California Declared Disaster Area!

Oh sweet heavens, as if Mike Huckabee winning a primary wasn't bad enough (Just what we need, another President who doesn't believe in evolution. Mike is, after all, proof positive that Man hasn't evolved beyond bacteria, even if he's also a living refutation of "Intelligent Design."), now California, and indeed much of the country, has been struck by a catastrophe that dwarfs Hurricane Katrina, surpasses the recent firestorms, and makes Hiroshima look like the annual Ewing Family BBQ. No, I'm not referring to the fact that the AMPTP's refusal to settle the WGA Strike has resulted in our getting only 8 episodes of LOST this winter, horrific as that is, not to mention a winter edition of Big Brother. This is worse, far, far worse. Owing to Barry Humphries's recent emergency appendectomy, Dame Edna has cancelled her performances in California this month. In fact - brace yourselves! - she's cancelled her whole American tour!



This is the first time in history that our whole country has been devastated by a foreign invasion being called off. NEDS - No Edna Depression Syndrome - is sweeping the nation. Emergency rooms are full of suicides, while ER's Dr. Kovatch is off in Croatia, unable to help. Lack of Edna is laying waste to America. Now we know what caused Britney's meltdown. How can such a brain-free celebrity be expected to cope without Edna's guidance? I can't help her. Whenever I enter a room she's in, her alcohol-detecting ankle bracelet goes off.



Unsurprisingly, FEMA is helpless. Although the incompetent fool Faux-President Dubya had appointed to run FEMA (into the ground) back duing Katrina is long gone, the person running it now is still someone appointed by Dubya, and so he's doing "a heck of a job," in other words, a total incompetent. If I believed in God I'd say God help us. But then, if I believed in God, I'd be standing next to Chuck "Rhodes Scholar" Norris, behind Mike Huckabee, right near the vestigal tail he doesn't believe he has, close to where his brain would be if only he'd evolved one.



Hang on America, and when you vote, vote for the candidate most likely to bring Edna back. We must have hope!



Fortunately, the news isn't all bad. We've had our first entry on this year's Good Riddance List. Carl Karcher, the founder of Carl's Jr., that gourmet eatery which covers our country like a pox, died this week, at the undeserved age of 90. There's nothing like the death of an evil man to start a year off right. Last year it was Saddam Hussein; this year, Carl Karcher.

No, it's not that he started a string of restaurants that has no wine list. It's his political affiliations. Karcher was slightly to the right of Attila the Hun. Hitler once said of him, "He's a little extreme, isn't he?" Basically, he never met a homophobic, anti-gay cause he wouldn't give lots and lots of money to. That's where your dollars went when you ate at Carl's Jr., anti-gay rights political causes. He was a big financial backer, 30 years ago, of the failed California ballot proposition that would have required all the gay teachers in California to lose their jobs. (Who would teach Drama and Choir?) And needless to say, there were plenty of other right-wing lunatic fringe causes he used his millions to support. This is why, for over 30 years, Little Dougie and I have refused to spend a cent at Carl's Jr., until it was no longer that right-wing nut-job's cash cow.

So Welcome to Hell Carl Karcher. Have it your way. I'm celebrating at Burger King. In the musical words of Paul Williams:

"Though your memory lingers on,

All of us are glad you're gone.

If I could live my life half as worthlessly as you,

I'm convinced that I'd wind up burning too."

Cheers darlings.

Sick Comic

The Australian genius Barry Humphries CBE is The Funniest Man in the World. In fact, after my humble and always abject self, he is probably The Funniest Human Alive, which, while not as important as the coveted title of Sexiest Man Alive discussed a couple columns back, still ranks high.

Barry had quite a year in 2007. When last year began, he was smack dab in the middle of Ednafest, a year-long celebration in his home town of Melbourne, Australia, of the 50th anniversary of Dame Edna, who officially first stepped on a stage in 1955. It was the Aussie equivalent of California's Disneyland's Golden Anniversary. Disneyland and Dame Edna have much in common: both make millions of people happy each year, both are elaborate and extensive fakes, and both came into being in 1955, with Golden Anniversary celebrations that lasted well into 2007.

Here Dame Edna is accepting the Key to her home City from the Mayor of Melbourne. I thought that Japan failed to conquer Australia back during World War II, but apparently I was mistaken. Well, the Governor of California ordered blackouts during the war, and I patriotically complied. My personal wartime blackout lasted a couple years, so I missed the end of the hostilities. Who won?

Another Ednafest Event was Ednaville, a painstaking museum recreation of Edna's Moonie Ponds home, where she began her career as a humble housewife and mother. She still is a mother.


The honors just kept coming. Australia issued a set of five Barry Humphries/Dame Edna postage stamps, so that everyone could lick Edna personally, and feel her get all sticky. Although I have never been honored with a postage stamp myself, I have done the next best thing; I have allowed most of the male population of the United States, and a good-sized portion of the allegedly-female population as well, to lick me in person, and I've been constantly sticky for the better part of a century.


