Speak Up!

There's been a lot of publicity this week about the Hollywood Chamber of Commerce mounting a campaign to raise funds to repair damaged stars on Hollywood Boulevard's Walk of Fame. Above are the four stars they cited as "Most severely damaged." I was certainly surprised to see my own star included, since it's only been there for a few weeks, and it looks fine to me. When I inquired about this, I was told first that "We consider Tallulah Morehead the most-severely damaged star on the whole Walk of Fame, even including the Ally of Infamy off of Selma." When I pointed out that my sidewalk star was perfectly fine, they replied, "Who's talking about the sidewalk? Have you looked in a mirror lately?" Well of course I haven't. Why should I hurt my own feelings?

I suspect that the rude butch woman who told me this was a lesbian, and I can say that now, since the residents of the Island of Lesbos lost their absurd suit. They had stopped yodelling in their local canyons long enough to file a lawsuit to prevent lesbians from calling themselves lesbians, despite the patent paradox. They said it defamed residents of Lesbos, although for it to be a defamation, you first have to accept that there's something wrong with being a lesbian, and that's absurd. Aside from their terrible fashion sense and bad breath (well, you know where their mouths have been.), there's nothing wrong with being a lesbian. Why, some of my best friends have drunk from the fairy cup, and when they told me they were lesbians, I was so shocked I fell out of our bed! The whole lawsuit was an assault on Free Speech. Had it held up, next Holland could have sued to stop lesbians from being called dykes!

You know the difference between a Dutch dyke and a lesbian dyke? When you stick your finger in a Dutch dyke, the moisture stops flowing. When you stick your finger in a lesbian dyke, the moisture starts. Anyway, may I suggest that henceforth the residents of Lesbos call themselves Lesbosians? That should put an end to any confusion, and the Lesbosians can go back to performing their quaint native customs for the tourists: muff-diving, clam-tasting, and hands-free organic flossing.

Well, it's about time I got some respect. I have, after all, been a movie star since 1915, and was considered one of the greatest voices in the silent cinema. The kids today won't even watch black and white movies, let alone silent films, yet we shone with a magic light, and acting was so much easier when you didn't have to learn any dialogue, although, as a consummate professional, I memorised all of my title cards. You think The Drunk Night is something new? Batman and The Joker have been around forever. In fact, the first Joker was Conrad Veidt way back in 1927, a amazing feat, given that Bob Kane didn't even create the character for another 13 years. That my darlings is genius!

One of my most popular silent films was the creepy horror movie, The Phantom of the Operetta, in which I co-starred with gorgeous Lon Chaney. Well, when I work with a man that sexy, how can I resist having an affair? Here he is, seducing me with his looks and charm.

Sex appeal must have been in the Chaney Family genes, because later on his son Creighton, better known by the bogus name Lon Chaney Junior, also charmed and drank his way into my panties. That wolf man was an animal. He could drink me under the table. And that wasn't all we did while we were under that table either. It didn't matter to The Chaneys if I was silent or not. They were father and son monsters.

The horror highlight of The Phantom of the Operetta came when Lon crept up behind me and ripped off my mask! There's nothing silent about theaters full of people screaming and vomiting!

At the end-of-shoot party, Lon fingered his organ, while I sang. Here in this picture, you can see Lon reel with - ah - admiration, as he heard my singing voice for the very first time, plus I had made the mistake of exhaling in his face. How much were silent movies loved? Well everyone at that party who heard my singing said that they prayed that the movies would always remain silent.

For the most part, my silent period was fully detailed in my lavish and award-free autobiography, My Lush Life, although all of my many husbands up to about age 40 (An age I reached while still only 28.) all swear that I never had a "Silent Period." However, some details slipped my notoriously slick mind while dictating my memoirs to Little Dougie. For instance, I never mentioned that I played a brief comic cameo role in Harold Lloyd's famous comedy Safety Last. I had wanted to work with Harold as I'd heard that in his movies he was always very well hung. However, my little star turn was cut from the finished film when it was noticed how completely I upstaged the little Republican pisser. Here is my brief shot, seen for the very first time.

One day recently, I glanced over my book when more sober than usual (I'd overslept, and accidentally had time to sleep it off. DOH!), I realized that I had completely omitted one of my most epic silent films, and as this film is now lost, with no print known to have survived a family BBQ the director had one day 65 years ago, few people alive today have ever seen the five hour German-American epic: Der Nibelungen Always Ring Twice.

