Hallowe'en With Kirstie Alley [2006]

Hallowe'en With Kirstie Alley - can't you just picture it?

Hallowe'en day dawns bright and early, the sun lightly dappling the heavy velvet curtains that shield Kirstie's bedroom suite from the sun's harsh rays. Kirstie moans and shifts in her bed, causing the her pale lavender satin pajama pantsuit to ride up into a dank, sweaty cameltoe. The day drags on, hours pass, shadows lengthen, and the sun draws ever nearer to the horizon.

Precisely at the moment the sun falls out of sight over the edge of the globe, there is a distant, almost imperceptible tingling chime from far away in Castle Kirstie. Kirstie sits bolt upright in bed, causing her silky top to slip off of one shoulder, exposing one of her long, dangling breasts to the glow of the gently burning tealight candles that keep Kirstie's bedroom in a constant state of flickering twilight. The breast is singularly long and pendulous, with a bright purple teat covering the end entirely, like a Chinese eggplant with the colors inverted. Kirstie quickly scoops her breast back inside of her bedclothes.

"Have you called Jenny yet?" Kirstie squawks aloud, to no one in particular.

Kirstie's personal attendant, Concepción, bustles into the bedroom. She swiftly and efficiently changes the sheets on the bed underneath Kirstie, whipping off the satin undersheet the way a magician removes a tablecloth. In a like manner, she swaps out Kirstie's pajamas for her "daytime" outfit: a full-lenth evening gown with Swaroski crystals, cut on the bias, with a semi-sheer wrap to hide "trouble spots." Quick as a flash, while switching the outifts Concepción is simulatneously able to give the fleshy folds of Kirstie's body a quick wipe-down with a Huggies® baby wipe, leaving her with the powdery scent of a clean diaper.

Concepción places a small donut on an Hermes china plate and serves it to Kirstie, who swallows it whole and then stares at the empty plate, which has been decorated with one sad, crisp, whitish strawberry slice.

"Today is special day, Kirstie. Is Hallowe'en! You know what that mean!"
Kirstie continues to stare at the empty plate with the strawberry slice, as if by will alone she can quell the screaming hunger pangs in her stomach and the dusty, cardboard taste of the Jenny Craig "breakfast donut" still lingering in her mouth. Slowly, the light of recognition shines in her eyes.

"Hallowe'en! Yes! Yes! Hallowe'en!" Kirstie repeats, excited. "The Ceremony!"

"Yes, the Ceremony!" Concepción replies with an air of indulgence, "For to find Miss Kirstie her dream man."

Concepción bustles about the room, lighting an additional set of special scented candles, each in their own wicker tealight screen from Pier 1 Imports. The scent of lavender fills the air.
Kirstie jumps up from the bed, automatically standing in her normal red-carpet pose: standing as erect as possible, with jazz hands resting on her hips, fingertips spread as widely as possible as they rest on the hips to draw the eye Up! and Out! The hand gesture was far most successful in her Cheers days, when a heady diet of Marlboro cigarettes and cocaine kept the hips in question small enough that the illusion was successful. Now it just serves to remind Kirstie that the only hands touching her hips are her own.

Kistie's cheeks flush. She's forgotten the ravenous hunger burning inside of her; it's been replaced with her ravenous need to have someone touch her, think of her, or look at her with anything other than pity or scorn.

"The Ceremony!" she repeats to Concepcion.

Concepción picks up a small white printout from side table and reads aloud:
"Dr. Hirsch and colleague Dr. Jason Gruss initiated a study to investigate the impact of ambient olfactory stimuli upon sexual response in the human male. The combined odor of lavender and pumpkin pie had the greatest effect, increasing median penile blood flow by 40%."

Acting in concert with her Scientology training, Kirstie orders Concepción around the room.

"Touch the wall!" "Thank you!""Touch the bed!" "Thank you!""Turn around""Thank you!"
Concepción repeats each action as ordered, thanking Kirstie each time. As in a real Scientology training session, this goes on for about an hour longer than you'd think, but as a Scientologist Kirstie finds this perfectly normal and not at all a waste of time. In fact, in a real Scientology session, Concepción would be paying Kirstie for such training.

In reality, Concepcion's mind tunes out after about 5 minutes, at which time she begins mentally tallying exactly how much money she's making with each command, and wishing she was able to stay home and take care of her three children, none of whom are old enough to feed themselves, instead of taking care of this one rich white lady who's fed herself too much.

"Get the pumpkin pie filling from the minifridge!" "Thank you!"

