Mrs. Peel, We're Needed.

Why is there a picture of a shirtless Matthew McConaughey at the top of this column? Well, for starters, have you ever tried to find a shot of Matthew with a shirt on? They don't exist. Nor should they. With tits like his, it should be illegal to wear a shirt. Fortunately for all concerned, Matthew doesn't own any shirts. Or, if he does, he's too stoned to find where he stored them, or remember how to put them on. Matty put the "Wowie" in Maui.

The fact is, Matt has nothing to do with anything in this column. I just wanted something eye-catching to grab the casual websurfer's eye, and Pec's Bad Boy fits the bill. You see, in a mere four weeks I hit my eleventy-first birthday. Yup. Come May 29, I will be 111. Have you ever read The Lord of the Rings? What a silly question. It's the 21st Century. No one reads books anymore, let alone novels so gigantic they have to be spread out over three volumes. But you may have seen the very good movies made of it, which I was almost in, as you can read all about in my earlier column: Tolkien Resistance. In the first chapter of the first book, A Long-Expected Party, Dildo Faggins is celebrating his 111th birthday, which is a big deal with hobbits. Now admittedly, humans don't set as much store by them. I mean, when was the last time you were invited to an Eleventy-First Birthday Party? You see? My point exactly. But as I have many bad hobbits, I intend to make a big deal of mine.

My old friend Little Jobie Gayer (Who is named quite truly, as nobody could be gayer than he, except perhaps Little Dougie.), one of the stars of the 1976 movie Carrie (He plays "Plump Boy Who Dies Horribly at the Prom") emailed me one of those nosy email questionnaires recently, and to help you readers and fans prepare for my birthday and decide what to get me for a present, in addition to vodka, I thought I'd share my answers with you here.

Facts about me...........
3 jobs I have had in my life:
1. Actress
2. Movie Star
3. Goddess


3 places I have lived:
1. Morehead Heights

2. Inside a vodka bottle.
3. My Own Fantasy World.


3 TV Shows that I watch:
1. LOST.
2. Doctor Who.
3. Gay porn DVDs.


3 Places I have been:
1. Transylvania.
2. Cary Grant's Pants.
3. Through the Desert on a Horse With No Name. (Well, he was hung like a horse, and he didn't tell me his name.)

3 of my favorite foods:
1. Vodka.
2. Champagne.

3. Manmeat.


3 Places I'd rather be right now:
1. In that chair over there, with my feet up.
2. Under a naked Hugh Jackman., with my feet up.
3. Alcoholic Bliss.


3 Things I am looking forward to this year:
1. The end of the Bush Administration.

2. Living through the year.
3. My next vodka martini. Oh look. Here it is now. Thank you darling. (That adorable Headless Indian Brave always anticipates my needs. He is uncanny!)


You'll notice that I did not list American Idol under TV shows I watch. Oh, I'm still watching it, but I'm not proud of viewing this year's train wreck of a season. Paulagate this week, when Nostroabdullus was able to criticize a performance of Jason Castro's before he gave it, and do so with complete accuracy (She'd said he'd be lousy, and he WAS!), has been dissected to death. She was thrown a "curveball," that is, asked a question she wasn't expecting, you know, what other people call "Conversation," and she panicked, and started blathering. She said she read her wrong notes. Please! This raises two questions:

1. She needs notes to remember to say, "You are who you are. Your fans love you. You're a star. I applaud you."? and

2. Paula can read?


Nostroabdullus said of her idiocy: "This is hard!" Since she had both her hands where we could see them, she must have meant sitting there watching other idiots sing, and then blabbing the exact same thing to each of them. No, Nostroabdullus; roofing in 100-plus degree heat is hard. Brain surgery is hard. Little Douglas walking in on a naked Javier Bardem is hard. What she does is easy. Really, really easy. So easy, even Randy Jackson can do it. Well, almost do it.

Last week, I said, "How are you today, Paula?" to Nostroabdullus when she wasn't expecting it, and she went nuts. She began telling me how LOST was going to end. When I mentioned that this wasn't going to happen for another two years, she said, "I'm sorry. These are my notes on The X Files."