The movie, directed by the German genius Fritz Bumsen, who had directed my silent science-fiction classic Beyond Belief, was based on the 20 hour Wagner opera Der Ring des Nibelungen, which later became Hitler's favorite opera. Most people familiar with Wagner's slightly overwritten opera agree that by cutting 15 hours, and removing all the music, we had vastly improved it. "At last," one music critic wrote, "a version of The Ring Cycle for people with weak bladders!"

To aid in making the picture more accessible to American audiences not used to stories involving Rhine maidens, Valkyries, and long, long tales in which every woman the hunky blond hero ever meets is one of his aunts, we decided to combine the traditional German legend with the newly-emerging genré of Film Noir, by making it a murder mystery, and sticking a couple of murders and a private eye into the picture.

To help with the box office, my husband at that time, the gorgeous blond closet homosexual Rod Towers was cast opposite me in the film. We were quite the screen team at the time, having co-starred in many films. Plus, I had no idea yet that he was batting for both teams, although I should have suspected something from the fact that he always called me by male names when we made love, an act he would only perform while wearing a blindfold and nose plugs.

Rod played Siegfried, the grandson of the god Wotan, whose parents are siblings. Germans. I played the Valkyrie Boozehilda, a tough-talking dame who is trouble on ice.

When the dragon Fafner gets slain, Sam Spade shows up while Sieggie and I are bathing in the dragon's blood. He finds this suspicious, although dragon's blood is great for your skin.

Not long thereafter, Siegfried is betrayed and slain, and the plot, like the dragon's blood, thickens, in fact, it clots. I am an immediate suspect simply because I had taken out a life insurance policy on Siegfried, with a special clause paying me double indemnity if he is murdered. (You could only get this clause in German life insurance.) Siegfried's widow Krimehild is also a suspect, as is my boyfriend and insurance agent, Walter Neff. (In the Wagner opera, Neff is called Alberech.)

The picture has an unusual conclusion for a murder mystery. Krimehild decides that everyone is guilty, so she throws a dinner party at which she kills the entire cast. Never trust a German widow who serves canned salmon mousse.

The picture was not a success. There were several reasons speculated as being responsible for the film's failure. It was five hours long, with no intermission. It was a huge downer. It glorified the values that were driving the Nazis to make themselves unwelcome all over Europe, and of course, it was a silent movie, despite having been made in 1940. But my own theory is that it was the casting of Sonja Henie as Krimehild that sank the picture. Admittedly, she was so unpleasant that she was totally believable as a woman who would murder the entire cast, but the final scene, where she ice skated on the frozen blood of all her victims, was just wildly over the top. Perhaps one day a print of this unique film will be rediscovered. There are seven or eight film fans clamoring to see it, oddly enough, all of them skinheads.

A last word on another topic, now that Barry O'Bama shows promise of becoming the first black Irish American President, I have realized that none of the husbands I can remember having were black, although Count Vlad Tepes was well-known to be black-hearted. So I have decided I need to marry again, and a well-hung black man this time. I've been watching the dance competition TV show So You Think You Can Prance, and I have fallen in love with the three gorgeous black male contestants. I can't make up my mind which of them to marry: Twitch, the hunky hip-hopper with a natural comic flair, Will, the sleek, trained contemporary disciple of Debbi Allen, or Joshua, the burly boy with the massive, family-size butt. Since I can't decide, I have opted to leave it up to America. Whichever of these three wins the show will be my next husband. I've convinced Nigel Lythgoe to make marrying me part of the winner's prize, unless it's won by a girl (Unlikely given these three men), or by boring white Mark. (Like he's going to survive tonight's elimination show.) After all, what 20-something man in perfect physical condition wouldn't want to marry the world's most glamorous 111 year old movie star? (If you're wondering how I convinced Nigel, it was easy. I just stole his ear plugs, and told him he had to make me part of the prize or I wouldn't give them back. Would you want to sit next to Mary Murphy without ear plugs? I rest my case.)


So pick up those phones America and vote. You can help choose my next husband!

Cheers darlings.

