Sunday, June 24, 2007
Isn’t that picture inspiring? The giant statue on the left was created by the artisans at RKO in 1935, for my classic motion picture HER! It was supposedly made thousands of years ago by a primitive tribe that I’ve been ruling for 3000 years with a firm yet caressing hand. After shooting was completed, it was moved here, to Morehead Heights, where it was erected, like so many before it, in the center of my hedge labyrinth, The Befuddlement, which it towers over, providing beauty, inspiration, and a reason to reach the center.
20 years after the filming of HER!, it was taken to Universal, where it was used again in the semi-sequel Abbott & Costello Meet She Who Must Be Obeyed, and was then again returned to The Befuddlement.
In 2000, it was again moved. This time it was shipped to New Zealand where Peter Jackson had it cast and duplicated, and both were then erected on his Wellington backlot, to create The Tallugonath, for a memorable scene in The Fellowship of the Ring, when The Fellowship and I, as Gàlæƒêllåthéöñ the elvish camp-follower, sail past it on our way into Gondor. Indeed, it is presented as the Gateway into Gondor because all the millions of men who have entered Gondor over the three ages of Middle-earth also sailed in between my always-welcoming gams.
Remember that, as an immortal elfatrix, Gàlæƒêllåthéöñ is supposed to be immortal, and over 6000 years old, twice the age of HER. Why am I always being cast as someone thousands of years old? I remember asking President Taft the same thing, when he asked me to record his campaign song during his presidential bid, back in 1908. "Why," I asked him, "Do people always think of me as impossibly old? What am I, a Gabor?" I remember the wisdom of Taft’s gentle reply, "Just shut up and suck." Taft, like me, was a rule-breaker, just what you want in a Supreme Court Chief Justice, as he later became. When he ran for president 99 years ago, all the news anchors asked the same question, "Is America ready to elect a fatty to be President?" (And how coincidental, that he’s a relation of Little Dougie.)
Anyway, when Peter Jackson removed me from the movie, following that unfortunate incident when he and Fran Walsh walked in - without knocking I might add, so whatever they saw was their own fault - while I was Guest Den Mothering their son’s cub scout troop, just as I was helping the boys get their Sex Ed Wolf Badges by teaching them the meaning of ménage a sept, he was forced to spend thousands to have my statues digitally removed, and replaced with some silly statues of men. Tolkien purists from all over the world wrote angry letters from their parents’s basements, protesting the removal of Gàlæƒêllåthéöñ and The Tallugonath, which played such memorable parts in the books, but Petey remained so irrationally incensed, he just ignored them. Imagine a man being that jealous of his own son. The boys, I might add, all asked to have me back!
Both statues were shipped back to Morehead Heights. The original is back in the center of The Befuddlement, while the other, with a bright light placed inside it which shines out of my massive va-jay-jay, has been placed at the summit of Tumescent Tor, where it now helps keep ships from running aground on the massive twin boulders which flank the base of mighty Tumescent Tor, although this does cut down on the number of bewildered sailors I get to rescue and offer solace to each year. Drat!
It’s held up pretty well, hasn’t it, for something carved out of Styrofoam.
On another matter, I saw on the TV news the other day, that a lady at Six Flags Kentucky, accidentally got her feet severed by a cable line while enjoying Superman the Ride. Not that I want to laugh at this poor woman’s unfortunate misadventure, but …
They’ve changed the ride’s movie tie-in themeing from Superman to Footloose!
When I ride a Superman, my feet go flying too!
"Apart from that miss, did you enjoy the ride?"
"I can’t kick."
She hated the ride so much, as soon as it was over, she ankled.
The ride left her heels over head.
She’s a woman, so never mind the feet; did they recover her shoes?
Her lawsuit is doomed; she’ll never stand-up in court.
Next time try riding Clark Kent. All you’ll lose are your pumps.
Damn that Luthorcorp Ride Maintenance team!
Who knew they had theme parks in Kentucky?
Talk about toeing the line.
Look at the good side; no more standing in line.
Who knew Superman was a hoofer?
Thank you. I’ll be here all week. Please tip your hooker.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Darlings, please forgive me for a basically serious flogging today, but I want to discuss someone that actually means something to me. The sweet senior citizen in the picture above is a delightful, charming, now-retired British actress named Emily Perry.
One of my most glamorous show business friends is Australia's First Lady, Dame Edna Everage. Readers of my award-adjacent autobiography, My Lush Life, will have noted the complimentary blurb she was kind enough to provide, which sits on the back cover of every copy. You can read the blurb to the right of this column, at the head of my "Fan Worship" blurbs on this page.