Here's two of Barry's stamps, cancelled by Edna's neighborhood Moonie Ponds post office.

Although Edna may feel that allowing every Australian, from Aborigines to surfers to drag queens, to slather her with their saliva may be a bit uncalled-for, Barry is certainly on board. Here he is posting a letter with his stamps, after giving himself a good licking, a feat I've seldom seen performed by anyone but my cat Snatches, and my Great Dane, Baskerville, who often licks himself where it counts, saving me the trouble.

But what's even better than stamps? (Actually, what isn't?) Money, of course. Here's the the Dame Edna commemorative 50 cent piece issued by the Australian Government this past year. There's no truth to the rumor that issuing Dame Edna money is what caused the change of administration there this year, when the homophobic son-of-a-bitch Prime Minister was tossed out and replaced with a man named Kevin. Let's hope something along those lines happens here this year. In any event, it's just an acknowledgement that most of the money in Australia is Barry's now anyway. Although I have never been on money, I did receive a still-higher honor, when my picture was put on a bottle of commemorative vodka.

In June, Emily Perry, who played Dame Edna's bridesmaid and constant travelling companion Madge Allsop, turned 100 years old, and continues on in perfect health. There's an irony here we'll come to in a bit.

But Barry's highest honor came mid-year from the same source as all of my highest honors, a queen, in his case, The Queen, Helen Mirrin herself, when he was confirmed as a Commander of the British Empire, what they call a CBE. That's the same rank as Commander James Bond 007, so now he's Humphries, Barry Humphries. He has a licence to kill - on stage every night.

Weirdly, this means his two primary fictional creations, Dame Edna and Sir Les Patterson, still outrank him. This is how his creations were seen as reacting in an Australian newspaper.

Still not content to loll on his laurels, Barry did a Dame Edna TV series in England this year, The Dame Edna Treatment, during which Dame Edna had to endure the shame of finding our own Beloved President Bartlett disguised as Dame Martine Sheen. Apparently, Martin is dealing with the cancellation of The West Wing in an unhealthy manner. The next thing you know, he'll be shaving his head, driving drunk, and locking himself in the bathroom, refusing to hand Emilio Estavez over to Australian Prime Minister Kevin Federline as ordered.

Another TV legend to leave the air this year along with President Bartlett was Britain's Michael Parkinson. Edna kindly saw him off by appearing on Parkinson's final show, seeing him out much as Bette Midler did for Johnny Carson. Another guest was Spice Stud David Beckham, who naturally took the opportunity of being away from his Spice Wife to get it on with a real fake woman, and bend it like Beckham with Edna. (And yes, that's half of the face of Sir Judy Dench in the background, trying to pry her way in between Edna and Becks, as usual.)

The most spectacular Edna Tribute came when thousands of Edna impersonators stood in formation as Edna's eyeglasses in a Melbourne stadium. Eat your heart out, 2008 Beijing Olympics!

The holidays are always a busy time for Barry. With her annual Christmas TV specials, Dame Edna has become as synonymous with Christmas as are Frankincense, Charles Dickens, and pregnant virgins. The holidays just aren't the same anymore unless one listens to Edna warbling I'm Thinking of Myself This Christmas and Spooky Christmas, and then sheds a rueful tear (Or some form of bodily moisture at least) listening to Sir Les Patterson's sentimental Give Her One For Christmas.

But sadly, it was not to be a Happy New Year for our Barry last week, for one week ago today, on December 30, 2007, Barry was struck ill at a family celebration in Sydney, and rushed to the hospital, where an emergency appendectomy had to be performed on the 73 year old Living Legend, thankfully, a Still-Living Legend! 100 year old Emily Perry is healthier than the future of Reality Television if the WGA strike continues, while 73 year old Barry's appendix is about as healthy as Britney Spears's brain.

But fear not! Barry has pulled through the operation, and is on his feet, in good spirits, and due to be sent home shortly. His new American & Canadian tour - Dame Edna, Live and Intimate - is still expecteded to roll on as scheduled. For those of you here in America and Canada, those tour dates are:

January 18 - 20, Austin, Texas.

January 22 - 27, Fort Worth, Texas.

January 30 - February 2, Palm Desert, California.

February 5 - 10, Scottsdale, Arizona.

February 14 & 15, Richmond, British Columbia, Canada.

February 21 & 22, New Brunswick, New Jersy

February 23, Sewell, New Jersy.

and February 26 & 27, Westbury, New York.

Looking at that schedule, I am reminded of why I left vaudeville the better part of a century ago. Two dates in New Jersey, and in February yet! Not how I recuperate from surgery. After I had Robert Altman's old heart transplanted under my breasts, and following my various liver transplants, I always cocooned at home, curled up with a penis and a bottle or 12 of vodka. (No mollycoddling! It's best to break in a new liver early and often.) But then, Barry realizes how very, very much people stuck living in New Jersey (If "Living" is the accurate term for such an existence) desperately need cheering up, and he is typically unselfishly coming there to give it to them. God bless him. Now wonder he still has such wonderful friends as these:

Get well quickly, Barry darling, and cheers!

