Monday, February 26, 2007
In any event, The Oscars have grown into such a major event, the so-called "Gay Superbowl", that they are impossible to ignore. So what the swill? I might as well weigh in with my two Euros. I was of course, begged to be a presenter, but I swore off presenting the award after the debacle of 1949, when I nearly had to present an Oscar to that hateful sow Delores Delgado; a fate I avoided only by quick thinking, and announcing Jane Wyman as the winner, assuming, I'm sure correctly, that the words "Delores Delgado" on the card in the envelope were simply a misspelling of "Jane Wyman". Additionally, there is no open bar at The Oscars, so I watch it at home like you nobodies out there, where I can enjoy an aperitif or 30 while the show drags on and on. So now I present my own thoughts and observations of the endless program.
To begin with the most important point, let me set my own and everyone else’s minds at rest: once again this year, my face and name were not included in the Obituary Montage. Despite all appearances to the contrary, it seems I have not died yet. What a relief, although I do wish they would move the Obituary Montage up to earlier in the show. It's hard to concentrate until the suspense is over. I'm sure Peter O’Tool, sitting there in the Kodak audience, was equally relieved to not see himself.
That said, I was horrified to learn that my beloved Don Knotts had passed away during the last year. I had no idea. He never phoned to tell me. What a man! How well I remember those nights of unbridled passion, as he erotically tied me up in Knotts. With that trademark tremble of his, the man was a living vibrator, even if he was, once in a while, The Incredible Mr. Limp. Well, it’s nice to know that he has been, at long, long last, reunited with his career. I wonder if they recognized each other in the hereafter; it's been so long.
There was a half hour delay getting the show started, owing to the fact that last year’s Oscar Award Show wasn’t quite over yet. While we waited for Brokeback Mountain to get robbed of it’s deserved reward, ABC filled in with a dull half hour of Red Carpet coverage. Please! I stopped getting The Red Carpet back in the 1940s, and I don’t miss it. I understand there was an amusing moment over on the TV Guide channel, when Joan Rivers mistook Melissa Rivers for Forest Whitaker, an easy mistake anyone could make, particularly if you do no preparation at all.
After a completely pointless nominee montage, which erred greatly in omitting clips of Caligula from Peter O’Tool’s & Helen Mirrin’s clips (What an oversight!), first-and-last-time Oscar Hostess Ellen Degeneris made a daring break with Oscar Host Tradition. Normally the hosts, usually funny people like Billy Crystal, Steve Martin, Whoopi Goldberg, and last year's superb Jon Stewart, deliver stinging, hilarious, incisive, side-splitting comedy monologues you talk about for days. Ellen made the unexpected choice of instead opening the dreary, endless ceremonies with a laugh-free, dramatic monologue, with fewer giggles than a Sophoclean tragedy. I must say, Ellen delivering her tragic monologue dressed in a coat from Captain Kangaroo's hand-me-downs, made David Letterman’s disastrous hosting job a decade back look a lot better. I never thought anyone could make me recall with nostalgia Chris Rock’s Oscar monologue.
They did move to the top of the show, the montage on the Technical Oscars Award Ceremonies, generally known as "The Boring Awards." I don't know why the gorgeous Jake Gyllenhaal chose to present this part of the show in drag, but he should not have shaved his chest.
I was certainly impressed by the Mormon Tabernacle Sound Effects Choir, though I wish I could have heard them singing the disemboweling sounds that Apocalypto was filled with from end to end. It's bound to be pleasanter and more musical than It's Hard Out Here For a Pimp.
Everyone was shocked when great actor Alan Arkin beat the odds-on favorite for Best Supporting Actor: comedian, homophobe, and friend of the working tranny, Eddie Murphy. Maybe if they'd held back the release of Norbit until after the ballots were in, Eddie might have won, although a famous homophobe winning during a ceremony hosted by a famously out lesbian seems borderline inappropriate.
