The Constant Yeltsinner

& A Volley From My Dolls.

Farewell Boris, my darling. You were a world leader after my own heart, in fact, at times, after all of me. And not without some success, I might add. Boris, Boris, Boris, if only I could remember what the hell we did together on those long Siberian Nights, I'm sure I'd never forget it. If I didn't know it was impossible, I'd think those nights had been six months long. Not that I'm complaining. Boris, vodka fresh-squeezed daily, and a small band, for six months? This were paradise enow.
I first met dear Boris through Ron & Nancy Reagan. Oh Ron was never my sort of Hollywood actor. You must remember that I was the one who gave Delores Delgado's Oscar to Jane Wyman, so when Jane wisely left Ron, she got me in the settlement. And needless to say Nancy Reagan and I didn't see eye-to-eye on much of anything, even if she'd lain down on the damn floor long enough to look me in the eye. And that great stick she had up her ass most all of her adult life would have made her lying down on the floor an impossibility anyway. Say what people will about me, I have always been limber! At many times, down right limp. (One of my later husbands never believed I possessed a skeleton at all. He should talk. That man had an exoskeleton!)

Anyway, it was determined by the RNC that, due to my longtime relationship with the Headless Indian Brave, I was very popular with Headless Voters, and though not a large constituency, except in France of course, they were considered far more likely to vote Republican than voters who had heads.

Consequently, Nancy reluctantly invited me to a White House State Dinner at which I was seated next to Boris Yeltsin. In fact, Nancy had Boris and I at a folding card table in the kitchen, while she and Raisa performed a bowdlerized, polite version of Legends in the East Room before an audience of international diplomats. Boris and I hit it off together instantly. Next thing I knew, we were on a jet together heading for the Polar Ice Cap, and the next thing after that that I clearly recall, Bill Clinton was president, and I had developed a taste for arctic moose. We committed every Yeltsin in the book, and then wrote a second volume.

Now, on a different subject, check out this doll:

You can see as clearly as I can, that this is a Tallulah Morehead doll, albeit depicting me in my everyday-around-the-house casual skivvies, my equivalent of your dirty-T-shirt-and-ripped-jeans ensembles, like what you're wearing while reading this, those of you who aren't naked. I recognized it as perhaps the last remaining "Tallulah Morehead Doll", given to children of the 1930s & 40s, and credited with inspiring an entire generation of female sluts and alcoholics.

However, Little Arley Berryhill of Albuquerque, New Mexico, who made this exquisite creation, as well as many other similar-yet-each-unique gorgeous dolls, insists that this doll is "Divine Decadence", a doll he created before reading my occasionally-beloved autobiography, My Lush Life, and becoming my slave-for-life. (An unfortunate-but-common side-effect of reading my book. I'm having it looked-into.) Well, Arley is my slave now, so the point is moot. You can see, and even purchase, more of Ashley's charming work at his website:
http://www.arleyberryhill.com/

I had to warn little Arley however, about the danger of living on the dolls. My dear friend Kneely O'Hara had a problem with the dolls. She started out as a respectable blind child until Mrs. Mel Brooks taught her to say "Wa-wa" whenever you pumped fluids over her fist. (Which has resulted, over the years, in many messy misunderstandings, and the birth of Sean Astin, so I guess that was a lucky break for Middle-Earth.) Then she started popping the dolls, and the next thing we knew, she was overacting with Ted Casablanca by a swimming pool, flushing Lillian Roth's wig down a toilet I was trying to throw up into, and shrieking so pointlessly that she never even noticed her roommate getting knifed by the Manson Family.

Ah, the 1960s. If you remember them clearly, you weren't there.

Anyway, most dolls don't mix well with alcohol, and I don't mix well without alcohol, so I've never lived in the Valley of the Dolls myself, although I spent one summer in a rustic cabin with a superb view of the Valley of the Dolls, laid out below me, which is a switch from my usual arrangement.

I am however, dear dear friends with one doll, namely Clementine, The Living Fashion Doll, who is a big TV star in Britain. A lovely young gentleman who is something of a merest whisper, Mark Mander, functions as Clementine's amanuensis, and by an odd coincidence, bears a certain facial resemblance to Clementine herself. Mark recently performed on the BAFTA Awards show with The Scissor Sisters. This is little Clemmie in all her glory.

You can learn all about Clementine and her amazing adventures at her lovely website, Clementine the Living Fashion Doll.

