Olivia Winters
should be sent to the Holy Lobotomy Sanctuary and Sacred Bitch-Slapping Emporium in the
sub-basement of Mary Williams' church and forced to endure Gina Roma on infinite loop
while caressing young naked girls on her knee as bad Leanna Love interviews play on a huge
screen.
That was the sentiment of many observers Monday as Satan's best helper unleashed more of
her retched, spiteful, some of the worse ever seen in Genoa City, evil on Ashley Carlton.
Carlton, a surviving cancer patient and no angel by any means, has done some wicked things
in her time but nobody deserves to be hated the way Winters is hating her.
Winters, desperate for any male willing to have really bad sex with her, thought she had
snagged Abbott's husband and was going to have him in her bed. But at the last moment Brad
Carlton came to his senses and cut her off with only a mouthful of spit.
To this
day Olivia blames Ashley.
When Winter's equally evil, evil sister encouraged her to use a videotaped confession
concerning the paternity of Ashley's baby, Olivia tore into Ashley with threats and
demands to tell Brad or else. The bitch continued her harassment by showing up at
Carlton's home Monday on the pretext of inquiring as to how Ashley's Christmas had gone.
Ashley knew all too well that the demonic bitch could have cared less and told her as
much.
"That means you haven't told Brad yet. Isn't it about time you do!" Olivia spat
as her shockingly beady, squinty and pitch-black eyes rolled in their sockets.
Understanding that this is a woman deeply twisted and power blinded, Ashley couldn't
muster the guts to slam the door in Olivia's face without further word. Instead, she
kowtowed to the disgusting, rodent-like creature by saying again that Brad loves her and
his adopted baby and that with time their little problem will pass.
Insisting that all she ever wanted from Brad was friendship and maybe a role model for her
oil tanker captain in training son, Olivia flung another pile of Satan's pus at Ashley.
"Brad and I backed off because it wouldn't have been fair to you," she hissed as
faint screams and sounds of cracking whips and deep colon-wrenching moans could be heard
emanating from the dank back rooms. There's nothing like a deeply scary little pus-sucker
concerned about fairness.
Concluding her soul-deadening visit, Olivia demanded again to know when Ashley planned to
tell Brad and a quivering Ashley said it would be sooner than later and then told the
bitch to get out of her home and did not dare snatch that ugly wig off Olivia's head and
shove it down her filthy throat.
Never in the history of Genoa City have two women been hated more. Olivia Winters and her
psycho leech sister, Dru, are so evil just the sight of either one of them dredge up lots
of bitch I hope you die sentiment.
It's strange and telling that these women with so much dirty laundry of their own are now
threatening to air the dirty laundry of others. Two women who have screwed the same man
yet find themselves unable to hold onto any man should be holding their pointed heads in
shame.
Alas, this is the style in Genoa City. All over-the-top self-reference and ragin' myopic
first-person diatribe centered on their own persecution, their demons, their itchy rash
and bedroom stained sheets from Satan-honoring self-gratification.
The Winters sisters are possessed by self-flagellating, Me-against-the-Whole-Damn-World
attitudes, they hate just about everybody, especially their best friends, and that's their
best contribution.
December 18,
2002
Parasites, pimps and takeout roadkill
by Michael
Kelly
Many sick
scenarios inspiring school children to cry and domesticated animals to run and hide have
unfolded throughout Genoa City's heretic history, but on Wednesday the depravity hit an
all time toxic, ground decaying nadir when Kneel Winters tried to pimp out his former
sister-in-law!
Local butcher Dr. Olivia Winters nearly flipped her latest fright wig at the very
suggestion of "distracting" her sister Dru's bald boy toy so that Kneel could
have his former wife and rat faced daughter all to himself over the holidays.
After all, haven't she and Dru spent most of the last 12 years recycling each other's men?
The recovering alkie, desperate to reunite his fractured family because he's well aware
ex-boozers have a high likelihood of falling off the wagon and/or blowing their brains out
during the Norman Rockwell-esque impossible to satisfy great expectations of the holiday
season, immediately back-pedaled to sell Dr. Squinty on his evil agenda.
It's not that he wants the former sister-in-law he once used for a one night stand of
sexual release to actually screw the hairless Prozac pusher. No, no, no! Kneel wouldn't
hear of it.
But there's certainly nothing wrong with the poisonous practitioner dining and dancing
with the Wes-man while Kneel, Dru, and Lily sing carols, eat stale fruitcake, and lie down
in the cold, white flaky stuff to make snow angels in order to briefly create the illusion
they're a family again.
But if the Butcher and the French fried Freud end up indulging in a little pillow talk at
the end of their pleasantly platonic evening, where's the harm?
Well for one thing, Dr. Death droned, how is Wes going to react to the woman old enough to
be his mother that he proposed to spending quality time with her ex-husband?
Puffing out his chest, quite confident he's the man and the only man for over the hill Dru
despite the fact he's begging the Butcher to throw herself at the African American Vin
Diesel like a cheap slut in heat, Kneel crowed that Wes is a "loser."
Why else would the yellow bellied wimp accept a "maybe" from the woman he
proposed to as a suitable response?