January 8 Addendum:

Bad news dears. Another tragedy has struck Texas, although perhaps it's only God's way of punishing the Lone Star State for giving us President Dubya. Owing to his surgical recovery, Barry Humphries has cancelled at least the first two stops on his Dame Edna, Live and Intimate tour. No Texas. No word yet on whether that cancellation will extend to California and the Palm Desert engagement. Rescheduling is to be hoped and prayed for. First the Alamo, then Governor Bush, and now this; hasn't Texas suffered enough? No? All right. Watch this blog for further bulletins as they break.

While I have your attention, this is the 82nd birthday of quite another level of comedian, the one and only (Two would be too many) Soupy Sales! When Little Dougie was 10 years old, he lived for The Soupy Sales Show, live on KABC every day at 5 PM. The Soupster and his trademark pies-in-the-face, and White Fang, the Biggest and Meanest Dog in the United States (Who always sounded like he was endlessly barfing.), and Black Tooth and Pookie and Hippie all made Little Dougie roar with laughter. These days, perhaps not so much.

Bu then again, in 1995, Little Dougie went and saw Soupy perform his night club act live, and he said that, relentlessly corny and lowbrow as the jokes were, Soupy's many, many years of show biz professionalism showed in a dynamite act that was polished to a bright sheen. Sadly, shortly thereafter, a leg injury ended Soupy's stage work. But his comedy lives on on DVDs. And if you've never seen it, rent And God Spoke, a hilarious mockunmentary in the Chris Guest style (Thought NOT made by Chris Guest) in which Soupy plays himself playing Moses (He's better than Heston, - who isn't? - and far more believably Jewish.) in a disastrous low budget Biblical epic. Watching Soupy come down from the mountaintop (Actually the Vasquez Rocks) with the stone tablets in one hand and a six-pack of Coca-Cola in the other (Product placement) is truly hilarious, as are the performances of some of Little Dougie's friends in the movie: Jay Edwardes, Mike Saad, and Fred Kaz.

Anyway, happy birthday Soupy. I'm having mushroom soup made with brandy, and then pushing my face into an American fur pie in your honor.

Cheers darlings.

Harry Razorhands

Little Dougie dragged me down to the multi-plex this weekend to see a movie. I don't go out to the movies much these days. They just don't make them like they used to, by which I mean, starring me! When you hear people complaining that movies aren't as good as they used to be, that's what they are referring to; that the movies no longer star me! But now, they're not even making them the way they do still make them. A prime example was the picture Dougie took me to. I just didn't get Harry Potter and the Demon Barber of Fleet Street at all. I was expecting a nice movie about a randy hair-stylist, like a remake of Warren Beatty's Shampoo. It turned out to be something quite different.

I realize that Tim Burton had a freak success with a children's movie a couple years back, with his Harry Potter and the Chocolate Factory, but still, just handing him the Harry Potter series to do with as he would seemed an odd choice, even for Dreamworks. During the opening credits, it seemed like a good idea. It was basically the same opening credit sequence as in the Wonky Willy movie, only this time in the Cherry & Raspberry part of the factory. But then the odd choices began, and kept coming.

Why on earth recast darling little Daniel Radcliffe as Harry Potter?. Okay, Little Danny has been growing up too fast for the series, and is now just too old to play Harry anymore, plus he's been doing live sex porn shows - with HORSES yet, on stage, which is bad for a kid's star's image, so maybe he had to go. But why replace him with Johnny Depp? Yes, Johnny is a good actor and all, but I do believe he's even older than Little Danny, by many months. And he really needs to get some sun.

Then, they replace Harry's magic wand with magic razors. Yikes! Better get that spell right the first time. And then, they hit all the characters with a Singing Curse, magically forcing them to sing all the time, instead of speaking. I believe The Singing Curse ranks up there with The Imperious Curse, The Curciatus Curse, and The Death Curse, as one of The Unforgivable Curses; in this case, The Excruciatus Curse.

However, if you're going to make everyone sing, shouldn't you hire actors who can sing? Just a thought. Call me crazy, but singing generally sounds better when the person singing actually can sing. It's a revolutionary concept I know. I've always been an innovator. Back in the old days, when we made musicals with non-singers in the leads, Marni Millhous Nixon used to come in and dub their singing. Her Yul Brynner was uncanny! It got to the point that when Angela Lansbury was cast in The Harvey Girls, MGM dubbed her singing out of force of habit, even though she's a great singer. Where was Marni Nixon now, when Tim Burton needed her? Johnny Depp was passable enough, if it were a high school musical at a school for the deaf, but if I want to listen to David Bowie sing (and for the record, I don't. Stay home, Davy.), I'll listen to David Bowie. He's still available on vinyl, isn't he? Oh? Only on vinyl? Okay. Marni would have been a vast improvement on Johnny.

