Will The Right Katie Girl Please Announce Herself?

In the month of August, I got a record number of emails for another katiegirl@gmail.com. Shall we discuss them? Why yes, I think we should.

Let’s begin with the 3 Onsies I purchased for the phantom baby I’m giving birth to in Hoboken, NJ. To be clear, I wouldn’t purchase this Onsie for my worst enemy, much less the non-existent fruit residing in my own loins.

I was accepted into Louisiana University’s Cheer Camp and invited to North hill to fill out the forms to begin my cheer career. With so much to cheer about, I’m not sure where to shove my pom-poms first. Up the asses of the right wing regime for their stupidity regarding Universal Health Care, or the health care system for charging me 0ver 28K in medical expenses with insurance, or the Superior Court of LA for summoning my Jew x 4 tuchas to Jury Duty. Let’s face it, I was born to fucking cheer. I’m the peppiest-perkapalooza there is, ready to cheer my fat ass off.

Bill, a married fellah, sent me pictures of his naked ass replete with an S&Mee cock and ball set up (from behind). I graciously emailed him back and explained that I was the wrong Katie. Of course, he emailed me to apologize. 5-minutes later, he explained that he was signed up for a swinger’s website and, even though I was the wrong Katie, would I be interested in swinging with him. I emailed him back and said, “Second hand cock I might consider, but third hand cock is just wrong on too many levels.”

I bought tickets, great tickets, to the Madonna concert in NYC, that was fun. My fourth row seats didn’t seem to matter, even in Los Angeles, she still looked fabulous.

I Western Unioned money to someone in China.

I created a new gmail address, something to the effect of, ImsocuteImdrippinginannoyingcuteness@gmail.com.

I bought a dinette with 4 chairs in Minnesota.

I bought 15 meat laden pizzas for a sports party in Iowa.

I bought software from 3 different companies.

A friend gifted me a Beauty and the Beat Makeover from Disney, just what I always wanted, a gift from Mouschwitz.

The United Methodist Church invited me to an Affordable Housing Seminar at their church in the Jubilee Hall. Coffee and doughnuts were promised afterwards. Being homeless, I’m still trying to figure out, how I received an evite. I suppose that’s not terribly relevant.

My husband sent flowers to his girlfriend, but accidentally emailed his wife. Reading the subtext of his email, he was oozing guilt… That was fun, to witness, I mean.

Oh, silly me, I’m getting married and I’ve converted to Christianity. I hope you can make it!

My IRB proposal was accepted by the Chair at Point Loma Nazarene University. I’m real proud of that.

Apparently I live in Medina and have dirt on River Styxx, but was always thought of as a city girl.

Peggy, a banker/Realtor in Ohio approved my loan for a home, yay.

Ken, the chair of Continuing Education & Training APHL sent me about 50 severely nature oriented pictures from his hike.

Suzy/Sydney miss me terribly.

Loved this one…

stop txtin Adam he dose not want u to txt him any more


What scares me the most is that the above email isn’t from a teenager.

Though, I think this one is.

hi katie i got a new email to get away from two girls ttyl

When I explained to the child that I was not the right Katie, he emailed me back and told me he was bored and asked if I would be interested in talking to him. No.

And finally, I got yet an email from the MormAgains recruiting me, not the first or the second, or the third. No, this was the 20th email. After many kind requests to stop, I was so frustrated, I sent this:

For the love of GOD, Shane;

How many times do I have to beg you to stop emailing me?! This is the hundreth time you’ve e-stalked me. I have begged you to stop on numerous occasions.

If I’m not getting emailed from the Morm-agains, I’m getting emails from the Born-Again’s, and I really need it to stop, please.  I’m JEWISH and proud of it. We’re a tolerant people, as are many Christians and other religious sects. Speaking for myself, we skew liberal, support a woman’s right to choose abortion, embryonic stem cell research, freedom of speech, equality under the constitution for -breathe- homosexuals, among other things, all of which are God’s way.

