Hell's New Residents

I don't understand this at all, darlings.

All right, we're all on pins and needles awaiting the execution of Saddam Hussein, like a second Christmas in the same week. There's nothing that teaches a godless Muslim about the forgiveness and mercy of the obviously morally superior religion Christianity quite like hanging him. You can't make the point that "Murder is Unacceptable" (or "Thou shalt not kill" to Charleton Heston fans. How sick are they? Don't get me started on Cheston.) any clearer to a mass murderer than by killing him, thus proving that you're a better person than he is, one who would never kill someone. As that great Irish homo Oscar Wilde once said, "What a lesson for him. I trust he will profit by it."

As I sit here dictating this to Little Douglas, it is 6:30 PM PDT, December 29, 2006, and all the news programs are doing the Deathwatch Countdown for Saddy, who at this moment, is scheduled to depart in half an hour, though any air traveller since 9-11, a day of disaster in America that Saddam is being rightly punished for despite his having had nothing to do with it (No one was more disappointed by this than Saddy himself.) knows, departures can be subject to delays.

The only reason Stephanie Edwards isn't on TV at this moment, interviewing volunteers gluing the last few rose blossoms onto the gallows, is because she has been let go by KTLA for the crime of aging semi-naturally. Richard Simmons has been chosen Grand Marshall for the Saddam Death Procession. We have marching bands, helicopters showing us the Death Parade Route, kids dressed as Star Wars Storm Troopers marching about, and everyone just about soiling themselves in excitement over an execution. It's better than the Superbowl. (Which I'm told is great. I've never actually seen one. What do they do at them?)

Okay, drooling with joy over a person being killed I understand. I felt the same way when Delores Delgado drowned. She was a bitch, and Saddy had a number of rather large character flaws also. If he hadn't been a power-mad, mass-murdering, torturing dictator, he'd have made a good Golden Era studio head. I'd love to have seen him handle Bette Davis demanding better scripts, or firing Joan Crawford. Once Joan realized that Saddy was named in honor of sodomy (Oh, look at Little Dougie perk up at the computer!), she'd have been all over him like smog on the Los Angeles Marathon.

Here's what I do not understand: Why has the United States Government declared next Tuesday to be a National Day of Mourning for Saddam Hussein? If we liked him that much, why did we spend so much time, money, and American Lives to kill him? (More Americans have died in the Iraq War now, than in America on 9-11. Congratulations Dubya! You've beaten Osama's record! Good Going! Look out Hitler! Records are made to be broken.) I should get no mail just because Saddy's neckwear was too tight? It might be the day my annual fan letter arrives. My surviving fan (Hello!) isn't a spring tarantula. He or she may not have an extra day to wait for me to receive their love. When my last fan dies, will he or she get a National Day of Mourning, or a funeral at the National Cathedral? I don't think so.

(Speaking of which, why do we have a "National Cathedral"? The last time I looked, we were a secular country, not a Catholic Country. If we have become a Catholic Country let me know, so I can move someplace secular, like Vatican City, which used to be Catholic, but is now run by Nazis, excuse me, Former Nazis. It's not Herr Pope's fault that Heaven is Restricted. So do we have "National" buildings for other barbaric, antiquated belief systems? How's that National Mosque coming? I'm a Christian Scientist myself, except for all the absurd beliefs and practices. Where is our "National Reading Room"?)

On a more positive note, it was nice to see that novelist and Former President Gerald Ford was finally executed for the crime of pardoning Nixon, his specific crime being Watergate Cover-Up Accessory After-the Fact. Prior to usurping The White House, Ford was beloved for his widely-summarised work of fiction, The Warren Commission Report, a novel based on the Assassination of President Kennedy, but coming to a completely fictional conclusion involving an invented villain, like one of those episodes of Doctor Who where the Doctor visits a famous historical event, only to discover that the "Real Villains" were the Daleks or the Cybermen or Lee Harvey Oswald the Rabbit.

With Ford, you see the real difference between American Justice and Iraqi Justice. It took 32 years to convict and execute Ford for his crime. Saddy's gone from rathole-squatter to corpse in only 3 years. In fact, the news has just come through: Saddy's been hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that stabilization soon will be there. (Yes. This will stabilize Iraq. Another victory for Dubya. Will the Shi'it now hit the fan? Sunni or later.)

Ford's real legacy is establishing the precedent of appointing presidents instead of electing them. Gerry Ford was the first president appointed to the office. He got the presidency on a single vote: Nixon's. Yes, we let the man we were hounding from office for his crimes-beyond-number choose his own successor. Even Iraq didn't let Saddy choose his own successor. Had he done so, he wouldn't be swinging today. He'd be fat and sassy in San Clemente, with a presidential pardon and a book deal. (Judith Regan's gotta eat.) Our Supreme Court jumped on the precedent, and in 2000 appointed Dubya to be president, rather than do all that tiresome counting of the votes. After all, if The People were competent to elect a president, they'd be on the Supreme Court.

To be fair to Dubya, unlike Ford, he did receive more than one vote, many more, though still fewer than Al Gore received.

But if you ask me, the real criminal in the Ford Family was that evil bitch Betty. The Betty Ford Clinic is Satan's Cesspool! Trying to stop people from drinking? What infamy! What an atrocity! Get me a rope! And a vodka tonic, heavy on the vodka, just the slightest whisper of tonic. Thank you, darling.

But WHY did they hang James Brown? Papa's got a brand new bag, and they've put it over his head! Is he now the Hardest Working Man in Hell? Whitey has stuck it to the Black Man once again. Well celebrity hangings, like all other celebrity deaths, always come in 3s. And there's nothing on earth I like better than a well-hung man.

Except vodka.

Cheers darlings, those of you who have survived. Hang in there. (Sorry Saddy, but not very.)

Horrid Christmas Everyone

Merry Christmas Christians! And the rest of you heathens, pray to be delivered from the tortures of Hell! (Though your prayers are pointless. Everyone who doesn't accept Jesus as their saviour is going to burn forever. Sorry. Those are the rules. The upside is, all the really fun people will be there. If you're in Heaven, you must have been a real pill!) Of course, I'm a Christian Scientist, and Mary Baker Eddy didn't believe in Hell, but then she didn't believe in illness, death, coherent syntax, reality, living by the rules she set for others, West Covina, or drinking alcohol, so she was clearly insane. Anyway, I'm spending Christmas with the spirits of Christmas Past, so while I'm enjoying my stupor, Little Douglas will be sharing with all of us a Christmas Fable from his forthcoming book, My Gruesome Life, the autobiography of 1960s horror legend Guy Thanatos. A lovely man, but never mention Vincent Price to him. This is the story of his Christmas celebration back in 1944, when he, his - ah - friend, never-married producer Phil Ratio, and Guy's homicidal mother Evelyn spent Christmas with Joan Crawford and her family, told in Guy's own words. Do enjoy. - Tallulah.

Christmas With The Crawfords.

by Guy Thanatos.

(as told to Douglas McEwan.)

Richelieu, my newly-acquired chauffeur, drove Mother, Phil and I to Joan Crawford’s lovely Brentwood bungalow [By bungalow, Guy means gigantic mansion and grounds. -Douglas] on Christmas Eve 1944, where we intended to stay overnight and most of the next day.

