Wednesday, November 29, 2006
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.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
I saw on the news today that Tracy Morgan, the tinted comedian who stars on Studio 30 Rock From the Sun on one of the TV networks, and whom I don't believe has ever thrown me one despite my adoration of dynamic tinted lovewands, was arrested for drunk driving. Notwithstanding my long history of social drinking (I am strictly a Social Drinker, and I believe that just because you're alone, that's no reason to be anti-social. I'm not an alcoholic darlings, I'm a socialist!), and my checkered history with The Law, particularly My Trial (See Chapter 22, My Kampf, of my autobiography, My Lush Life .), I have never been arrested for drunk driving, and poor little Tracy needs to adopt my special solution to this Social Pitfall.
It's all summed up in one word: Chauffeur. Tracy darling, you're supposed to be a STAR. Stars never drive themselves anywhere! Nobodies and non-entities drive themselves. I have never, and will never drive myself anywhere but crazy. I don't even have a drivers license. All I have is an Artistic License, and it's been suspended. When people see you driving yourself, they can only leap to one conclusion: Your career is over, and you're no longer a star at all. "Look," they'll say, "There's Tracy Morgan driving himself. Who knew he'd become a nonentity like us?" Next thing you know, you'll be pointing at yourself in mirrors, and saying, "Look, there's former star, current nobody, Tracy Morgan." and asking yourself for autographs! You think I'm kidding? I have a drawer full of 8x10s of myself, signed "To my biggest fan, Tallulah Morehead. Stay Social. Cheers, Tallulah Morehead."
So don't give up drinking; don't go into rehab. (Evil! Rehab is Evil! Rehab is just a way of avoiding dealing with anti-Semitism.) Just give up driving, and hire a chauffeur for Heaven's sake. Michael Richards can drive, and he's probably looking for work. Just think how tinted folk everywhere would cheer hearing you telling him to "Honk the horn, Honky."
Because I am worried for your very life! I am! You're a network TV star and you've been arrested for drunk driving. We all know what this means:
You're about to die, on LOST!
Friday, November 24, 2006
Which reminds me, I just read today that that overdressed queen The Nazi Pope has announced he will not attend the Vatican screening of the new movie The Nativity Story because the actress who plays the Virgin Mary (Talk about a Thankless role! I never played virgins. They’re too unsympathetic, and I have nothing in common with them.) is pregnant out of wedlock. Is it just me, or is that just a tad hypocritical, even for a Pope who was a member of Hitler’s Army? Excuse me, but what else was the Virgin Mary but a woman pregnant by someone other than her lawfully wedded husband? I guess there’s no room at the Vatican Inn. (I also see that The Nativity Story is being touted as "A True Story." Hello? United 93 was a True Story. The Nativity Story is a myth. The only virgin I know of that ever actually had a baby was Loretta Young.)
Where was I? Oh yes. In this chair. As I was saying before I so rudely interrupted myself, nobody decorates for Thanksgiving anymore. They just haul out the Christmas decorations the moment the trick-or-treaters have left. I always decorate with turkeys in November, my own personal turkeys, from my fabulous career. Right now, about the Morehead Heights dining hall, you’ll find posters from my movies Tramp Steamer, Fu Manchu’s Blessed Event, Tarzan’s Secret Shame, 7 Brides for 7 Dwarfs (Disney’s ill-fated Snow White sequel), Scofflaw, and Bride of the Blob. Turkeys all.
While I’m not given to song writing myself, Little Dougie McEwan is "Musical," (At least that's what they called it when I was young.) and was kind enough to write these lyrics, which I have been performing in clubs every December for years now. For those of you who can’t catch me doing it live (Or as close to live as I can get these days), here it is. I think you can work out the melody yourself.
Too Much Christmas
It’s beginning to look too much like Christmas,
Everywhere you go.
Thanksgiving was yesterday,
And now the streets look so gay,
Your eyes will blur, and you’ll get vertigo.
It’s beginning to look too much like Christmas,
Gets worse when it’s dark.
I really don’t like to grouse,
But, my God, my neighbor’s house,
Looks like Disney’s park.
Horrible tinsel, and way too much chintz’ll
Make everyone wish they were dead.
By far the worst folly are trees looking jolly,
When all of their leaves have been shed.
And I will grant another Santa
Fills me up with dread!
It’s beginning to look too much like Christmas,
Please gouge out my eyes!
You’ll soon see a Yule log,
Blazing at the synagogue.
An elf robot! My brain lobotomize!
It’s beginning to look too much like Christmas,
Soon my brain will split.
I hate to sound so gruff,
But I’ve already had enough,
Of This Yule Bullshit!
Thursday, November 23, 2006
It’s a little tricky for me to give thanks on Thanksgiving anyway. Oh I’m flooded with gratitude, especially when I’ve just been flooded, but the problem is, I practice Christian Science except for all the doctrines and beliefs, and Mary Baker Eddy’s idea of God wasn’t a being you could talk to, like a Gay Best Friend. Rather, she defined God as Principle, Mind, Truth, Intelligence, Spirit, and a lot of other crap like that, and it’s practically impossible to tell just what the hell she meant. Reading Science and Health With Key to the Scriptures isn’t much help, as it’s completely incoherent, and suggests that it’s authoress was thoroughly mad. Let’s face it, the woman told people not to drink alcohol, so her judgment was terrible. Besides the fact that I am a Goddess of the Cinema, I don’t really know just what the hell I believe in. But if I believed in God, here’s what I would give thanks for this year. And please, in my comments section, tell me what you’re grateful for, provided of course, that you’re interesting, witty, and funny. Or a hot man.
Things I am grateful for this Thanksgiving.