When you learn tolerance and actually practice what you preach, you are welcome to email me. Until then, you’re not.

Do we have a meeting of the minds? Are we good? I trust you’ll let me know.


Katie Schwartz

Image courtesy of Château Thom

Snatchstick, It’s On

After receiving 15 emails from a broad about how I, and my ilk, were doomed for death, as well as lovely recruitment emails espousing hate, hate and more hate, such as the email below, I responded, also below.

Subject: Untimely death/ worth the read

DID YOU KNOW THESE FACTS? I SURE DIDNT TILL NOW (they can’t say “until”? Their cause seems mighty enough to warrant a full “until”).

Death is certain but the Bible speaks about untimely death! Make a personal reflection about this…… Very interesting, read until the end…..  It is written in the Bible (Galatians 6:7): ‘Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man sow, tha t shall he also reap. (Again with the misspellings, oy). Here are some men and women who mocked God: (No, dearie, they exercised their right to freedom of speech, THANK GOD).

John Lennon(Singer): Some years before, during his interview with an American Magazine, he said:

‘Christianity will end, it will disappear. I do not have to argue about that. I am certain. Jesus was ok, but his subjects were too simple, today we are more famous than Him’ (1966). Lennon, after saying that the Beatles were more famous than Jesus Christ, was shot six times.

Tancredo Neves(President of Brazil): During the Presidential campaign, he said if he got 500,000 votes from his party, not even God would remove him from Presidency. Sure he got the votes, but he got sick a day before being made President, then he died..

Cazuza (Bi-sexual Brazilian composer, singer and poet): During A show in Canecio (Rio de Janeiro)

Dear Intolerant Cunt;


The problem with Born Again Christian’s, not Christians, born again Christians, is the malignant, destructive level of intolerance you preach and practice. Which, by the way, have NOTHING to do with Jesus’ ideologies. If you actually read the bible, you would know that Jesus preached tolerance for all of humanity, including gays, liberals, artists, and everything in between, and, especially all religions. He was an insightful philosopher.

Your ilk does more damage than good. You’re dangerous. You will reap what you sow, which I assure you, will not be heaven, a place you are unworthy of visiting or residing. No. You will go to hell.

I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU IN MY INBOX AGAIN. If I do, hell hath no fury like a liberal, embryonic stem cell research supporting, fierce pro-choice advocate with something to say.

Are we clear?

Katie –

You’ll be happy to know that she emailed me back and said, “Sorry, I won’t email you anymore.” To which I responded, “Exercising tolerance would be an apology, but a lame ass, empty-headed sorry falls on deaf ears.”

Louie, Lou-iii

Found on The Girl Can't Help it Vintage Blog
which may very well be a new fave.

Point fucking blank, I know I’ve been a bad blog friend and a bad blogger, but that is no fucking, mother fucking reason to punish me with a subscription to Martha Stewart Living and BaudV!lle (note the exclamation as a substitute for). Do you HATE ME that much?

Just call me a cuntlogger or a snatchpackage (I know it’s irrelevant, I just love the fucking word) or a bitchlogger. But, this?! This is cruel.

Baudv!lles Magazine cover reads, I kid you not, FROM THE OFFICE OF POSITIVE MOJO, in all caps. Seriously?! Each page is more subversive than the next. One section is dedicated to Build it and they will come”, a series of cards to be dispensed to co-workers, I think? One box reads. Totally Awesome in delightful brown, gold and red font, circa 1980s, filled with oodles of totally awesome cards and buttons. The one that sent me to the porcelain goddess was the, Together We Can, box. In powder fuck me in the ass pastel blue, the box features a picture of two silver hands clenched. Really?! I’m not done. Other gifts include, Great job! You’re definitely on a roll”, filled with tootsie rolls. And the, “Thanks for your Commit-Mint”, mint dispenser. Again in pastel, please allow me use this as my menstrual pad, blue, Write On a journal. Where’s the fucking irony? Where? Where? Where?