Wedding Bells in Gotham

Greetings darlings, from Morehead Heights. Lots of you have asked for a glimpse of my fabulous movie star mansion Morehead Heights, mounted ever-less-firmly astride mighty Tumescent Tor, which thrusts insistently skyward at the northwest corner of Los Angeles County. So here it is. Lovely, isn't it? It was designed and built in 1920 by famed English architect Winchester Buttress. Winnie had already designed such notorious structures as Hill House, The Overlook Hotel, the Winchester House, the Bates House & Motel, Bly, Edbrook, Thanatopsis Manor, the Belasco House (aka Hell House), Despair Cottage, Bleak House, Hideous House, and Gloom Lodge, places described by their infrequent residents as "Too haunting to occupy." He even hand-knitted a special teepee for the Headless Indian Brave.


So what is everyone doing this weekend? Apparently you're all off seeing The Drunk Night at a theater or drive-in near you. I'd go myself, if Batman and I weren't old chums. Let me tell you, batsex is difficult. Trying to make love hanging upside down in a cave is not fun, well, not as much fun as doing it prone on a comfy bed, or crammed in the back seat of a Volkswagon, or just face down in the gravel behind a dumpster in an alley. And the damned flying rat won't take his cowl off.


There are, let's face it, a lot of Jokers in his batdeck, though his deck isn't as stacked as I am, well, was.


Yes, I was a Batvillain. That was how I first met Bats. I was The Drunkard, on two episodes of the old 60s TV series Batman, which was exactly like the new Batmovie, except it wasn't ridiculously overlong, no one felt life wasn't worth living after watching it, and the people making it weren't likely to win any awards for it. Oh, and as far as sexy butlers go, Michael Caine hardly compares with delectable Alan Napier.


There have been a lot of Batmen over the years.



Certainly one of my favorites came 19 years ago, when Tim Burton made two films with Keaton as Batman. Who doesn't love The Keaton Batman?


But more recently, there was another Batman, who wasn't all man, if you take my meaning. We're talking Tallulah Bathead.




You see, when I learned that adorable little Heath Ledger had taken over being Joker, I knew it was time for a visit to Gotham City. But to get close to Joker meant a trip to the Batcloset. Once properly attired, I was ready.



As you can clearly see from that picture, my main reason for visiting was to teach butch little Heath how to apply his make up. He was my star pupil. Sober make up artists are so overrated. And little Heath had been despondent ever since he learned they had pulled a cruel prank on him, and instead of casting his Brokeback beloved Jake Gyllenhall as his leading lady once again (The only reason he took the role), they had substituted his sister! What Sick Bastards!


Then Bats and I were off to California for a very special event: the gay wedding of Batman & Robin. I was Best Matron at the wedding, the location of which had to be kept top secret secret to keep it from being attacked by supervillains, like Joker, Penguin, Fred Phelps, Dick Cheney, and The Mormon Church. Fortunately, none of those extremely evil folks found out and were able to ruin the touching ceremony. And very touching it was. As you can see from this photo of the conclusion. Just check out my right hand. That's what I call touching!




Robin wasn't in Batman Buggers or The Drunk Night, as he was keeping a low profile until he hit his 18th birthday, something that took him a hell of a long time, considering he's been around since 1940. But now Bats and Rob are off on their honeymoon in Metropolis. Not the Metropolis with Superman; the German one with robots and the mad scientist Rotwang. How mad must you be to take a name that sounds like a decayed penis? It's almost a turn-off. (Well, a rotting wang is better than none.)




Naturally, since neither of them had ever been married before, whereas I have been married more times than I can remember, they relied on my sage advice, so it was necessary for me to chaperon and - ah - coach them on their wedding night. I brought the Batteries. As you might suspect from this morning-after picture, Bats got a little carried away, but I'm sure Robin will heal.

On another matter altogether, for those of you in or near Orange County, California, Check out the Costa Mesa Civic Playhouse production of Del Shores's wonderful, wonderful play Sordid Lives, directed by little Dougie's old friend Michael Dale Brown. It opened two nights ago, and runs through August 10. It plays Fridays and Saturdays at 8pm and Sundays at 2pm. Tickets are $20 for general admission, $18 for students with Student ID and seniors with Senior ID, and $15 per person for groups of ten or more with Group ID. Tickets can be purchase on-line at http://www.costamesaplayhouse.org/ or by calling 949-650-5269. The playhouse is located at 661 Hamilton Street in Costa Mesa. I'm attending a performance myself, but in order to avoid drawing attention away from the players, I'm keeping which performance I'm going to a secret.

Even if you've seen the wonderful movie with delightful Leslie Jordan, it's even better live and in 3-D, just like Brendan Fraser's Journey to the Center of the Earth, only with a much-better script.

