If You Picket, It Won't Heal.

The Writer's Guild of America is on strike. I fully support them. After all, actors and directors all get laid, but who is dumb enough to have sex with a writer? So they ought to at least get more money. The producers's position is - what's the word again? Oh yes - a lie! Fairly paying the people who actually make the product they sell won't bankrupt show business; it will just mean that the studio heads cut will merely be obscene, and not wealth beyond the dreams of King Midas. They might have to make do with only three palaces, instead of seven.

I chose to stagger with the cast of LOST, because if the producers don't give in soon, half of season four will be --- LOST! If the producers don't cave soon, the smoke monster will be visiting studio execs. And I'm not just blowing smoke monsters. In fact, I'm more than willing to blow the whole cast if that's what it takes, or even if it isn't, except perhaps for Hurley. It's not that he's not attractive. What does that matter when you're too close to focus? Hell, I once did Quasimodo in the bell tower of Notre Dame Edna. Paris always makes me giddy with romance. But the last time I went down on Hurley, I got my head caught in a flab fold. Doc Jack had to use the Jaws of Life just to get my head free enough to drink. On the plus side, I found my keys --- and Jimmy Hoffa!

By the way, when we were getting into position for this photo shoot, we were standing on dry land, but when I saw how these four people looked in those shirts, well, I got a little damp. Then Sayid flashed his concealed weapon at me, and my water broke. Sawyer was washed out to sea. The last thing we heard him say was, "This is how I wanted to die1"

So Go WGA! The thought of a winter edition of Big Brother is unbearable! The whole point of that show is pretty young people running around naked. With the anorexic women they cast, a winter edition would mean girls with goosebumps larger than their breasts. And the shrivelling effect on the men would mean I'd have to watch on a big-screen, hi-def TV, with a microscope. "Hey baby, I've got eight pixels - erect!" That's not entertainment.

Cheers darlings!

Wizard Whoopi

Well my catastrophe is passed. Oh there was no salvaging even a drop of that vodka that I'd poured into my computer in the vain hope that it would loosen up a bit, and stop giving me error messages, and maybe even fork over some free porn. No such luck. An entire fifth of vodka ruined. Even cutting out the section of carpet below the computer desk and wringing it out into a bucket did no good, although those were the happiest roaches I've ever squished. Anyway, I had to salve my horror with a few gallons of vodka I had on tap, and today, on post-Thanksgiving Day, I sent Little Dougie out at 4 AM to sit in line at The Liquor Barn with the savings-minded winos, awaiting the opening of the doors at 6 AM for their annual Vodka Clearance Sale. Oh, and while he was out, I also had him pick me up a new computer, so --- I'm Ba - ack!

What to write about today? So much is special about November 23. For one thing, it's the birthday of my fourth or fifth husband, Boris Karloff, who would have been 120 today. But I wrote about that last year, in my flogging Some Pratt's Birthday.

Then there's my annual annoyance at the way people start celebrating Christmas before the turkey is cleared off the table. (Though, to be fair, sometimes it's damned hard to get him to put his clothes back on and leave once I'm through with him.) Little Dougie wrote a wonderful song about it I love to trot out each year. Here it is:


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 after dark.
I really do hate 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 is 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.

Isn't that lovely? It always brings a tear to my thighs. At least I think they're tears. It's wet anyway. What other significance is there to November 23? Well, this year, it's the 44th anniversary of the original debut of Doctor Who, which you may remember, this past year included me as a character in their story Daleks in Manhattan. It's a sad anniversary this year,as Verity Lambert, the lady who co-created Doctor Who and was it's first producer and showrunner died yesterday. Why don't more people follow my example, and live? There's no trick to long life. It's simple. Just don't die.

Doctor Who is an appropriate place to start on my real topic today though. The Doctor, as a Time Lord, can regenerate whenever death approaches, a tactic that apparently slipped Verity's mind. Regeneration is a dead giveaway that someone is really a Time Lord, which brings me back to my recent sabbatical at Hogwart's, because, as all moviegoers know, Professor Fumblewhore recently regenerated! Check it out:




As if revealing himself as a Time Lord by regenerating wasn't revelation enough, we all know there was another big revelation about Fumblewhore this month, wasn't there?