And Helena Bonham Carter? Are they deaf? She could make you wish you were. Helena's singing went to Helena Handbasket. How did she get the part anyway, you ask? Let's put it this way; last week, she gave birth to the director's baby, which means she conceived right around the time she was miscast in the movie. Apparently, she got her role The Old-Fashioned Way. I'm glad to see not all of Hollywood's venerable traditions have gone out of style. And the woman is Beverly Sills next to Alan Rickman's "Singing". (By which I mean dead.)

But let's talk about the story. I'd heard from people who read (Those freaks!) that in the later books, the Harry Potter stories get a little dark, but this movie is a black hole! And not the good kind, either. (The "Good Kind" of Black Hole is the one that Adawale Akinnuoye-Agbaje sits on. Mmmm. And Wally darling, you can use my face for your chair anytime you like!) For some reason, they moved the setting back in time 160 years, to the 1840s, except for the first shot, when Harry and some runway model who calls herself Antonia arrive in London in 1894. (Well, they sail in under Tower Bridge in the opening scene, which wasn't built until 1894, 50 years after the rest of the movie. I guess they were still traveling backwards in time then.) Harry has come for revenge against Severus Snape for fag-bashing Fumblewhore to death, even though that story hasn't been filmed yet. Snape and Wormtail are hiding out from Harry in 1840, Snape working as a Potions Judge, while Wormtail works as a Beetle, an odd combination of animals, even for him. And he's gone back 120 years too far to hide out as a Beatle anyway. (I assume he's pretending to be Ringo, judging by his appearance, and his "Singing". He drums well on Little Antonia.)

Harry teams up with Bellatrix Lovett, a former Death-Eatartrix. It becomes clear that the term Death Eater originally came from folks eating her scrummy Soylent Green Pies, which are death in a crust. Yum! More important, she advocates giving entire bottles of gin to small children, proving that she has reformed from her evil ways, and is now a saint! She gets Little Toby drunk right up front, right after he escapes from Borat, who appears in this movie without underwear, in a costume which proves to all that Borat, like the musical score, is cut. If only he were attractive, it would be a great look. I think the real reason Bellatrix gets Toby sloshed is because he's by far the best singer in the cast, and makes her sound bad every time he starts warbling. (Actually, she makes herself sound bad every time she starts warbling, by warbling.)

Anyway, Harry eventually gets his revenge on Judge Snape, ironically turning his old potions master into a potion himself; not, I imagine, a grooming potion.

Of course, Harry's success with his Snape Potion gets him all carried away. He turns Scabbers, aka Wormtail, aka Peter Pettigrew, aka Beatle Ringo, into ratatouille, thus allowing him to finally settle on a species. He roasts Bellatrix, and even serves up Ron Weasley and that insufferable Know-It-All Grainger. I'll pass on having any of her, thanks. I always found her hard to swallow.

Meanwhile, Little Antonia, the girl who sailed into London's past with Harry, forms a passionate lesbian attachment for Joanna, a dishrag she never meets. As everyone knows, lesbians are like pigeons; they mate for life. What do you call "Living Together for 20 Years"? "A lesbian first date." So although Joanna and Antonia never meet, they fall deeply in love, and would swear eternal fealty with each other forever if only they ever got to speak or sing two words to each other. Harry almost tries to shave Joanna, despite her being a female, a natural mistake easily made with many lesbians.

Well, eventually everyone gets raspberry jam and cherry soda all over themselves. Harry has problems fixing his recliner easy chair, and Mrs. Lovett's Soylent Green Pies are a raging success. The faculty of Hogwarts is appalled. I would have been appalled myself, but I was enjoying a drink with Vodkamort, The Drunk Lord, and some Fermentors. I now have to wait for Harry Potter and the Half-Wit Queen, next fall.

But at least Little Orphan Harry Potter has finally found his long-lost sister, who is definitely a witch!

Soylent Green pie anyone?

Cheers darlings.

Love, Death, and "Blank".

Relax darlings, I’m not dead. I was in hiding, but I’m back now.


My last posting, which has remained on top for such a long time (Which is just where you want the World’s Sexiest Men Alive - on top!), provoked controversy beyond my expectations. Oddly though, no one has complained about having those lovely pictures of gorgeous men posted for so long. Nor did rabid Matt Damon fans besiege me with protests. They were busy watching the DVD release of The Bourne Aquarium, over and over.


No, it was insane Larry King fans and ex-wives who absolutely could not abide my insistence that Sir Sean Connery was, is, and ever shall be the Sexiest Old Guy Alive, until such time as he is dead. Having spent Christmas pouring over the obituaries for 2007 (As long as my own name is absent, which it was, there’s no more Christmassy way to spend this dreary pagan festival, once the vodka has been unwrapped.), I can state with semi-certainty that Sir Sean is still alive and sexy.