Fans of Dame Edna will remember her bridesmaid and constant traveling companion Madge Allsop on all her TV shows over the last 20 years, excepting only her most recent British series, The Dame Edna Treatment, which aired in England two months ago.
At the risk of destroying the illusion of television for you, I have to tell you that the Madge Allsop you saw on TV was not the real Madge Allsop at allsop. Edna wisely understood that putting the real Madge on TV would only spoil her dreadfully. Furthermore, the real Madge tends to depress people who have the misfortune to meet her. So instead, Edna entrusted her manager, the brilliant Australian comedian Barry Humphries, with the task of casting an actress to play Madge in Edna's TV and stage shows.
(Speaking of Little Barry Humphries, The Queen's Birthday Honors List was announced yesterday, and Little Barry has had a CBE - Commander of the British Empire - conferred upon him. Congratulations Barry. But Dame Edna still outranks you.)
The woman Barry cast was the then-80 year old Emily Perry. Emily was an inspired choice, and made herself internationally beloved with her hilarious portrayal of Dame Edna's sad sack sidekick (And for once the term "Sidekick" makes literal sense, since Edna was not at all above giving her a sideways kick from time to time.), though Emily glamorized the role tremendously, being vastly prettier than Madge ever was, even on the best day of her life.
Little Douglas met Emily a couple times, in 1992 and '93, as seen in this photograph:
Fear not for Emily's safety with Douglas's notoriously randy roaming hands on her. Female flesh does nothing for Little Dougie, and he's far too self-involved to notice how much better she looks than he. As for her sour expression in the shot; it's the same look you'd have if Little Dougie were groping you.
In any event, Little Douglas was utterly charmed by the gracious, smart, and funny Emily Perry.
Emily was born on June 28, 1907, in Torquay, a gorgeous seaside resort in Devonshire, England, that is also the birthplace of Dame Agatha Christie, but is now best known as the setting for Fawlty Towers, the greatest sit-com of all time. Torquay is also nestled up against Dartmoor National Park, the setting for Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's beloved novel The Hound of the Baskervilles, the book my own sweet Great Dane doggie Baskerville takes his name from. (Incidentally, the breed "Great Dane" was named for the late comedian Victor Borge, a tremendously Great Dane.)
Emily began her stage career at the age of four, at the Theater Royal, Birmingham. She toured as a dancer and singer in Music Halls and concerts. She played the role of Susan in The Desert Song for 12 years, and went on to many other notable stage roles as well, including Sister Kitty in The Belle of New York, as well as performing in English pantos, which would have well prepared her for a late-in-life career with a gent-in-a-frock. During World War II, Emily performed in concerts for ENSA (The Entertainment of the National Services Association), entertaining allied troops the world round.
After the war, Emily decided to share her knowledge with upcoming generations, and opened The Patricia Perry Academy of Dancing in South London (Barry Humphries writes that she used "Patricia" because she thought it "Sounded more euphonious than 'Emily'."), where she taught children to dance for 25 years. Good gracious, those children were slow learners!
Most people, slackers that they are, would have retired after all that. Not our Little Emily. (Trust me, she is a tiny little thing.) Instead, she chose, at 80, to become an internationally beloved star as Madge Allsop.
In his second volume of memoirs, My Life as Me, Barry Humphries describes the unique ability that made her so memorable as Madge: "Miss Perry had the rare gift of being able to do nothing in the face of overwhelming provocation." Barry also describes her offstage persona as "Talkative, informed and amusing," and her long life (The attentive will note she's a scant ten years younger than myself.) can be attributed to her remaining healthy, active and strong. Barry describes her, as recently as five years ago, as doing 25 one-handed press-ups each morning! I have taken perhaps the opposite approach to longevity, remaining as dissolute and hedonistic as possible. I can do one-handed press-ups also, but it has to be someone else's hand!
The passage of Time however, takes it's toll on everyone besides myself, and Emily retired. Now here's a sad and shocking fact; not all retired show business legends live as well as I do. I had the foresight to marry a billionaire a few decades back, my darling Al Bronze, the CEO of Whoopsi-Cola, and his death (An accident I tell you, an ACCIDENT!) not long after our wedding, following an unexpected midnight encounter with the Headless Indian Brave, left me a woman so rich, even I can't drink up all the money. And that's on top of the pre-income tax fortune I made in the movies. (The poor Headless Indian Brave felt just terrible about it. He was beside himself. How the hell does he do that?)