Fortunately, my sister received Martha Stewart Living before I did. It was sent to her address (we live across the street from each other, same last name). She called me to alert me, knowing I’d have a visceral reaction.

Katie, breathe and sit down. Oy vey. I assumed we were careening towards a deathversation. Metaphorically, we were.

Someone got you a subscription to Martha Stewart Living don’t panic. You don’t have to. It was too late. I interrupted. Who the fuck would have the audacity to send ME, of all people, the pastel loving, recipe stealing, K-Mart product whoring, greedy, snatchstick, ex-conzine? In Kerri, flat sarcasm form, she said, Okay. I see we’re not going to listen to Kerri. Is Katie finished? God, I lovemy sister, she knows me so well.

Hells no, I’m not finished. Egomania aside, her magazine is about exploiting human foibles. Unless those humans live by her rules, buy her products and eat her food. As we all know, it’s not about what’s inside, it’s what’s outside, what people see, that matters most. Now, are you done? She asked. I don’t know.” I said.

You’re done. You never have to see it, I’ll burn it.” She said. No. Keep it. You love her magazine. And I want you should be happy. Why don’t you just call me a dirty fuck baby, she asked. Berry, you know me better than that. Just because M-Stew is the bane of my existence and I have assigned angry emotions to her, and her magazine doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate how much you enjoy it. True. She agreed.

See, I’m not that much of a cuntarella. I have objectivity. I realize other people love these reads. Sending them to me, though?! Is this your way of chopping me from you blog life? You broke out the crates and have been sitting Shiva for me for how long?!

Now, let’s discuss last night. I went to my ma’s for dinner. She made gluten free, vegan baked ziti that was to die for delicious. We had a great time, lots of laughs, big dishing, it was fabulous. My ma is the fucking best.

She lives up the street from me, about a mile away. It’s important you know this because what happened in that mile was surreal.

I made my way down the hill and was turning left, to drive by Louie’s favorite park. It’s what I do every time I leave my ma’s, my little ritual, if you will. The memories of him running and playing warm my Yiddish heart.

I turn. I pass Louiejew’s park. I smile. I notice a cop hot on my tail. Lights start flashing, big bright fucking lights. OMFG.

Aside: Louie is a family name. My paternal great grandparents were named Katie and Louie. I am, Katie Louie and I have a cousin named, Louie Katie. I named my dog Louie, (he was a person in a dog’s costume, deal). In Jewguage, the first born child is traditionally named after the last person in your family who died. However, in Jewgirl’sworld, a dead relative name I love, trumps that tradition.

I have Graves eye disease (we know this, right?) and bright lights are unbelievably painful and blinding (yeah, I know, I won’t have to deal with this forever. For now, it is what it is). Brightness feels like salt laden daggers bludgeoning my lady balls. And, unfortunately, if the brightness persists, it impairs my vision, which freaks me out. Who wouldn’t be freaked out by it, right? Right.

I pull over immediately. He’s flashing a ginormous white light from his car, as well as the bright red and blue I’m-a-fucking-officer-of-the-law, bitch, lights. He then walks over to me with his manly man bright flashlight. I can’t look at him. I’m already wearing glasses to cut the glare from normal night lights.

Ma’am, he says (I am so not a ma’am). I butt in. Please do not flash that light in my face. Please, I have Graves eye disease. What is that, he asks. Extreme sensitivity to light, I’ll give you my doctor’s number and you can call him right now. He’ll tell you. I’ll take my glasses off and you can see my swollen eyelids (I wanted to scream, I hate my jacked lady balls, and taking them out for show-and-tell, but I will humiliate myself for you). I am begging you to please turn that light off. To which he responds, “I have to check your car for weapons.