Fortunately, there was still a supporting performer award for a famous homophobe, when Jennifer Hudson picked up her gold statuette. Of course, Jennifer insists that she's not a homophobe, it's just that in her church, God hates fags and is sending them all to hell. She's sorry about it, but she doesn’t make the rules; her god does. Of course, she might wonder why, if God is going to send all homosexuals to hell, why did He/She create them homosexual in the first place? But then, if people applied logic to matters of faith, all the churches would be empty. Jen darling, in order for something to be a sin, it has to involve the exercise of Free Will. Homosexuality is in-born. It’s not a choice, therefore it can’t be a sin. I know your church says differently, but guess what: your church is wrong.
We know that it is God who chooses the winners, because Miss Hudson had to thank God twice in her speech. (Where was the orchestra-drown-out when we needed it?) But why would God then reward a godless lesbo like Melissa Etheridge? Theology makes my head hurt.
It was very big of Moraller-than-thou Jennifer to lower her standards enough, between her God shout-outs, to thank her director, openly-gay, damned-to-hell, Bill Condon, for directing this first-time amateur into an Oscar-winning performance. "Dear Bill, thank you so much. I'll think of you kindly in heaven, while you're burning in hell for all eternity."
The Oscar Show producers this year were clearly concerned that the show would run too short, and come in with oodles of time left over, so they helped to inflate the running time by including the overwhelmingly pointless little backstage segments with the charisma-challenged Chris Connelly (What can they have been thinking? Did he say one word that was worth bothering to hear?), and the odd, entertainment-free, living shadow-puppet bits, that must have spiked viewership in Indonesia and Thailand. How about cutting those idiotic time-wasters? Then the people being honored might not have to race through their teensy acceptance speeches.
Remember when James Taylor had long hair? Remember when James Taylor had hair? However, when the camera came in close, we saw that James does still have long hair. It's growing out of his left ear.
President Al Gore, and his constant, longtime companion Leo DiCaprio, gave a speech about something. I wish I could say what it was about, but President Gore’s dynamic oratory skills always send me straight to Dreamland. I know he said something about the Oscars "Going Green," but they always are, as the audience is always full of losing nominees, green with envy. But doesn’t the release of an evening’s worth of Hollywood Hot Air seriously contribute to global warming, especially when it’s broadcast worldwide?
Deep down in the canyon-like Kodak Theater, Melissa Etheridge was yodeling in the canyon once again. Openly-lesbian, damned-to-hell Melissa, won the Best Song Oscar over the numbers sung by God-fearing straight woman Jennifer Hudson. Yes Jenny, God hates fags, and gives them Oscars to show His loathing. Maybe that’s why He made so many of them marry me.
When An Inconvenient Truth became yet another documentary feature to take the gold for Best Song, it occurred to me that Melissa Etheridge was the perfect person to explain global warming to Faux-President Bush, as she has a great deal of oral experience with bush. I might add that, after last year’s incomprehensible win by It’s Hard Out Here For a Pimp, Melissa’s song I Need to Wake Up (A title she was inspired to write after chatting with President Gore.) was not expected to win, as it has a melody. How last century.
Every time Ellen returned to the stage I was surprised anew, as each time she left the stage, I instantly forgot she was hostessing. Forgettable, thy name is Ellen. The woman’s tepid humor never goes for a belly laugh, and never gets one. It’s like a baseball game in which every batter bunts. But she did change her clothes for almost every re-entrance. By the end of the show, she must have worn every outfit her brother owns. Ellen darling, what would be so terrible about wearing a lovely gown once in a while? You can still be a lesbian in a nice frock, you know. Claudette Colbert managed it for years.
William Monahan, screenwriter for The Departed, won the Oscar for Best Adapted Screenplay, apparently for writing "Two priests and a nun walk into a bar," which he adapted from original material by Henny Youngman. Monahan, showing a natural inability to edit himself, began his acceptance speech by re-inserting material he’d already cut, and then talking long enough to be among the very few winners to get the orchestra-drown-out. But he did look lovely in Eva Longoria’s hair.