Well, it's true. And not just Fumblewhore either. Remember Gandalf? We all know what a big old homo he is. Ah, I bet Fumblewhre and he love to reminisce about their days at the Brandywine Street Fairs back in West Hobbiton, flirting with the hotter elves.



Oh let's just face the fact: All wizards are gay. Every last, vibrating-wand-wielding one of them. Do you need further proof? Check out this shot, snapped at the Hogsmeade Gay Pride Festival only last week. (By the way, they aren't kidding when they named that town Hogsmeade. All they serve at that notorious gay pub The Hog's Head is butterbeer and mead actually made from hogs. It's ghastly. If I hadn't been so drunk, I wouldn't have drunk so much of it. When in Rome...)




At one point, during a wild night at The Hog's Head, the Invisibility Quilt slipped off the noisy bed across the room from me, and this was the horrible sight I couldn't stop looking at, photographing, and cheering on.



That's Fumblewhore underneath of course (Surely you realized he was a bottom? It's so obvious!), and on top, none other than Oz The Great and Terrible himself! He's versatile, but in which position is he great and in which is he terrible?

I should have realized Fumblewhore was gay. I made my first visit to Hogwart's for their Tri-Sexual Wizard Tournament. If you saw that movie, the maze where the tournament climaxed may have looked familiar. They shot it in The Befuddlement, the hedge labyrinth here at Morehead Heights, although in the movie they used special effects to make it look much smaller and simpler than it really is. Believe me, no matter how magical they are, you wouldn't send kids unescorted into The Befuddlement. You'd never see them again. Shelley Long went in at the party I threw celebrating her leaving Cheers (Why did she attend a party celebrating her leaving?) over 20 years ago, and she's never been seen since, or missed. Honestly, when a few cast members, and producers, and crafts services people, in all fun, suggested as a gag that she "Get lost", they didn't mean she should wander into The Befuddlement forever, although they have all learned to live with it. They just meant she should wait 20 years and then get cast on LOST. (They all hated JJ Abrams!)

Anyway, when I was there, Fumblewhore kept hitting on me, and even proposed marriage, a sure sign of homosexuality. If only he'd had a bigger wand. Or at least hadn't come between me and that grail full of hog's mead.




But I was quite taken at the time by the gamey keeper Fagrid. Because I like a Big man, if you know what I mean, and if you don't, I mean a man with a big dick. And Fagrid is about as big as they come. And he seemed to take to me as well.



We danced the night away at the Hogwart's White Party. Of course, since he's a half-giant, I wore heels. Unfortunately, I borrowed the heels from Ryan Seachrest. They're the ones he wears to try and look half as high as Simon Cowell, so my height was overcompensated.




I thought Fagrid loved me, but it turned out to be a misunderstanding. Someone (I suspect it was Draco Malfoy.) told Fagrid I was a drag queen (Which I am not! Will that rumor never end?), and he misunderstood, and thought I was a dragon. He loves dragons. The odd part is, we dated for two weeks, and even slept together a few times, before he realized I wasn't a dragon. I mean honestly, I do not look like a dragon, no matter what that old bitch Delores Delgado (a Hogwart's graduate herself, the old witch.) used to say. When I asked him about it, he said, "Well it's true you don't look a lot like a dragon, but your breath had me fooled." I've got to be more careful about exhaling around candles.


Speaking of Fagrid, he says his father was a normal-sized man. Fagrid could stand him on his shoulders when he was 12. It was his mother who was a giantess. This makes no sense to me. A normal-sized woman and a giant man I could understand. Why do you think I was dating Fagrid? For his looks? The man looks like Robbie Coltrane with extra hair. Who would want that? But a small man and a giant woman? Where's the fun in that? I guess Poppa Fagrid just liked a walk-in vagina! Fortunately, Fagrid had his mother's dick.


I mentioned in my earlier Hogwart's flogging that I was mad for Severus Snape. Well, that big old queen decided I wasn't his type when he found out I wasn't a drag queen also. He kept trying to keep the students away from me, calling me a "Fermentor," whatever they are. Honestly, you let it slip that you're a disciple of The Drunk Arts, and right away people are calling you a Fermentor, like the guards at Assmybuns prison. And this from Severus, a former Death Drinker himself. That's the gin calling the bourbon wet.


So I listened to the audio books of the whole freakin' Hairy Pothead series:


Hairy Pothead and the Stoned Philosopher. (Probably Plato. What a dipso. Ah, those Athenian nights we spent together.)