My dear friend Billy Haines had introduced me to Joan almost as soon as I hit Hollywood. Joan was the sweetest, kindest, most gracious hostess in all of her house, which covered rather more territory than you’d think. When we arrived, she greeted us in the doorway, casually dressed (for Joan) in a $20,000 Orry-Kelly creation of shimmering gold lamé, with her husband, Philip Terry Crawford, whom I believe had some sort of show business connected job [Phillip Terry was a major film actor who appeared in some 67 movies between 1937 and 1972. He starred in The Leech Woman, a film of major importance in my own career, but that’s a story for another day. -Douglas], who was sparkling in a matching gold tuxedo with Christmas green piping, and little Christina in a Shirley Temple hand-me-down gownette by Adrian. I was wearing a $500 suit myself and I felt underdressed.

"Horrid Christmas!" Mother, Phil and I shouted gaily as we climbed out of my understated Rolls Royce.

"Merry Christmas!" Joan corrected, kissing each of us. Joan had mistletoe actually in her hair.

"We always say ‘Horrid Christmas’." I explained, "So, have a horrid Christmas Christina."

"It’s too early to tell." Replied the somber small child.

"Where’s that dear little angel Christopher?" I asked.

"Christopher misbehaved this afternoon and is being punished." Answered Joan in a more serious tone than before.

"What did the poor little boy do that would keep him punished on Christmas?" asked Mother.

"He got a little too excited about Santa Claus coming, and ran around the house this afternoon, laughing and shouting." Said Joan, one eyebrow arched, clearly vexed again at the memory.

"That sounds like every two year old on earth three hours before Christmas." Said Phil.

"Maybe the children of common people," snapped Joan, eyes flashing fire, "But my children will be perfect, and Perfect Children are never loud or obstreperous. Christopher must learn this now, mustn’t he, Christina?"

"Yes, Mommy Dearest!" Christina blurted out smartly.

As the maid took our coats, Phil asked Philip, "Do you go along with that policy?"

Philip’s eyes darted about in terror as he said in a quiet rush, "Joan knows best. Joan knows best."

"Really darling," said Joan, her Gracious Manners mode re-engaged, "I don’t believe it’s asking too much for my children to be well mannered and behaved. After all, they have every advantage over the children of nobodies. Don’t you, Christina?"

"Yes, Mommy Dearest."

"Good, darling." Said Joan, "Now let’s all go in and eat dinner and at Midnight I’ll go down and unchain Christopher, as I promised, and he’ll be up just in time for storytime."

At Joan’s house, at midnight on Christmas Eve the tradition (being inaugurated that evening. A new tradition.) was that the whole family, except servants of course, would sit around the living room with low lights, sipping eggnog, munching a single cookie, and listening while Joan read aloud a family Christmas story she had actually written herself. Until Midnight arrived, we had a sumptuous dinner, and enjoyed each other’s company, ignoring the occasional scream from Christopher in the dungeon.

As Joan went to check on the cooks preparing dessert, Philip, who seldom spoke, or did anything but moan slightly, suddenly perked up. He turned to us in a panic and said, "For God’s sake, flee! Save yourselves! It’s too late for me, but you can still get away!"

Joan entered the room and Philip, eyes screaming, said, "I was just telling the Thanatoses how lucky I am to live with the world’s greatest homemaker."

"Aren’t you sweet, darling?" Joan said, pausing beside her husband and presenting her cheek for a quick dry peck, before marching past behind us towards the hall door, giving my posterior cheeks a strong, surreptitious squeeze in passing.

Promptly at midnight Joan appeared in the living room archway carrying her storybook in one hand and Christopher’s semi-conscious form, with his newly bandaged thumbs, draped over her other arm. We all took seats on the massive sofas that curled around the twenty foot frosted white Christmas tree that dominated the room, with the blazing hearth to our right. Christina and Christopher were popped down beside Joan, who opened her book and began reading the following story:

Santa Saves Christmas!
A Christmas Fable by
Joan Crawford!

Once upon a time, in a fair land far, far away, there lived the most beautiful queen of all time. Her name was Queen Bee, and she was beloved by all her subjects for her splendid loveliness, her mighty wisdom and her graceful graciousness. Every knight errant for a thousand miles sought to win her, but she gave her heart only to her two stepchildren, Little Hagatha and her baby brother, Roquat the Squat.

"Excuse me, dear," said Philip, "But didn’t Queen Bee have a King?"

"Whatever for?" snapped Joan, clearly annoyed to have been interrupted, "When she needed a man, she had her pick of the drones. May I return to the story now, please?"

Although Queen Bee loved her stepchildren with all her lavish heart, they were wicked, ungrateful children, whose hearts were as black as their faces were ugly. They never showed any appreciation for Queen Bee’s self-sacrificing love for them. They treated the queen’s opulent palace as though it were no better than the filthy swampside hovel in which they had been born, common as dirt.

Little Hagatha had a long crooked nose, covered in warts, and a hump on her back, while Roquat the Squat was gap-toothed, cross-eyed and repulsive, yet Queen Bee gallantly ignored their deformities and loved them as much as she would have attractive children, giving them the finest clothes to adorn their misshapen bodies, feeling that people should have something nice to look at anyway.

But the deformities of their faces and bodies merely reflected the deformities in their evil souls. Christmas was coming, and by the gentle leave of Queen Bee, both Little Hagatha and Roquat the Squat had 100 farthings each, to spend on Christmas gifts. Naturally, any virtuous child would want to spend every penny on some perfect gift for their generous stepmother who cherished them so vigorously. But Little Hagatha and Roquat the Squat were nasty, selfish, wicked stepchildren, who lacked the Christmas Spirit. They coveted candy, even though Queen Bee had wisely forbidden them to eat sweets, knowing that candy treats would rot their teeth, thicken their too-plump waistlines, and further befoul their already revolting complexions.

So, instead of buying their loving stepmother a perfect set of pearl earrings, which would have looked elegant with the queen’s white chiffon gown and summer tiara, the two wicked, sordid little children bought candy for themselves, and gobbled it all down.

Did Queen Bee punish these two, nasty children as they deserved? She did not. When she opened her gift box, she found only empty candy wrappers inside. She was so deeply hurt that all she could do was weep. Clearly she should have punished these two spiteful monsters, but the fullness of her heart and the gentleness of her stainless soul made her weak and backsliding, and she allowed the nasty brats to get away with their crime merely because it was Christmas. The appalling children laughed merrily and pointed at the weeping queen, mocking her misery as they romped with the many toys the queen had given them for their Yuletide pleasure. This only deepened Queen Bee’s grief, causing her to fall into a magical sleep, from which she could not awaken.

The children’s obscene and noisy merriment was cut short by the booming laughs of "Ho! Ho! Ho!" that came echoing down the chimney.
"Hooray!" cried foul Little Hagatha and blemished Roquat the Squat, "Santa is here!"

Indeed, a moment later, that jolly old elf, Santa Claus himself, came bounding into the room from out of the fiery hearth. "Merry Christmas children!" he bellowed.

"What have you got for us, Santa?" asked the two greedy, repugnant children.

"Something so special that even your good queen couldn’t provide it for you." Said Santa, eyeing the children closely, "You know I’ve given toys and treats to all the good children of the world tonight, and now I have time to punish the wicked ones! Ho! Ho! Ho!"