The Jean Hersholt Humanitarian Tree-Hugger Award was presented to Mrs. William Friedkin. A nearly-lifesize Tom Cruise, in describing Mrs. Friedkin’s career, mentioned that she'd recently "Left show business," a lovely euphemism for "Was fired." Tommy himself recently left reality, a lovely euphemism for "Nuttier than a hundred snickers bars." All right, I admit that’s not really true. It wasn’t recently.
A note to the still-ecstatically beautiful Catherine Deneuve: if you’re going to present an Oscar the very next day, perhaps that’s not the best time to get your left breast pierced, although it looked quite fetching.
Let me understand this: Pan's Labyrinth won 3 Oscars. None of the other Best Foreign Language Film nominees had even one other nomination, let alone an Oscar, yet somehow Pan's Labyrinth is not the Best Foreign Language Film?
Why wasn’t Pan's Labyrinth nominated for Best Picture?
Why wasn’t Letters From Iwo Jima nominated for Best Foreign Language Film? Consistency, thy name is not Oscar.
Was Larry David working as a seat filler?
As part of it’s Oscar Sweep, An Inconvenient Truth also won Best Documentary. Here’s an Inconvenient Truth; President Gore is boring.
The wonderful musical genius Ennio Morricone was given an honorary lifetime achievement award. Oh no! I had no idea he was dying!
I was just falling asleep as Oscar entered it's 6th or 7th hour, when out trotted Huge Jackman. He always wakes me up! He should get an award: Hottest Man in Show Business. Huge darling, drop by Morehead Heights anytime. You won't have to jack, man.
Matthew Broderick’s personal assistant, Michael Arndt, won Best Original Screenplay, and kept his speech short, as Matthew needed a cappuccino. In his acceptance speech, he used the word "Funnest". There is no such word. It’s "Most Fun". It’s always encouraging to see a man who hasn't even mastered simple English grammar win an award for writing. It gives new hope to all the other illiterates out there with a screenplay they’ve knocked out between fetching their employer’s laundry and walking his dogs.
While Thelma Schoonmaker was accepting her award for editing The Departed, her director and friend Martin Scorsese was seen blubbering and wiping away tears. There’s only one possible explanation; he’d gotten bored with the show, let his mind wander, and was thinking about Anna Nicole Smith. That buxom cadaver reduces many a tough man to a sobbing child.
In thanking her co-stars and associates on The Queen, Helen Mirrin callously failed to mention the Corgi she worked with, even though he was on stage himself shortly thereafter. Now that poor, snubbed pooch is confirmed in his opinion that all women are bitches.
So, is it possible to play someone named Queen Elizabeth and not win an Oscar? Helen did, and 7 or 8 years ago, so did Sir Judi Dench, who stayed away this time, as she was afraid they would give her Oscar to Helen.
Let's see: we had a lesbian hostess, an Oscar to a lesbian song writer/performer, sexually ambiguous Sir Judi Dench nominated for playing a lesbian, and Helen Mirrin won for playing a big old queen. Getting the message, Jennifer Hudson? Maybe God hates fags, but the God of Hollywood is a Dykey Likey. If Brokeback Mountain had been about even cowgirls gettin' the blues, it would have won.
Forest Whitaker, in his acceptance speech, said that his being an actor arose from "My desire to connect with everyone." You know, my desire to connect with everyone is what made me a slut.
I realize that Idi Amin was a paranoid nutcase who would behead you for looking at him "Funny," and I know that Forest is one of those intense method actors who stay deeply in character at all times (Not my technique at all, except when playing whores.), so I assume that’s the reason no one ever had guts enough to tell him that Idi was never King of Scotland.
When Steven Spielberg, George Lucas, and Francis Ford Coppola came onstage together, was I the only one who thought they were going to sing Three Little Maids From School? So, do you think Steve, Francis, and Marty Scorsese were all rubbing George’s nose on their Oscars? When George asked why he’d never won an Oscar, someone should have suggested he watch The Godfather, Shindler's List and The Departed, and then take a good, hard look at Attack of the Clones.
Anyway, it was great to see Best Direction go to Marty, despite my love of the other nominees: West, North, and Up.
I was shocked to see the Best Picture Oscar being presented by Lex Luthor!