Hairy Pothead and the Secret Chamber Pot.


Hairy Pothead and the Prisoner of Assmybuns.


Hairy Pothead and the Gobbler of Fire Island.


Hairy Pothead and the Order of the Penis. (It was a Margarita.)


Hairy Pothead and the Half-Drunk Queen.


Hairy Pothead and the Deadly Bores. So what's the problem with me and children?






Most of Hogwart's graduates live in England or Middle-Earth, but I knew one famous Hogwartian who lived right here in Hollywood. Charming little Margaret Hamilton.



Maggie not only lived in California, but actually used to babysit my now-long-missing daughter Pattycakes. My darling daughter loved having Maggie sit with her, all alone in my large, haunted mansion so much that whenever I told her Maggie was on her way over, she would shriek and scream in delight, even as she padlocked all the broomclosets. Oddly though, Maggie scared the crap out of the Headless Indian Brave.



Maggie was a champion Queerditch player in her day. I've never been any good at Queerditching myself. I keep marrying them instead.


Anyway, as a parting gag I placed a curse on Little Hermione What's-Her-Name, the insufferable know-it-all. I cast a charm that soaked her hands in imaginary water whenever she slept. She never suspected it was me.



Well, we're beginning a new year here at The Morehead The Merrier. I hope you'll all stick around, and bring in your friends as well. Oh, and Little Dougie asked me to ask you to buy his new book The Q Guide to Classic Monster Movies, but you don't really have to.


Cheers darlings.

Sappy Anniversary

Darlings, I have sad news. I've had a flog-related catastrophe. A few days ago I spilled an entire fifth of vodka into my computer. Disaster! ALL the vodka was LOST!

Oh, and my computer was ruined also. After drinking two more fifths to mourn my loss, I went with Little Douglas to something called a "Public Library" to post this quick flogging on a free computer, as tomorrow, the 21st, is the 1st anniversary of this flog. It's been one year, and 81 brilliant postings. I hope you enjoyed them, and will enjoy another year of them.

For an inspiring Thanksgiving message, please click on Gratitude Imparting Day to enjoy my Thanksgiving message of last year. I'd update it, but the librarian is having a fit about my dictating this to Dougie while kids around him are doing their homework, i.e., gaming. I offered to share my vodka with the kids, but this just made Maid Marion the Librarian even angrier. She's obviously insane.

Hopefully, I'll have more vodka, and a running computer, to post new pieces with, soon. Until then:

Cheers darlings

Hairy Pothead and the Drunken Hag

Stop all the whining darlings, I'm back! I haven't posted anything in two weeks because I was out of the country, visiting England, which doesn't have the Internet. As you all know, President Al Gore invented the Internet, and when Formerly-Great Britain joined The Coalition of the Hoodwinked and joined Phony President George Bush's Family War Against Iraq, Gore rescinded England's Internet access, and they're having to do without. Also, where I was staying, computers and the Internet are considered "Muggle Stuff," whatever the hell that means. Besides, I didn't take Little Dougie along, despite all his pleading. He's got his stupid new book to promote. (Has he or I mentioned that Little Dougie has just released his new book, The Q Guide to Classic Monster Movies? He has? I might have known. It's not about me, so don't bother buying it.)

In my absence my e-maleslot was stuffed, indeed flooded, with e-males from you, my loyal readers and fans, begging for me to flog you some more. As we approach the anniversary of my starting this flog next week, it seems many of you are addicted to Tallulah. Well, who can blame you? One of those e-males was (Believe it or not) from this month's Studly Hunk of the Month, Vinnie D'Angelo, who writes:

thnx Tallulah,for your continued support and i am glad to hear you enjoy my videos.. i appreciate the sentiment of your award.
vinnie dangelo

I've left Vinnie's punctuation as is. How odd that such a hot masculine top hunk should be so afraid of capital letters. Maybe his mother was frightened by a Big O. Of course, he works in porn, which is full of shifty characters, so maybe he's just terrified of the "Shift" key. But we are glad to have him as a friend of this flog. And he's right about it being a sentimental award; I got all moist choosing Vinnie, which I did personally, with my free hand.