Of course, the former scotch sponge conveniently neglected to mention he still hasn't
gotten a definite answer from Dru regarding his suggestion that they cohabitate for the
purpose of co-parenting their daughter.
The malicious medicine woman could certainly appreciate her former lover/brother-in-law's
tenacity when it comes to achieving his goal, but she happens to have a special friend of
her own who might require her special, cold and soulless kind of bedside manner during the
holidays.
Without being told the man in question is a skinny white boy married to her former best
friend who needs Botox injections in his forehead and has been known to get his chest
waxed and receive long intimate messages and pedicures from blonde, shirtless Swedish men,
Kneel managed to figure out the special friend in question was Brad Carlton.
"But this is more important," Kneel snorted like a spurned gold chain and purple
leisure suit sporting pimp fearful of losing the only mare in his stable.
No matter. The Butcher grabbed her jacket, exited her former brother-in-law/lover's lair,
and hot footed it over to the RoadKill Cafe for take-out possum. There, she conveniently
but not unpredictably because there are only three decent restaurants in the whole damn
town encountered none other than Ashley Carlton!
After Dr. Winters evaded insanely inquisitive Gina Roma's question about whether she had a
man in her bed yet, Olivia overheard Ash tell rotund Roma that things were peachy keen in
her little world.
Once Gina waddled away to fetch the food, Olivia shook her snout in Ashley's face and
correctly assumed that Carlton hadn't told her hubby that crabby Abby isn't his biological
child.
Not that it's any of the Butcher's business or that of her "loud mouth sister,"
but Ashley huffed that a sudden crisis involving Brad's daughter Colleen prevented her
from spilling those particular beans.
Snidely squinting while her slit of a mouth spewed scrumptious green chunks of venom,
Olivia oozed like Cruellla De Ville missing her daily dose of Lithium that she knew
Bradski was bugged about his real daughter because the man just happened to slither over
to her place and cry on her shoulder about it. And he just happened to initiate the visit
without any encouragement from her. So there, Ms. Ashley with the deformed breast!
Nah-nah-nah-nah-nah!
As Mrs. Carlton reeled from the revelation, Gina ambled into the fray.
Picking up on the tension between the two ugly wig wearing bitches that was thicker than
her split pea soup without unfortunately for her nosy hide overhearing the cause, Roma
plopped down both women's take-out and for the sake of some mumbo jumbo called "peace
and goodwill, ladies" declared the grub was on the house!
Without either one of them belching out so much as a thank-you to the charitable heifer
who should be out of business for giving away so much free food, Ash was still in shock.
Meanwhile the Butcher, whose too honorable to boink her sister's latest swain but not at
all opposed to trying to steal her former best friend's husband, took her chow and
scrammed.
December
3, 2002
Satan's helper to strike again!
by Brent
Kellogg
It's all about
what's fair and righteous and you know we're taxing the life out of you but for this one
time of the year we wish you Joy, Peace and Love.
What a crock Neil and Olivia Winters had their heads stuck into Tuesday. If nobody knew
better it might be thought that these two salamanders had developed some type of
gastrointestinal virus the way they were spewing noxious food-like substances.
Too lazy to get off his ass to go down even one floor of his termite infested apartment
building or make a phone call, Neil summoned that ugly butchering bitch and one-time sex
partner and his former wife's sister to his pad.
Like the panting - I hope Neil wants to poke me - fool, Olivia grabbed an elevator and
listened to Neil's tale of woe for the 1,000th time, eyes glazed over, sighing heavily,
wondering what they did in a past life to deserve each other.
Pointing out that he's on probation and can be fired if he doesn't stick his nose up the
boss' butt far enough whenever he's asked, Neil sang the glory. He's working at Newman
Enterprises again and in time will have his old job same as the new job back.
"I couldn’t have done it without your help. You helped save my life," Neil
puked and Olivia snickered sinisterly knowing full well she had nothing to do with getting
Neil out of the bottle and maybe thinking he was hitting the sauce again.
If
anyone had helped the booze hound kick the habit - which never is really kicked because
the deadly drug is legal and worse than any joint the Walnut Grove Academy punks will ever
smoke - it was Olive Pit bar babe Serena Slattern.
And all Serena got for putting out and up with and the unshaven unsanitary bum was a swift
kick to the curb.
Olivia was so proud and simultaneously plotting her next nightmarish rain of terror upon
the capitalist pig-dogs who make it hard for her to get past things like sleeping with her
best friend's husband.
"And your
personal life? How's that going," the butcher asked Neil as if the meaningless
personal lives they live are any different than their business lives.
Giddy Neil went on to tell the widespread and truly terrifying theory that by asking his
former wife and estranged daughter to move in with him it'll make himself and Dru Winters
better parents.
And if Dru
might not want to move because that sad metempsychosis head shrink had asked for her hand
in marriage it made no never you mind because the move wasn't about Dru. It was about his
daughter!