I adore Diane Keaton, but is she anorectic? I can't remember the last time I saw a woman whose hair was wider than her waist.
Finally, Lex announced that the Best Picture was The Departed, which, five minutes later, perfectly described the audience, who were sprinting for their cars, while I hit the wet bar.
My choice for Best Direction? The EXIT Signs!
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
• A-Available/Single? Available? Yes! Single? Not sure.
• B-Best Friend? The Headless Indian Brave. (Don't look so hurt, Douglas.)
• D-Drink Of Choice? Vodka Martini.
• E-Essential Items You Use Everyday? Wet bar. Vagina.
• F-Favorite Color? Zebra stripes
• G-Gummy Bears Or Worms? Gumming worms.
• H-Hometown? Pocahotass, Idaho.
• I-Indulgence? You'd have to ask the Nazi Pope for that. I'm not empowered to grant them.
• J-January Or February? I believe it's February at the moment.
• K-Kids & Their Names? Pattycakes. I miss you, my darling.
• L-Life Is Incomplete Without? A drink, sex, and another drink.
• M-Marriage Date? Well, usually date first, then marry, but I have been known to reverse that.
• N-Number Of Siblings? None.
• O-Oranges Or Apples? I think it's a mango.
• P-Phobias/Fears? The return of prohibition.
• Q-Favorite Quotes? "What'll you have?" & "Same again?"
• R-Reasons to Smile? Vodka. Penises.
• S-Season? Just a little salt. That's enough.
• T-Tag Three or Four People? The Morehead, the merrier.
• U-Unknown Fact About Me? I'm even more beautiful than I look.
• V-Vegetable you don't like? That pea over there. No, not that one. The one next to it. Yes, that one. He's a BASTARD!
• W-Worst Habit? Biting other people's fingernails.
• X-X-rays You've Had? Chest & libido. Also Clark Kent once checked out my breasts without asking, though I'd have said yes if he'd asked. He's super.
• Y-Your Favorite Food? Vodka.
• Z-Zodiac Sign? Gemini.
Now here's Little Freddy's:
1. What time is it? Too late.
2. What is your full name? Tallulah Clytemnestra Morehead. Yes, I'm TCM, just like that cable channel that runs my movies. How big a coincidence is that?
3. What is the most recent movie that you've seen in a theater? Black Balled 5: Starpoker.
4. Seen a ghost? Seen one? I live with one!
5. Ever been to Alaska? Don't know. Why do you ask? I hear it's more frigid than Doris Day.
6. Ever been toilet papering? I toilet papered myself once, by accident.
7. Loved someone so much it made you cry? Yes, ME!
8. Been in a car accident? My liver was, but not the rest of me.
9. Favorite day of the week? April.
10. What color is your bedroom carpet? I have no idea. I've been face down on it enough times, but my lights were usually out. The real question is, does it match my drapes?
11. Before this one, from whom did you get your last email? God. He's always forwarding lame jokes.
12. What do you do most often when you are bored? Masturbate.
13. Bedtime? Is it? I'll be up in a minute. I'm flogging.
14. What was the last book that you read? The 120 Days of Sodom by the Marquis DeSade. Normally reading is boring, but this book always holds my interest. I realize I have so much left to do.
15. What are you listening to right now? Ice clinking.
16. How many tattoos do you have? 37. (I inherited them from my friend Lydia when she passed on, except for this one.)
17. How many pets do you have? He's not actually a pet; he just likes wearing that collar.
18. Which came first: the chicken or the egg? Depends on which one got more excited.
19. What would you like to accomplish before you die? Finish this drink.
20. Biggest Regret? The time I wasted sober.
Now don't be shy about contributing your answers on the comments page.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Who is this adorable little boy, soaking wet from playing in the sprinkler in his parent's back yard? Well, his birthday is tomorrow, February 17. He'll be 73, and he is the greatest comedian alive in the world today; the only living comedian I know of who is an equal of Chaplin, Keaton, W.C. Fields, and the Marx Brothers. Actually, since Australia is always one day in the future, it's his birthday now. (Australia is like that island on LOST; it's a science fiction world, existing in the future, but only a little bit into the future.)
