Excuse Me

Sorry to have been so long silent, darlings. I was out of town. I took a brief trip to Manhattan, as any town that begins it's name with "Man" is my kind of town. As readers of my internationally-noticed autobiography, My Lush Life, are aware, assuming they're woken back up, I was raised out on Long Island, and began my illustrious career at PMS's Astoria Studios. My first wedding was held in Manhattan's grotesquely magnificent Enormous White Elephant Theater, which still runs movies today, albeit small, independent love stories of startling frankness. The current attraction is Black Balled 5: Starpoker, starring the multi-talented, elastic colon of Dean Monroe, and 8 tinted gentlemen of enormous, screen-filling talent. Indeed, there's a gentleman of a dusky hue in that awe-inspiring release, named Nick Da'Cannon, who should only be photographed in IMAX! He could get work as a camera tripod. The man brings new meaning to the term "Walking Erect".

I happened to see this inspiring production, without question the greatest movie ever made, or it would be if I had played Dean Monroe's role, because while in The Big Crab Apple, I revisited the site of my original nuptials out of a sudden attack of what I believe was nostalgia though it was hard to tell as he was wearing a ski mask, and BB5 happened to be playing. The clientele, by coincidence exclusively male, although this was not immediately apparent, respected the privacy of this elderly lady, as everyone gave me a wide birth while I was there. Indeed, if I sat down next to anyone, they would immediately move several rows away.

This was even more surprising as privacy didn't seem to be a high priority with this audience, which was generally engaging in behavior usually confined to in-private, and many were taking advantage of what must be the most lax dress code on record. Truth be told, in some rows there were performances going on that far outstripped the action on the screen, and I do mean outstripped. Yet even though all over the auditorium relationships advanced from Total Strangers to Intimate Friends to Passionate Lovers to Bitter Exes sometimes in under ten minutes - the relationships sped up by dispensing with time-wasting irrelevancies like names or conversation - nonetheless, I was left utterly unmolested. How rude!

I must admit that the onscreen storyline, in which a romantic star is given a backstage party that truly stretches his talent by a gaggle of dark-hued crew members of outstanding talents, did remind me only too well of my own wedding night after the ceremony in that very theater, when, after learning that my virginal husband F. Emmett Knight did not see a wedding ceremony as sufficient justification for giving up his cherry, I went off with the black gentlemen who had born my husband to the alter on a litter, and had a proper improper party.

While on The Great White Way I also stopped off to see the stage show everyone has been raving about for several years now, Mel Brooks's The Producers. I have to say that I utterly fail to see what all the excitement is about. The show was terrible, and tickets were surprisingly easy to acquire, this despite the literally unbelievable performance of the show's star, Tony Danza. Here we have an actor born to play Max Bialystock, except for being Italian, not Jewish, and pathetic rather than funny, and talent-free rather than a comic genius. Okay, he couldn't really sing or dance or act or get laughs, but he remembered the majority of his lines, and he had a lot of them!

Unfortunately, yesterday I breakfasted with a three-bean salad. Normally one might like a little more on one's salad plate than just three beans, but you must remember that I had to leave room for my wake-up vodka. Now, as it happens, beans sometimes leave me a teensy bit gassy. I'm afraid that I passed more than just a plethora of street-hustlers in Times Square. These things happen when you're less than 5 months from being 110. The polite thing to do is ignore it.

Well, New York City still earns it's reputation as The Rudest City in the World, because if you turned on your television news yesterday, all anyone in Manhattan was talking about was the "Horrible, gassy smell all New York is suffused with," as one particularly rude anchorwoman put it. My derrierre was even accused of being a terrorist. Last evening, everyone from Jon Stewart to Jay Leno were making rude jokes about my little toot; like none of them have ever broken a mite bit of wind.

As it happened, my slip came just as I was getting in the taxi for the airport to return home to Morehead Heights in California, so I never smelt it myself. The odor didn't reach my aquiline nostrils until I was in another cab, taking me up Pacific Coast Highway through Malibu to my palatial movie star mansion late yesterday afternoon. Once I got a whiff of the last of my three-bean odor, I did what any well-brought-up lady would do: I opened a window and lit a match.

Suzanne Somers, I'm terrible sorry. Who knew all those leftover Thigh-Masters were so flammable?

Cheers darlings.