Excerpt from an interview with Amanda "Kandy" Kaine

Amanda Kaine could pass as Fran Drescher's older sister; she has the same brassy, nasal voice and darkly pretty looks.

"Yeah, I probably coulda been a real actress, but I got sick of being in front of the cameras, you know? It was a real grind. I did some community theater after I left the business, but that's it. Thank God I got out before everyone got the AIDS!

"Do I got a story to tell about Johnny? Everyone does, honey. We did a buncha movies together in '72 and '73. He was a decent enough guy when he was sober, but he could be the biggest prick in the world when he was high ... which was most of the time, after a while.

"But I felt sorry for him when things started going bad. His wife threw him out one night, and he showed up at my door. I let him crash in my spare bedroom. He was pretty wasted. I told him my cat Spazmo was pretty curious, and playful, so he should wear shorts or underwear or something when he slept.

"Johnny was like 'Yeah, sure, babe, whatever' and pretty soon I hear him sawing logs back there. So I get back to watching Kojak, and forget about him.

"Then I hear him holler, and there's a terrible ruckus back there. I run into the bedroom, and Johnny is standing there naked, holding Spazmo by the scruff of the neck. Poor Spazmo is all fluffed out, spitting, yowling, and Johnny sounds nearly as bad.

"It takes me a second to see that one of Spazmo's claws is hooked into Johnny's dick, and the cat can't pull it out with Johnny hollering and holding him at arm's length.

"I try to calm them both down and get the claw unhooked. Johnny throws Spazmo across the room, and storms out. That was the last I saw of him, until he got bad sick in the late '80s. You could barely recognize him."

She paused, taking a wistful drag from her cigarette. "I did warn him, though."


Entry from Bob's Big Book of 100% Guaranteed Possibly True Urban Legends

My husband Mike and I had just moved into an old apartment. The bathroom sink dripped something fierce. Drip, drip, drip. We'd called management to send a plumber out, but you know how that goes.

So one Saturday morning we were lying in bed naked after -- well, you know -- and the faucet was still dripping. Stuff like that gets to Mike really easy. Way, way too tense, that man. Mr. Overreaction. He threw off the covers, and yelled "I'm fixing that goddamn thing myself!"

He stomped out there naked, made a big loud production out of getting his tool chest, and squatted under the sink to turn the water off.

I had this little half-grown calico kitten named Peaches. She liked sweet things; you couldn't leave a jar of honey or peanut butter open around her. I guess maybe the lube we were using had glycerine in it or something, but ... yeah. It was pretty sweet stuff.

I saw the whole thing from bed. While Mike was squatting with his head under the sink, she came up behind him and licked his balls.

Mike jumped in surprise, and knocked himself out on the pipe. Peaches ran and hid. I jumped out of bed and ran to him; he was out cold. He had a pretty good gash in the back of his head, and he was bleeding quite a lot.

So I called 911. The paramedics got there in a hurry, and loaded him up on a stretcher.

They were carrying him out, and asked how he'd gotten hurt. So I told them.

Both paramedics started laughing so hard they dumped poor Mike naked on our front lawn.

When Mike got out of the hospital later that day, he told me "Either that cat goes, or I go!"

I miss Mike sometimes.

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