Santa stuck Little Hagatha in her own Christmas stocking while he attended to Roquat the Squat. "Since your greed for candy has made you so plump," Santa snarled at Roquat, "You must be thinned down." Santa then took a box cutter and sliced Wicked Roquat open from forehead to toes, and peeled back his flesh and organs, layer by layer, while the boy shrieked, begging for the merciful relief of death.

Once Roquat was still, Santa Claus turned his attentions to Little Hagatha. "Just because you’re a filthy little delinquent, doesn’t mean you should die a virgin." Said Santa, as his belly shook like a bowl full of human-flesh jelly. "Guess I’ll have to give you one for Christmas." Then Santa made a woman of Little Hagatha underneath the Christmas tree, treating her like the infantile slut she was. When Santa’s pleasure was sated, he chopped Little Hagatha up very fine, and fed her to his reindeer.

As Hagatha expelled her final, agony-laced breath, Queen Bee’s eyes opened and she sat up. "Whatever has happened? I feel refreshed."

"The evil enchantment your wicked stepchildren had laid on you has been broken by their severe correction." Said the merry Saint.

For Queen Bee, because she was so good, Santa left a faultless gift: two new, perfect babies who would grow up grateful and well-mannered.
"And don’t worry," yelled Santa from his sleigh as he rode out of sight, "If those two turn bad, there’s plenty more where they came from."

And the beautiful Queen Bee had a Merry Christmas, a perfect life, and lived happily ever after.

The End.

As Joan closed the book, she took a moment to wipe the copious tears from her eyes, so deeply moved was she by her reading of this disturbing fable. Tears were flowing from Christina and Christopher’s eyes as well, as they clutched each other and shivered in terror. Only the still greater fear of what would happen if they had, kept them from soiling the sofa. Phil was wide-eyed with shock.

Mother was suppressing a tiny smirk and I was making a note to inquire later about the film rights to Joan’s tale. I’d heard that Joan’s tale was usually to be had quite cheaply.

"Well," said Mother, "Charles Dickens had better look to his laurels. There’s a new author in Christmasland."

"Thank you, Evelyn." Said Joan, "What enchanting praise, and from an angel. Well, time for bed." At Joan’s command, we all scurried off to our bedrooms.

"Pay no attention," Joan said, as she locked and bolted Phil and I into our room for the night, "To any odd sounds you may hear during the night. Sometimes the children get restless in the middle of the night. Just ignore all sounds."

Around three AM Phil and I were abruptly awakened from a brief but intense and unpleasant dream in which I was eaten alive by a revolting, bug-eyed monster who only said to me, "Hush. Close your eyes and pretend I’m Robert Taylor," though I know Robert Taylor smells much differently, to the sounds of children screaming in either extreme terror or pain. It was hard to tell which. We could hear Joan’s voice also shrieking, but the thick walls rendered Joan and the children unintelligible. The only thing worse than being forced to hear other people shrieking, is having to hear them but not understand what they’re saying.

Eventually the noise, which now included banging and thumping, moved downstairs and out of earshot, and we got back to sleep.

The sound of the song Jingle Bells amplified loud enough to fill the Hollywood Bowl brought us out of sleep Christmas morning and we hurriedly put on pajamas and robes for a nice, casual Christmas morning gift opening. Downstairs we found the living room almost drowning in colorful wrapped gifts. There was a riot of ribbons, mounds of holly, and bowls of candies and cookies. Philip Terry was there, and a small camera crew was setting up, but there was no sign of Joan or the kids.

Philip warned us, "Hope you don’t mind the cameras. Joan always films Christmas morning for her fans to see in the newsreels. The cookies and the candy are just for show. It’s worth your life to eat one."

"Where are Joan and the children?" I asked.

"In the dungeon. The kids are being punished. There was an incident in the night. Best not to mention it. They should all be up soon." Philip retreated to a corner sofa and didn’t speak again for sometime.

Finally the cameras were ready and Joan, Christina and Christopher made an entrance. We were all in our PJs and robes. Joan was in a negligee and morning jacket that probably cost close to what the house had, and was wearing more jewels than Queen Elizabeth at her coronation. Christina was wearing another Shirley Temple ball gown, while Christopher, only two years old, was in a tuxedo. "Merry Christmas everyone" said Joan at her most mannered, "How lovely to see that we’re all just casual this morning. I just crawled out of bed."

"She sleeps in all those jewels?" asked my mother out of the corner of her mouth into my ear.

For the next two hours, we watched as Christina and Christopher sat still in chairs before the camera and unwrapped one gift at a time, carefully, so the wrapping paper could be used again by the less fortunate. The maids handed the gifts to the children while Joan struck poses around the room, downed cocktails, and watched the children like a hawk for any unseemly display of gratuitous excitement or exuberance. The children opened each gift, exclaimed in a restrained manner how delighted they were by the gift, made a note of who gave it for their thank you notes later on [The children were expected to write a personal thank you note for every gift. Joan had given them 50 gifts each herself, and they were required to send her 50 thank you notes each. Christopher was only two and couldn’t write at all. This was not considered an excuse. "You’re never too young for manners." Said Joan - Douglas], set it aside and went on to the next. When they were done, Joan made a little speech about how the happiness of her children was what Christmas meant to her. Then the camera crew left and the movers arrived, packing up all the gifts again to haul away to the less fortunate. The kids got to grab one toy each to keep, but they had to snatch fast.

Then we went into the dining room. At five of the place settings a lavish Christmas feast was laid out and waiting, at two places there was a somewhat less appetizing meal waiting, two week old steaks crawling with mold and maggots.

"Those are Christina and Christopher’s plates," explained Joan, "They still haven’t finished their dinners from two weeks ago, and they don’t get fresh food until they’ve cleaned those plates. Waste not. Want not."

"But," asked my darling Phil, "Wouldn’t that old, rotten meat make them sick now?"

"Please" cooed Joan, "You make it sound like I’m serving them Bette Davis. That meat was fresh and delicious when it was first given to them. If it makes them a little sick now, they’ll learn to eat their dinner when it’s fresh."

"You’re awfully strict, aren’t you?" asked Phil, "I mean, it is Christmas."

"You mustn’t judge me too harshly," Joan said, "I may seem cruel, but I’m cruel only to be mean."

While we gorged on the palatable food, the children sat and stared at their plates. Christopher tried a bite of his foul former meat and puked on his plate. Joan simply called for the maid and went on with her story of how she’d taught John Barrymore some new tricks while they were shooting Grand Hotel. "He may have loved that Garbo slut on camera, but off screen, I had the key to his pants." She said, "He was a real man, not like some married men I could mention."

Philip just stared at his plate and ate his ham faster.

"I forget," said Mother, "But wasn’t Mister Barrymore married when he made that movie."

"Possibly," said Joan, "He often was. What’s your point?"

After dinner, Joan got out her checklist. "Now let’s see. We’ve hung the stockings by the chimney with care; we’ve read a soothing Christmas fairy tale to the children; we’ve punished the children for last night’s little incident; we’ve opened gifts; we’ve taken the children’s toys away from them; we’ve eaten dinner. What haven’t we done? I know. How about a game?"

"A game! A game!" The children clapped and cheered, until Joan froze up.

"Christopher!" Joan snapped at her most severe, "Christina! Is anyone else jumping around and squealing? Do you want the Thanatoses to think you’re ill-mannered little brutes?"

