What would you do for a Klondike bar(maid)?Posted: July 27, 2011
I imagine that upon seeing this new post, all two of you said something along the lines of “it’s about fucking time these lazy bitches get their collective acts together and write another post that I probably won’t actually read unless the pictures are funny.” Listen. It’s late July, Mr. Jesus decided that 110 degrees was a great fucking heat index for the eastern United States last week. I’m having trouble sleeping. I have two jobs. I’m trying to figure out my “future.” And it’s my last real summer vacation. So excuse me for neglecting to post as I sleeplessly watch my childhood dissolve while sweating all over the place. We’re trying our best here.
Alternatively, you probably didn’t actually say anything like that and didn’t deserve my sassy reply. In which case…oops!
Okay, subtle subject change. Has this ever happened to you? Have you ever seen a certain thing or person or something EVERYWHERE in pop culture for like weeks straight? As though every time you turn on the TV, or read the paper, or go online, that thing is there, stalking your life?
Well it’s been happening to me. And I have a message for the state of Alaska: get the FUCK off me.
1. The Proposal has been on TV a lot recently, it takes place in Alaska, you get it.
2. While I was home I caught a little TV with my dad, which means I had no say in what we watched and he was going between the Phillies and a Deadliest Catch marathon. Naturally. Anyway, crabs, dead seabirds, Sig, and most importantly, Alaska.
3. Like many of you I ran to my nearest Borders this weekend. I got a cookbook in the “liquidation” sale (which means 10% off, apparently), but anyway it has a recipe for Baked Alaska that I read at least seven times because I just really wasn’t getting it – it’s an ice cream dessert covered in meringue. I’ve watched enough Food Network to understand the concept, but this recipe called for you to PUT IT IN THE OVEN. Not just under the broiler, mind you, but in a motherfucking 350-degree oven, door closed, timer on. But it still comes out as ice cream. I’m no physicist, but it seems to me that that’s impossible. Nevertheless, I read the recipe for about 20 minutes because I was so befuddled. ALASKA.
4. My mom left our local newspaper open to the Associated Press page which contained an article about a grizzly bear attacking four teenagers in ALASKA. Which is sad for them but equally annoying for me, am I right!?
5. I was on IMDB looking something up and the front page news story was that John Cusack, nonthreatening, semi-neurotic, sweater-wearing older man of my dreams (second only to Colin Firth, of course), is filming his new movie in ALASKA.
6. No joke, a Red Lobster commercial featuring an Alaskan fisherman is on right now as I’m typing this and I’m afraid, so very afraid.
And all this in the last week. AND that’s just the stuff I vividly remember. Is this enough evidence to support the claim that Alaska needs to get the fuck out of my life for a little while? I think so.
Anyway, I’ll have to wait another day because all this Alaskan stalkage inspired me to do a little sexy scandal investigation about the Last Frontier (starting with the state’s Wiki page, which told me that its official nickname is the “Last Frontier”). AND WE’RE IN LUCK, because there was one fine lady making miners sweat all up and down the Bering Strait…..Kathleen “Klondike Kate” Rockwell!!!!!!!!!!!!!1
With a nickname like that, this has gotta be good.
Sweet young Kate was a child of the frontier, growing up in Oregon and Washington state during the late 1800s. Actually, not really, her stepdad was a BFD and they lived in a big ol’ mansion in Spokane. It’s not like she was killing squirrels for dinner or wrestling bears. She had a comfy childhood, but she was a tomboy – she liked to wear boys’ clothes. Which is fine, if it’s not the 1880s and even the ladies who don’t cross-dress are
having a fucking hard time with the whole social mobility thing. So anyway, with a rebellious preteen Levi’s-wearing stepdaughter on his hands, aforementioned stepdad went ahead and did what any Victorian patriarch would do: he sent her to boarding school. And then she was promptly kicked out for bad-assery.
Eventually she and her mama moved to NYC, where she unsuccessfully tried to make it on Broadway. After failing as an actress, young Kate was in a bit of a pickle. Actually, not really. I’m pretty sure she could have found something to do in New York. But maybe she’d just had enough of you know, civilization, because girlfriend’s next move was to work as a tap-dancer in bars in Whitehorse and later in Dawson City, both “major” cities in the Yukon Territory (which included parts of present-day Alaska). I imagine that she performed for three miners and a couple moose families. Just kidding, there were at least ten miners.
And this job made her…wait for it….it’s really good…a Klondike barmaid. HAHAHA puns!
Anyway, Katie was a hottie, and she somehow waded through all the bear and elk suitors and met Alexander Pantages, who was 100% man. And probably 100% lonely and horny, since he was a bartender in northern Canada and his only human companions were grizzled miners (really every time I reference these miners I’m just picturing Yukon Cornelius). So Kate and Alex got their flirt on, and he opened a/the only theater in the Yukon in which his new fine young thang could work hard for the money and where they could swindle the shit out of said desperate miners. And all that swindling must have been hawt – I imagine after opening night he probably took her back to his ski lodge, cracked open a couple Molsons, and was all like “Hey gurl, know the best way to keep warm up here in the Great White North? BONING.” Because these two got busy, let me tell you. I hope they were fans of the Old King Clancy. And I hope they spent their post-coital time smoking pine needle cigarettes and watching the Aurora Borealis.
Now you might be thinking, “Sure, good for them, it’s fucking cold and lonely up there. And I bet no one gave a shit that they weren’t married.” Because you, avid For Shame reader, have learned by now that premarital sex is the surest way to get your scandal on.
But there was one person who gave a shit that they weren’t married after a few years of fornication. KLONDIKE motherfucking KATE, especially after she realized that Alex was cheating her out of a shit-ton of Canadian pennies.
The theater, backstage after Kate’s show. Kate sits at her vanity, pulling on her Mukluks. Alex walks in.
(Note: read Kate’s lines in the style of Sarah Palin.)
ALEX: Hey bitch, great fucking job tonight. I’m cold. Let’s bone.
KATE: Okay. No maple syrup this time though.
(Kate pushes Alex away.)
KATE: Wait! I am a lady, despite my transvestite beginnings! I refuse to be your harlot. I can’t imagine what the moose must think of me. Therefore I must insist that you PUT A RING ON IT.
ALEX: ……………………………………………………………………………….HAHAHAHAH BITCH PLEASE. Now shut up let me smear this maple syrup on your face.
And Kate, modern woman that she thought she was, was like AW HELL NO and left his ass in the dust. And by “the dust” I mean that he went on to become sort of really famous and well-respected in the entertainment industry. But Kate had her dignity. The fact that she left at all was a very big deal, because Kate was really the only person who could in any way be considered a celebrity for thousands of miles. Miners’ wives from
Fairbanks to Flin Flon read about the scandal in their Us Weeklys with shock and disgust. As a result, Kate headed to British Columbia, and then to Oregon. Despite her popularity in Canada/present-day Alaska, Kate sort of became a recluse once she moved stateside; her career took a serious hit. I would imagine that humans are a lot harsher than woodland creatures when it comes to performance criticism.
She ended up alone and sad. But was a great philanthropist in her old age and now there’s a theme restaurant named after her in Delaware. So that’s good, right?