I’m thinking, you pulled over a fat Jew broad, wearing prescription/glare cutting sunglasses, driving an understated, vintage, registered, insured vehicle and you’re checking it for weapons? You’ve seen me. What part of my person screams glock, or Wusthof-for-murder, knives? (No disrespect, Joe-Joe-Bean.)

Because I always confess and freak out when I get pulled over, like the fucktard I am, I tell him I am coming back from my mother’s. We had baked Ziti. I have some. You want? You can eat it when you get back to the station. Do I have any forks with me? No forks, sorry. You’ll love it. You want to taste it? You can finger it. (Katie, you did not just ask an officer of the law if he wants to fingerbang your mother’s baked ziti?) Do you want to call her?

He says, You’re a big girl (I’m thinking, you better fucking mean age wise), you’ll be fine.

How do you know I’ll be fine? The other day, a guy in a wheelchair rolled by, yanked my sweatshirt and called me fat. I called him a criptard. Though, he was kind of a hot handi. Maybe it was the glasses, I’m not sure. I lied to my sister yesterday. I’ve been playing phone tag with my father for two-weeks, and I really want to talk to him. I feel like we’re growing apart and it worries me. One of my brother’s is in Korea and we’re not communicating as much as I’d like. He never emails me back. My younger brother has yet to respond to me regarding visiting my dad in August or September. I lied to my dentist and told him that I couldn’t make the appointment because I was stuck in the Valley, when really I just didn’t want to go.

He interrupts; the nerve, ma’am, can I just see your driver’s license, registration and proof of insurance?

But, there’s more, I exclaim.

I’m not a Priest, he says. I’m not a Catholic, I say.

Driver’s license, please?

Fine. I give him my license. Your middle name is Louie? I love that name. Thanks”, I say. I can’t find my registration or my insurance because I’m shaking like a crack addict, and, or a Graves  addled, or Parkinson’s patient.

He goes to his car. The lights are blindingly bright. I’m now wearing two pairs of glasses trying to keep from going blindy because I have to fucking drive after our engagement.

10 minutes later he comes back and says, Well, Louie, I have to give you a ticket. Sir, sorry, officer, my first name is Katie. He literally says, I like Louie better, so I’m gonna call you Louie.

My close friends and an ex-boyfriend call me Louie. But, whatever, Louie’s fine. He gives me a ticket for a burned bulb, my front light, whatever the fuck that’s called. I read the ticket, it says, Louie Schwartz. I say, Officer, my first name is Katie and this ticket is made out to Louie Schwartz, won’t that be an issue when I pay it? I don’t know. I don’t care, really, I just like the name, he says. Okay, fine. Great. Thanks. I say. He bids me a safe and fabulous night and finally turns his blaring white light off.

I collect myself for a minute before I drive, to blink-out-the-temporary-blindyness before I drive off.

I go ONE BLOCK, got it, one fucking block. As I’m passing the gas station, a car that just entered, is stuck behind a bus. Instead of waiting, he doesn’t just back into me, he slides the side of his car across my front bumper, which destroys his car. He calls ME a bitch and drives away.

How was your Saturday night?

PS: If you’re not bored stupid yet, my Jewchives are still housed on All The Way From Oy To Vey.



First, I’ve migrated all of links from All The Way From Oy To Vey. If I’ve missed anyone, TELL ME, I promise you it was an oversight. You know how fucktarded I can be. Don’t be shy. I want all of you with me. Would you please redirect your links right here? I know it’s a pain in the ass. I super appreciate it.

Dear Thyroid Dish… So exciting. This week we announced the launch of our first Dear Thyroid Annual Anthology. Beginning in 2010 and every year thereafter, our “Best of Letters” from DearThyroid.com within each category we accept letters from, will be available in print. Other big news, Mary Shomon Passionate Thyroid Patient Advocate and  Best-Selling Author of numerous Thyroid books, Founder of Thyroid Info, Unbiased News and Support, and one hell of a glandalicious dame is interviewing Dear Thyroid on About.com.