"No, Mommy Dearest." The two suddenly terrified children said in unison.

"Then why are you carrying on like uncivilized little hyenas?" Joan asked, "I think we’ll have to pass on the games and make another visit to the Dungeon."

The children began screaming in horror. As Joan dragged them off shrieking through a door marked Playhouse Of Pain, Philip poured himself a tumbler full of straight bourbon with a shaking hand, and Mother, Phil and I slipped out the front door to the driveway, where Richelieu was waiting to drive us home.

During the leisurely motor back to Maison De Thanatos, Mother sighed and said, "That Joan is weirder than the Pope’s bar mitzvah. But that was the nicest horrid Christmas I’ve had in years."

"How so?" I asked Mother, who may have had a fault or two (or not) but who was truly a saint compared to Joan.

"For once I didn’t have to lift a finger." She replied, "Joan made it all perfectly horrid on her own.

"Horrid Christmas Mother," I said, " and a ghastly new year."

© Copyright 2006 Douglas McEwan

The Passion of the Elf

by Inclement Clarke Morehead

'Twas the night before Christmas, all through Morehead Heights
Not a creature was stirring, 'cept deep in my tights;
My pantyhose hung by the chimney with Nair,
In hopes that Huge Jackman soon would be there;
The vodka was nestled all snug in my head,
While visions of sugar-tits made my legs spread;
Like me in my turban, the brave with no head,
Had just gone to sleep, or perhaps we were dead.
When outside my skull there arose such a clatter,
I fell out of bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I crawled like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up my hash.
Then mooning my breasts from my new-fallen pants,
Gave the luster of porn to my sagging implants.
When what to my blurry red eye there appears,
But some really big gay, and eight quite tiny queers,
And a little old driver, so drunken and glib, son,
I knew in a moment it must be Mel Gibson.
More rapid than virgins, his coursers they came,
And he humped them, and shouted, and cursed them by name;
"Now, Flasher! Pole Dancer! Fag Prancer, you Vixen!
On Slutty! On Trampy! On Scrotum and Nixon!
To the top of her porch! To the top of her house!
Now dash away! Dash away! Tear off her blouse!"
As dry heaves that before the wild hurricane barf,
I can’t get these stains off my lovely headscarf.
Up to my house-top they flew just like Krypto,
With the drunken old fool who made Apocalypto.
And then, in a flash, I heard on my ceiling,
The horrible sound of my juices congealing.
When I stuck out my butt, to show my endzone,
Down my chimney Mel Gibson came hard, with a groan.
He was painted bright blue, and was covered with gore,
And he smiled and he laughed and he called me a whore;
A bundle of buttplugs was flung on his back.
He was stinking of gin, my aphrodisiac.
His eyes -- how they watered! His dimples -- how sexy!
I don’t know why he gives the Jews apoplexy.
His wet drooling mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as yellow as snow;
The stump of a leg he held tight in his teeth,
And the blood it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face, narrow mind, and round belly,
That shook when he raved, like petroleum jelly.
He was skinny and drunk, a right smelly old elf,
I got damp when I smelt him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his knob,
And his purple-eyed warrior started to throb.
He spoke not a word, but just started to jerk,
And soon stained my poster of Young Captain Kirk.
Then shoving his finger inside of his nose,
And giving a prod, up my chimney he rose;
He soon gave his team a quite mean disemboweling,
And then filmed their deaths, as they all lay there howling.
Last I heard him exclaim the incredible news,
"Happy Christmas to all. Now go kill some Jews."


Cheers darlings!

About TIME!

Darlings, imagine my joy and ecstasy when I sobered up today enough to notice the cover of TIME Magazine in my mail (My gardener's son, a lovely Hispanic lad of but 16 summers, who prunes my foliage at every opportunity with a skill that brings to mind Eduardo Dildohands, subscribes to the periodical. What is it usually about, when it's not about me?), and discovered that I was Time Magazine's Person of the Year! A great honor, long overdue. I am humbled by my own greatness. Conversely, many have said it would be great if I were humble, so the words are clearly synonyms.


I must assume, given the computer-angle in the cover photo, that this honor has been conferred upon me for this flogging I've been giving you right here! This amazes me because I was thinking of having my hit-counter serviced; my hits can not have been so few. However, this little flogging is really all I've done this year, apart from attend a few movies, watch some TV, and keep the male end of the sex industry financially afloat, none of which are likely to win me any immediate honors, besides my treasured naming as Patronette of the Year, which was awarded to me last year by AGOG: The American Guild Of Gigolos. Let me see. Did I do anything else this year? What else? What else? Oh yes. Drink. In fact I shall. Right now. Excuse me just a ...


Thank you darling. The adorable Headless Indian Brave has anticipated my desire, and has prepared an absolutely divine --- ummm -- vodka martini. The way he knows I want a drink before even I do is uncanny! That Headless Indian Brave is positively Supernatural. He is adorable too. I mean it. Ah, my cranially-deprived kemosabe; if only I were a little younger, and you were a little less dead. And a little less headless. Of course, I could give you head. I don't mean to shock anyone, but it would not be the first time. (Have I shocked you, my darlings? Oh? Well, I'll try again later.) But there would still be that pesky Barrier of Death between us, although my Death Barrier grows flimsier each day. Soon my Loinclothed One, soon.

But not right now.


I suppose I could find out exactly what Time Magazine had in mind by conferring this honor on me by opening the magazine and reading the article inside, but reading a magazine sounds tremendously dull; too much like reading. Also, Eduardo picked up his copy of TIME as he re-dressed this afternoon and took it with him. For me to have it read to me now would require my sending Little Douglas to the 7-11, and I don't really need an article about me that much. I already know all about me. I wrote the book on me. (My Lush Life )


I suppose I could call Eduardo and ask him to read the article to me over the phone, but if his father answered, it could prove embarrassing. Hernando can be so emotional. So silly of him. My introducing Young Eduardo to the joys of manhood will in no way lesson my demands for the servicing for which I pay Hernando so generously. My hedge requires a lot of trimming. It's wild in places.


No. Besides, those things the kids use for phones these days look a little too much like Spock calling the Enterprise for me. Every time I try to use one, I'm afraid William Shatner is listening in. God, please don't let that happen again! What a nightmare! If Bill had had a picture phone last time, I'd be in jail now. Even though OZ was The Most Erotic TV Series Ever Broadcast (Chris Meloni, issue all the injunctions you want; you will have my way with me!), I am assured by actual ex-cons (A wonderful, fun group of often discriminated-against young men whom I meet many of when telemarketers call.) that real prison isn't as much fun as it looks on TV and in gay porn, and is often extremely unpleasant for long periods of time. Tim Robbins isn't even there! He's still with that Sarandon bitch! Give him up, Susan, or so help me, I'll send him my DVD of The Hunger. I have a stamp, and I'm not afraid to use it!

Also these days, I try to avoid all the surviving original Star Trek cast members, despite the deep pain this gives both to myself and to Nichelle Nichol. Darling, darling Nichelle, you live in my heart, and I will always gladly open my channel D to you, but right now, I'm just terrified of waking up married to George Takai again.