It's funny, both Arley and Mark are my slaves, both were enslaved by my book, which is more of a mansnare than it is a work of literature, both make and fabricate dolls, figurines, puppets (In fact both have Jim Henson's puppet gulag on their resumes.), and are not really husband material, at least for me anymore. Why do I attract puppet makers, and creators of magnificent women's clothes, but only for miniature women? I adore them, but a man who wants to turn this old lady every-which-way-but-loose (I'm loose enough on my own.) once in a while would be nice as well.

Anyway, these boys are talented, creative, and they paid money to read my life story, so check out their work. It's you who will be receiving a favor.

Cheers darlings.

Goodbye, Mister Bond!

And One Less Ho!

Good grief! The Celebrity Death Meter has been going into overtime this week. It's clicked over twice! In fact, in order to keep it down to just twice, I had to downgrade two fresh cadavers, Stan Daniels and Johnny Hart, from "Celebrities" to "Persons of Considerably-Less Interest." Of course, Stan Daniels was merely a brilliant TV comedy writer and song writer, and as I've so often pointed out, in Hollywood, writers rank somewhere below grips. Oh sure, he and his partner Ed Weinberger wrote many, many episodes of The Mary Tyler Moore Show, and he co-created Phyllis and Taxi, and he wrote The Butler Song, which is one of the funniest comedy songs ever, but still, if you'd seen him and his family in line at Disneyland, would you even have recognized him, let alone made his day miserable by pointing and squealing, demanding autographs, and then following him all over the park, announcing his presence to everyone you passed, while tipping off the paparazzi to where he was over your cell phone? Then he wasn't really a celebrity!

Same problem with Johnny Hart. Oh most everyone knows his comic strips, The Wizard of Id and BC, both period pieces, the latter set back during my girlhood, so I can testify as to how unrealistic it is. But again, You could have stood in line in front of him for Indiana Jones and the Temple of the Forbidden Eye for two hours and never have known he was anything more than just a very funny old man. Besides, as Christianity's increasingly intrusive presence in his comic strips over the last two decades attested, the man was a devout Christian, so he's not really dead at all, just Risen to Glory, so he doesn't count either.

So who else checked out this week? Well, at the lowest end of the scale was AJ Carothers. As a movie writer, he wouldn't really rate mention either, but among his other discredits, he wrote a bloated musical nap-on-celluloid called The Happiest Millionaire, better known as The Movie That Killed Walt Disney. I sat through that endless snoozefest in a theater back when it escaped in 1967, and I barely lived through it myself. Good God, what a boring movie! AJ's demise this week at 75 may strike those who paid money to see that film as Justice Delayed.

The last of our writers to catch the Last Train to Darksville this week was 84 year old Kurt Vonnegut Jr., which I'm sure was heartbreaking news to dear old Kurt Vonnegut Sr., the real talent in the family. I suppose that we can consider Kurt an actual celebrity, because let's face it, he would get recognized at Disneyland, although only by the smart people, and it's hard to imagine him even going there, as the amusement parks in his mind were so much more amazing. But then, Kurt didn't seem to find anything hard to imagine. Kurt was a genuine genius, visionary, and moralist, and he wrote some of the greatest novels I have ever had summaries of read to me. And although the excruciatingly terrible movie Slapstick of Another Kind was based on a novel of his, he can't really be blamed for it.

Two fine actors of a dusky hue were lost this week. First Calvin Lockhart departed at age 72. This oft-married man was a brilliant actor, and more importantly, he was absolutely gorgeous! He gave many fine performances in many excellent movies, but I prefer to remember him in two real turkeys. One was a particularly silly werewolf movie called The Beast Must Die!, in which Calvin co-starred with my darling Peter Cushing. (I have always adored Peter!) This ridiculous howler is a mystery, a whobitit, as you have to figure out which of the characters is the werewolf who is eating the other characters, a sort of Agatha Christie-type Lycanthrope story, Ten Little Werewolves.

As if that wasn't bad enough, he was in one of the most notoriously dreadful movies of all-time, the justly celebrated ghastly waste of film in which Raquel Welch is typecast as a man, Myra Breckenridge, based on the wonderful Gore Vidal novel. (Gore has never seen the movie. I am less lucky.) Calvin plays, with a credibility far beyond anything else in this utterly absurd monstrosity, the most flaming fruitcake stereotyped homosexual ever committed to film. After watching his performance, even he must have been shocked to realize he wasn't really gay. It was Mae West's next-to-last movie. It would have been her last, but she noticed that there are six or seven minutes in the picture that are merely bad. Realizing that she could still sink lower, she set her sights on the deepest spot at the bottom of the barrel, and made Sextette.