Cheers darling.

Happy Fifth

Happy Fifth, America!

There were fireworks all over America last night, and indeed we have great cause to celibate, because Jesse the Clown has finally died! Let the celibations begin! In the immortal words of George S. Kaufman as spoken by Groucho Marx: "Let there be dancing in the streets, drinking in the saloons, and necking in the parlours." Or to put it another way, someone has just shot to the top of The Good Riddance List!



All right, I've squished together two longed-for deaths: Former-ex-Senator Jesse Helms has relocated from South Carolina to Hell (Poor Hell.), and Bozo the Clown has gotten out from under the Big Top (Where he was crowding me anyway. Diesel Washington is a Big Top, but not that big!), and gone on tour in Oblivion.




Jesse Helms was, to put it in a demure, tasteful, ladylike manner, an Evil Piece of Shit befouling the USA for 86 miserable years. His death is a cause for jubilation, and eating Jubilation T. Cornpone. Hopefully Jesse's remains will lie in state in a public Men's Room, where the happy citizenry can come by and piss on his corpse, before he is unceremoniously dumped into a cesspool. I know this is very disrespectful to Piss and Sewage, but what can you do?


As for Bozo the Clown, well he was never Evil, like Jesse, but circus clowns are creepy, and so the fewer clowns, the better. I mean honestly, Which picture makes your flesh crawl more: Jesse the Clown above or Bozo the Clown below? (I hate it when my skin crawls. Sometimes it gets a damn good head start on me before I even notice, and I have one hell of a time catching up with it again. Did you know that your skin is your largest organ? Well, except for the above-mentioned Diesel Washington.)

Okay, Jesse was creepier, but it was close.

As it happens, Little Dougie made his TV debut in 1958 on The Bozo The Clown Show on local Los Angeles TV station KTLA-5. Dougie was 8 years old, and sat in the circus stands with the other kids behind Bozo. However, the Bozo Dougie appeared with was not the Bozo who died today, except during the cartoons. Bozo was first played by Pinto Colvig, best known as the voice of Goofy. When Little Dougie was on the show, Bozo was played by Pinto's son, Vance Colvig, who is already dead. I'm lucky I wasn't Vance's mother, as I apparently had a romantic relationship with Pinto, because folks have been saying I was "Fucking Goofy" for decades, and this being a democracy (Except for Presidents. They're appointed by the Supreme Court.), when a majority says something is true, it's true, and believe you me, a vast majority think I am fucking Goofy.


Bozo The Colvig ran (barely) animated Bozo cartoons. The voice of Bozo in the cartoons was Larry Harmon, the "Real" Bozo. Little Dougie was confused by the fact that Bozo live, and the Bozo in the cartoons of "His" adventures, had different voices. Of course, Little Dougie gets confused easily. In fact, he's been sexually confused since birth. Anyway, it was the "Real" Bozo, Larry Harmon, who slipped on Eternity's banana peel and fell into Oblivion's elephant dung yesterday.


Meanwhile, my thanks to all of you, well, both of you, well, Bruce and Tarquin, who attended the ceremonial dedication of my star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame last week, a long overdue honor, given that I have spent considerably more time as a Famous Hollywood Street Walker than the other stars already there. (Except for Joan Crawford. That goes without saying.) I'm sure that there would have been more people in the crowd at the ceremony, but they are required to have Honorary Hollywood Mayor Johnny Grant preside over all these ceremonies, and, since he died about 7 months ago, the aroma he was emitting was even worse than mine, plus the Ironman impersonator in front of Grauman's Japanese Theater was just back from lunch, so everyone but Bruce and Tarquin were queuing up to have their pictures taken with him. I can't blame them. I love an Iron man myself!


Adorable doughball Matt Damon (See below. Complacency) took this lovely photo of me with my star. I wasn't posing. I just happened to awaken recumbent and Matt snapped the picture. I often find myself unexpectedly lying on and/or under all sorts of things. When I said I had experience as a "Famous Street Walker," I should have said, "Famous street Staggerer."




I seldom celibate on the fourth. It just doesn't say "Happy" to me. I prefer to celibate the Fifth. Nothing says "Happy" to me like a Fifth.

Tomorrow is Sunday the 6th. If you're thinking of taking the kids to church (Or perhaps I should say "Not thinking." Faith is, after all, the Traditional Alternative to Thinking.) for some reason, or lack of reason, or to attend Jesse's or Bozo's funerals, Take a gander at this stained glass window first. Let's just say that not just the glass ended up stained.



