What The Hell is This?

What the Hell is this thing? Good God, look at the size of it! What? Here. You type it. I'll just talk, and drink. Thank you darling!


Hello darlings. I'm the one, the only Miss Tallulah Morehead, the nearly-living film legend, star of more movies than even I want to remember, but then, you know that, as why else would you have Googled me? I just adore being Googled, don't you? In fact, I've been Googled at both ends simultaneously, and never spilled a drop. Can you say that? Well, you probably can say that, but would it be true? Give me half a chance, and I'll Google you so hard you won't know what hit you.


Where was I? Oh yes. I was beginning my flogging. What darling? Blogging? What the hell does that mean? Flogging I understand. I was flogged mercilessly by Vincent Lovecraft in my exciting pirate romance Buccaneer Bride, and then you should have seen what he did to me in the movie.


Let me sum up. I have been an immortal film star since 1915. In 2002, I published my memoirs under the title My Lush Life, which was ghost written by my Boswell, little Dougie McEwan, a lovely and talented senior citizen who is just the merest whisper of a homosexual, like so many of my most devoted fans. What can I say? I am the sort of ultra-glamorous movie goddess who attracts whordes of gay men. Straight men oddly seem to prefer less seasoned actresses, like little Paris Hilton, an adorable infant who has managed in a mere decade and a half to abuse her body as much as I have abused mine in somewhat more than a century. Good going darling! Keep it up! You're an inspiration to me. I have been acting since the days of silent television, and yet I can not imagine being as polished and versatile an actress as you. When will she finally receive the Oscar she has so long deserved?


What was I saying? Perhaps a martini would help.


It has. Delightful darling. Now then, I have prevailed upon dear little Dougie to help me with this flogging thing. What? Oh call it what ever you like Dougie darling.


You see, since the publication of my magnificent, and still available autobiography (Something called Amazon.com will ship you a copy faster than you can say "infrastructure," or at least faster than I can say it.) I have been receiving lovely letters and emails from my adoring pubic, begging for more. "A sequel Miss Tallulah, please write a sequel!" Darlings, I covered 103 years of my life in the book How the hell can I write a sequel? First I'd have to live another century, and that seems iffy at present. But then Dougie suggested that I start writing a flog, and comment on the day's events, and on the three things I know a thing about or two about: movies, sex and alcohol.


My longtime companion, the Headless Indian Brave, a lovely and cranium-free revenant who haunts my home, Morehead Heights, promised to help as well, though, having no head, he is a terrible typist. Any errors you may be rude enough to notice are entirely his doing. I can't possibly focus my eyes well enough to read this, so between Dougie and the Headless Indian Brave, they are handling the writing and typing, and I am handling the drinking.


I absolutely promise that future posts will be - what's the word darling? Oh yes - interesting. For now, I need a drink.


Cheers darlings.