Also joining the ex-parrots in the Choir Invisible this week is the magnificent Roscoe Lee Browne, at the tender age of 81. Now you probably know quite well who this amazing actor is. Let's just say that, with his wonderful voice, if he was the speaking clock, I'd always be checking the time. Little Dougie testifies that he passed the celebrity test, as Dougie once saw Little Roscoe from the window of a bus, standing on a sidewalk in Hollywood, and Dougie says that half of the bus passengers were pointing at him and gawking. Now that's a star!

In Hawaii this week, that little nappy-headed Don Ho passed away at 76. His wine has gone flat. All the tiny bubbles are gone. My old friend, the late Fred Asparagus (Yes, that was really his name) used to say of Ho, "He was from the Big Island --- Asia." Don was a real entertainer, and now there's no reason to go to Hawaii at all any more, unless you're desperate to get lei-ed. (If you do go, watchout for that nasty Smoke Monster.)

(Speaking of "Nappy-headed Hos", I'd like to address a remark or two to the Rutger's Ladies Basketball Team. Ladies, you said this week that Don Imus's ghastly and - worst sin of all - unfunny snipe made you feel degraded, and it hurt you and hurt your self-esteem. Really? A lousy joke from a 300 year old wannabe-cowboy/living mummy, desperate to sound "Hip" (And black), that you would never even have heard about if the media hadn't rubbed your nose in it day after day, hurt your self-esteem? How? Did you decide that you agreed with him? Here's a truth darlings: the only person who can hurt your self-esteem is YOU! So a jerk on the radio said something nasty. So what? IGNORE HIM! Words only have the power you give them. Good grief, if my self-esteem suffered everytime someone in the media said something mean about me, I would have committed suicide after reading just the reviews for The Revenge of Cleopatra alone. I see you've voted to forgive him. Is forgiveness a democracy? What if it wasn't unanimous? How many abstained? Get a clue ladies. Don't forgive him. Ignore him. Stop granting him power over you. And stop allowing yourselves to be used as the tools of media whores, the new Thought Police, and other enemies of Free Speech. Empower yourselves.)

So now I come to the Big News today: the death of the first James Bond, 89 year old Barry Nelson, who created the role of CIA agent Jimmy Bond 007, in the Climax TV production of Casino Royale back in 1954, opposite that dreamboat sex god Peter Lorre (I still adore those Peters!) as Le Chiffre. It was several years later that Sir Sean Connery distorted the role by making him British, and sexy, (Not an easy combination to bring off.) in the movie Dr. No. But Barry's Bond (Not to be confused with Berry Bonds), sexy and glum as he was described, was the definitive Jimmy Bond.

Now it's true that, as Jimmy Bond, Barry Nelson was devoid of any trace of sex appeal; but that must be expected. After all, he was playing opposite Peter Lorre, one of the sexiest men who ever lived, and I know of what I speak, as I had a night of incredible carnal passion with him under a full moon, atop mighty Half Dome in Yosemite National Park, as I mentioned in my earlier posting, Gratitude Imparting Day. What a man! How could poor little Barry Nelson be expected to compete with him?

Nelson's lasting sex lack-of-appeal wasn't helped by his turn as the house dick at the spooky old Overlook Hotel in The Shining, nor by the recent Sex God Performance of Daniel Craig in the big budget remake of Nelson's TV drama, although the Le Chiffre in that picture was still no Peter Lorre.

But however lame one may have found Barry Nelson's 007, you have to admit, he was still a better James Bond than Roger Moore, and Moore still lives! Truly there is no such thing as justice!

Cheers darlings.

The Return of Eduardo Capetillo

At last a reason to go on living, I mean besides the fact that there’s still liquor in the world, and there's still the occasional man willing to slip one to a 109 year old movie goddess. I was channel surfing yesterday, and lo and behold, on the local Los Angeles Telefutura/Univision station, KFTR (Keep Fucking The Rich? Good idea. I’m rich!), at 4 PM, I found my darling future ex-husband Eduardo Capetillo, that Spanish heartthrob extraordinaire, starring in another fabulous telenovela, titled Camila.