However, Emily did not have the wisdom to be the widow of a billionaire, and a short while back Barry found her living in what Edna always calls a "Maximum Security Twilight Home," where she was neglected, and treated even less well than Edna used to treat Madge, as in these pictures.
Barry arranged for her to move into the Brinsworth House, a place not unlike our own Motion Picture Actors Home, where elderly retired show business performers live in the kind of comfort and care they deserve, or in the cases of Republicans, tenors, and mimes, better than they deserve.
Now, here's why I bring this up. Coming up in less than two weeks is Emily's 100th Birthday. What I would really, really like is for everyone who reads this column, and I mean EVERYONE (Yes, I mean YOU!), even if you simply stumbled onto this flog through some inscrutable Google search (You would not believe some of the things my Flog Counter tells me people have found me by Googling. Whoever you are who Googled "Betty Hutton naked breasts," what the hell were you looking for?), I want all of you to please drop Emily a line, write her a note, convey a card, send her some kind of greeting for her 100th birthday, which, for those of you too lazy to scroll up to her birthdate above, will be on June 28. Send her a birthday card, and tell her how much you have enjoyed her hilarious performances.
Her address is:
C/o Brinsworth House
72 Staines Road,
Let's bring a smile to Madge/Emily's face. She's so charming when she smiles. My trademark salutation is "Cheers". Let's send her some cheer.
Friday, June 15, 2007
In my last flogging, I outed Gimli, the primary dwarf in The Lord of the Rings, as a female, which has caused an e-firestorm of outraged emails from virgin Tolkien fanboys and miffed dwarfs. Do you know how hard it is to read emails written in runes? Darlings, I knew the woman. You didn't. Trust me, I know a female dwarf when I smell one. The problem, as Gimli herself points out in the movie, is that female dwarfs look exactly like the male dwarfs, right down to the beards. With human females, if we want beards, we have to marry them, which I have, repeatedly. I don't divorce husbands; I shave them.
And bear in mind my long time experience with dwarfs, which stretches back to 1938, when I provided the voice for the Wicked Queen in Walt Disney's animated sequel to his enormously successful film, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. Our picture, of course, is the beloved musical dwarf-fest, 7 Brides for 7 Dwarfs.
At the end of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs you'll remember, little Snowy abandoned her seven height-challenged champions with whom she'd been living in sin in their love nest in the woods, to ride off to a castle in the clouds with her Fairy Prince, despite his pronounced necrophiliac tendencies. (How many apparently-dead women have you made out with? Exactly. On the DVD, look close at the scene where Charming kisses Snowy. He slips her the tongue, before she wakes up, when he still thinks she's dead.) But the dwarfs have gotten used to having a full-size, full-service woman around the cottage, cooking, cleaning, dancing, singing in her peculiar, ear-piercing voice, and tending to their every male need, if you follow me, and they wanted some more fresh nookie.
I played the Wicked Queen, who survived her fall from the cliff, and has regained her throne and her - well my - legendary beauty. With Snow White now beyond my power, I decide to revenge myself upon the dwarfs who crossed me. I disguise myself as another beautiful lost waif, albeit one with my maturity and sophistication, and take "Refuge" at the dwarfs cottage, taking over Snowy's functions in the dwarfs' lives. Of course, I can't cook worth gin. My Queen character has never set foot in a kitchen. What are servants for, after all? Cleaning isn't my strong suit either, but that's what woodland animals are for, to provide a maid service. I must try and see if I can get my cat and dog, Snatches and Baskerville, to clean up this place, because it's a mess.
My talents were at their best at the wet bar, preparing the dwarfs' cocktails when they come home from their Bling Mine, greeting me with their familiar musical salutation, "Hi, ho!", even though I'm not charging them for my other services, the ones performed upstairs, on their seven little beds.
I sing the lovely songs Whistle While You Drink, I'm Swishing, With a Smile and a Thong, and my big hit from the film, Some Day This Queen Will Cum, which I sing while the boys swarm all over me, indulging their tiny lusts.
But the big twist comes when I make the horrifying discovery of the real reason that Grumpy hated "Wimmin" so vituperatively in the first movie: Jealousy, just like the Queen, because he's a female, just like the Queen.