The dazed detached semi-comatose faraway look in Olivia eyes made Neil pause. "Am I
the only one happy here?" he asked totally unaware that Olivia was already counting
the hours until all those scary smelly people would no longer be wandering around her
apartment, peeking in drawers, touching her panties, reading the dog-eared copies of
Lesbian Lover under the sofa and setting a bad example for her stunted son in need of a
role model.
Eyes wide and unblinking, Neil tilted his bad haircut head slightly. Did Olivia's
depressed bump on a log look have anything to do with Brad Carlton? A strange grin broke
over Olivia's shellacked face.
"Brad and Ash are happily married," she regurgitated sadly and not because of
anything righteous she had done to make it so on odd days only.
Despite that she's doing her utmost best to get past her feelings for the white boy, move
on and be one of God's chosen people, Satan won't let go.
"I know
something I can’t talk about," she sputtered as the sickness that eats away at
what's left of her rotting brain caused Olivia to reek of misguided medical malpractice.
"I’ve looked at this as if a patient was involved," she said with eyes
squinting and hoping she wouldn't be asked what qualifies her to be a doctor when she's
nothing more than a quack.
Spitting out
that the secret she knows shouldn't be a secret and because she's pure evil, thrives on
hate and her very presence makes children cry, Olivia implied that it is up to her to do
Satan's work.
The thought of
ruining more lives made Olivia shudder and twitch and yearn to get back to her cave where
she would happily conspire as monkey-demons rubbed her ass.
October 31,
2002
Why do fools fall in love?
by Brent
Kellogg
I'm in love.
I'm out of love. I'm in love. I'm out of love. Isn't that just the cutest thing? Among the
Genoa City elite love is like a light switch. It can be flicked on and off depending on
the time of day. Take the case of Dr. Olivia Winters. Brad Carlton kissed her all of two
times and almost made the mistake of having sex with her and because of this the
butchering doctor fell in love!
Winters said so this week during a conversation with her haggard, washed-up fashion model
with the dirty looking mop hair who sticks her banana nose into business that does not
concern her, sister.
"Were you thinking about Brad?" Dru Winters asked when she showed up at the
butcher's office and noticed Olivia seemed to be lost in space and maybe thinking about
how she's got years of old medical manuals to catch up on but needs a man willing to have
sex with her and won't be able to concentrate on medial procedures or whatever it is she's
supposed to do at the hospital until she does.
And as usual with these really sexually repressed women Olivia said she didn't want to
discuss what she did or didn't do with her play that funky music white boy but
contradicted herself with one of those "we handled it like adults" throw away
lines.
And
because she "cares" so much about her college educated sister who got all the
breaks in life, Dru pressed on. "Are you sure that's all there was to it?"
The virtuous upstanding probably still-a-virgin and that's why Neil Winters only wanted
her in bed once because the chastity belt hurt too much added that things may have gone
too far with her best friend's husband but she had fallen in love after two kisses before
realizing she's really a self-righteous dinkwad and broke it off.
The spectre of Death itself to sense the presence of one of their own should have reached
up out of the tiled concrete and grabbed Olivia's slimy ankles as she stood there
blabbering like a constipated hyena and dragged her back down to the steaming reeking
hellpit from whence she and her sister spawned.
Olivia says it's over and Brad Carlton thinks it's over and that's why he took out his
sexual frustration on his wife who he thinks will never again go near the Viagra drunk
Victor Newman but Olivia knows it's not really over and she won't be satisfied until she
rides Brad like a hot stallion of desperate inorganic love. The switch is in the off
position.
October 21,
2002
What goes around comes around
by Brent
Kellogg
It is a time of
teeth-gritting and resigned fortitude and heavy sighing. Which of the two most bitchy
women in Genoa City is the worse?
On the left there's the willing to die if it'll make breast cancer easier to deal with
Ashley Carlton. On the extreme right there's the deadly hospital butcher in desperate need
of a man, even if it's her best friend's husband, Olivia Winters.
Trusting her pal with a videotaped confession to be given to her daughter upon her
untimely demise, the last thing Carlton thought Winters would do was watch it. So when
Winters summoned her half-way across town on Monday she didn't suspect that the deep
throaty sounds Winters made on the telephone meant she was launching an ostensible war.
Winters made no bones about her treachery. She had needed answers to questions that were
none of business so she looked at the tape and now knew that Victor Newman was the father
of yet another Genoa City baby.
Given how the sizzling information would aid her quest to snatch Carlton's husband away,
Winters threw out a scare tactic. What if the evil and brutal Newman found out and tried
to get custody of the child? Shouldn't Brad Carlton know the truth so that he'd be
prepared? It was certainly as convenient an excuse as any.
Mrs. Carlton had the perfect solution. All Winters had to do was forget that she had ever
seen the tape and keep her mouth shut. Was that asking too much of a friend who had
already betrayed her once?
Adding insult to injury, Winters declined to hand over the tape. Totally out of the loop
she asked if Carlton hadn't gone on a cruise a few years ago and had an affair.
Whenever they find themselves with their backs up against the wall, people like Carlton
always make matters worse. Instead of scratching Winters' eyes out she gave up even more
incriminating information.
