Good gracious. Yesterday was the fourth anniversary of the creation of this flog, and I almost completely forgot. I've been very neglectful of it this year; only 10 columns all year, and none since August. I'm sorry, darlings. My column on The Huffington Post, combined with Little Dougie's other writing projects has left little time or energy for flogging here. Anyway, Let's have a few random bits here. Shall we?
Up at the top of the column is Little Dougie and I with Casey Turner, whom you may remember as Big Brother 11's Banana Man back in 2009, which I flogged, episode by episode, over on Ye Olde Huffington Post as it aired. This was taken by Casey's wife the night before the finale and reunion show, when we dined together. No joke here. Casey was one of the few - ever - players on that show I found likeable enough to ever want to be in the same room with, and we've kept in touch since the show ended. Casey's one of my very few victi - ah - subjects I've written about who took it with good humor. This flog has made me some nice friends, and Casey is one of them
How does one politely tell a lady that she has crabs?
December starts next week, and Santa has a great gift suggestion for those hard-to-shop-for people you can't stand.
So the Roy Rogers museum closed (I'd been meaning to be getting around to going to see it just as soon as it was the last tourist attraction on earth, for half a century now), and they auctioned the stuff off.
Trigger - stuffed - sold for $266,500.
Bullet the doggie - stuffed - sold for $35,000.
Buttermilk, Dale's horse - stuffed - sold for $25,000.
I love the new British PBS series Sherlock. It's VASTLY superior to that piece of shit movie that Robert Downey Jr. made last year. Even moved into the 21st Century, it's more authentically Sherlockian than that big budget, action movie dreck. How do you not love the star's name: Benedict Cumberbatch? It will be just terrible to learn his name is really Bill Jones or Sarah Palin. Anyway, Benedict is a welcome addition to such other stalwart Sherlocks looking on here as Basil Rathbone, Jeremy Brett, Peter Cushing and Little Dougie. LITTLE DOUGIE! What is he doing there? Sherlock Holmes never had a beard, other than Irene Adler, that is. I've got to supervise Dougie's handling of my illustrations more closely.
Pat Buttram - stuffed - sold for $15,350.
Norman Bates's Mother - stuffed - sold for $544,000.
Hmm. I wonder what I could get for Sarah Palin stuffed?
Oh, and the article I read said: "The Bible they used at the dinner table every night sold for $8,750." What was it used for? A serving platter? An appetite depressant? Table mats? I'd pay more than that to eat dinner every night where the was no Bible at all.
Who didn't love Tony Curtis? I would have, but somehow I ended up being the only woman in Hollywood besides Greer Garson that Tony never shagged. Tony, I like it hot, and you, baby, were hot.
And Barbara Billingsey died recently also, America's Mom. Poor Beaver and Wally, although one of those pearls from that pearl necklace she wore at all times, even when baking, will never fall into their food again.
Don't worry, my latest Studly Hunk isn't being arrested, but I had to resort to stern measures to get Gerard into my boudoir.
Little Dougie's delusions just get worse and worse. Jake's had to take out a restraining order.
Could someone explain to me how Walt Disney and his entire staff of Disneyland planners and construction people all failed to notice they were erecting a giant penis beside a huge pair of testicles? I mean, I'm not complaining; the erotic aspect of this structure always aroused me. Who doesn't love riding a big rocket? Little Dougie liked it more when TWA left and Douglas Aircraft became the sponsor, and they painted his name on the rocket, so it became a giant monument to his junk. (He's a dreamer!) But really, how could they miss it?
You see, the Rocket to the Moon was supposed to be just the first step. Walt planned to build a Disney Resort on the Moon. Lots of room for parking, but that 1/6th gravity makes for slow-moving rollercoasters. Space Mountain would take 2 hours to ride. Oh, and there's that little problem of no air.
There they are, the newly-elected Freshman class of congressmen elected by the insane, idiot teabaggers. Here they eye progressive social progress, and draw their evil plans against it, and prepare to deprive America of that socialist healthcare that they themselves are enjoying, since hypocrisy is the only thing beyond greed and stupidity that the teabaggers all possess. They are busy extending the Bush tax cuts for the rich but refusing to extend unemployment benefits. You know, if you voted for any of those moronic teabagger candidates, fuck you. But first, they need to go speed-dial batch-vote for Bristol Palin, so that fat little Teen Fascist who can not dance, or think, can win Dancing With the Republicans. Don't watch that show, or Sarah Palin's Alaska. Commercials for American Fascism is all they are.
My ex-husband Boris and his friend Bela were fired by Ozzie & Harriet, when they decided to recast the roles of David and Ricky for no good reason, and with kids yet! They claimed that people found the show scary with Boris and Bela on it. So what? Did it ever occur to anyone that it was Ozzie, the man with no job or visible means of support, and Harriet who were frightening people? And then it turned out that the kids they cast were their own children! What blatant nepotism!
Last, and definitely least, this lovely book is coming out quite soon (It's being printed right now), and Little Dougie wrote the forward, a long essay for the chapter on Seymour, and it even includes some of his TV and stage scripts for Seymour. Fortunately, Jim Fetters wrote the book, so it will be worth reading, especially if you grew up in Los Angeles in the 1950s, 60s, or '70s. When I have a release date and info on how you can acquire it, I'll post it here, but it will be soon.As hopefully my next posting will be. Meanwhile, read me over on The Huff Po, and Cheers darlings.