However, Morehead Heights, my magnificent movie star mansion, was picketed by a mob of rabid Larry King groupies, making a terrific clatter marching about, day after day, loudly clanking their walkers, which those blue-haired biddies can wield like lethal weapons. I had to go into hiding in my underground fallout-wine-cellar-shelter, which is equipped with enough alcohol to survive a nuclear holocaust, a third Bush Administration, or a third season of Jericho, whichever is worst. There I remained, accompanied only by the Headless Indian Brave each night, until all the Larry King fanatical groupies died out, which took the better part of three weeks. Fortunately, no one develops sexual longings for Larry King who has more than a month to live. They’re all gone now, and I have commissioned environmental artist Christo to turn their abandoned walkers, now strewn about my driveway, into a beautiful sculpture, to be called Mobilis Immobile.

Since it’s really too late for a Christmas posting, I thought I’d do my year-end death wrap-up. Many people died this year, but I’d like to discuss a case of Star-Crossed True Lovers turned tragic.

Yes Brett Somers and Charles Nelson Reilly were perhaps THE great lovers of 70s daytime TV. Forget Luke and Laura (Oh. You already have? What a time-saver.), Brett and Charles were the lovers who broke your heart on The Mismatch Game every day. Their ruthless passion for each other was doomed never to be consummated. Two obstacles to their love could never be overcome:

1. Brett was tragically shackled in marriage to Jack Klugman, despite his having abandoned her for his One Great True Love, Tony Randall. They could never divorce because they had Catholic friends, though it was a sham of a marriage.

2. Brett’s clitoris just wasn’t big enough to give Charles’s butt the kind of rough pounding he craved. Brett’s loss was Paul Lynde’s gain.

But when Charles finally passed away this year, after a career as one of Hollywood’s most virile leading men (Who could forget his heterosexual pretense in the original Broadway production of Hello Dolly, which the critics called the funniest thing in that delightful musical farce?), his death was more than Brett could take, and she died soon after, of a broken heart. As the wife of more gay men than you could shake your sticks at (Though they’d love it if you would.), I know just how painful it can be to love a man who can not return your passion merely because you only have a vestigial penis. (Just like Clark Gable, according to mouth-witnesses) We can only hope that they are now united in TV Heaven, where they finally match they way Charles always needed them too

A few other folks passed away as well, so let’s take some quick glances at them. Naturally, there is always the NO LOSS LIST, this year including such human blights as:

Anna Nicole Smith
Boris Yeltsin
Jerry Falwell
E. Howard Hunt
Kurt Waldheim
Ike Turner

Henry Hyde.

Actually, with Hyde, Fallwell, and Waldheim, it's more of a Good Riddance List.

But to hell with them, which, ironically, is just where they’re headed. Let’s remember some good folks. If you’re dead and I’ve left you off the list, well, you’ll never know, will you? For those of you dying between Christmas and New Years Eve, sorry. You didn't make the cut. Get your asses out the door faster next time. I haven't got all day you know. In no particular order, in 2007, we lost:

Magnus Magnusson, Mastermind of Mastermind. This know-all now knows nothing.
Yvonne De Carlo, Nearly as beautiful as me. Coincidentally, we were both married to Frankenstein’s monster.
Carlo Ponti, This movie producer had a very hot wife. I like men as much as the next guy (Which is saying something, considering the next guy is Little Douglas), but I’d do Sophia in a vodka minute.
Darlene Conley, Bold, beautiful, and hilarious.
Peter Ronson, This little-known Icelander was hot as hell back in Journey to the Center of the Earth in 1959. I wonder what he looked like 48 years later.
Art Buchwald, A giant, albeit, a short giant.
Bob Carroll Jr. He made Lucy funny, no easy task.
Sidney Sheldon. He made Jeannie funny before writing a lot of trash.
Lee Bergere. Forever the Carrington butler.
Molly Ivins She could have filled the void left by Buchwald, but instead she trailed along after him.
Barbara McNair. She played a nun with Elvis! And once she sang along with Little Douglas on one of his funny penis songs.
Frankie Laine, He’s caught the mule train to the next world.
Sir Ian Richardson. A fabulous actor! Too bad he squandered his great talent on all that crappy Shakespeare junk.
Peter Ellenshaw, The great matte painting artist, who made the London Mary Poppers flew over.
Buster Keaton Jr. Well, his dad was a genius.
Walker Edmiston, Wonderful puppeteer and actor, who once had dinner with Little Dougie and Doodles Weaver. Aren't you glad you weren't a fly on the steaks at that supper?
Ray Evans. He gave us stuff to sing about.
Sheridan Morley, I thought his dad was gay!
Janet Blair, She was Vincent Price’s Peter Pan, among other roles.
Bruce Bennett, One of two Tarzan’s who died this year. I must step up the auditions.
Thomas Eagleton. He was no help to George McGovern at all.
John Inman. Wonderful comic actor, a bit of a pouf, the proud possessor of an autographed copy of my book, and what gay man could ask for a more appropriate name?
Richard Jeni, Fine comic.
Betty Hutton. My ears are still ringing.
Bowie Kuhn. Something to do with sports. I don’t follow them.
Stuart Rosenberg. Never directed me.
Freddie Francis. Neither did he, but he directed a lot of Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee’s scary movies, and he won an Oscar for cinematography.
Calvert DeForest. As Larry "Bud" Melman, he proved you don’t need talent to have talent.
Calvin Lockhart, Calvin, on the other hand, did have talent, and sweet Heaven, he was gorgeous!
Michael Dibdin. Good author, or so I’m told by people who read books, and how can you trust them?
Stan Daniels, Brilliant comedy writer, and the author of The Butler Song! Now for eternity, he'll be screwing Delores Del Rio. Sounds like Heaven to me.
Johnny Hart. His humor was prehistoric, and his Id was wizardly.
Barry Nelson, The first James Bond. Fortunately, they tried again, with Sir Sean.
Roscoe Lee Browne, Large talent, magnificent voice, short stature.
Kurt Vonnegut Jr. Wrote a good book or two, the rest were GREAT!
Don Ho, Famous for singing about champagne. Sounds like a genius to me!
Kitty Carlisle, She sang she was Alone when in a crowd of Marx Brothers, What was her line again? Line!
David Halberstam. Ever read one of his gigantic books? Me neither. Some people called him a social critic, but who wants to socialize with a critic?
Bobby Pickett. He’s mashed his last monster.
Jack Valenti. He almost made the No Loss List. He gave us the movie rating system. So what exactly is the difference between X and NC-17?
Dabbs Greer, Darling Dabbs. He named Superman, among five million other performances.
Tommy Newsom, When the Doctor was out, Tommy was in. He was a sexophonist. Sounds like he made dirty phone calls.
Tom Poston. Do they make better comic actors? Nope!
Gordon Scott. Another dead Tarzan. Stop the slaughter!
Wally Schirra, He was out of this world!
Curtis Harrington. What’s the Matter With Helen? Whoever Slew Auntie Roo? He was the man to ask. The merest whisper of a homo, a pal of James Whale, a talent for cinema.
Fulton Burley. He sang Clancy Lowers the Boom over 40,000 times, and was hilarious every time.