What are the duties of a Person of the Year? Who was Miss Congeniality? Is my Yardstick of Behavior above or below that of Miss USA? (Please say "Below.") Why can't the English teach their children how to speak? Are you ticklish? What is the meaning of Life? What the hell were they thinking when they made Daybreak? If they just kept Taye Diggs clothes off of him, it wouldn't have mattered that the the script was more complicated than The Lord of the Rings as well as more violent, and that it made absolutely no sense at all, and I speak as an expert on making no sense at all. Look at this paragraph. Does it make the slightest sense whatever? I rest my case.


Wait a minute? If I'm the Person of the Year, I should make my own rules! Who is Someone Else, someone who isn't Person of the Year, to dictate behavior to someone who is Person of the Year? Maybe, if you had 52 Persons of the Week agreeing, we would have a tie, and we could appeal to the 12 Persons of the Month. And if they spilt, we would finally be forced to ask The Four Seasons, and who doesn't love listening to them? Unfortunately, I can't be The Decider. That position is already filled, and he doesn't listen to any voice outside his own head. (Although that is still a large number to consult.)


However, this is a great reward for a flog to receive after only so few floggings. I realize that my comments, hidden away here on the Internet, are nonetheless Shaping American Culture, something somebody needs to do. I'm just the woman for it. I'm 109, but I have the energy, stamina, and juices of a woman twice my age. It's time for me to weigh in and make the tough calls. I have Real American Values, except for homophobia and rampant homicidal tendencies. I am what magazine cover honors are all about: Last Week's News!


Isn't there some sort of law that People Magazine's Sexiest Man Alive (Not to be confused with Former People Magazine's Sexiest Man Dead title, which has been won twice by the Headless Indian Brave! I told you he was adorable, His ghost of a loincloth barely contains a generous amount of Spirit.), which I understand is currently George Clooney - though they failed to poll me, as has George - and the Time Magazine Person of the Year are legally required to consummate an act of primal passion exactly at midnight on New Year's Eve, regardless of the Person's respective gender? You've lucked out George. I am a woman, despite all rumors to the contrary. And, as it happens I am free on New Year's Eve, so I'll hold your place until then. Or, if I have to take my hand out, say to save a child from a burning building, or if someone is offering me a martini when I already have one in the other hand, then I'll insert a vibrating bookmark, so you can still always tell just which exact fold contains the Cradle of Life. I wouldn't do this for just anyone, George darling. No wait. Of course I would. But they have to be living.

For Now.


How darlings.

Blue Spanish Flies

Fans, friends, and more fans, I have fallen in love again, with a great, nay, a monumental talent. As the pictures at the top of this post that are already burning your eyeballs have told you, the object of my objectification is the great Mexican TV star Eduardo Capetillo. Only one thing stands between Eduardo, Me, and the consummation of the Great Passion which threatens to consume both of us; the small matters that we have never met, and that he may never have heard of me, nor have the slightest idea who I am. I barely know who he is. Thank God for the iMDB! (Although their page on me is grossly inadequate.)



I know it sounds inconceivable to most of you that there could be a man, and not just any man, but a man who is himself a popular international star, who has never heard of me. I have, after all, been one of the greatest movie stars of the last 100 years. Surely all but primitive cave dwellers worship at my shrine, and frankly, some of those prehistoric cave paintings look quite clearly to me (Or as clearly as anything can look to me these days) like early posters for my prehistoric movies. I was the pin-up girl of the Triassic Age, which is why I appeared so tremendously authentic in my cavewoman trilogy, 1,000,000 Years Ago, When Dinosaurs Ruled the Block, and Jurassic Tart.



However, my little Eduardo is young, only an infant of 36, which means he was born after I retired. My films don't get the reissues, rereleases, revivals, and televisings that other, lesser, movies get, though I have had a few memorable revivals myself, from my local paramedic boys, Chance and Chad. I love to take Chance's, and I am even more enamored by that magnificent Dangling Chad.


My movies are like Granny Puett's Best Silver: too good for everyday, they're put away for only Special Occasions. You know, the silver your mother packed away in her cedar chest along with the Best China, and never, ever used! No event was ever special enough. Christmas? Nah; we have that every year. Your daughter's wedding? Please; do you know how many times daughters get married? Mother's Funeral? Well, we don't want to actually look like we're celebrating, do we? My movies are like that: too good for everyday; they're put away for Never.


Then there's the additional problem that Little Eduardo was born and grew up in Mexico, and currently lives in Spain. The fact is, my films never translated into Spanish well. Even though my first real lover (as opposed to just boys-I-had-sex-with) was the great Spanish star Gilbert Rolaids, I've never been very popular in the Latin countries. The translation of my name, Tallulah Morehead, that was used for my Spanish-language releases, Cuadro de la Eyaculación en Boca, unfortunately retranslated to "Oral Cumshot,"* which was felt to reflect poorly on me (Depends on the lighting, I would think.), and limited where my pictures could be exhibited, at least until someone had the bright idea to bill me as "Countin' Flaws", and hope no one would notice the difference. (Surprisingly few did. Not even Cantinflas.)


Consequently, poor Little Eduardo, growing up in Mexico in the 70s and 80s, may never have seen any of my movies. Talk about a deprived childhood! No wonder so many of his fellow countrymen and women suddenly pull up digs to relocate in the United States (Some apparently quite suddenly.); they just want to live and raise their children in a country where they can see and/or enjoy my movies! How can we speak of building a fence and trying to keep out such lovely people, who just want to be my fans? That's living The American Dream!


Eduardo is the great Mexican soap stud. I began seeing him ten or twelve years ago on these telenovellas that my various Latin housekeepers and houseboys over the years have loved. Telenovellas are like American soap operas, only they aren't endless, the acting is better, and nothing about them makes any sense at all. American soaps, even Passions, have as many as ten to fifteen sensible minutes every sweeps period.


Also Joan Collins is never in them. Instead you have something a thousand times better: you always have a middle-aged Spanish or Mexican actress who aspires to be Joan Collins, specifically, to be the Joan Collins of 1985, but lacks the, well, je ne sais quai.


(By the way, Joan Collins is the fakest actress in the history of the world! On every single epsiode of Dynasty the woman picked up cocktails, generally but not exclusively martinis, and gestured with them, swirled them, sniffed them, threw them in Linda Evans's face - Well, who hasn't thrown a drink in Linda's face? The woman just asksfor it! - she has hovered her drinks in the vacinity of her mouth, set them down, and even then poured another, but she never actually took a drink from any of them throughout the whole run of that otherwise utterly realistic TV series set in a Denver, Colorado, where it never snowed, and where there were palm trees. I detest acting sham. Whenever I played a scene where I had a cocktail, not only did I actually drink the damn things, but I insisted on using real cocktails as well, for the added realism, particularly in the later takes. And to be on the safe side, in case back-up was required, I generally had a cock and/or some tail waiting in my dressing room. Joan Collins, I spit on your no-drinking acting!)


I love telenovella acting. It really takes me back to my days in silent movies, except they aren't silent. They act their faces off, but at the same time, they're every bit as loud as we always looked like we were. Telenovella actors and actresses must take special classes in Glaring, Eye-Rolling, Sneering, Smoldering, and Complete Hysterics. (On a telenovella, no one ever has Partial Hysterics.) Best of all, there's always a really juicy role for an actress of a "Certain Age." (In my case, the age is quite certain, and it's 109.) And when I say a "Juicy" role, I mean it. These are incredibly juicy roles; not only do you get to play every raw emotion imaginable, and always at 11, but you expel gallons of pretty much every imaginable human fluid, although always tainted by massive liquid mascara contamination.