Yes, prior to Little Snowy's arrival in their woodland paradise, it was Grumpy who had serviced the other dwarfs each night, after lamps out, except for Dopey of course. (Dopey's gay. You knew that. It's so obvious.). This was why Grumpy was so irritable all the time Little Snowy was there, usurping her position in the family, and spoiling the other dwarfs, by giving them a taste of what a beardless woman is like. In fact, until Little Miss White arrived, her name wasn't even Grumpy; it was Rumpy.
Since Rumpy was the smartest of all the dwarfs, their real mastermind, albeit hidden by Doc's supposed leadership, I realize that she is the one I need most to have revenge on. And what better way to avenge myself on the hairy little slut than by depriving her permanently of the hot dwarf sex she'd been enjoying again since Snowy went off with Prince Charming. So I return to my evil castle where, with the aid of my Magic Mirror, I find five female dwarfs to marry Doc, Happy, Sleepy, Sneezy, and Bashful, a male dwarf for Rumpy, and a gay dwarf for Dopey.
The dwarfs I find are the beloved Seven More Dwarfs: Slutty, Skanky, Smelly, Tipsy, Horny, Swishy, and Poontang. My revenge backfires in a positive way, as the dwarfs are all happy in their match-ups, and they live happily ever after. As for me, well, it's a Disney film, so I get a happy ending too, finally falling for my One True Great Love, namely, exactly what every wicked Queen I've ever known has only truly loved, the mirror. Yes, the Magic Mirror and I live happily ever after.
Buy the 2-disc DVD, when it's released in November. It's in considerably better taste than this 100% genuine Warner Brothers cartoon from the same year. But at least these dwarfs, were extremely well hung. Lucky Coal.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Hello darlings. Sorry to have been a week a way, but trust me; a really serious birthday party would have left me unable to communicate for a month, yet here I am, as lucid as I get, barely a week after turning 110. You should look so good at my age. Can you remember back to when you were a mere slip of 110? I didn't think so.
Perhaps the most bizarre gift I received came from one of my surviving friends, young Jeffrey Swanson, who gave me a book! Can you imagine! Have you ever received a book for a gift before? What kind of fantasy world must such a deluded person live in, to walk right past the vodka shelves into a bookstore, and buy me a book, when Jack Daniels is still at large? Incredible!
As for what kind of fantasy world, that was made pretty clear by the book itself, which is The Children of Húrin by J. R. R. Tolkien, his first new novel since The Silmarillion in 1973.
As I grow ever older, I find myself more and more interested in the achievements of The Dead. So many people take Death as an excuse to kick back and do nothing but rot. But not some. The Headless Indian Brave has had more adventures since his death than he ever had as a living person. Instead of living in a tepee and dining on butchered buffalo (admittedly with a head, and able to have sex at the drop of a loincloth with any squaw willing to squat), now he lives in a glamorous movie star mansion, and is routinely splattered with the cream of Hollywood's cream. Oh Death, where is thy sting?
So I gotta admire the literary persistence of JRR Tolkien. The man has been dead for 34 years, and here he has another novel out, and a best seller to boot. What has your dead grandfather turned out lately?
However, it is one thing to admire a man who can write a complex novel despite being dead, but it is still quite another to actually read it. I mean really; taking up valuable drinking time, reading a book? Hey, I'm not dead yet, you know! God, is there a duller way to spend an afternoon than by reading a book? Just ask the guy who read my book, My Lush Life. He will tell you what a grueling experience reading can be. In fact, the reader reviewers on Amazon.com clearly have nothing better to do with their lives at all but complain at length about how much they hated my book. Who forced them to read it?
Some of you may have read a posting I put up on this flog back on Thanksgiving last year, Gratitude Imparting Day. If you haven't read it, click on this link and do so. In it, I list JRR Tolkien as one of the things I'm grateful for, in a blatant attempt to lure fanboy readers in. It was Little Douglas who suggested it. He's actually read The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, and The Silmarillion. He has no life. (You knew that.)
I, of course, have not read these overlong tomes, or even their treatments, but then, while I may not have read Tolkien, I have done him, can you say that? Take a look at the shot above. That's darling Reuel and I, the day I inspired him to create the Lady Galadriel. Reuel looked at me and said, "A lady thousands of years old, still beautiful, but, instead of a drunken slut, she's a magical elvin queen! It will work!" Ah Reuelly, you big, curmudgeonly, Ludditish lug, when you thrust your magical talisman deep into my fiery Crack of Doom, You showed me what Fantasy is all about! You were my favorite Bad Hobbit.