Three Dames With A Clue announced our June show, which kicks fuckin’ ass “Women’s Expression of Sex and Sexuality“. The shit that’s going down at this shindig is going to be fierce.

This week, the shame, I got three pics of a naked peenyboy in my inbox meant for, of course, another Katiegirl surprised?! . Anyhoodle, the email was clearly an exchange he’d been having with another Katiegirl. I email him back and tell him I wasn’t the “Katie” this email was meant for. He decides to e-stalk me back. Wanna know what he said?

You sound very interesting!!  Maybe I can get some pics from u?!!  I also have more where those came from.  I am actually communicating with a couple of women on Ashley Madison.com.., a place to have affairs.  Interested?  Wouldn’t that be funny if an incorrect email led to something great?  Well probably not.  Besides, your probably no where near Columbus, Ohio.

Why yes, nothing screams hot, must have you, like married cheating cock. Dipshit.

Our Joe is fast becoming a famous author. He’s writing for Chicago Now, his column is called Arresting Tales.

Our Utah Savage is going through a rather horrific situation and needs all the love and support we have to give. While you’re clicking through cyberspace, send some love and good wishes to a dame near and dear to my heart. She blogs Telling Secrets.

Image courtesy of Artyfax

The Semitard Who Went Pro in Creeptardaree

It’s no secret that I’m Jewish. Anyone who reads my Jewchives from All The Way From Oy to Vey or my new site/blog right here, knows that I’m a proud Heebalicious Heebareena. Certainly, it’s not written on my face. Though I’ve been told that I look Jewish on many occasions, whatever that means. Oh, who the fuck am I kidding, I can spot 90% of my people within a one mile radius. Still. Some of us really don’t look Jewish, but we remain the Jewiest of Jews.

Recently, I had an opportunity to visit a place I hadn’t been to since I was a kid, a Schwartz landmark, if you will. After walking the grounds (patch a’ grass), the new owner, gem that he is, came outside to greet us. We met him at the bottom of his stoop.

To say that I was rattled by his appearance would be an epic lie. I could get past the faded, trying-to-be-blue Dickie’s and the grey, green flannel shirt, as well as the baseball cap worn so high, it was flirting with his forehead. I even overlooked his tooth. Yes, tooth, not teeth, one single solitary tooth and the ginormous mole on his forehead with two protruding grey hairs. What I absolutely could not get past was the dire situation manifesting between his legs, which I am convinced wanted to come out for show-and-tell: Elephantitis penis (EllyPeen). Or, perhaps it was Elephantitis ball sack (EllyB-Sack-Relidhj). I really don’t know and didn’t think I should ask. Though, as you continue reading, you’ll probably think what I’m thinking right now, “Bitch, after the way he behaved, ya shoulda fuckin asked.”

EllyB-Sack-Relidhj who hadn’t seen the light of day or spoken with humans outside of his four walls in at least 30-years, explained that he bought the SL (Schwartz Landmark) from a couple a’ Jews. “Lot’s of them Jew people were here before we arrived.” I wanted to scream, “Hey, fucknard, I hate to break it to you, but you happen to be standing in front of two a’ them, Jewesses, to be clear. Lil fuckin’ FYI for ya. Oh, and PS: instead of Jewhatin’, you might want to tend to that creepy fuckin Ellypeen protruding from your never-been-washed Dickie’s, OVERWHELMING and TRAUMATIZING my lady balls for life, I assure you.”

Of course the writing on the wall screamed Don’t go into the house, don’t, don’t, don’t do it. History’s pull outweighed our intuition. And so we entered. Inching our way into the foyer, memories flooding back for one. Sport nausea for both. Fab. After decades some things remained intact, exactly as they were remembered, those elements were resplendent.