Eduardo's specialty is Smoldering. Good God, that man smolders more smokily than Jack Cassidy's last mattress. He glowers in a manner that has made me flood out a low-lying coastal town, and he can flash his eyes brighter than a 1978 strobe light at Studio 54 flashing over Truman Capote as he lies dreaming of Perry Smith and sobbing.


Since telenovellas are in Spanish, and the only Spanish phrase I know is "Tequila grande!", I have the distinct advantage of having no idea what the hell they are all about. Think of it; They could be saying the stupidest things in the world, and for all I know, it's Shakespeare. (I mean that as it sounds. To my ears, Shakespeare is every bit as incomprehensible as Spanish. Given that he was a supposedly great English writer, for the life of me, I can not understand why the Beard of Avon didn't just write his plays in English, instead of in Shakespearean.) You know, I think audiences would have laughed at my performance as the hysterical, not-actually-insane woman in The Snake Hole a lot less if they'd not been able to understand the extremely stupid things I was saying. You try saying, "Go on ya rats, take my nipples for acorns!" without getting a laugh. Damn my flawless diction!


I never laughed at anything the divine Eduardo Capetillo said in Marimar, which I've watched now three different times, and still have not a clue as to what it's about. If you know, Please do not explain it to me. I no longer want to know. I'm too enamoured of the fake plots I invent in my head as I watch. Actually, I do the same thing when stuck watching Shakespeare, like when I'm out of batteries for my remotes. I don't know what the hell The Tempest is about, but the plot I invented in my skull is a dandy. "Oh Caliban, you're a monster! I'm Miranda the Virgin, and I've never been touched by a man. Touch me, Caliban, Touch Me! --- and Fuck off, Ariel. I am not going to marry you."


Last year Little Eddie starred in La Madrastra, which was more over the top than Free-LSD Night at the Ringling Brothers Circus. There was a man in that story named Bruno whom I don't think I was ever married to, but who seemed a dead ringer for three of my husbands. I never want to know what Bruno was really saying, as nothing could ever justify his performance, a performance which would seem Too Big for a cellphone. He was probably just reacting to learning his wife or boy friend had just slept with the help, or that his son wasn't his son at all, but his father, some normal soap crap like that, but Bruno's performance said "A fleet of 7000 spaceships, all stuffed full of 20-foot, hyperintelligent, carnivorous squids, has just landed in Washington. They are eating congress, and my sinuses are killing me." To learn his real lines would just make it all so ordinary.


I don't know if Eduardo speaks English in "Real Life;" We may not have a language in common. But so what? Eduardo darling, it doesn't matter a fig to me if I never understand a word you're saying. You're probably better off not understanding me at all either. Why should you be any different from my other husbands? Frankly, I think that two people who never have any idea what the hell the other is saying sound like the ideal married couple. But then, I start off with an advantage; I never understand myself half the time.


Should I ever meet Eduardo in those blue denim pants he's wearing in the picture above, he will easily get my meaning, once I get my hands on his Blue Spanish Fly.


Ole, darlings!

* "Tallulah" is a Choctaw word meaning "Leaping Waters". "More" means "Additional", and "Head" means "Fellatio". So a literal translation of Tallulah Morehead would be "Leaping Waters from Additional Fellatio." Apparently someone at PMS's translations department got too literal in coming up with a Spanish name for our Tallulah. A more straightforward Spanish translation of "Tallulah Morehead" would be Saltar Las Aguas del Sexo Oral Adicional, but that's too long for a marquee. - DM.

Craig's List

I think Daniel Craig lists to the left. What do you think? He certainly made me listless, and I generally list in all directions. Just watching me standing still has been known to make some men, even inveterate, lifelong seadogs, seasick. The simple fact is, my feet are steadiest when above my head, rather than below.


I apologize for being so long away from you, my Tallulah-craving darlings, but I was so depressed by the Tragic Clown Loss last week (See Quit Clowning Around!) that it sent me into a shame spiral so deep that only large amounts of vodka, and enough rough manhandling to ruin a new hip could bring me out of it again.


I know you all need me. Look at poor Rip Torn, if you can stand it. Rip darling, it was my fault, for not calling you and insisting you read my previous post, Social Driving, to warn you of the peril you faced and show you my so simple solution. Read it now, Rip darling, and learn, before even more unflattering pictures are published. And Rip darling, let's get together and get ripped again real soon. (Though I of course looked stunning in my mug shots, taken back in 1947.) (Google them. I'm not going to post them.)


Poor little Brittany may well lose her paternity suit from K-Fed-Up because I wasn't there to consul her on the proper way to party non-stop pantyless and drunk while ignoring your small children at home with the manny. Darling, I was partying nonstop, pantyless and drunk, back when my daughter Patty was newly-adopted, but I knew how to keep it out of the papers. Of course, winning an adoption battle with some crack whore would have been no challenge for me. So that's the important thing to remember, Little Brittany, to win your custody battle, you don't have to be a Great Mom, or even a Good Mom, or even an Adequate Mom; all you have to be is a better parent than Kevin Federline. Brittany darling, I have housepets that are better parents than Kevin Federline. You could sink much lower than you have before losing! So you go, girl! Don't just lose the panties, lose all your clothes. Vomit on photographers. Have oral sex with street trash on camera! Continue to hang with Paris and Lindsey, because that way you'll never quite be the worst skank in the room. And don't be afraid darling. Never actually being with your kids is good for them! After all, as long as you're out partying with trash, you're not home, endangering them. You're doing it for them! You don't want to party non-stop, pantyless and drunk. It's a sacrifice you're willing to make out of your love of your children. I'm a drunken bad mother too, so I understand.


Douglas finally shook the cobwebs off of me (I mean that literally. Our spiders weave up a storm. I can take a short nap, only a couple of days at most, and suddenly I have Shelob's Lair on my face. Sometimes it takes hours just to spit out all the orc bones.), and dragged me down to a multiplex, incognito of course, to see Casino Royale. Let me tell you, Daniel Craig woke me up, as he's welcome to do, really Danny anytime!!! (Danny. Call me!)


Allow me to understand this please; there were websites full of morons criticising the casting of Daniel Craig as James Bond, from fools who hadn't even seen him in the role yet? Good Lord, those idiots are stupid enough to run Metro! Daniel Craig is amazing! I predict the man will single-buttedly start a new furnishing fad for seatless cane chairs! I've been sitting here between martinis, cutting the seats out of all my cane chairs ever since I got home from the movie. All the style of cane and wicker, combined with the comfort of a primitive toilet. It's the perfect "Easy Chair" for the sexy, the incontinent, or - if you're lucky enough to be like me - both! I won't describe how I have Little Douglas accommodated to write this, but if he doesn't type fast enough to suit me, it's a mere flick of my elegant riding crop ( A long-ago present from Lionel Atwill. It's signed!), and he speeds right up. And it lessens those too-frequent "potty breaks."


I remember back when I was a mere slip of a young elderly movie star, when Dr. No came out. Sean Connery just cooked my eyeballs. Let me see; was I married to Al Bronze then? 1962? No. It might have been during the marriage to Ernest Borgnine. No. I have blocked that whole afternoon out of my memory, yet I remember seeing Dr. No. All I know is Sean was so incredibly sexy that I made my companion at the time, the lovely Paolo, whom I had met and leased on the streets of Rome in 1960, do as much work for his money that night as he normally had to do over a month, and Paolo, a very well-equipped young man who was always enthusiastic for the job at gland, earned his upkeep that night.