Here's another photo of him, taken only last week, at the opening of an exhibition of his art in Melbourne, Australia. He daubed that lovely rendering of New York's Central Park behind him. Know who he is now?
Yes, he's Australia's gift to the people of the world, Barry Humphries, a True Comic Genius!
Here he is in 2000 in Los Angeles, posing with my fatigable scribe, Little Douglas. The large object Barry is clutching is no less than a copy of the manuscript of my own modest autobiography, My Lush Life, which Little Douglas had delivered to him on my behalf. Barry has written two autobiographies, More Please and My Life as Me, as well as ghosting Dame Edna Everage's autobiography, My Gorgeous Life. (He's written many other books as well. Read them.) As an experienced expert in this literary field, Barry was kind enough to read my humble effort, and a blurb he wrote under Dame Edna's name graces the back cover of every copy of my book, both in hard cover and soft. He owed me nothing. This was an act of pure generosity. My gratitude to him knows no limit.
Here's Barry posing with his three best known characters. We all know the magnificent Dame Edna, but the dissolute gentleman on top is Sir Les Patterson, an Australian diplomat, who is a man after my own heart, as he is obsessed with two things, Social Drinking and sex with ladies. Additionally, Sir Les can always be seen to be hung like a giant squid. The fellow in the bathrobe at the bottom is the late Sandy Stone, the ghost of a Melbournian suburbanite whose quiet observations of the life which passed him by while he lived, and continues to pass by him after death Barry has been performing almost as long as he has been performing Edna, which, for the record, hit 50 years in 2005.
Right now, in Melbourne, Ednafest is going on, as Barry's hometown celebrates the Golden Anniversary of his most celebrated creation. Edna has received the key to the city, has several museum exhibits running, including a collection of Edna's gowns, Ednaville, a painstaking "recreation" of her Moonie Ponds home of 1955, and of course, the above-mentioned exhibit of Barry's artwork. Barry only just closed a live one-man stage show in Melbourne earlier this week. Click on this link to Virtually Edna, and enjoy special presentations regarding this celebration. Shortly Barry will be shooting a new TV series for British and Australian TV called The Dame Edna Treatment, which hopefully we will get to see here in America without having to wait 18 years, as we had to with The Dame Edna Experience TV shows. Then Barry takes his one-man stage show on tour all over Australia. That show is almost three hours of just Barry on stage. Let me reiterate: He's 73, and he still does 8 grueling stage performances a week. Where does he get the energy? I've had two naps just since starting this column.
That's my little Dougie with Dame Edna in 2000, with both of them, by coincidence (Honest!), wearing The Shriek. Not 40 minutes earlier Dame Edna had hugged Ben Affleck, and Little Douglas is sniffing the aroma of Ben on Edna. I adore Little Douglas, but he can be such a perv at times. This photograph was taken by Lizzie Spender, a woman so beautiful that she is often called a Young Tallulah Morehead. She is the daughter of the late Sir Stephen Spender, former Poet Laureate of England. Lizzie is also known as Mrs. Barry Humphries. Here's a recent photo of the two of them attending the races.
Barry is a World Treasure. He is alive and still creating hilarious work. He's apparently still in his prime, and shows few signs of slowing down. Savour and cherish him. Geniuses don't live forever, anymore than anyone else does. (Except myself, of course. I'm a Screen Immortal!)
Happy Birthday Barry Humphries. Have many more.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
When you've been married as many times as I have (And if you have been married as many times as I have, how many is that? I don't remember.), when Valentino's Day rolls around every four years, you began thinking about all the ex-husbands you can remember. I thought you might enjoy a gander at all the husbands I can remember. Click on the above picture for a closer look at them. I believe that three or four of them are even still alive, as I believe I am also. There are probably more of them. [Editor's Note: Yes, there are. D.M.]
For those of you who have not yet read my award-adjacent autobiography My Lush Life, they are:
F. Emmett Knight. My first husband and agent. We married back in 1918. I'm afraid he was the merest whisper of a homosexual, but only around men.