In my earlier posting, Blue Spanish Flies, I wrote of my passion for this Latin hunk, and the joy I get from telenovelas. Since I don’t speak a word of Spanish, besides tequila that is, I never have any idea what the hell is going on, so I just invent the stories for myself, based solely on what I see. I thought it might be fun to share with you whatever the hell is going on in this one. And please, if you understand Spanish and actually know the storyline of Camila, keep it to yourself!

I just stumbled onto the show, so I have no idea how long it’s even been running, or if this is the second week, or the last week, or just where the hell we are in the story, but we’ll just dive in, based on what I saw on Tuesday’s episode. Ready?

My darling Eduardo Capetillo plays Harold J. Bequist. Harry (Named after his chest?) works for S.P.E.C.T.R.E., the SPecial Executive for Cockfighting Terrorism Revenge and Elegant dining (I don’t why the cockfighting, but there’s a shot of a cockfight in the opening credits, and not the fun kind either, but rather the kind with chickens.), where he writes the crossword puzzles for the company newsletter. The company offices are in the Little Mexico City district of London. he is married to Camila Berquist, a tramp who isn’t worthy of him.

As the episode opens, Harry is speaking angrily to Bob, his pal (He thinks), in the hallway outside his spacious apartment, while Serge listens in. Bob has sold some of Harry’s best five-letter word clues to the Christian Science Monitor, and he is pissed. Bob smugly advises him to take a six-letter word for a granulated substance and chill out. Harry goes inside and snaps at Camila, not knowing that she’s the tramp who has been slipping his clues to Bob.

Back in his bedroom, Serge confronts Bob about a seven-letter word for a meat-chopping tool, which he got wrong in last week’s puzzle. Serge has a bruise beneath his eye from being smacked with a flounder. Margaret the airline stewardess, whom Serge calls "Mama" ironically, comes charging in, informing them that they are not on a plane, but in Bob’s bedroom.

Camila is making a pitcher of screwdrivers for Harry. (These scenes are like 30 seconds each.) Harry doesn’t want a screwdriver. He wants a four-letter word for ennui, and his temper flares at Camila. She looks guilty. She should. She knows the answer, but she sold it to Bob for more orange juice.

Ernst Stavro Blofeld, Harry’s boss, is sitting with his daughter, Gretchen, who is cosying up to him to get the money to buy a Dusty Springfield’s Greatest Hits CD, which Blofeld is reluctant to give her, as he fears that her interest in Dusty means she’s thinking about a lifetime of muff-diving.

Maggie the stewardess confronts Camila, but a severe flashback in black & white to Bob telling her he was sexually abused by Michael Jackson when he was seven, makes her overact like crazy. Camila is dumbfounded, which is her basic emotion. Maggie can barely hear whatever lame excuses Camila is making, because the echo-chambered voice-overs from Bob are so loud. Maggie decides to enlist Camila’s help in destroying Michael Jackson by pretending to like her. They hold hands, and Camila gets moist.

Back at the SPECTRE office, Bob is talking at the coffee cart with Miss Taft, Blofeld’s second-in-command. She puts a lot of powdered cream in his coffee, which makes him happy. She mistakes Bob’s gratitude for romantic interest, and her neck scarf bobbles excitedly.

Camila is dicing onions while Maggie tells her about the trash they put in inflight magazines these days. They could use a good crossword puzzle. Does she know where Harry hides his clues? If not, could she help her kill Michael Jackson? Camila laps to her feet, offended. Maggie is nonplussed, but sly.

Maggie returns home, interrupting Serge’s guitar practice, annoying the crap out of him. He yells at her, "Nacho! Nacho! Nacho!" so I can only assume she promised to bring him nachos and forgot when Camila told her off.

Harry catches Bob chatting up Miss Taft. Miss Taft leaves to take a quick crap, and they whisper to each other angrily. Harry wants his clues back. He hates being clueless.

Serge, who has long hair he wears tied in a bun behind his head, tells off Maggie, while sweating into his abundant chest hair. Having sweated through his shirt, Serge gets a fresh shirt from Bob’s room, but finds tickets to see Sting in concert in the shirt pocket.

Harry and his co-worker Phil are doing a presentation to Blofeld. Each has his own scheme for world domination, and Blofeld will choose only one to implement. The one whose plan is chosen will get a raise. The one whose plan is rejected will be fed to the piranha. Blofeld calls Harry back, calling him "Miquel", his code name, which is why everyone calls Harry Miquel. Blofeld tells Harry that he's not gay, but if he was, Harry is just the type of guy he'd go "Downlow" for.

