Tuesday, November 21, 2006

Village People

I simply do not understand why the Village People of the lovely Romanian community of Blod are suing Michael Richards for using them in his documentary drama Waiting For Borat. I visited Blod a few years ago, on a
pilgrimage to the former home of my late third husband Count Vlad Tepes, at the even more picturesque village of Klotsburg in Transylvania. I had been assured that Blod was completely unspoiled, and at first this appeared to be true. However, no one had told the Blodians that the many lovely General Electric refrigerators they had been given by charitable Americans needed to be plugged into some sort of electrical current to operate, and when they opened those refrigerator doors, the term "Unspoiled" no longer applied.

Being by nature an educator, I tried to explain to the Blodites about electricity, even unhooking the car battery from my Industrial-Strength, Shaquille O'Kneel, Life-Size, Intimate Personal Massager, to show them just what electricity could do.

My Industrial-Strength, Shaquille O'Kneel, Life-Size, Intimate Personal Massager is My Most Treasured Possession. Good God, look at the size of it! You may have a normal personal massager, which generally resembles a baby's arm holding an apple, as my old social drinking buddy Tom Williams used to describe it. Well darling, my Industrial-Strength, Shaquille O'Kneel, Life-Size, Intimate Personal Massager resembles Mike Tyson's arm holding a bowling ball! The last time I set the dial to "Richter Scale 7", inserted it, and switched it on, three sqaure miles of Los Angeles County went dark, the town of Avalon on Catalina Island off the shores of San Pedro was inundated by a Tsunami, and I was found three days later, wandering the streets of Hemet. California, repeating "Save the cheerleader, save the world." over and over. That is some fine personal massaging!

However, my lawyers advise me to steer clear of cheerleaders. There was an unpleasant incident after a social blackout I suffered back during World War II, when I was found working as a girl's gym teacher in Fresno. The parents of that young lady, who certainly looked 18, made nasty, revolting accusations, more than half of which were completely untrue. But then, America did save the world, so maybe I did the right thing. The girl healed up after all, and today runs a profitable bed & breakfast in Provincetown, catering to an exclusively female clientele.

Speaking of odd movie-related lawsuits, what's up with my old, dear chum Sir Judi Dench? I hear she's suing Chubby Artichoke, the producer of Casino Royale. It seems that, after finishing making the movie, she read the novel by Ian Fleming, and discovered to her horror that she'd been playing a man! Well of course you were, Judi darling, just what did you think the M stood for anyway? How else would you be cast anymore? Mind you, Sir Judi is a woman. I know for a fact. A few years back, Sir Judi and I co-starred in a stage production of Love Letters at a theater in Branson, Missouri, and at the closing night cast party I "accidentally" slipped Sir Judi a rufie I happened to have a supply of, and checked under her skirts myself, strictly for educational and informational purposes only. Not only is she a woman, but when you yodel in her canyon, the echo goes on for five minutes. I think Gandalf stores his magic staff up there.

Surely Sir Judi must have been extremely flattered when she was recently listed as number three in a poll published in a British magazine (By the way, don't you just love getting polled? I know I do.) of the women men most often fantasize about during sex --- to delay orgasm! What higher praise could any woman aspire to? She was certainly in distinguished company. Number two was the late Queen Mother. And Number One? Well, let's just say, you're reading her flog, which is more than the citizens of Blod are. There's no Internet in Blod, let me tell you. But they were thrilled to hear Sir Judi was cast as the new James Bond. I hadn't the heart to tell them.

Cheers darlings.

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