At least Ryan has stopped saying "This is the best group of finalists we've ever had." No one is buying that crap anymore, not even Randy Jackson, and that boob can believe anything. He even thinks Nostroabdullus has talent.

Certainly the funniest moment of the season was excruciatingly stupid Little Jason Castro saying he didn't know Memory was sung by a cat. Actually, it's sung by an old pussy. It would be a purrfect song for me, if I had bad enough taste to sing Lord Andrew Lloyd Webber's music. But there's nothing quite like hearing a 19 year old boy with the skin of Joan Crawford in the 40s singing the lyric "I was beautiful then." Yes Little Jason, remember long, long ago, many hundreds of hours ago, when you were a lovely lad of 17? And here you are now, a dried-up old loser of 19. What will he sing next week? September Song? How about It Was A Very Good Year? I can hear him now: "When I will be thirty-five, it will be a very good year."

You may notice that I selected the withered old Harrison Ford for my Studly Hunk of May. Now he at least, could sing Memory or September Song without looking ridiculous, if he can sing. (I've never heard him sing. Have you?") This is because, besides being sexy and adorable, he is also starring in this month's other important event: the release of Indiana Jones and the Retirement Home of Doom.

Okay, he's an old man, a sexy old man, just as I am a sexy middle-aged woman. But here's a couple more pictures of him looking great, and young.


Please ignore that Feiffer woman usurping my rightful place in this next picture. This shot is from What Lies Beneath. As it happened, I was what lay beneath. Michelle burst in, uninvited, while I was toying with Harrison's laptop, and I hid underneath him, while he fingered his laptop. Lots of people complain about all the ass-kissing in Hollywood, but then, they've never had Harrison use them for a mattress. Mmmmm. Forget Starbuck's. Give me Starbutts! Once Harrison got Michelle to leave again, it was all he could do to pry me out from under him again. I was comfy where I was - and I found a lost ark in there. And when I pried it open, I saw God.

Another big thing that happens this month, a week after Little David is given the title of this year's American Idol (Which Little David, you query? Ask Nostroabdullus.), will be the climax of season 4 of LOST! It's been great this year, as it is every year. Remember Benry going into that secret room in the closet of his other secret room? (Secret rooms inside secret rooms? That's LOST in a nutcase.) Remember the door covered in Egyptian hieroglyphics? In case you don't, here's what it looked like:

As soon as Benry came out of the closet (And about time too.), Smokey the Monster showed up. I guess it's the smoking room. Anyway, as you all are aware, I played Cleopatra many years ago, in my classic film The Revenge of Cleopatra, about the terrible vengeance Cleopatra wreaked on Octavius after the asp venom was sucked out of her wound. (Sucking asp seems to be the theme of this column, doesn't it?) Believe me, her vengeance was terrible. Every single critic who reviewed it emphasized how terrible it was. Some called it "Ghastly," others said it was "Unwatchable," one even called it "The Greatest Crime in History." Anyway, since I was the queen of ancient Egypt for five months back in 1934, I can, of course, read ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics. What this door says is "Men". Apparently seeing the girl he'd kidnapped as a baby shot in the head made Ben need to go right now! I have the same problem after too much vodka. (Just kidding. There's no such thing as "Too much vodka.")


But shocking as Alex's sudden murder was, an even worse horror awaited us in the opening scenes of the following episode, when we saw Jack wake up in Kate's bed, and some Evildoer had waxed his chest! Those bastards! As this comparison shows, Jack looks much better with his normal, hairy pecs. Only we women should wax our chests. I know it stings a bit when I do it, but believe me, given how low my poor titties hang these days, they would really look grotesque if they were hairy as well.

Actually, we saw Juliette, the Former Other, shave Jack's chest before she performed an appendectomy on him. Since she's an obstetrician, Jack wanted to talk her through it as she operated on him, but it turned out that "AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!" wasn't really very helpful. And after all, she did have a dentist assisting her. But his concern was proven well-founded when Juliette performed an epesiotomy on him. In fact, when Jack woke up, Juliette's first words to him were, "I had to perform a C-section."