Serge tells Camila that he knows she is helping Bob steal crosswords clues, but he’ll keep quiet in return for sex. She smiles. Serge goes to music school, run by Mr. Sharp, who has a bust of Beethoven in his classroom. The other two pupils are cute young guys, and together they and Serge are a garage band called The Vodka Diatonics. We cut away to Camila hanging out the laundry and being yelled at by Mrs. Olson.

Harry wears glasses while he types up his crosswords in his office, which makes him look intellectual. His secretary, Miss Slutbody, kisses him and sits in his lap while he holds a meeting about the Thunderball account in his office. Phil can’t believe all the action Harry gets, but Phil just isn’t as hot. Phil describes a really big meatloaf his mom made once, and Harry grins.

Camila calls Serge "Pablo". Why he has a code name when he’s a music student, I don’t know. Serge makes Camila smile when he promises to get her tickets to see Sting in concert.

Miss Taft runs out to put a dime in the parking meter, and Bob steals three pounds seven from an envelope in her desk drawer. He's so petty, he's robbing petty cash.

Maggie overacts and sobs, talking to a plaster statue of Jesus on her knickknack shelf. Jesus underplays and comes off as more believable, a first for Jesus. This scene is even odder because Maggie is Jewish.

Camila drops by the SPECTRE office, and chats about American Idol with Miss Taft. They both think Sanjaya is dreamy. Harry catches them mooning over Sanjaya, and shouts, "CAMILA?" He grabs Camila by the elbow and drags her out of the office. Miss Taft flirts with Bob, not knowing he’s robbed her.

Outside Harry angrily reminds her that everyone at work thinks Sanjaya’s gay. The last time Blofeld caught someone voting for Sanjaya, he fed them to sharks. Serge is listening from ten feet away. When Harry goes back inside, Serge runs after Camila, escorts her home, and comforts her, telling her he's considering losing the bun, and getting a pony hawk.

Miss Taft tells Harry and Bob that she's reminded of the time Pittsburgh was eaten by giant alien bushbabies. Harry tells her she’s nuts, and leaves.

Miss Taft tells Blofeld the office gossip. She knows Camila thinks Sanjaya is dreamy, and that this might mean Harry is gay too. Blofeld decides to test Harry.

Harry tells Phil that he’s got crossword block, and can’t think of new clues. Phil pretends to be sympathetic, but he’s plotting. Neither man realizes that it’s their business suits that are interfering with their creativity. If only they’d take their shirts off, they’d get a clue.

Bob comes into Harry’s office and yells at them, only to be interrupted when Blofeld rushes in and reads Bob the riot act for not being as hunky as Harry. Blofeld assigns Harry the Pangborn account, in addition to the Thunderball account and the crosswords. Harry is terrified by this large workload, but tries to hide it.

Mildred works at the Copa, a strip club, where she is pole dancing in front of empty tables. As soon as Fatso, the big boss, comes in, she stops, as she is too shy to dance when people can see her. So far this has nothing to do with anything else going on.

Maggie comforts Camila, who realizes that Harry had a second cup of coffee at the office. He never has a second cup at home. She cries, thinking of how she gave up the tambourine for Harry, and now he’s drifting away. Camila has a B&W flashback to when her grandpa told her that the tambourine was a sacred instrument. Now what is she? A stewardess.

Bob is furious with Maggie for talking to his plaster Jesus, which he only keeps around to be ironic. She begs him to forgive her, but he’s had a tough day at work, and must take it out on her. "Don’t you understand mama? Without those clues, I’m fish food!"

Serge rehearses with his garage band while Harry brings Camila roses and apologizes for calling her a cheap slut in front of his coworkers and printing "My wife is a cheap whore." as a headline in the company newsletter. She still sobs. She’s worked out that the answer to number 14 across in last week’s puzzle, six letters, "A disgusting slut who does it for nickels," was "Camila". He tells her, "It was just a puzzle. It meant nothing." But she sobs more and announces that, until he praises Sanjaya in the New York Times puzzle, he gets no nookie.

Outside, Bob and Serge get into a vicious overacting and fist fight over whether Lakisha or Melinda is the better singer. At which point, today’s episode ended. Eduardo never even loosened his tie.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Cheers darlings.