Gretchen Wyler, Lovely actress.
Mala Powers, Also a lovely actress.
Don Herbert. Not a lovely actress, but as Mr. Wizard, he taught kids long before Dumbledore did.
Ed Friendly, He made Rowan & Martin even funnier.
Leo Burmester, a fine actor. He once hugged Little Douglas as Dougie sobbed. He was Les Miserables at the time.
Joel Siegel, Big mustache. Liked movies. Friend of Little Kent Levine. Never gave me a bad review! Now that’s my idea of a film critic.
Moe Di Sesso, After he left Bodega Bay, they were cleaning up the bird droppings for months, and what he did with Willard’s rats wasn’t very pretty either.
Beverly Sills, Call her Bubbles darlings, everybody did. Has stopped warbling.
Kent North. Hunky gay porn star who took his own life. Never mind what he’s stopped doing, although I have it on DVD.
Kerwin Mathews. Sinbad, Kerwin good. A beautiful homo famous for fighting the overly anorexic.
Charles Lane, Charlie was the third oldest living member of SAG, after Betty White and me. Now he's not.
Lady Bird Johnson. She wanted to "Beautify America," and finally has.
Kieron Moore, Some people got hot when they saw Jeanette Scott fight a triffid that spat poison and killed, but I got hot watching Kieron saving Jeanette from those same triffids. He fought Sir Sean too, in Darby O’Gill and the Little People.
Jerry Hadley. A fat lady must have vocalized, because Jerry’s opera is over. Two down. It’s a start.
Tammy Faye Bakker. Just barely escaped the No Loss List. Mascara stocks plunged when she died.
László Kovács, Took a good picture or two.
William Tuttle. He gave Tony Randall 7 faces, which must have confused the hell out of Jack Klugman.
Michelangelo Antonioni. Supposedly a great film-maker, but I could never understand a single word anyone spoke in his pictures.
Ingmar Bergman, Same gag applies to Ingrid here, though he was beautiful in Casablanca.
Lee Hazlewood. He sang with Nancy Sinatra, which wasn’t easy. His boots have walked - to Boot Hill.
Hal Fishman. He reported the news on KTLA channel 5 in Los Angeles since the Revolutionary War. Now that he’s dead, there's no more news.
Merv Griffin. I never married him. I think.
Phil Rizzuto, He was famous for something.
Richard Jewell, He was famous for not being a crazed bomber. Neither am I. Neither are you. Oh? You are? I stagger corrected.
Madeleine L'Engle. Salvador Dali had to iron all his limp clocks again after she wrinkled time.
Jane Wyman. A great first lady.
Danny Roddick, a very pretty gay porn star, but, let’s say, not entirely happy.
Alice Ghostley. Such a funny lady, and now Alice is ghostley.
Marcel Marceau, French blabberhands.
Charles B. Griffith, He wrote Little Shop of Horrors. Good writer. Worked cheap.
Martin Manulis, Producer. Made stuff.
Lois Maxwell. She died without ever getting porked by James Bond. While Sir Sean was Bond, it was tragic, but when Roger Moore took the role, it was a narrow escape!
Ned Sherrin, Witty funny English actor. They still have a few more left though.
Gary Franklin, On the Franklin scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being best, he was a 10, by which I mean, he was the best Gary Franklin around.
George Grizzard. He just never could beat Sam Waterston on Law & Order, but that’s no reason to die. He wasn’t afraid of Virginia Woolfe.
Deborah Kerr, Class, beauty, talent. I hate her guts!
Joey Bishop. The last Rat Packer to die. Now to get rid of these damn roaches.
Robert Goulet, If ever he could leave us, it turned out to be in Autumn.
Peter Viertel, He hunted elephants with John Huston. Fortunately for the elephants, he was better as a writer.
Laraine Day, Lovely actress.
Norman Mailer. I’m told he was a great writer, but don’t ask Gore Vidal about him.
Delbert Mann, A director, but he never cast me, so fuck him.
Ira Levin. He cheated on his Stepford Wife to give Rosemary a Baby who was a Boy from Brazil. In Deathtrap, he made Christopher Reeve make out with Michael Caine. That’s entertainment! Little Dougie has read all his novels. Dougie hasn't read any of Mailer. That tells you a lot about him.
Michael Blodgett, Used to appear on TV shirtless. A Saint.
Ronnie Burns. George and Gracie’s son. Loved him on their TV show, 55 years ago. What’s he been doing since?
Dick Wilson, This perv was obsessed with groping anal wipes. Ew. What a thing to be famous for.
Verity Lambert The mother of Doctor Who, and a BBC legend. Her name means "Truth". What a burden.
Joe Restivo. Good comic.
Mel Tolkin, Great comedy writer. Had nothing to do with The Lord of the Rings, more's the pity. It could have used some more laughs.
Evel Knievel, You know, those seat belts are there for a reason.
Dan Fogelberg, Good warbler. Could scribble out new warblings too.
Jack Linkletter, Outlived by his daddy Art. Rode most of the rides at Disneyland before you did.
Frank Capra Jr. His dad never directed me, so fuck him too.
Luciano Pavarotti. That’s three dead opera singers. A hat trick.
Tom Snyder, Now Dan Ackroyd needs a new act. He made being fatuous entertaining, which is more than Larry King ever has.
Denny Doherty, Oh momma, he was a poppa!
Miyoshi Umeki, They gave her an Oscar for pretending she was in love with Red Buttons. Never was an Oscar more deserved, or more unpleasantly won.