For Halloween I was invited to be a guest lecturer for one week at Hogwart's Academy, a British public school - by which I mean a private school.(The English call their public schools private schools, and their private schools public schools. That's right; their cuisine is not the craziest thing about them.) I assumed I was being asked to teach acting or glamour, something like that, but it turned out I was to be the new Defending The Drunk Arts guest lecturer. Apparently, even in the Old World, I am a recognized authority in The Drunk Arts. As I once said to Luke Skystaggerer, "Luke, you don't know the power of the Drunk Side of the Force." (I was known as Drunk Vader at the time.) My adventures over the last two weeks have been written up by JK Rowling, and will be published and filmed as Harry Potter and the Gobbler of Fire Island. Perhaps now this obscure series will finally have a long-delayed success.



Little Hairy Pothead is 18 now, or as I like to call him, legal. (Actually, in England, the boys are legal at 16, a vastly more sensible system.) So I had no reservations about teaching him some tricks of wand handling that he'd never have thought of on his own. I had him twirling his wand in my vestibule all night long, despite the jealous complaints from Little Ron Weasle. (Which one of us was Ron jealous of? Good question.) And as for mounting Hairy's Firebolt and playing a fast round of Queerditch, I was always up for it, though, when you're as beloved by gay men and gay ex-husbands as I am, Queerditching is harder than usual. Fortunately, Hairy was able to catch the little snitch before he told on us.


But you all know already who really lured me to Hogwart's, don't you? How could I resist the siren call of perhaps The Sexiest Man in Britain (Admittedly, that's not a large field of competitors.), the man who rings my chimes and stirs my potions, namely that total dreamboat, that unbelievable hunk of man with the Best Hair on Earth, Severus Snape. The man teaches "Potions," a.k.a. Mixology. That's right. Snape is the Hogwart's bartender!

Oh Severus, Severus, your hands can make me do anything, and your potions can make me look like it's 1919 once again. Darlings, if you're ever invited on a Snape Hunt, go. The rewards are incredible!



Here I am with my three favorite pupils, Hairy, Ron, and that little know-it-all bitch, What's-her-Name, listening to the fabulous stories of the divine Maggie Smith, a former pupil of mine. The children all look so rapt because Maggie is describing a relaxing weekend getaway in 1966, the first time she was "spit-roasted" by Sir Ralph Richardson (Head) and Lord Laurence Olivier (Rear, as usual.), while Noel Coward watched and took notes, even as he himself was being divinely assaulted from behind by Joe Orton. As this picture was snapped, What's-Her-Name was asking "But why 'Sanchez'? Was he famous for being unclean or something?"

Here's Maggie and I at the Hogwart's Halloween Ball, during the Ladies Choice, dancing The Mephisto Waltz. That witch is all-hands, and she's capable of magically growing several additional ones.

But a big disappointment awaited me at Hogwart's. I had hoped to meet my favorite wizard (Apart from Gandalf of course. We've been keeping it quiet, but Gandalf has given me a ring. He must be gay.), Vodkamort, The Drunk Lord. No one knows more about The Drunk Arts than Vodkamort. As a boy, his name was Tom Diddle, and the only thing I like more than being diddled, is being diddled drunk.

But it seems that The Drunk Lord got himself a job stateside, and isn't to be found lurking about the secret chambers of Hogwart's anymore. He's in Washington DC.

Yes, that's right, Vodkamort, The Evil Lord of Drunkness, has been Vice President of the United States for 7 years now. That's his Magical Martini Glass in his claw. No wonder the fake president can't speak a coherent sentence off the top of his head. English is at least his second language, if that, but he's fluent in Parceltongue.

Now, at last, Bush's war on Islamic Muggles in Iraq, the destruction of the American economy, the endless administration scandals, the Presidential aides getting suspended sentences for Treason, the rape of the environment, the wave of Republican officials looking for sex in men's toilets (Because perhaps it's the only place they'll ever have a chance of scoring?), and even the shooting of Harry Whittington in the face, all make sense. The Drunk Lord of Evil has been running the American government for 7 years now, through President Wormtail, and White House Chief of Staff Karl Malfoy.

So I'm home again in Morehead Heights, via floo powder, remembering fondly my snorkeling lessons when it was Hairy's bath time. If you're awaiting the release of The Order of the Phoneix on DVD next month, I can save you some time and money. I was there. Phoenix ordered a Manahttan. Now there's an order that spans the country.

Cheers darlings.