The Frog Prince

Poor Prince Frederic Von Anhalt Gabor. What a sad day for this great man, this True Royalty, this overly-kissed frog. The DNA results are in for the beleaguered child of Anna Nicole Smith Marshall Stern Birkhead Denk Hatten Morehead von Anhalt Gabor, and it turns out that Larry Birkhead was the "man" who successfully disembarked his little passenger into Anna's ever-busy Grand Central Station. To the Prince's amazement, it turns out you can not impregnate someone via imaginary intercourse. You have to do more than just talk a good fuck, you actually have to have real sex.


It was news to me as well. As I confessed back in my earlier posting, The Elusive Tragedy, I believed that I was the father of Little Anna Nicole Smith Marshall Stern Birkhead Denk Hatten Morehead von Anhalt Gabor's baby, based on our one night of wild elderly-movie-goddess-on-brainless-whore passion, since, contrary to my usual practice, I had topped. But it turns out that you can't sire a child with a dildo either, even a double-headed one! Go figure!


And I'm sure that Freddy's realization that wanking his brains out (What brains he still had, that is) while watching Anna's "Reality" TV show was not sufficient to actually conceive a child, was very traumatic.. How heart-breaking for him. And now poor Little Dannielynn has lost her claim to the throne of Von Anholtland, that magical fairyland where Freddy is beloved royalty, unicorns wander the cobblestone streets, enchanted frogs marry Hungarian movie stars while still proudly announcing that they have shagged zombie sluts, and Oompa-Loompas scatter tart candies in the clouds. It's located somewhere between Monaco and The Emerald City.


Still worse for Prince Freddy, this will only fuel the convictions on the part of sensible people, as well as Zsa Zsa lovers, that the Prince is really just a big clown. And clowns, as Buttons has told us, are funny people.

As I reported in another earlier posting, Some Day My Prince Will Come, the Prince is suing The Fox News Channel and insane right-wing nutjob Bill O'Reilly, for calling him a fraud for claiming to be Little Dannielynn's daddy. This finding is really going to throw a monkey wrench into the Prince's suit, since it is hard to prove that a person, even an over-the-top wacko like O'Reilly, has libelled you by merely stating a simple truth.

But at least Little Danielynn will know who to call "Daddy" when she learns to speak. Yet still, another legal battle remains. It seems that Grandma still wants to challenge Daddy Birkehad for custody of His daughter. Well, she did such a sterling job raising Anna, why not let her instill the same solid values in the next generation? Somewhere out there, there's a billionaire just now turning 70, who will be Prime Husband Material when Dannielynn hits her twenties. I'm clearing my calendar for the wedding now.

But I think we know who won't be invited. Go back to Zsa Zsa, Freddy. You've proved you could be a bigger embarrassment to her than she ever managed to be for herself. That should be achievement enough for anyone. Retire now. Change back into a frog, and start croaking. You'll never top yourself. And you'll never top me. And I haven't said that to a man in 90 years.

Cheers darlings.

Why I Don't Celebrate Easter

I just hate a man who takes until the third day to rise again!

Now where the hell are my eggs?

Cheers darlings.

Ashes to Ashes

So Keith Richards mixed his dad's ashes with cocaine and snorted him? How practical and wise. If only I'd thought of that when my mother finally had the good taste to die. Unfortunately, I was in a Social Blackout at the time, and didn't learn of Mother's exit until long after the fact. I felt like a child who has slept through Christmas, and has woken up to find that her present is already empty. They call the day after Christmas "Boxing Day" because kids get pugilistic when they realize their Yuletide fifth has been polished off by Mommy while they slept, that bitch!

I didn't read the interview itself. Did Keith say if his father was "Good Shit"?

Does anyone know where I can score some primo parent?

I guess Father Richards was no one to sniff at.

Don't you hate when a kid gets all snotty with his parents?

The family that snorts together, cavorts together.

I get high with a little help from my friends.

Why just snort? Why not go all the way, and freebase Daddy?

Got any Peruvian Poppa?

At least the man has real Family Values, in fact his family goes for $50 a gram!

I can do these all night. To paraphrase my dear friend Dame Edna, "Keith didn't get that face from eating strawberries."

Cheers darlings.

Also Separated at Birth?