Just keep telling yourselves, you’re not dead, and even better, neither am I!

Cheers darlings.

Boxing Day Addendum:

I know I issued a Death Cut-Off on Christmas, but I just learned that legendary dancer-choreographer Michael Kidd has died, and as he actually died a couple days ago, and he was an amazing talent, I've decided to relax my rule and let him slip in. Incidentally, I'd have relaxed and let him slip in anytime he liked, as he was a doll 50 years ago. Yes, he was a guy, and yet he was a doll, which may be why he choreographed the original Broadway production of Guys and Dolls. And get this! Even though he was a ballet dancer and a Broadway and Hollywood choreographer, he was straight! He even had Kidd's kids! What an innovator! No wonder I never married him. Another of his best remembered works was choreographing 7 Brides for 7 Brothers, or as I always thought of it, 14 Married In-Laws. That's a lot of dancers for a short man to handle. He was 92 at his passing, and I undestand he'd retired from dancing for some reason a few months back. They all get lazy after a while.

So dying celebs, don't be a last-minute entry next year. Particularly you candidates for the No Loss List. Get on the list early and often, and Ann Coulter, I'm talking to you!

Cheers darlings.

The Most Important Issue in the World!

The war in Iraq, the presidential race, the WGA strike, the effect of the Bush administration on liquor prices, all these are important issues I'm told, but let us be frank, People Magazine opened up a can of worms last month which has forced me to confront The Most Important and Controversial Issue on Earth: who is The Sexiest Man Alive?


The controversy erupted when People inexplicably chose Matt Damon for the title. I swear (constantly), the first thought to pop into my turban was "Oh my God! Did Huge Jackman die?" One transcontinental telephone call to Australia later, I was relieved to learn the answer was "No." Bu this raised the unavoidable question, if Huge still lives, how can someone else be The Sexiest Man Alive? The title is deservedly Huge's until he dies, or at the very least, is horribly disfigured.


And really, Matt Damon? Yes, Little Matty is adorable, and is rumored to be able to act as well. In addition, he has an Oscar --- for WRITING! (The peculiar hobbies some people have. You'd never catch me writing! What am I doing right now? I'm dictating. It's entirely different. Just ask Joseph Stalin.) Matt and his co-winner Ben Affleck (A not-unsexy lad himself.) must be the only members of the WGA who actually can leave the lights on when they get laid, and have had sex without having to pay for it. They've even had sex with movie stars; I mean in addition to each other. However, neither really makes my short list of The World's Sexiest Men. And really, as a member of the WGA, shouldn't Matt have refused the award while he is on strike? Take a look at Matt, compared with the actual short list.