Louis B. Thalberg, founder and head of Pari-Mutual Studios, better known as PMS. Our marriage was short, but brief.
Count Vlad Tepes of Transylvania. Genuine European royalty, our love was intense, but sadly his lethal allergy to Sunlight took him from me too soon. I'm 109, and I'm still not a fourth of his age.
Boris Karloff. Wonderful actor, but a 'Fraidy Cat at home. His family denies this marriage ever occurred. Will the jealousy of me never cease?
Rod Towers. My co-star in so many movies. He was a tiger in bed. Just ask all the men he cheated on me with. He left me for my ex-husband Louie, and they lived happily ever after. How nice for them.
Rudy. My Filipino husband and houseboy. He won me in a party game. It was my longest marriage. He wanted a green card. I wanted a dependable staff. We both got what we wanted. He was gay, but unlike F and Rod, he was upfront about it.
Ernest Borgnine. He was the star of TV's McHale's Navy. I never could resist seamen.
Al Bronze, CEO of Whoopsi-Cola. I think of Al whenever I have a rum and Coke. I think I'll have one now, and see if it calls him to mind.
Trevor Berman. An actor and a few measly decades younger than myself, but I ask you, if a couple like us was in love, did it matter that he was in his 20s and I was in my 90s? No! It was my lack of a penis that doomed the marriage.
You'll notice that the Headless Indian Brave is absent from this montage. There are three reasons for this:
1. They are headshots and he has no head.
2. He doesn't show up on film, and
3. I never married him. He's dead, and it seems there are discriminatory laws against marrying the dead. Damn those Republicans!
After a thorough search, I can find no trace of a current husband, so I am apparently unmarried at present. If you're looking for someone to gift with a good, hard Valentino's Day shag, I'm available. Drop by Morehead Heights and slip me one. No need to call ahead. Just come by and walk right in. I'll be the old lady with her feet in the stirrups and her mouth open. No conversation required. Just whip it out, pick an end, shove it in, and start pounding.
I know. I know. I'm a hopeless romantic. Just like Rudi Valentino was. In fact, he was also fond of saying, "Just whip it out, pick an end, shove it in, and start pounding," only with an Italian accent.
Saturday, February 10, 2007
It makes no sense! How could such a health-conscious woman, when she was conscious at all, have died so young? Not only was she only 39, but she was only 39 for the first time! To paraphrase Oscar Wilde, Hollywood Society is full of women who, of their own free will, have remained 39 for years. And she was so young to be 39, only 39. Most Hollywood women don't even reach 39 until well past the age of 50. I haven't hit 39 yet myself, and I'll be 110 in May.
I didn't mean to spring it on you, but you had to be told. They've been keeping it quiet, to control the inevitable culture shock as all Western Civilization reels under the devastating news. All around the world, every human being, from world leaders like Tony Blair, Saddam Hussein, and Bono, down to mud-hut-dwellers in Kenya and New Orleans, are all asking themselves the same question: How can we all go on with our lives without Anna's lack-of-wisdom to guide us? And then we must also cope with the loss of her legendary beauty, when she wasn't grossly overweight, which was most of the time, and her awe-inspiring figure, carefully constructed by Walt Disney's imagineers.
There's a Terrible Human Tragedy hidden somewhere deep inside this event, if I can only figure out what it is.
But, as we wait for the autopsy results to answer the vital question - Was it murder? - we can begin by asking the usual questions: Who does Anna's death hurt, and who does it benefit?
Who does Anna's death hurt? Well obviously Anna for one. And then there's --- ah ---- give me some time. I'm old. Her drug dealers! They'll be taking a huge hit. What Douglas? Her kids? How does it hurt them, those that survive her? They won't be raised by her. I do not see a downside to that. If God had answered my oft-repeated childhood prayer, and killed my mother when I was a kid, I'd believe in him today.
