Black Rocks

This is WTC Ground Zero yesterday, and those aren't spare ribs, extra-charred. They are the ribs of a 19th Century Slave Ship, which were apparently ribbed like a French condom (or a Frenchman, for that matter) which were discovered there yesterday. If it weren't for 9-11, they would never have been found. But are archeologists and scientists thanking Osama? No.


Wait! A 19th Century slave ship? Oh my Dog, it's The Black Rock from Lost!



So is Manhattan actually The Island from Lost? Eloise Hawking did say it moves about. Did it move to New York Harbor? It would explain so much. Why are New Yorkers so hostile? They are The Others! Why does nothing there make sense? It's The Island. Why are the rents so out of control? The place is being run by Hurley! Why is it that when I phone someone in NYC at noon, they don't get the call until 3 PM? The time-distortion field that surrounds The Island! Manhattan is lost in time and lost in space, and meaning, like Australia, or Catalina. And that's not pollution; it's the Smoke Monster!


It even explains the penchant for giant statues. Giant statues are only found in three places: the giant statue of Towaret on The Island that was sheered off when The Black Rock hit it in a storm (though you'd think that when a wooden ship hits a stone statue, the ship would suffer the worst damage.), Miss Liberty in New York Harbor, and the giant statue of me (aka "Miss Take-Liberties") here in my hedge labyrinth, The Befuddlement, which was built for my 1935 movie HER! at RKO, and has been here ever since, except for its brief loan-out to Universal when I made Abbott & Costello Meet She Who Must Be Obeyed in 1955. I bet if you lifted Miss Liberty's skirt, you'd find she has only 4 toes. And if you lifted my skirt, you'd get something amazing also, and I speak as a skirt-lifter from way back.



Speaking of Black Rocks, I have a message for Old Spice:



I don't give a rat's ass how this Adonis smells. Hell, he'd have to have been dead a week to smell worse than me anyway. What I care about is how he tastes!


So I'm just going to let him ride me off into the sunset. Besides, I have to go flog Big Brother now over on The Huffington Post, where you can read my newest piece: "Big Brother 12: (Mala)Props to the Houseguests." We make quite the pair, Old Spice and Old Slut.

Cheers darlings.

The Horror! The Whore-or!

Noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


It's Bastille Day, normally a day to remember Liberty, Equality, Sorority! It's a day to read, or watch, Charles Dickens's A Tale of Two Cities.


And yet today, my darling Javier Bardem ...


...chose to throw away his liberty, and to get mm --- to get marr --- to get married!


WHY? He knows it's me he loves. Well, by "he knows" I mean I know and he'll learn it, the hard way, if necessary. Why else has he spent so much time on international phone lines engaged in XXX-rated obscene phone calls with me? Because he craves me!



Okay, I was the one always phoning him, and his little running joke each time he recognized my voice was always: "How did you get this number?", as though he knew nothing of the enormous amount of time and effort I put in to getting his new number each time he changes it. (To keep the joke alive, he always changes his number again after each time I call him. What a jokester!)



He may have won an Oscar for No Country for Old Men, but he was fine with having some Cunt Free From Old Ladies. (He's seen here demonstrating exactly how you get ahead and win awards in Hollywood.) And I'm not the only old lady Javier has had the hots for. We all saw him making out with his mom at The Oscars. I liked him a lot better when he was with old us than with this --- this --- person he's shackled himself to despite his almost being madly love with me, once he stops pretending to be afraid of me.




I blame Woody Allen! He made them both star in some movie together that I didn't see. (Who goes to Woody Allen movies any more? That is so 1978.) Without that stupid Barcelona movie, that creature might never have sunk her claws into my man. Just because he didn't yet know he was in love with me, and pretended to think of me as some crazed, elderly stalker he couldn't distance himself far enough away from was no excuse! Only a stupid bitch like her would take those restraining orders he repeatedly filed against me seriously. They were just part of our running gag where he pretends to be repulsed by and terrified of me. It's really very funny, and it's not like I kept him tied up in my basement that entire weekend anyway. After all, he wouldn't have been able to chew his way out of those straps if I hadn't used edible restraints in the first place, now would he?.


And yet here he's gone and broken my heart by marrying that cow. Why couldn't Tom Cruise have jumped about Oprah's furniture over her during their romance? I'd be happier, Katie Holmes would be better off, it's not like I'd ever be desperate enough to want Tom Cruise (Ew.), and Oprah's furniture was already threadbare.



How the bovine Latin creature ever got a reputation as a beauty, I will never comprehend. Think how horrified he'll be when he finally sobers up (something I always wisely avoid doing for this very reason - among others) and gets a good look at her!



Oh well. I'll just have to drown my troubles flogging Big Brother 12 over at The Huffington Post. Am I in lust with any of the houseguests yet? Well, let's just say I'll be drowning my sorrows in my imaginary romance with Lane Elenberg, which is not the hometown of Ellen DeGeneris. This guy has biceps bigger than my living room, coupled with a brain the size of Mel Gibson's decency. The perfect man.



I mean, look at the size of his shoulders! I'm not normally a fan of tattoos the size of the Sistine frescoes, but with a canvas the size of his shoulders, one understands why the tattooist would work in Cinerama. Anyway, check out my weekly columns on Big Brother 12, and I'll be back here when, well, when I feel like it.



Cheers darlings!

The 12th Coming.

"And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,

Slouches towards Studio City to be born?"

- What Yeats would have written if he'd waited 90 more years to write "The Second Coming."

I return to recapping CBS's Big Brother in The Huffington Post on Friday. Hopefully The Chenbot will keep it in her pants this summer, and not get knocked up again like last year; and if not, maybe she could realize that "stretch" is not really a good look in maternity clothes. It's their 12th Season. Who knew there were that many unemployed social pariahs in America? Oh right, the keeper of the Teabag party members knew.


Check us out, come Friday.


Cheers darlings.