There's Huge of course, the True Title Holder, beautiful Brendan Fraser, star of George of the Jungle and Gods and Monsters, the awe-inspiring Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje of LOST and OZ, Hungarian gay porn star Arpad Miklos (Who is available for rent, and I don't mean his videos. You can rent Arpad himself. He's pricey, but he's worth every penny!), and the reigning James Bond, Daniel Craig. Does Little Matt really belong with those gods? He may be the Talented Mister Ripley, but these others are the Talented Misters Ripped Abs.


Being The World's Foremost Authority on Male Pulchritude, I was naturally called upon to check Matt out personally, and take his qualification in hand, if only I could have found it, which ought to eliminate him from consideration altogether right there.





I addressed this controversy briefly in announcing my Studly Hunk of the Month for December, where I chose Brendan Fraser, since Adawale, Arpad, and Daniel have already served, and Huge has served twice. Brendan made my short list of future ex-husbands when I saw George of the Jungle, a fascinating nature film, and Gods & Monsters, which Little Dougle lists among the top ten films of the 1990s. When I investigated his qualification, what I found impressed me deeply, very deeply, and thickly as well. The man is what God would have had in mind when He invented Man, if only He existed, which is why Brendan's Studly Hunk portrait is of him as Adam.




Of course, Matt and Brendan have history together, as the photo below bears witness, albeit a picture from long enough ago that Branden hadn't yet achieved his full, buff perfection. Side by side, you can clearly see why Brendan beat Matt. As it happens, I overheard their conversation at the time, so it's included.





So how can Matt have beaten Brendan for People's misbegotten honor? Is there no justice in the world? Oh, the hunky humanity! Something fishy is at work here.




In the midst of this controversy, another, albeit lesser controversy erupted. The AARP (Association of Attenuated Rotting People), an organization of old people (Yes I know that, at age 110, I am one of the oldest people on earth, but on me the years are undetectable!) selected Larry King as Sexiest Old Guy Alive. No, I'm not kidding. Larry King, the moronic old fart who sits at a desk, his suspenders holding up his truss, pitching soft ball questions to folks who can't get booked on good shows, or are afraid of the penetrating, hardball questions Ellen DeGeneris will toss at them, has been selected Sexiest Old Guy Alive! Again, my immediate response was, "Oh no! Paul Newman and Sir Sean Connery must have died!" Fortunately, that has not happened. (At least as of 1:28 AM, December 3rd, 2007. At their age, that "Alive" status could change at any second.) Look and compare their respective sexiness for yourself.




Okay, none of them are looking their best these days, although Larry is still the clear loser. But let's even the odds a little (Is that mathematically possible?) by comparing them at their peaks.




It's just no contest. Larry has "Loser" tattooed on his forehead. (Under the combover.) And while Paul and Sir Sean seem to be neck-and-neck (and what glorious necks. Don't they make you want to neck?), I have to give the title to Sir Sean.


In fact, Sir Sean just made sex symbol headlines yet again, when a nude painting he posed for half a century ago recently came to light, and is well worth lighting. I must admit to being almost as impressed by the artist as by the model. If I had Sir Sean standing about wearing nothing but a purple mirkin, I'd never be able to concentrate on painting. Panting, yes. Painting, no.





As a gourmand of men, I was called upon, way back around 1950, to judge a male beauty pageant in Scotland where a very young Sir Sean Connery was a contestant. As a modest young man, he was not yet using his title professionally, so as not to have an unfair edge. The only reason he didn't win was because I deducted points from him for shaving his chest. There's nothing wrong with being naturally smooth, but if you're masculine enough to have furry pecs, leave them that way. Only women should shave their chests. God knows, I've been waxing my breasts for years, and the results are well worth it, despite the waxy yellow build-up. Sir Sean learned his lesson however, and has never shaved his chest since, having taken to shaving his head instead, and he really should stop doing that too. It makes him look old.



From early on in Sir Sean's career, a certain rumor concerning his - ah - dimensions has been circulating throughout show business. Let's just say that the number 14 has been mentioned again and again, most often by women with severely bowed legs. At least, I think the number was 14. It's hard to understand what people are saying when they've dislocated their jaws. Milton Berle once said, "Sir Sean makes me feel inadequate." Let's just say that the truth about Sir Sean's legendary endowment is rather hard to swallow, but it's well worth trying.

Not being one to take other people's word about such a vital piece of information, I lured, I mean invited, Sir Sean into my hot tub, strapped on my snorkeling mask, and investigated the matter at hand personally.

In the immortal words of Madeline Kahn, "It's twue! It's twue!" And my jaw healed in just a few days.

Sir Sean is not above a little investigating himself. Here he is perusing my award-dodging autobiography My Lush Life, a mere 37 years before it was published. Sir Sean is an active, energetic man, one who would never put off an important task like reading my book until the last minute. So what's your excuse? This column is finished. You could read it right now.

Cheers darlings.