During the big
who's got Victor Newman's sperm debacle she went to Diane Jenkins' apartment and swiped
some of the frozen sperm Jenkins was keeping on ice. Jenkins was in possession of Newman's
sperm at the time and eventually gave birth to Jack Abbott's son when Nikki Newman
switched the sperm.
Abbott did not
go into detail as to how she pulled off what would have been an impossible feat. Was it
similar to borrowing a cup of milk? Did she simply open the sperm container, take a few
drops and be on her way?
Winters found the sperm swapping story disgusting and demanded that Mrs. Carlton tell her
husband. If Carlton refused Winters said she would.
While it is easy to hate Ashley Carlton for all the stupid bellowing and kvetching she's
done during her bout with cancer, it's easier to hate Olivia Winters.
One only had to look at Winters' shockingly beady, squinty and pitch-black eyes to realize
that this woman is deeply Byzantine and power blinded and does not have Carlton's best
interests at heart.
Genoa City is full of these vile power-mad slugs and prevaricators. What friend would do
such a thing? Very pale and egomaniacal and spiritless women like Winters are running the
city into the ground.
It's hard to resist the great surges toward nihilism about this butchering bitch. What
Winters has done makes the crusading Christine Blair look like a saint by comparison. It
makes one want to kiss Carlton's feet and tell her that not all of Genoa City consist of
evil, but, rather, is full of ecstatically bejeweled people who are just as gorgeous and
craving of juicy unfiltered spiritual nourishment as she.
It is women like Winters with their fervid mind-sets that are fueling a great many current
hatreds. Bitter and offensive and acrimonious and bilious, she should be tossed into a
snake pit for wanting nothing more than to pull Mrs. Carlton down the path of perpetual
isolationism and dread.
It is a time for Ashley Carlton to fight back. For what goes around, comes around.
October 9, 2002
Physician, heal thyself!
by Michael
Kelly
Certainly, it would be reasonable to assume a woman who covets her best friend's husband
would be thrilled to pieces to possess a weapon of mass destruction that would blow the
friend's marriage to smithereens, thereby freeing the unhappy husband to be with her.
If so, why did
local butcher and wannabe home wrecker Dr. Olivia Winters weep crocodile tears here
Wednesday after viewing a telltale videotape in which her bosom buddy Ashley Abbott
admitted her daughter was secretly and artificially sired by the man her hubby Brad
despises most?
Because she's a two-faced, phony charlatan, and a posturing poseur of moral ambivalence,
that's why!
Before learning the truth of crabby Abby Carlton's paternity, Winters was forced to
temporarily terminate the tape when she was rudely interrupted by the European, hairless
head shrink her sister Dru's taken a shine to.
Dr. Wes Carter extended his paw, introduced himself, and gassed off about how much he and
the Butcher "have in common."
After all, what are the odds of two African American, Hippocratic oath uttering,
incompetent quacks who both love a long in the tooth cover girl being in the same room?
What a mind blower! Clearly, this is a case for Ripley's Believe It Or Not.
Except, as clever Carter pointed out, "You're already related to her. I just wish I
was."
Smart as a whip, Winters wondered, "By marriage, right?"
Aware her little sis has packed on the pounds, Dr. Squinty spat that Dru's "quite a
handful," to which Carter cooed, "Ah, yes, but a delightful one!"
Foaming of the mouth formalities aside, the bald psycho babbler confessed he's aware of
Ashley Carlton's breast cancer, its impact on the Carltons' marriage, and how it has drawn
Brad and the Butcher together.
Rather than throw the forward freak out of her flat after informing him that her personal
life is none of his blasted business, or at least inquire if the French Freud is licensed
to practice medicine in the U.S., Winters whined how she couldn't believe her sister has
such loose lips.
But that didn't stop the amoral medicine woman from running her mouth.
"Brad and I have gotten closer. Closer than we should. No, not that close, but
almost," Dr. Death dopily droned.
Winters rationalized the ebony and ivory sofa grope "only happened once," will
never, ever be repeated and, the shrew snapped, "You can tell my sister that!"
Shamelessly seeking a scapegoat, the slut spewed it's "the damn cancer" that
caused the Carltons to develop a failure to communicate and sent Bradski in her dreaded
direction.
But it's all right, and it's O.K. because Mrs. Carlton "will beat this cancer"
and she "will survive." Also, the Carltons' have a marriage that epitomizes
"honesty and trust!"
When Wes mentioned he knew the witch doctor's only friend entrusted her with a videotape,
the irate ignoramus gasped, "Oh my God! She told you that!"
Glancing at her open boob tube cabinet and spotting the camcorder in plain sight, Carter
impertinently inquired, "Is that the tape? Have you watched it?"
At this point, the poisonous practitioner turned testy and asked Mr. Potato Head to please
vacate the premises post haste.
As Winters walked Wes to the door, he mawkishly mumbled she could always count on him to
lend her his cauliflower ear if she ever needed to bend it.
Shrugging off the warm fuzzy, the she-beast, sounding like the sole guardian of the
secretly sacred Colonel Saunders' 11 herbs and spices chicken recipe, ominously oinked,
"One more thing. Forget the tape exists!"