As we ventured into another room, out popped the semitard who truly went pro in creeptardaree (SWWPIC). And I’m not kidding. Imagine a 5×5, 40-year-old man stuffed like a sausage casing into a white tank top designed for women. His only pair of Lee jeans, streaked with food stains, urine droplets and oil smudges, as well as, acne, backne and arm acne. And thank God, I will remain forever in the dark about his other body part acnefestations. Oh, and he had two teeth — that makes three between them. I have every confidence they jointly chewed and faught over who got the swallow.

In a high pitched, I-never-talk-to-people-unless-I-force-them-to-so-I-can-kill-them-with-my-screwdrivers-hammers-and-wrenches-in-the-basement, hiding under at least 30 dead women, buried underneath concrete, he eerily repeated, Hi, Hi, Hi, Hi, Hi, Hi, Hi, while folding his thick, unwashed clammy hand into mine.

The tour didn’t end there.  Terrified, yet incapable of walking out, we peered into each room, until we hit a two-room pocket with no exit. The SWWPIC was inching so closely behind me, I could feel his unflossed, never been rinsed breath on my neck.

Everything came to a halt when the other gazed at the ceiling and saw a ravishing, simple fixture, from their childhood. Memories as important to me to see and hear as they were to the other. Ellypeen reminded us that them Jews put it in, not them. After snapping multiple pictures, it became evidently clear that we needed to make like a leather clad republican, snorting Crystal Meth, while fucking two she-male hookers before getting caught. Or, in this case, killed.

Traversing around them to extricate ourselves felt like we were playing the last game of the final 4. Worse, As they followed us out, Ellypeen said, “Them Jews left a Jew thing on the door. We smashed it with a hammer and burned the thing inside.” Seeing the front door before us, and seething from their audacious hatred, holding my tongue seemed moot. Stupidly, I said, “You are telling two JEWISH WOMEN that you destroyed a Mezuzah.” The Other looked at me with that what have you done, child, look.

Of course Ellypeen didn’t care. Of course he didn’t hear me. He was preoccupied, flaunting his EllyB-Sack-Relidhj and spewing ignorance and hate. The Other grabbed my arm and dragged me out, willingly and gratefully, I’ll have you know.

The house reeked of piss. I am convinced they dragged their cocks out for Daily Battle of the Urine Stream contests performed in each room, for variety sake, you know, to keep it fresh. And when they weren’t doing that, they were decpitating barbies, setting them aflame and jerking off in watermelons, gumming Hungry Mans and deuling for the final gulp.

Safely in the car, the freakshows followed us out. The driver, a yummalicious Dominican, got behind the wheel as we drove off and ranted like banshees. Though he was quite familiar with cursing, he’d never quite heard cursing like this. Fortunately had a great sense of humor.

In a weird way, I felt bad for the SWWPIC. He never really stood a chance. Raised in an insular, hateful world with no formal education, friends, or social skills, to speak of. What choices did he have?

As far as that day goes, it was one of the most surreal, beautiful, haunting days of my life that I will treasure forever.

The Vey B-Roll (links) will be addd throughout the week, lovers, don’t break up with me and don’t think I’m dissin’ ya’s, cause I ain’t.


I Love You, Now Listen

First of all, I will get all of my peeps link posted. I am linkdating with a lot of you. Give me a few days, at least until next week. Can we do that, please? Is that fair? Fabulous.

Okay, I have an announcement and I am hoping you will hear me, please. Dear Thyroid just received our first family of letters. I am asking you to hop on over and read them. Posting them brought me to tears, really. This family’s strength and love for each other will take your wig off. As you know, I have Graves’ disease, well, so does this incredibly brave woman, Rachel. Of course her letter amazed me. Similarly, to read her family’s letter to Rachel’s thyroid and see what was taken from them because of her disease – alls I can tell you is that I was in tears while I posted each. I implore you to read them.

Have I hocked enough? Okay, here are the links:

Dear Thyroid, I will be the last one standing, not you (Rachel’s letter)

Christopher’s letter to his wife Rachel’s thyroid

Susan’s letter to her daughter, Rachel’s thyroid