But the flash-forwards were set three years in the future. Why hadn't his body hair grown back? What the hell did she do to his follicles? Fortunately, I think Desmond can heal him. Take a look at Henry Ian Cusick, who plays Desmond, in another TV movie he starred in. Let's just say that, if it were a musical, and Carly Smithson sang the title song, she'd be voted off The Island. And in this movie, he kept calling everyone "Brother" just like he does as Desmond.

Little Dougie has been occupying himself watching DVDs of The Avengers, The Complete Emma Peel Megaset. Dougie loves this quintessential, mod-60s, swinging London, silly spy TV series, which was great until Dame Diana Rigg left, and the show fell apart.

Patrick MacNee as John Steed and Dame Diana Rigg as Mrs. Emma Peel (Emma Peel = M[en] Appeal. Get it? Got it? Good.) were the world's two most perfect people: stylish, witty, sophisticated, glamorous, smart, never-at-a-loss, and always drinking champagne. Who wouldn't love them? Sure the show followed a rigid formula: A bizarre murder, Steed and Mrs. Peel interview amusing eccentrics played by world-class character actors, assassination attempts by the henchmen of the special guest villains, Emma captured and threatened, Steed arrives and sets her free, Emma karates the hell out of the villains, repartee is exchanged and more champagne consumed. But the wonderful guest stars, the sparkling wit, and the great chemistry of MacNee, Rigg, and champagne keep these shows forever fresh.

Ten years ago some numbnuts tried to make a feature film of The Avengers. Man, did it suck. One critic said the movie was so extremely bad, he thought I was starring in it! (I'm always being mistaken for Uma Thurman, or Eddie Izzard, depending on what gown he's wearing.) No such luck. Now for Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost AARP, they simply set the movie as far after the last one as the actual amount of time since the last movie was made, and let Harrison Ford play Indy as his real age. But with The Avengers, instead of setting the movie 30 years after Rigg left the series, and having Dame Diana and Patrick dodder through their aging paces with style, they instead recast the roles. Patrick MacNee's unflappable, insouciant, always-amused John Steed was played by Ralph Fiennes, a man who couldn't smile or display charm if his life depended on it. For Heaven's sake, Fiennes is best known for playing Nazis and Vodkamort. He could not be more wrong for John Steed. And then Uma Thurman as Mrs. Peel? No, no, no, no, no, no, no. Plus, they wasted the divine Eddie Izzard as a thug, and the villain was Sean Connery. Sean Connery? Indiana Jones's dad must be a good guy, not a villain! Talk about backwards casting: they cast Vodkamort as the hero and James Bond as the villain. How did they aim the cameras with their heads stuffed so FAR up their butts?

Little Dougie, all his life, has only wanted to be John Steed. It's his lifelong ambition to be witty, unflappable, and wear 1960s Pierre Cardin suits. Little Dougie, who is about as British as Jack Benny, feels he should have been cast as John Steed.


The problem, aside from Dougie's utter lack of Britishness, is that in a bowler or a derby, Little Dougie looks more like Oliver Hardy than John Steed. And walking about carrying an umbrella in California in the summer, just looks affected. No. Strike that. IS affected.

However, I would be perfect casting as Mrs. Emma Peel. True, I'm from Idaho, and I'm even a month, or possibly two, older than Dame Diana, but darlings, when it comes to looking good while guzzling champagne, I wrote the book. (The book, by the way, is My Lush Life, which you can buy by clicking on it here. More fun than a box full of The Avengers!.) And I will peel at the drop of a zipper.

Well I think I would be an improvement over Little Uma, don't you? Wait a minute. What's this? A note at the bottom of my martini glass. What does it say?

"Miss Morehead, We're needed. To get more vodka." Oh my God! Some supervillain has drunk all my vodka! I must mount my "Steed" (Patrick loves it when I do that.) and race to The Liquor Barn. England must be saved! After a cocktail. That's how The Avengers do things.

Cheers darlings.