The pace increases, and beads of sweat collect on Kirstie's upper lip. With a flourish, she gathers up her skirts and hikes them up, bending forward over the bed at the waist over the bed.

"Get the spatula!""Thank you!"

Concepción has extracted a tub of pumkin pie filling from the small refrigerator next to Kirstie's bed, and is furiously stirring the contents. Concepcion's eyes have rolled back in her head, as in a trance, which luckily prevents her from seeing Kirstie's gaping maw of a vagina spread in front of her, encircled with bristley salt-and-pepper pubic hair.

"Stuff it!" "Thank you!"
"Stuff it!" "Thank you!"
"Stuff it!" "Thank you!"

It's some five minutes later that Concepción returns to full conciousness, finding herself collapsed on the floor of the bedroom and quite alone. She stands quickly, wiping her long brown hair from her forehead with nutmeggy hands.

"Dios mio!" she says, her eyes falling on a trail of pumpkin pie filling drips that leads out of the bedroom, into the hallway. Quickly, she turns, looking out the bedroom window into the back yard, where a bright orange trail of blobs of pumpkin pie filling trail underneath the patio lights from the back door of the house, around the pool, to the pool house, like one of those really tedious Family Circle cartoons.

"Shit, now I gonna have to hire a new pool boy if she frighten this one off!" she says to herself, but then she stops. Wonder of wonders, there's a slow, keening wail arising from the pool house. Concepción opens the window and sticks her head out. There's a repetive thumping sound rising from the pool house, along with breathless shouting:
"I...gonna...call....Jenny! I'm callin' Jenny! I'm callin' Jenny! I'm calliiiiiinnnng Jeeeeeeennnny!" Kirstie screams at the top of her lungs.

And then...a brief silence, followed by the quick resumption of the thumping sound.

The thumping continues, sans screaming, for what seems like an eternity. Concepción grows bored listening at the window, and just as she's about to give up and shut the window she hears Kirstie scream "HAVEN'T YOU CALLED JENNY YET??!?" at the pool boy.

"Who knew? This shit works!" Concepción says to herself, absentmindedly sucking pumpkin pie filling off of her left index finger. "Good for Miss Kirstie!" she says to herself, and then sighs.
Slowly, exhausted but happy at having helped her mistress, Concepción drags her tired Mexican body down the hallway to the closet, to begin the tedious process of steam cleaning the pumpkin pie filling from the carpets, the lampshades, and - from the sound of it - from the telephone receiver in the pool house.

Valentine's Day With Kirstie Alley [2006]

Valentine's Day - can't you just see it?

We spy Kirstie as she's running around her room, fluffing up her slippery silk-covered occasional pillows in a variety of jewel-toned colors and lighting hundreds of vanilla-scented candles and tealights. She's thrown what she thinks is a sexy black-and-white feathered boa around her neck, but what she fails to realize is that the boa doesn't look sexy at all and calls attention to her neck wattles.

Kirstie pants as she bustles around, and she begins to perspire slightly. A mist of sickly rose-scented perfume rises off her heaving bosom, mixed with the faint crisp smell of smoke as a feather from Kirstie's boa floats a bit too close to one of the candles and gets singed.
Finally, Kirstie crawls on hands and knees onto her bed - the satin comforter and slippery pillows make any sort of movement on the bed a challenge. With much effort, Kirstie finally gets herself and her bosoms arranged on the bed and, reaching through a blaze of burning candles, rings a small brass bell on a side table.

A swarthy gentleman enters the room, and Kirstie's eyes gleam hungrily. The man is wearing white cotton drawstring pants and a tight black t-shirt that grips his slim, muscular body tightly. It's not immediately clear whether the man is wearing underwear or not. His muscles tense as he approaches Kirstie, and with a primal snort Kirstie rears up on the bed. The manservant comes closer - closer! Within the short space of thirty seconds, the gentleman has deposited a hot, creamy white, steaming, slippery mound of Jenny Craig fettucine Alfredo onto a tray on the bed. Kirstie dives into the fettucine, making yummy noises as she eats, and gulps down the food while occasionally taking sips of water from a ridiculously ornate crystal goblet, available from Pier One Imports, and screeching "Have you called Jenny yet?" to no one in particular.

The man retreats, disgusted, but as he gets to the door he looks back, and it is then that he glimpses what he at first believes is a rabbit, poking its pink nose and gray whiskers out from under Kirstie's raspberry sherbet-colored satin nightie.

And then the rabbit twitches its whiskers, and he realizes that what he is looking at is is not a rabbit.

And then he runs.

That is all.