Completely grasping the gravity of the insipid situation, Carter croaked, "Be
careful. Be very careful!"
Once the interloper was out of her fright wig, Winters picked up where she left off with
the vapid video, and nearly defecated her panties when she heard Ashley announce that
Victor Newman is crabby Abby's daddy!
Treating the earth shattering tape like a hot potato, the Butcher clumsily plucked it out
of the camcorder.
Melodramatically slapping it against her forehead, the tear stained, unholy hag howled,
"Oh God! Why did I look at this? Why did I look at this?"
It's always overwhelmingly annoying when people like Winters ask questions for which they
already have the obvious answer.
She's a tramp with a dried up vagina and a wicked agenda who doesn't know the meaning of
the words honor and friendship.
But save the water works and whoa is me, how shall I carry this heavy burden attitude, Dr.
Winters.
You want to jump Brad Carlton's bones, marry him, and have an instant surrogate daddy for
your genetically and mentally retarded runt.
After pretentiously pretending to struggle with the contents of Pandora's Box now that
you've opened it, you should confront Mrs. Carlton and insist that if she doesn't tell
Golden Boy the truth, you will.
Then, feel free to cry cloying tears while comforting Bradski while telling him how sorry
you are that his world has fallen apart.
But deep down in the bowels of hell you refer to as your stone cold, black heart, you'll
be beyond thrilled to have finally snared your swain.
September 16,
2002
Wolf in sheep's clothing
by Brent Kellogg
Dr.
Olivia Winters didn't have to steal the envelope containing enough explosives to bring
down a city block. It was handed to her on a silver platter!
Riding the veil of crocodile tears shed by her best friend and playing on Ashley Carlton's
emotional heart strings like a modern day Wagnor, Winters had the audacity Monday to tell
Carlton that the envelope containing a personal and private videotape had fallen up and
out of a tote bag.
It
wasn't bad enough that Winter's foul mouth had uttered a bald faced lie. She compounded
the deceit by telling Carlton that making videotapes for her daughter was
counter-productive and not conducive to good health.
Appearing much like a woman with her own little axis of evil to grind, Winters made a
virtual declaration of war when she suggested that Carlton would be better off if she
would reveal her innermost secrets to her best friend.
Winters' outrageous behavior - so crude as to suggest mutual masturbation would be okay
too because they're best buds - was brushed aside without much comment from Carlton other
than to say that what she said on the tape to her daughter was private and personal.
Despicable persons like Winters have a fear that someone will find a shortcut to their mad
ambitions and cut them off. Determined not to be outwitted, Winters placed Carlton in a
difficult and defining position when she pointed her silver-tongued gun at the cancer
victim's head and demanded she be trusted or be bypassed.
"I wish you trusted me enough to share what you are doing. You can tell me anything
just as I can with you," she spewed with eyes squinted.
Apparently desperate to save some scrap of dignity, Carlton handed the envelope over to
Winters. As if it were a last will and testament she kindly asked Winters not to open it
until there is a need. She conveniently forgot to say that the need should be that of her
daughters. But at this point anything more Carlton said was unambiguous.
It was a powerful and convincing indictment. The ante had been upped and now the
butchering little emperor holds the power in her hands.
Winters will
undoubtedly use the videotape to push an extreme agenda aimed at crushing her enemies,
silencing all opposition, fattening a sickly love machine and arrogating Brad Carlton to
unilaterally attack without tangible provocation if he balks at her sexual advances.
The implications of this are frightening, long term and short, but at least now it's all
out in the open.
For Ashley Carlton it's the end of the line. She has played the hand she was dealt poorly
and burned her bridges. Only a miracle can get that envelope back and to think Winters
would turn it over is like thinking the war on terrorism will be won. So long as there are
those oppressed there will be those willing to slide a knife deep into the backs of the
oppressors.
In Genoa City once thing is for sure. No matter what the tragedy or the scandal, the rich
and powerful back-pocket lizards are ready to intimidate, rat out their rare friends and
everyone and anyone is subject to attack.
September 13,
2002
She's got the power!
by Brent
Kellogg
For more than a
decade Dr. Olivia Winters has been a slimeball. It started in 1992 when she refused to
tell her husband about a difficulty with her pregnancy which eventually resulted in the
birth of her son, Nate.
As patients unfortunate to have her as their doctor died off from the simplest of medical
conditions Dr. Winters has relentlessly driven away the few men willing to love her.
Winter's latest crisis has been to find a role model for what has been termed by some as
her "genetic freak" of a son after she contributed to the death of the boy's
biological father and subsequently was such a bitch Malcolm Winters couldn't stand being
in the same room with her.
Desperate for men, Winters recently turned her scalpel on former hedge clipper Brad
Carlton when Carlton offered to be a role model. After taking Nate Hastings out to the
ball game only once Carlton's sickly wife became such a pain in the ass he could no longer
stand to be in the same room with her.
Carlton felt that with so much in common Winters qualified as his "savoir" and
has frequently cried on the evil doctor's germ mask.
What started out earlier this week as a friend in need turned into a friend indeed when
Carlton offered the butcher a wad of spit.