But read him? Have you tried recently? I'm told that The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings are quite readable, and even funny at times. But Reuel darling, your prose style died with the rest of you. Good God, talk about turgid.
And a gigantic disappointment awaits readers when they hit this paragraph in chapter two: The Battle of Unnumbered Tears, a title which describes the poor reader four pages in:
"Then, in the plain of the Anfauglith, on the fourth day of the war, there began the Nirnaeth Arnoediad (You knew that.), all the sorrow of which no tale can contain. Of all that befell in the eastward battle: of the routing of Glaurung the Dragon by the dwarves of Belegost; of the treachery of the Easterlings and the overthrow of the host of Maedhros and the flight of the sons of Fëanor, no more is here said."
Needless to say, at this point I hurled the book at the wall in frustrated fury. It slipped through an open picture window, and plummeted into my hedge labyrinth, The Befuddlement, where it smacked a Japanese hedge trimmer on the head. The poor man had been trying to find his way out of The Befuddlement for three years, so I adjudge the book putting him out of his misery to have been a blessing to the man. If I can only do a Little Good each day, I am happy, as long as I'm also drunk and with my brains freshly screwed out.
But while I simply can not get enough sorrow in my entertainment, honestly, if you'd invested the four days necessary to reach page 56, only to find out that you'd suffered literary bait-and-switch, wouldn't you have hurled your copy at the wall also? To read about the flight of the sons of Fëanor has got to be the reason most people buy the book, isn't it? How do those elf boys fly? Do they sprout wings? Do eagles pick them up? (Reuel's favorite manner of delivering his heroes out of otherwise Certain Death situations.) Are they partly Kryptonian? Have they absorbed the Power of Flight from hugging Adrian Pasdar? (Certainly Little Peter Petrelli forgot he had absorbed the Power of Flight, and could have flown HIMSELF out of New York City, and saved the world and that damned indestructible cheerleader - who doesn't really require much saving, given her recuperative powers - without killing off the adorable Adrian. Slipped his mind in the crush of the season climax, I guess.)
And then there's "The overthrow of the host of Maedhros." I know that, when hostessing myself, I have often overthrown myself, tumbling down stairs, falling into the pool, plummeting off Tumescent Tor. Who needs overthrowing?
But maybe Maedhros is steadier on his feet than I am. In any event, overthrowing your host is the height of rudeness. I'm putting the Easterlings on notice: "Easterlings, you are no longer welcome in Morehead Heights, unless you're really well hung, and ready to put out on the spot. I will not tolerate overthrowing! This is a No Overthrowing Zone. And Maedhros, stop by anytime for a pity shag, you wild, nasty he-elf."
And just who is Maedhros, some of your Tolkien virgins ask? Get an education, dumbos. Any 7 year old kid knows that Maedhros is one of those flighty sons of Fëanor. What? Who is Fëanor? Good grief! Don't they teach you ignoramuses anything in school any more! Fëanor, obviously, was the eldest son of Finwë, and he, as every homeless schizoid on earth knows, was the half-brother of Fingolfin. That's right, THE Fingolfin! I bet you feel fairly foolish now, don't you? And if all that isn't enough, may I remind you that it was none other than Fëanor himself, who created the Silmarils! You look pretty sheepish now, don't you? Forgetting that Fëanor created the Silmarils. I mean honestly, they were the jewels that set the whole Silmarillion in motion. Why are Tolkien's largest works always about jewelry? He writes pretty turgid, macho prose for a man obsessed with bling.
The villain in The Children of Húrin is good old Morgoth, the nasty God-in-mortal-guise who lorded it over everybody in The Silmarillion. Morgoth's name comes from the old saying "The Morgoth, the Merrier," which is not only very similar to the title of my flog, but is also Anne Rice's motto.
Morgoth changed his name when he went into villain business, like you do, from his original given name, Melkor. Well really, Melkor is a lousy star name. Morgoth has so much more pizazz, like "Vicki Lester," "Rock Hudson," "Tab Hunter," or "Englebert Humperdinck." I was lucky. Tallulah Morehead is my born name. Imagine if I'd been named Melkor Morehead. I'd sound like the villain in a porn version of Doctor Who.
Anyway, I discovered when asking around, that Reuel also wrote the treatment that my darling Peter Jackson turned into his epic, Oscar-reaping movie King Kong. What Douglas? Oh. Sorry. It seems that Tolkien wrote The Lord of the Rings. (Did you know that? You see? You learn so much here.) I wrote King Kong. But he never wrote back. (Oh Kong, Kong. You were the King, Kong, you are the King! Talk about hung! Call me Kongy, I miss you.)
