveitch: Steve, what can you tell us at this point in the race?
Slimbut: Just that my PussyPetit mini-hotel in Odessa is about to open in a week, despite all kinds of interference and corruption by the local Soviet-minded authorities. But I’m staying positive and am wearing that same t-shirt that you photographed me in for that Kyiv Poster article earlier this month.
Producers from backstage: I said a commercial, not a news broadcast!
Welsh Losser: (on YouTube) And this little book is a good buy if you just want a good read, yukh, yukh. I read it myself, although I’m not about to go into any kind of substantive review, because I would rather just stand here in front of the camera and show off this expensive-looking watch on my fat wrist that I keep holding up.
Back in the studio, Kate Mustard has squared off with two Fem Girls, while Boner, new to these kinds of scuffles, just kind of scowls from a safe distance. Soiree, still wide-eyed, is clearly enjoying the spectacle.
Kate Mustard: Come on you little bitches… bawk, bawk, bawk… one at a time. I’ll tear your tits off!
Filed by Dirk Dickerson, April 21, 2013