Like a child who wants ice cream, Dr. Winters would have been satisfied with something
smaller, like a cookie. She accepted Carlton's wad without hesitation.
But like all dirt bags, Winters began to scream evil Friday. She told Carlton that kissing
him was wrong. Squinting and scowling she tried to muster some sort of support for their
corruptive wrongdoing, droning about how Carlton is married to her best bud and that she
was only trying to "comfort" the morally deficient slob.
Admitting that they shall smite those evil feelings even if it means having to live with a
cancer-ridden bitch, Carlton said stubbornly "we can’t beat ourselves up about
it," and promised, "it won't happen again."
Struggling
to rationalize his lapse in judgment, Carlton triggered a psychotic episode. "I love
my wife," he professed while tossing out a caveat that God's gift to women was still,
somehow, involved with his wife and that his wife was keeping something about Victor
Newman from him. What else could explain why she was determined to go to the Newman
wedding only to turn away?
Carlton nearly
tripped over his lip when the words "those tapes she's making are such a downer
too."
As if trying to justify group sex, Dr. Winters explained to Carlton that they both love
the same woman and hinted that whatever Mrs. Carlton might have going on with Newman
should be tolerated because, "we know that she and Victor have history
together."
Urging Carlton to stand by his woman Dr. Winters seemed oblivious to his blowback.
"Any suggestions?" Carlton asked either because he did not know what had to be
done or because what had to be done exceeded his ability.
Catching his drift, Dr. Winters' cautioned that whatever he does - if anything - should be
simple.
Pleased with themselves for shedding their burdened hearts, the two made a conscious
decision to walk off their jobs and trudged to the Carlton home where moments earlier the
morose Mrs. Carlton had written 'For Abby on her 16th birthday' on an envelope containing
a video tape. In addition, she had replayed the part of the video in which she seemed
orgasmic that one day her daughter would learn that Newman blood clogs her arteries.
Sealing the envelope, the cancer cry-baby made a phone call to the local safety box
depository and slipped the damning evidence into her bag when her husband and college
sorority sister bounced through the door telling more of their sick baby jokes.
The topic of babies must have intrigued Mrs. Carlton because she felt compelled to ask
about Nate Hastings.
The blood in Dr. Winters cold heart surged as she proudly announced that the runt would
soon be the captain of the Exxon Valdez thanks to Mr. Carlton's fine encouragement.
Easily distracted, Mrs. Carlton must have heard the subliminal chant of her daughter as
she rushed upstairs to check on her baby.
"Can’t you feel it? She’s keeping something from me," Mr. Carlton told
Winters as if all Winters had to do was break out a ouija board and they'd make contract.
Sensing he should check to make sure his wife hadn't fallen and couldn't get up, Carlton
went off leaving the butcher alone to snoop inside Mrs. Carlton's bag.
Incredibly, the evil witch pulled the envelope out and was actually thinking about opening
it.
At press time it was impossible to know whether this cretin will open the envelope. But
knowing Winters it has become nearly impossible to avoid cynical or jaded feelings about
her. She is an epic human tragedy who has been cast and recast and diminished and
leveraged and regurgitated as some sort of zealous rabid dog. She's desperate for a man
and will do anything in her power to make it happen.
At this moment she holds that power in her grubby hands.
July 17, 2002
Mom warned; son next Johnny Jihad!
by Brent
Kellogg
The day after Jabot Cosmetics executive Brad Carlton took town drunk Neil Winters to the
woodshed for a good whipping, the stinking traitor had the nerve Wednesday to rub salt
into the wounds becoming so numerous they make Dr. Olivia Winter's butchering ways at the
Center 4 Disease pale by comparison.
Making an early morning call at the home of the woman thought to be his next sugar mama,
Carlton told Dr. Winters that reaming her son's Uncle at the Dive Diner like she did will
only encourage her son to become more of a Johnny Walker than he has already become.
Seemingly oblivious that it was he who portrayed the back-stabbing Osama bin Laden,
Carlton tried to recast himself as a born-again reformer and developed amnesia about the
man he once said was his friend.
"The last thing in the world I want to do is make things worse for you," Carlton
hammered away at the dangerous doctor.
Fast becoming the biggest rat in Genoa City, Carlton said he dropped a dime on Mr. Winters
because, "I had to make a judgment call."
Dr. Winters took a turn at turning the stomach, saying how concerned she is that Mama's
little Islamic militant might learn his Uncle may be shacking up with a woman!
Winter's stunted, growth hormone deprived, semi retarded son Nate Hastings has, during his
short life, watched as his mother kicked his biological father out of his life, couldn't
keep a relationship intact with her sister's husband's half-brother who later became a
step-daddy to her son and then a bad role modeling Uncle who too was shacking up with a
woman!
Dr. Winters concern for her son is disingenuous. A good step toward setting Nate Hastings
on the path to righteousness would be to sit the kid down and tell him about the birds and
the bees. If she can't deal with the reality that there is nothing wrong with an unmarried
man shacking up with a woman, Dr. Winters should ask Mr. Carlton to tell her son. The rat
is eager to be a daddy to Hastings when his own fourteen-year-old daughter is out on the
streets about to become jail bait.