Hugh Hefner is sad about it. Along with having gifted World Culture with her in the first place, she was Hef's kind of woman: big artificial boobs, the morals of a devout slut, stupider than dirt, and willing to sleep with any man no matter how ancient or wizened if he's rich enough. Hef's living wet dream.
Now then, who does Anna's death benefit? Well actually, who doesn't benefit? First off, in a couple more months, she'll be off our TV screens forever! That's 200,000,000 suspects just in America alone. And more like 5 billion suspects worldwide. I hope you have a solid alibi.
It's got to be a plus for revolting radio shock jock Howard Stern. Now people will stop thinking he's married to her. Really people, he's repulsive and has the taste of a dung beetle, but even he would never sink that low.
Anna was my role model. I began life with several handicaps that Anna did not: I was actually beautiful without artificial augmentation, and I had talent. But Anna showed me how a woman in show business didn't need beauty or talent to become America's obsession. Beauty could be bought, as could a beautiful woman although Anna was rather pricey, and talent was superfluous. Look at her. She couldn't even speak coherently, let alone act, yet she became a star of bad TV and obscure direct-to-video films. She was an inspiration to untalented women everywhere. Every overwhelmingly deluded no-talent to annoy Simon Cowell over the last three weeks owes something to Anna, who showed the world that you don't have to be able to do anything at all, not even be able to walk across a room or say a complete, comprehensible sentence, to be a Star! Anna was the living rebuke to the meritocracy.
And then there's her example to gold-diggers everywhere. Oh we've had memorable gold-diggers in the past - anyone besides me remember Peggy Hopkins Joyce? - but Anna was in a league of her own, marrying King Cheops of Egypt a mere 3 or 4 thousand years after he was mummified, and then, when this True Love Match ended in tragedy with his untimely death at 4597, she began her heroic fight to deprive his legitimate heirs, like his children for instance, of the net worth of France. Anna showed that marrying a man old enough to be your remote ancestor simply because he's got more money than God, is a worthwhile, admirable role for a young girl with store-bought titties. How sad that she passed away with The Great Work, robbing her ex-husband's progeny of their rightful inheritances, still undone. Now her children, safely being raised by others, can carry on the Good Fight. Some called her a whore, but her prices are so far above even the highest-priced whores, that she makes the term meaningless. If she's a whore, then Monstro the Whale is a minnow. (There's a physical resemblance too.)
Which brings us to the question of who is her latest baby's father. Since the answer may be worth millions if her heirs ever succeed in disinheriting her former-husband's legitimate heirs, this is an important question. So why be surprised that others are now throwing their DNA into her ring?
Prince Anhalt, husband of Anna's original role model, the elderly Zsa Zsa Gabor (Is there any other kind of Gabor than an elderly one? Was there ever?) now claims that he was cheating on Zsa Zsa with Anna. Well, Anna is 51 years younger than Zsa Zsa, so I believe it. Zsa Zsa is 90, which means she's also 39.
The Prince, not to be confused with Prince (who has not, so far, claimed paternity in the Anna Nichol Smith case, though he will), is remarkably proud to announce he was cuckolding Zsa Zsa. Well, when your choice is a 90 year old gold-digger or a 39 year old gold-digger, one can see why he might have strayed, and then announced it to the press. And after all, he was proud to have married Zsa Zsa in the first place, so we know his Pride Threshold is extremely low. Zsa Zsa was only a mere 31 years older than him. Who wouldn't boast of marrying someone who was past their prime when he was learning to walk?
But this means that Zsa Zsa will have to divorce the Prince. Who will she marry next? Who will be the 9th Mr. Gabor?
So now I come to my own shameful admission: I am actually the father of Anna Nichol Smith's most recent dropping. Now I know you're puzzled by how I, one of the most talented and beautiful women in the world, could have fathered a child with this talentless, brain-dead slut. I was too. I slummed once, merely to show Anna what a real woman, with genuine talent and inborn beauty, can do, and boom, I'm a father. That's the last time I "Top", no matter how hot the woman is.
Anna Nichol Smith. I loved you very deeply with my heart and hole, for the better part of an hour once. If I ever remember it, I'll never forget it. There will never be another like you.