Back then, the James Bond movies were seriously sexy. That was so many decades ago now, that we forget. When I came out of my decade-long blackout after the 70s, one of the things I was shocked to discover, as I rooted around trying to learn if I'd slept through any husbands, was that while I'd been out of it, some gonad-deprived flotsam had cast Roger Moore as James Bond! Had this been done as a joke? Really, I'm asking. I was in a Social Blackout at the time. I can't think of any other reason.


Because I've seen mollusks who were sexier than Roger Moore, the master of the single entendre. I had sex with Roger once, and he even turned him off. At one point I said, "O Roger, rodger me hard please, Roger." and he asked me to stop.


I'm sorry, Tallulah," he said while dripping pancake make-up into my eyes, "I know you're way too good for me, and that you're slumming by even doing me, and I appreciate it, but please don't call me Roger. It snaps me right out of it. Please, call me Sean."


In your dreams I thought to myself, but, like all women, I gritted my teeth and lied through them, calling him Sean, though I had to stifle a laugh each time I said it.


And then there was Timothy Dalton. I saw him in The Lion in Winter. I'm not being fooled into another gay marriage. And Pierce Brosnan? Were they being serious? I've married gay houseboys with more manly sex appeal than Brosnan.


Well, with Casino Royale, James Bond is sexy again. The person who got my seat at the next performance drowned!


Chairs darlings.

Quit Clowning Around!

I read today where imitation legendary clown, Emmett Kelly Junior, died last week, some 40 years after his originality. He spent his career doing his father's act, the great, original legendary clown Emmett Kelly Senior, star of Cecil Blunt DeMille's The Greatest Show on Earth, not to be confused with legendary minuscule-penile-overcompensator Charleton Heston, who played a small role in the film, doing his imitation acting. Cheston darling, when you are acted off the screen by a pretend hobo and Betty Hutton, it's time to retire, and that movie came out 54 years ago. You were never more than a Steeve Reeves wannabe anyway.

(Incidentally, The Greatest Show on Earth, though a ludicrous piece of melodramatic claptrap, nevertheless won the Oscar for Best Picture, a monumental example of the power of suggestion. In the picture, Jimmy Stewart, as Buttons the Killer Clown, delivers one of the greatest lines in the history of dialogue: "You know, clowns are funny people.")

Imagine spending your life pretending to be a hobo. Some of my closest husbands spent their lives pretending they weren't homos.

I shudder to think what my life would have been like had I spent my life doing my mother's act. She started out as Bertha Morehead, Baby Juggler back in vaudeville. I was the baby. Good lord, do you suppose that's why my daughter Patty disappeared back in 1959, and hasn't contacted me or anyone else since, despite publishing that libelous work of fiction, her "Autobiography," Mummy Darling, the very day before I received my second liver transplant, this one a perfect, almost familial, match from an anonymous female doner my daughter's same age who was beheaded in some kind of tragic automotive mishap not 500 yeards from my home in a series of coincidences that is almost eerie? Is Patty afraid I want to juggle her? For Heaven's sake Pattycakes darling, your were 21 at the time. You're nearly 70 now. Even if I had the upper body strength to toss you about, and the single, focused vision to see where you were with sufficient accuracy to catch you again, you still would no longer qualify as a baby. Please darling. Get back in touch. You'll always be a part of me.

In any event, Mother's primary career was as a housedrunk, something this Social Drinker has never been. True, I'm at home enjoying a cocktail or two at this very moment, but I'm not alone. Little Douglas is here taking this all down, and the Headless Indian Brave is mixing my drinks. All right, neither of them drink; Little Douglas prefers his intoxication via cannabis, while the Headless Indian Brave has no mouth. I suppose he could just pour his firewater down his open neck, but when we tried that, it just poured straight through him onto the floor, and my tongue got filthy lapping it all up. I'll have to sweep the floor before we try that again. My point is, I'm drinking and we're being social, so it's Social Drinking. Were I doing my mother's act, I'd weigh 400 pounds, smell like a urinal, and never move off this chaise.

I adored Little Emmett Senior. What a man, although so vain. The man wore a ton of make up, almost as much as I do, yet he still looked like a bum. It took me weeks to get my breasts clean again.

So Little Emmett Junior is gone now; another clown bites the sawdust. First Emmett Senior, then Chuckles shucked off this mortal coil when he was terminally shucked (But wasn't his funeral a riot?), then Bozo - actually several Bozos - went to the Big Top in The Sky (I adore a Big Top, as does Little Douglas.), Pennywise has danced his last dance and eaten his last child, Buttons finally joined his victim in Clown Hell, and now Emmett Junior. When will this Clown Massacre stop? Are they all buried in the same tiny coffin? I say put Krusty into the Federal Witless Protection Program now! (You know, the same program that protects Bush, Cheney and Rove, Witless Protection.) A world without clowns is unthinkable.

Save Krusty; save the world.

Cheers darlings.

The Last Train to Siskville

One of my most fiercely loyal and obsessive reader/fans, a Mr. Keith Sisk, of Siskville, North Carolina, sent me this lovely photo a couple days ago. He took it in Siskville, the town where he lives, which has, coincidentally, a quite similar name to his. I must say, no disrespect to the citizens of Siskville except for the disrespectful ones, since they clearly have tremendously good taste given how I've been held over, but their town looks a bit plastic to me. Frankly, Disneyland looks more genuine.

Quite oddly, Little Keith says that Siskville is reachable only by train. Rather insultingly, he says you can only get there by his HO Trains. Now I've been called a Ho many, many times over the years, and it's only seldom been a compliment. See F. Emmett Knight's comments re: "The Whore of Babylon" in my posting Marry Me a Little below. The fact is that charges of my being a "Ho" are greatly exaggerated. I have never charged for it in my life.

It's even odder to call a train a "Ho," since, let's face it, the train generally goes into the tunnel. The tunnel never goes into the train. So whatever Keith meant by calling his trains HOs, I can't imagine. On the other hand, you do pay to ride them, so maybe they're hustlers.

Still odder, he says the trains into Siskville are "Electric Trains." I was unaware that there were any electric trains in America. I thought you could only find electrically powered trains in backward Europe, where Diesel trains have yet to be invented, although there are no shortage of Diesel Dykes, particularly in lovely Holland, where no visit is complete if you don't spend some time with your finger in a dyke, or, if your hands are full, your tongue.

I was also a bit puzzled to see that the movie advertised as being held over in Siskville is My Lush Life. To the best of my admittedly hazy memories, I never appeared in a movie with that title, though I did write an autobiography, beloved the world over (More than 70 copies have sold in Britain alone - 1 more - which I believe makes it their all-time, number one best seller. Eat your heart out, Charles Dickens!), titled My Lush Life.

I wrote to little Keith and asked him about this, and he responded that the movie My Lush Life is, in fact, a documentary about my career, full of clips from my 90 feature films. I have never seen this picture myself, and would love to see it, if someone could send me a print or DVD.