Nothing warms the heart like family values.
July 16,
2002
Foul ball bungling boozer ratted out!
by Michael
Kelly
Irrationally incensed that her impressionable son spent a harmless night at the ball park
with his dipsomaniac uncle while supervised by a responsible sober man, quack factory
butcher Dr. Olivia Winters berated the boozer, and demanded he dry up or steer clear of
her genetically flawed offspring!
Local lush Kneel Winters, his nephew Nate "Little Big Man" Hastings, and Jabot
exec Brad Carlton inexplicably returned to the Dive Diner after attending a ball game.
When asked by the disillusioned dwarf why he failed to catch a foul ball that flew in his
direction, a wrung out Winters wheezed, "it flew right over my head."
But the little beast blathered that the booze hound "didn't even stand up" to
attempt to catch the damn thing!
Once the puny pest recovered from the disappointment, he and Carlton winced at the sight
of the disgusting drunk drooling on himself!
Trying to make light of the sorry sight while using a napkin to absorb his spit, the
scotch sponge cracked, "I need a bib!"
Concerned that the lemonade Hastings had imbibed would distend his tiny bladder, Brad
advised the genetic freak to visit the bathroom before they hit the road.
With the gnome out of sight, Carlton called the Butcher's cell phone and admitted to the
irate smothering mother that he and her pampered pipsqueak were at the Dive Diner in the
company of the bottle nipper.
Fit to be tied, the witch doctor demanded the men stay put until she arrived.
In the meantime, Uncle Kneel decided to "check on" his nephew in the little
boy's room just in case the runt needed his ass wiped or his penis held while he urinated.
Moments later, Dr. Death dismounted her broomstick and blew into the greasy spoon.
Before the pint sized Peter Pan could utter more than two words, the Butcher barked at him
to zip his fat lip.
Treating the stunted one like a toddler, Carlton escorted the little creep out to the car,
while they both waited for Hurricane Non-Healer to blow over.
Alone with the loathsome lush, the overprotective parent asked how he could do such a
thing, and the dreary drunkard declared, "it was only a damn ball game!"
To substantiate his sobriety claim after she saw his hand shake, the Winters wino breathed
in the woman's face. His overpowering stench of stale scotch fumes caused her squinting
eyes to cross. The stumble-bum then offered to walk a straight line for
"Officer" Olivia.
The Butcher blasted the boozer for breaking her rules, but Kneel un-apologetically
asserted the untruth that her son isn't a baby. Furthermore, he thought that Little Big
Man had received her approval before the vile visit.
Not satisfied, the quack made it clear that while she may be unable to shelter her
sissified son from all of the world's wickedness, she'll keep as much corruption as
possible far away from her fragile freak. In particular, that includes Uncle Alkie.
While it's tempting to reprimand Dr. Death for her impossibly high standards in selecting
potential father figures for her mutant man-child, Kneel Winters should be told in no
uncertain terms that his overstated performance as an unkempt, stinking, hacking, fly
drawing, drooling drunk has gotten old.
The least this broken down dipsomaniac could do is shower, shave, and trim the Chia Pet
growing on his head. If not, it's time to invest in a flea collar. Scratching oneself in
public gives a bad name to the respectably drunken derelicts on Skid Row.
As for Little Big Man, it's time to give him some breathing room. The inept imp should at
least be able to go to the crapper unsupervised. The emasculated mama's boy probably
requires prior permission from Butcher Dearest before he's allowed to fart in the bathtub
and break the resulting bubbles with his nose.
May 16,
2002
Keeping your
knives sharp!
by Brent Kellogg
Dr. Olivia Winters, known locally as the "butcher" because of the
high number of patients who have mysteriously died over the years while under her care,
will attend a medical conference in the coming days.
The Center 4 Disease resident quack is expected to be a featured speaker
at the event and was reportedly working on her speech at the Genoa City library Wednesday
night.
Subject to change, Winters' verbalization is tentatively entitled Keeping
Your Knives Sharp. The thesis explores new technology quacks will have at their disposal
to "cut out" those who report quackery to the authorities.
Whistleblowers reporting corruption and malpractice have long been a thorn
in the side of butchers like Dr. Winters. Unfortunately, the blowhards haven't prevented
quacks like Winters and her sidekicks, Dr. Nora Thompson and Dr. Reese Walker from
employment at Genoa City's Center 4 Disease.
Dr. Winters was unavailable for comment on the many medical practitioners
under investigation for alleged malpractice or why they are still treating patients.
C4D administrator, Dr. Boone Doggle acknowledged there were allegedly
"bad" doctors treating patients but policy prohibits the hospital from taking
action.
Also of concern is the identity of the suspected anti-aging drug Dr.
Winters is apparently mixing into her son's food. At age 10, Nate Hastings should
chronologically be in his early 20's. Children born years after Hastings are now seniors
in high school, albeit for their third time, while other have gone on to become business
magnates.
The suspicion of illegal drug inducement became focused Wednesday night.