Did you know I was in The Lord of the Rings? I was, but I was cut from the theatrical release version, and from the extended DVD edition, and from the upcoming, super-extended, hyper-long, extra-inclusive DVD version which runs 24 hours. "I just have no room to shove you in." Peter told me, although that's not what I said to him on a certain moonlit night in Aukland, when Peter fell prey to my charms, and I to his. Hobbit sex can be wild!
I was originally cast as Gàlæƒêllåthéöñ, the elvin camp-follower. I am appointed by Elrond (Played by the same actor who impersonated me in his drag act in Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. He worshipped me!) to accompany the Fellowship of the Ring, assisting the fellows with their Male Needs along the road. Here I am seen accepting the charge of the Ring-Bearer. (Everybody on the set talked this way.)
So in the original cut that no one ever saw (Except one film editor, who begged for the boon of being blinded afterwards. After seeing my performance, he preferred losing his eyes, to their ever seeing lesser sights. The tributes a star receives are strange indeed. I sent him a sweet note on an autographed picture.), I am the tenth member of the fellowship, with tender scenes of relieving each member's member, easing their burdens by taking their loads from them at the end of each day, caressing Gandalf's magic staff (You could probe a Balrog with that rod! Look at the all the virgin boys at their computers, reading that, and typing LOL. LOL. instead of laughing.), restoring Aragorn's "Broken" sword, role-playing as Legolas's personal quiver, being probed for information by the Horn of Boromir, and two minutes each for three of the hobbits (Au revoir, Merry Little Charlie. We'll see Mikhail in hell for drowning you!), and then half an hour for Little Sam Gamgee. Little Sean is a plump hottie.
("What about Gimli the Dwarf?" a few of you virgin fanboys with no life ask. Please! Do I look desperate enough to have sex with a dwarf? I'm only 110, not 1110. Remember the dialogue in the extended DVD version of The Two Towers, when Gimli admits that dwarf women look exactly like dwarf men, and Aragorn adds "It's the beards."? Get a clue boys; Gimli is a GIRL! I may have dabbled in the Valley of Fish, I may even have yodelled in a few, select canyons from time to time, but I have never stooped low enough to do a dwarf, let alone a hairy dwarf lesbo. Yuck! And frankly, when I order a gimlet, I expect something a lot more appetizing to be delivered than John Rhys-Davies on his knees. Besides, I was playing an elf. Elves loathe dwarves!)
But then, along the road, I met HIM! My one great love, the man I felt sure was to be my next, perhaps my final, husband. My dear, darling, passionate Gollum!
Sméagol, Sméagol, my so very precious little ring-bearer. How well I recall our nights of passion out on the Dead Marshes, and shaking our booties all night long in Mordor's hottest night spots. (We never missed "Wet-T-Shirt Night" at Orodruin. Even now, the aroma of Damp Orc makes me damp too.) He may have only worn a ragged little loincloth (Giving one freer access), but underneath it lurked his own, special Barad-Dûr, a Dark Tower that was truly his precious. Bear in mind, he wore Sauron's ring around that magnificent unit for 500 years. It was magic! What a man, or whatever the hell he was!
But, perhaps like all great love affairs must be, ours was not to last. Too soon the shoot was through, and Gollum was off to "other projects," and not returning my calls. And then, every shot of me was removed from the film. (Peter's exact words were "I want every last trace of that filthy woman, even her stench, scrubbed out of my movie! And from my hands! My God, My God, I can still smell her on my hands!!!!" Sadly, he was, like so many before him, intimidated by my magnificence on film, and cut my role rather than risk himself being lost in my corona. Poor, envious man. And it's not like I scarred his son for life. The boy was okay with it.)
Meanwhile a sort of dishy British actor named Andy Sirkis began giving me odd looks on the lot, and avoiding me off set. What was his problem, I ask you? Sure he's cute, but I never really even met him. Why does he act like three of my ex-husbands? If he were gay, instead of a husband and father, I'd be certain he is an ex-husband of mine. Might he be one of my handful of straight ex-husbands? Andy? Were we ever married?
And Gollum, my Gollum. It's like you dropped off a cliff into a volcano. Where are you? I pine for you. I weep unnumbered tears. Sméagol, you are forever my one, my true --- Precious! Your Gàlæƒêllåthéöñ waits ever, yearning for you, as I sail on to Valinor.