3. Male prostitution. (At my age, one has to pay for quality.)
5. My vagina, and every year, there’s more of it to love.
6. My fans, especially the straight male ones, who aspire to star-screwing.
7. Gay men.
8. J. R. R. Tolkien. (I actually have no idea who the hell he is, but Little Douglas assures me this will get me lots of geeky nerd fans. I asked why I would want geeky nerd fans, when I’d prefer horny male underwear models, but Douglas says geeky nerds love Internet Flogs. Anyway Viggo, call me.)
10. My clitoris. Getting her pierced was the smartest thing I’ve done.
11. Huge Jackman
12. Colin Ferrell’s colon.
14. That I’m still breathing.
16. Gay porn.
17. That guy who plays The Green Arrow on Smallville. He can store his shaft in my quiver anytime.
18. President Bush. It’s about time that a Bush was running the country. My bush has been running me for a century. However, that ignorant twit we see on TV, fumbling his way through sentences, and sending healthy young penises overseas to die in deserts can go to Hell.
19. TCM. Turner Classic Movies keeps me alive to a new generation of obsessive fans. I just wish that bastard Robert Osborn wouldn’t introduce each of my films with, "Unfortunately, we’re contractually bound to run this Tallulah Morehead turkey. Brace yourselves." At least he is more complimentary on Sundays, when he says, "Good news movie fans, this Tallulah Morehead movie is silent, so you won’t have to listen to her hideous voice." Thank you darling.
21. Edgar Rice Burroughs. He created Tarzan. I’ve been holding auditions for the role of Tarzan here in my home, whether the part was being cast or not, for almost 50 years, and nothing in my entire career has ever given me greater, or more frequent, satisfaction. If you are an even remotely plausible choice for the role, please feel free to come by my home, Morehead Heights, mounted firmly astride mighty Tumescent Tor, north of Malibu, any Saturday afternoon, undressed to impress, and give me a shot. Oh, and a note to that one-legged Englishman who keeps hopping up to try out for the part: while I have nothing against unidexters, indeed some of my closest friends haven’t got a leg to stand on, nevertheless the absolute minimum supporting limb requirement for the role of Tarzan is three legs. Human tripods , move to the front of my spine.
23. Scrotums and their magical contents.
24. That Delores Delgado is still dead. Delores’s demise is the gift that keeps on giving.
25. Senior Extra-Maxi Depends.
26. The memory of that one, unforgettable night, naked in the light of a full moon, atop magnificent Half Dome, taking a trip to Heaven on the tongue of Peter Lorre. Dear Peter, you aren’t in Heaven. You were Heaven!
27. The memory of that one, unforgettable night, naked in the light of a full moon, in the raging surf of Lunada Bay, taking a cruise to Heaven in the tentacles of the Giant Squid from 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. That libidinous mollusk could suck all of my erogenous zones at once! Squiddy dear, you aren’t in Heaven. You were Heaven!
28. Peter Lorre again, for introducing me to Squiddy in the first place, when I asked him for a second date, and he said, "No, I think once was more than enough. You’d be better matched with our squid." How typically unselfish of him.
30. DVDs. They keep my legacy alive, and they pay me for doing those commentary tracks. Also, they have improved the porn experience tremendously.
31. Male Frontal Nudity in movies, the greatest advancement in art in 200 years.
32. Personal massagers. The date who won’t flee when he sees you in a good light.
33. HD-TV. My God, it makes porn look incredible!
35. Male nipples. Oh they do have a function. Do they ever!
36. And finally you, my devoted readers. I live for you and you alone, and a good shag. Anybody up for sex?
So spend your Thanksgiving The Tallulah Way, and enjoy some great stuffing!
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Of course Bobby begged me repeatedly to come out of retirement and star in his films, but I said, "No, no! Sally Kellerman needs the work. All I need is a good shag."
But Bobby will always be even closer to my heart in a very special way. You may remember his announcement at the Oscars last year that he had had a heart transplant. Well it was no news to me, because darlings, I got his old one!
Au Revoir Bobby Altman. Two-thirds of your work will always be cherished, and that's a hell of a lot more than most directors. In the words of that dear Canadian bone rack Celine Dion, Your heart will go one.
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.
I don't understand why Borat was so angry at The Laugh Factory the other night, darlings. He seemed so charming in that movie. I was so taken by him that I invited him over to my palatial movie star mansion, Morehead Heights, for a quick drink and a friendly rape, although unfortunately I forgot to frisk him for cutlery first, and he was able to use a pocket knife to cut his way out of my wedding sack before I could get him to rape me. He paid me a lovely compliment as he fled, favorably comparing my womanly parts to the costumes worn by sexy Christopher Lee in The Lord of the Rings. He said I even had room for Azamat to join him inside me. You can't buy praise like that.
But apparently he was more irked than I thought, since in these videos I keep seeing of him onstage, berating that nice tinted gentleman who was augmenting his act, he seems so peeved. And what an odd place to store a fork!
And now I read that my old friend OJ Simpson has blown a book deal. Now I've blown a book dealer or two, but never a book deal. Great Heavens darlings, if they'd publish my memoirs, you'd think they'd publish anybody's! Coincidentally, my original title was If I Drank It!
OJ and I almost worked together a few years ago. We were all signed up to shoot my comeback film (I hate that word "Comeback"! It's a pathetic bid for attention!), a remake of The Black Stallion with OJ in the title role, scheduled to shoot in the summer of 1994, but then he suddenly became unavailable, and the whole deal fell through. I have no idea why.
What's wrong with these people these days? I'm still waiting to hear back from Mel Gibson about my offer to play Golde opposite his Tevye in my proposed remake of Fiddler on the Roof. I figured, even if we don't sing together that well, we could certainly enjoy some cocktails on the set, but he hasn't get back to me either.
You get back to me soon, darlings. Don't be like Mel or Borat. Cheers darlings!
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.