It is highly unusual for children Hastings' age to require adult
supervision whenever they are left alone. In many cases, 10-year-olds are left in charge
of younger siblings. Yet, Abbott live-in house guest PainMe Johnson was guarding Hastings
early Wednesday night and forced the child to go to bed even before the library had
closed.
Something fishy is going on in the Winters apartment but the evil Dr.
Winters is doing a very good job of covering up the truth. That the authorities don't want
to rock the boat by conducting an investigation is always an indicator that big money is
involved. Could Nate Hastings be an experimental human guinea pig?
March
21, 2002
A hero?
by Brent Kellogg
The last time we checked, photographers don't have heroism built into their job
description. It doesn't take courage and strength to take pictures of pretty girls.
Jumping into a river to save someone isn't heroic either. Any decent person would do it.
So why is Malcolm Winters being hailed by some in this city as "a hero"?
It's not as if Winters was a fireman. But had he been a fireman who had died in a burning
building while trying to rescue others, would that have made him a hero? Wouldn't that
have been his job? Wouldn't that have been why Winters chose to become a firefighter?
Because it was something he wanted and was well-paid to do?
Tossing the title of hero around has become a newly pronounced public devotion. It's a
wonder people in this city aren't out worshipping the ground Winters walked on.
Thankfully, Winters isn't being depicted on magazine covers and no Halloween costumes have
been made in his image.
Dr. Olivia Winters only exasperated the moral ambiguity here Thursday when she told her
son that his "daddy" died in Africa a hero. Listening to the analogy one might
think she was talking about Superman.
Malcolm Winters was not one of the everyday people doing super hero-like things and before
receiving the bad news, little Nate Hastings was disgusted that his "daddy"
hadn't written or called. The kid even tore down a welcome home banner he had hung in
anticipation. The moment his mother had finished telling him daddy is dead, Hastings
bellowed "I need my daddy."
Like many in Genoa City, Hastings was thinking about himself. Forget that a man he claims
to have loved more than life itself was dead, Hastings wanted what he wanted when he
wanted it.
Making matters worse, Winter's fiancée is planning to put together a collage of
photographs of her man for those gathered at a memorial service to gawk at. Will those
photos depict Winters doing heroic things? Will they show him leading people away from
danger in the middle of a horror?
Not likely.
Tossing Winters into the sea of hero-worship is misplaced rhetoric which should be
reserved for those who are motivated by service - not reward.
February 25, 2002
Omens of more misery?
by Brent Kellogg
Apart from the question; why does her son need a sitter, Genoa City's egregious
butcher, Dr. Olivia Winters applauded Monday as her aunt stroked little Nate Hastings'
ego.
"He’s going to ace his science test. Do you think he’ll be a doctor like
his mother?" Mamie Johnson asked with a twisted smile as young Hastings hinted he's
been thinking about it.
In a hurry to hustle the little tyke off to bed, Dr. Winters excitedly agreed to read
to him beforehand without for a moment considering that for a child his age, Hastings
should be far beyond bedtime stories.
With the boy out of sight, Johnson took the opportunity to open an old wound when she
told her niece about having made the mistake of asking the boy about his "dad",
local photographer Malcolm Winters, whom Dr. Winters married as an alternative to the man
she really wanted, Winters' brother, Neil.
With the loss of his biological father, young Hastings bonded with Winters and the two
began interchanging the words "dad" and "son". Winters offered to
adopt his "son" but it never happened.
According to Johnson, Hastings told her he has not heard from his dad and wanted a
confirmation from Dr. Winters.
"Maybe he’s up to his old tricks," Dr. Winters snarled. Just as her eyes
were going into squint mode Hastings appeared, said good night to Johnson and then asked
his mother why daddy Malcolm hadn't contacted him.
Obviously retarded, Hastings forgot that his "dad" told him only a few days
ago that he was going to Africa.
Beyond the boy's stupidity and his mother's eagerness to backbite a man she never
wanted around her son once her divorce from Winters was final, was the foretelling of
another tragedy in Nate Hastings short life.
Once Hastings' discovers daddy #2 is dead weeks of pouting are forecast. But as he did
with daddy #1, a man he once implied was irreplaceable, Hastings should get over the death
of Malcolm Winters as easily as he did Nathan Hastings' death.
Friday,
February 15, 2002
Beyond the call of duty
Dr. Olivia Winters went above and beyond the
call of duty here Friday when, out of the goodness of her heart, concern over a patient
with a case of the flu drove her out of the way to see how the patient was holding up.
Known as the 'butcher', Winters may have
been itching to satisfy a death craving when she stopped by Victor Newman's office to see
how his ill daughter, Victoria, was doing.
"I know she's upset with me for
keeping her away from work but it's so easy for the flu to flair up again," Winters
babbled apparently unaware that Ms. Newman never had any intention of staying away from
work."
Caught napping, Newman didn't pick up on
Winters' extraordinary concern saying only that he would "scold" his daughter
once her whereabouts became known. It seemed odd that a man would speak of his adult
daughter as some child in need of a scolding but why Winters' had made another house call
was odd too.
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