Not really. In fact, April Fool! Because Angela Lansbury and I have never been separated. Oh she did rip off my signature look for her performance in Death on the Nile, but who can blame her? I'm everything she's ever wanted to be. And let us not forget that, in addition to this flog, I also wrote an entire book. All she's ever written was "Murder."


Along with being April Fool's Day, today is also Palm Sunday, which most churches interpret as Cross My Palm With a Coin Sunday, but which I choose to interpret as a day for riding my palm, if you follow me. (Is that you following me?) Also Passover begins in two days, and you all know what that means; someone will be trotting out that old Cecil Blunt DeMille turkey The Ten Commandments, with that dreary hambone Charleton Heston as the most unlikely Moses imaginable. Why Blunt went with a Gentile to play the most Jewish man in literature, the original Red Sea Pedestrian, I will never know, apart from the fact that his performances were always strikingly pedestrian, and always made me see red.


And there is such a wonderful alternative. If you feel a deep need to see a movie treatment of the Exodus Myth, may I direct your attention to my own 1960 Biblical epic on the life of Moses, Torah! Torah! Torah!, from Pastafazool Films of Italy, and actually shot in Egypt, and I mean all of it, not just the background plates as in Blunt's little Paramount home movie. Blunt merely ripped off our movie, disguising his theft by releasing his four years earlier. I was so angry, I never spoke to him again!


We had a real actor as Moses, the man Cheston wished he was, possibly the most magnetic movie star of the entire 20th Century, and I should know, as I had them all, the one, the only Steve Reeves.

Sadly I did not play either of his love interests, Queen Cleopatra of Egypt, or Moses's Lanolin-soaked wife, Bo-Peep or Shepwhora or whatever her name was, the woman who drove those Brokeback Mountain shepherds into each other's arms to escape her scent. No, I played Bitchia, the sister of Pharaoh, who pulls the infant Moses from the bulrushes and raises him as her own son. Believe me, I saw the rushes every day, and they were all bull. Here's a shot which captures all the acting magic Steverino (His name in Italian.) brought to the role, as he orders Ramses to let his people come.
When Moses built a city for the old Pharaoh, Bill II, King Bill decreed that Moses's name would be carved on every pillar, while Ramses name would be nowhere. Well, the laugh was on Moses in the long run, since Ramses got his name on condoms instead, so he's seen the inside of more twa-twa than Moses ever would. They didn't teach you that in Sunday School, did they? Well our great film dared to tell the Truth, which is why it's so little remembered, despite the hottest Moses of all time. He could part my Red Sea anytime, although I'd prefer it if he waited until it stopped being red.
Sadly, Steve and I didn't have a love scene in the picture, or out of it either, despite our being a perfect match-up; he was a Male Sex God, and I was and remain a slut. I kept suggesting we do one, but our director kept giving me some nonsensical excuse about how I was playing the Mother of Moses. I had to point out that I was his adopted mother - the whole plot hinged on the fact that he was a Hebrew and I was Egyptian - so it wasn't incest. Besides, they lived just a few yards up the Nile from Thebes, where Good King Oedipus set an example Steve's Moses should have leapt on, by leaping on me. Instead, they insisted I play an imaginary, invented emotion they called "Filial Affection," rather than a real emotion, like Lust. Maybe that's why the film is so little remembered today, our selling out on the big sex scene between Steve and I that moviegoers were buying tickets to see. It was our second film together in a row (The other was the fabulous Roman epic, Caligulee, Caligula.), and we still hadn't had a bedroom scene, and Steve was increasingly avoiding me off screen as well. Audiences felt cheated.

But the critics understood. Pauline Kael wrote: "Tallulah Morehead's performance as Moses's Egyptian mother is unforgettable. She turns Moses's life in Egypt into an Oedipal nightmare so intense, any boy would part an ocean to escape.", Judith Crist wrote: "All by herself, Tallulah Morehead is five of the ten plagues of Egypt.", while Charles Champlain wrote: "This picture Sphinx!" Vindication! You can read all about it in my autobiography, My Lush Life, where I also include an account of an amazing adventure I had in Cairo while shooting the picture. This picture was so influential, that I understand the creators of the classic TV sit-com Frasier were inspired to name Frasier's brother Niles after seeing Torah! Torah! Torah! and saying, "Oh Brother!" David Hyde Pierce, you can thank me later.

Well, Little Dougie needs a nap. He is his father's first-born, but his mother's third-born (Don't ask), so every Passover, he's half-dead.

Cheers darlings.