Anyway, enjoy a fifth on the Fifth, and on the Sixth. In fact, anytime is a good time for a Fifth.

Cheers darlings.

Complacency

It was just 7 months ago yesterday, on December 2nd, 2007, that I wrote and posted my flogging, The Most Important Issue in the World!, in which I took People Magazine to task for naming Matt Damon as "The Sexiest Man Alive," when Hugh Jackman was still alive. Trying to push a hot man into the grave like that is just plain rude! Why, it's worse than rude; it's Republican.


(By the way, the constitution clearly states that the President MUST be born in this country! So why have the moronic Republicans nominated Panamanian John McCain? Look it up! He was born in Panama. Why not just go whole hog, and nominate Manuel Noriega? Is it because he's from Central America that McCain is currently campaigning in South America? Does the doddering old fool think that all the Americas vote for President? At least now we know what McSame means when he says he's "Change". Having an immigrant President would certainly be a change. Just remember as you pay $5 a gallon for gas that you're doing so because we've had the Republicans in the White House for 7 years. A vote for McSame is a vote for $10 a gallon gasoline. And don't worry about what your kids will be paying, as they will all die in Iraq and Iran, as McSame keeps the war going for decades and decades.)


Where was I? Oh yes; Matt Damon. Having been appointed to an office he hadn't earned, not unlike our current faux-President Dubya, Matt got complacent, and look what's happened to him in only half a year.



His abs are absent! Some people let being The Sexiest Man Alive go to their heads. Matt has let it go to his waist. When I said he didn't deserve the title, I didn't mean he wasn't sexy. There's a difference between being blind and being blind drunk. I certainly wouldn't throw him out of my bed. In fact, if he hadn't learned how to pick a lock while doing the Ocean's movies, he would still be handcuffed to my headboard! Matt was a very sexy man indeed, just not The Sexiest One Alive. But now? In the words of my dear friend Susan Luckey, "Ye Gods!"


Yes, I heard the standard excuse: "It's for a film role." Puh-lease! That's the same excuse Bobby DeNiro used when he blew up like Kate Smith at a church potluck dinner while making Raging Cow. (Bobby currently claims that he's only aging into an old man "For a film role.") Darling, I've been a movie star for over 90 years, and I have never gained weight for a movie! Of course, on a vodka diet like mine, gaining weight can be difficult. For Heaven's sake Matty, what do you think fat suits are for? Did Eddie Murphy swell up like a blimp for his Nutty Professor movies? Did Boris Karloff have his head cubed for Frankenstein? Did John Travolta cut off his dick to play Edna Turnblad in Hairspray? (Oh wait. John did.)

Make up darling. Make up.

When, as in the picture above, he looks back at himself when he was hot, and realizes that now people think he's selling Pillsbury biscuits, he'll panic, and you can expect a terrible face lift, and going nuts with the Botox needles, until this happens. It's called Burt Reymolds Syndrome.



Matt, Matt, Matt, you know I only chide you because I love you, or would love you if you hadn't gotten free. If I didn't adore you, I wouldn't give you a tongue-lashing. Well I might, or at least a thorough tongue-bath, but right now, giving you a tongue-bath would take a lot longer than it used to. Matt, I know my words are all-important to you. Yes, I saw you kneel in worship at my star, my darling, dangling your masthead over my galactic center.

So listen to me now Matt dear, I only have your best asset at heart. Return to your roots, or at least to your root, or to Ben's root. Reclaim your hotness. Your Bourne spy movies have left Ben's spy movies in the dust. Do you want people now calling him the hot one?

It's those beards you married. Shave them and go back to Ben. You two can marry each other in California now, at least until November. Be Matt and Ben again. After all, it contracts to "Men"! Your love for Ben is where your greatest success, and your Oscar, came from. And frankly, looking at his career over the last few years, he needs your help darling. His George Reeves barbecuing his Superman costume was a cry for help, as is your Love Tire.

Together you can truly be The Sexiest Beast With Two-Backs (or Two Bottoms) Alive!

Meanwhile, I am excited by your new project. Making one film that will constitute a 4th entry to both of the two best film trilogies of this decade, The Bourne movies and the Lord of the Rings movies, is a brilliant idea!

So shape up; and shaft out.

Cheers darlings.