But in any event, it is certainly nice to know that the people of Siskville, North Carolina, love me so much that they have held me over. Further, as I can see from the posters adorning Siskville's many civic buildings, they have placed me on a pedestal, fortunately a shallow one, as I am a tad unsteady on my feet at times, and to tumble off a higher pedestel could land me in a bed beside Liza Minnelli, needing a new hip. And no one wants to end up in a bed next to Liza.

So thank you, Little Keith, for this lovely glimpse at how my cult of fans are still alive and unwell. Let this be a challenge to the rest of you to find your own ways of demonstrating your unhealthy obsessions with me, and send me the photographic proof, to share with the world.

Oh, one other little matter, concerning My Official Portrait Artist, the talented and lovely (And I mean lovely, darlings. He is adorable. I'd be all over him like stupid on President Dubya if he weren't the merest whisper of a homosexual.) Glen Hanson, who created the gorgeous portrait of me that graces my profile on this flog, as well as the covers of my book. Little hair-challenged Glen has a new book out this week, titled Chelsea Boys, Steppin' Out!, written and drawn with his professional partner Allan Neuwirth. It's a collection of their lovely, hilarious comic strip, about three Merest Whispers sharing an apartment in New York City, having gay adventures, so clearly it's science fiction because let's face it; there are no actual gay people in New York. The world of Broadway Theater is utterly incompatible with Sodomites. In any event, no living room is complete without a copy of Chelsea Boys, Steppin' Out!, or better yet three. It's the perfect Christmas Gift for all the little homos on your shopping list, like, for instance, your personal shoppers. While you're at it, check out his website: Glen Hanson.com

Cheers, darlings.

Marry Me a Little

Little Pamela Anderson’s breasts (By the way, Little Pamela is a dead ringer for me as I looked in 1920.) just jumped on the latest Celebrity Fad bandwagon, by announcing her intention to divorce her new husband, Little Child Rock. Like all Celebrity Fads, this one was started by ME. According to my award-deprived autobiography, My Lush Life, I have been divorced at least seven times, from F. Emmett Knight (Who called me "The Whore of Babylon" in divorce court, which was pure slander. I’ve never been anywhere near Babylon!), Louis B. Thalberg, Boris Karloff, Rod Towers, Rudy (I’m certain Rudy had a last name, after all, it was my last name for ten years, although I’m damned if I can think of it now, and probably damned if I can’t also.), Ernest Borgnine (When I discovered The Importance of Not Being Mrs. Ernest Borgnine.), and Trevor Berman.


There may have been others. I can’t remember exactly how many times I’ve been divorced, because I’m a bit hazy about just how many husbands I’ve had. Honestly, can you remember how many husbands you’ve had? Hell, even if I limit it to just how many of my own husbands I’ve had, I still lose count. If I start factoring in how many other women’s husbands I’ve had, well, do numbers go that high? Anyway, Little Dougie puts it at a minimum of ten.


(Speaking of Little Dougie, I should comment on the headline in today’s Times: McEwan Denies Copying. It turns out that the author refuting plagiarism charges is someone called Ian McEwan, a little Scots wannabe who probably changed his name to McEwan to capitalize on Little Dougie’s famous connection to me. Anyway, although Little Dougie mostly just copies down my words as I speak, exactly as he’s doing at this minute, still, he wishes it made clear that he’s never denied copying. There Dougie, does that help?)


Back to Little Pamela’s breasts: Little Pamela has topped me (Who hasn’t?) by marrying Little Kid Rock some three or four times about twenty minutes ago, which seems like rather a lot of times to marry a child. I guess they kept doing it in locale after locale, looking for somewhere where it was legal. I may have been married time and time again, but always to different men. (Some of them were extremely different.) I have never made the exact same mistake twice, which is more than Pamela’s breasts can say.


I have seen the famous pictures of the best part of Little Pamela’s breasts’s earlier husband, Little Thomas Leigh. Good God, look at the size of it! Why on earth would you divorce that? True, the rest of him is repulsive, and terminally over-embellished, but so what? Why not just close your eyes and think of Huge Jackman. I would.


What? Oh. Thank you Dougie. Sorry all. I closed my eyes and thought of Huge Jackman, and now it seems that three hours have slipped by. Where was I? Oh yes, up on that chair. I must have slid off. Well, no wonder I slipped off this chair. It’s soaking wet. I’ll just sit over here to finish.


Back to my point; Little Pamela’s breasts and Infant Stone are just jumping on the break-up bandwagon. In recent weeks Little Brittany Spears has wisely left her K-Fed-Up. I must confess that I was wondering just what the hell she was thinking to have married that pathetic droob in the first place, until I remembered that sentient and cognitive thought are outside her intellectual range. And Little Whitney and Bobby are divorcing as well. It seems they won’t be The Browns anymore, although I don’t see why they chose to make it all about race.


Then there’s little, and I do mean LITTLE, Tommy Cruise and mentally-challenged Katie Holmes, bucking the trend by getting married. Little Tommy always does swim upstream. I rest assured that they will be joining the Divorce Crowd soon, since Tommy is a looney-toons, middle-aged control freak, while Little Katie makes Brittany sound like Stephen Hawking (Stephen, you insatiable sex machine, call me!), and is actually younger than their child together, Little Suri-With-the-Lunatic-Fringe-Dad-on-Top.


I was going to point a wagging finger at Little Thomas and Katie for having a gigantic, over-the-top wedding in a castle, when the groom has already been married twice before, so we know just how deeply felt his marriage vows are, when I remembered that my own third wedding was also held at a castle, picturesque Schloss Tepes in romantic Transylvania, when I tragically married the doomed Count Vlad Tepes. (Ah Vlad, my doomed darling, how I long for one more of your trademark impalings.) But at least we didn’t invite the entire Scientology rolodex, and I didn’t wear white. Oh it was white when I put it on, but by the time I staggered down the aisle, it was a riot of different colors, in Rorschach patterns.


I’d love to jump back on my own beerwagon and get divorced again. While never as emotionally satisfying as widowhood, still there’s nothing as refreshing as a divorce. The problem is, I checked all over the house, and it seems that I’m not married at the moment. Thanks to our antiquated laws, you have to get married before you’re allowed to get divorced in this backward country, which is the only plausible reason for Little Tommy and Katie’s nuptials.


So, is there any celebrity out there looking for a brief marriage who might want to marry me for the weekend? How about a gay star looking to defuse those nasty true rumors? Kevin Spacey, want to stop having to bring your mother to the Oscars? Why not marry me for the holidays? No one will take me for your mother. Grandmother, perhaps, but never merely your mother. Hayden Christensen, you’ve been telling the press that you’d never say if you were gay or straight, something I have never heard any straight man say. Why not prove your heterosexuality to the world by marrying me? I’m 109. Little Ashton would just die of envy! TR Knight, you are too adorable for words. Why not marry me and say your little announcement was just a prank? Neal Patrick Harris, it’s not too late to say you made up your "I’m gay" statement for the fashionable publicity and wed me. You could soon be starring in How I Married Your Great-Great-Grandmother. If Little Anne Heche can flip-flop, why not you two too? (However, David Gest, stop calling me. Even I have some standards!)


Who says Gay Marriage is illegal? I’ve had several Gay Marriages. Why not one more? Come on boys. Jump on. Just close your eyes and think of Huge Jackman.

That’s what I’ll be doing.


Cheers darlings.