Separated at Birth?

We've all been wondering what planet Sanjaya Maladroit was from. Well now we know. The definite proof that he is indeed from Mars has been unearthed.


My thanks to longtime reader Jeffrey Swanson for bringing Malakar the Martian's family roots to my attention. It makes so much sense to me now.


Cheers darlings.

The Horror. The Horror.

Good God darlings, the is The Worst Photograph of Me I have ever seen!


I realize that my judgement is occasionally a tad impaired due to the quality of American vodka, but what was I thinking when I put on that outfit? This is the last time I let the Headless Indian Brave do my make-up! And how on earth could I possibly have forgotten which end to stick the vibrator in? The last time I made that mistake, I had to have my entire upper plate replaced. But then, judging from my facial expression, I have backed up onto my back-up vibrator.


At least my hair looks nice.


Actually, if I may be serious for a moment, I understand that Sanjaya Maladroit chose this look after seeing 300. It's his Roman Gladiator Helmet look. The boy doesn't know the difference between a Trojan and a Roman, which means whatever the hell he is doing in this picture, it isn't safe sex --- or singing. I understand that, if he is finally kicked off the show - and if he isn't, I will officially become an atheist - he will get work as the toothbrush for Mount Rushmore.


Watching Little Jordan sing last night, it occurred to me that David Copperfield could just flick his wrists and her earrings would be linked. And then it occurred to me that I'd rather be seeing that. I know I've sunk to the depths when I'd rather watch a magician.


Last night Little Simon said to Gina Glockenspiel, referring to her improved performance, "It was literally chalk and cheese." Apparently this Englishman has never learned English, as he had just told her that she was, in fact, a piece of cheese, having formerly been, in fact, a piece of chalk. I'm sure he meant that she was like chalk and cheese. The man needs to look up the meaning of the word "Literally". Gina is, at worst, a bit cheesy. Maybe her scent threw him off. More than once my own signature aroma has provoked the greeting, "Who brought the Limburger?"


Understand, I only tuned into American Idol originally because I'd made the natural mistake of thinking it was a show about me, which is sole the reason it's getting those unbelievably high ratings. The show is deliberately deceptively titled to lure in my fans. But I got hooked while waiting, week after week, for Brandon Rogers to take off his shirt. Let's face it; Shirtless Night will be a catastrophe if the only men left when they get to it are Sanjaya and Chris Sligh.


After Lakisha sang Diamonds Are Forever last week, I found myself wishing they'd do a James Bond Title Song Theme Night. Aren't you dying to hear Sanjaya whisper Goldfinger? Wouldn't you like to see Tom Jones coach Little Uncle Fester Jr. on how to bellow Thunderball? Aren't you just waiting on pins and needles (How uncomfortable. I wondered where I'd left this pin cushion.) to hear Simon, after someone sings Live and Let Die, say "Sir Paul Who?" The really lyric-retention-challenged contestants (That's all of them except Melinda.) could hum the theme tune to On Her Majesty's Secret Service, while Little Blake Lewis beatboxes The James Bond Theme. Simon would assume that Nobody Does It Better was about him. (It's not. Carly told me. It's about me.) Imagine Little Nancy Sinatra coaching Gina on how to sing You Only Live Twice between Nancy's shifts waiting table down at Shakey's Pizza. And through the whole evening, I could think about Daniel Craig, and touch myself inappropriately.


Whoops. Have to go. Eddie Griffin has just arrived, to drive me to The Liquor Barn.


Cheers darlings.

Abscess Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

We can all relax now, and go back to ranting about how Sanjaya Maladroit hasn't been evicted from American Idol yet, despite being the most unbearable "singer" since Nelson Eddy. (I don't know who is voting for him, but I have noticed that for two hours after the American Idol broadcast each week, you can not get tech support.) The autopsy results are in for Anna Nicole Smith Marshall Stern Birkhead Denk Hatten Morehead von Anhalt Gabor, and to our National Relief, the cause of her death has turned out to be Natural Causes.

Specifically, she died of "an accidental overdose of prescription drugs." Darlings, what could be more natural? When a creature behaves according to it's nature, that's Natural Causes! I suppose you keep meticulous track of how much chloral hydrate, diazepam, and methadone you take each day? Let me tell you, once that chloral hydrate kicks in, it's pretty damn hard to keep track of anything, even who is impregnating you.

I try to avoid most prescription drugs myself, as you never know which ones react badly with alcohol, and I react badly without alcohol. I had a terrible Brush With Death myself a few years back that came from mixing vodka with chloral hydrate. I'd been knocking back the vodka tonics all evening with Bea Arthur (I adore all The Golden Shower Girls, although after Betty White clocked poor little Leslie Jordan with a skillet on Boston Legal, I no longer allow her near my kitchen.), and then I misunderstood my doctor's instructions, and thought he'd said I needed some "Choral Hydrate", and I ended up inadvertently drowning the baritone section of The Mormon Tabernacle Choir. They hushed it up, of course.

There's been a lot of ballyhoo about an infected abscess on Anna's lovely and spacious behind. Some people seem to think that Foul Play must have been involved, although, apart from Chevy Chase being in it, it's a perfectly good movie. The giant albino in that film, Whitey Jackson, always got my knockers in a twist. Anyway, there are those who ask why no one noticed that abscess and did anything about it.

At first blush - a facial reaction outside Anna's range - it would seem that someone should have noticed, given the amount of foot traffic that butt saw. Why didn't "Prince" Frederic von Anhalt Gabor, for one, notice the abscess as he extracted his withered puss from between her cheeks? What this fails to take into account is the tremendous amount of territory that needed to be examined to find one tiny little raw, infected abscess. Are you likely to find one lone caribou when flying over Alaska in a state of bliss? Besides, in recent years, Anna's lovers, husbands, boyfriends, Gabor husbands, and delivery men were all probably keeping their eyes tightly closed all the time she was naked, out of respect. And anyone who did see it, probably mistook the abscess for Bobby Trendy. (By the way, why the hell hasn't Bobby Trendy put in a claim to be little Dannielynn's daddy yet? What is he waiting for? I'm perplexed.)

Given all the bizarre substances in her body - prescription drugs, silicone, von Anhalt sperm - I just hope little Dannielynn wasn't on the interminable list of people she was breast-feeding. Just how well do chloral hydrate, diazepam, methadone, and milk react with silicone anyway?

It was reported that she'd also been ill with the flu, the infection, and chronic idiocy for sometime, but had resisted going to a doctor because, and I am quoting Howie Stern now, "She wanted to avoid the media frenzy." That certainly worked out for her.

So now the results are in, and we need never bring her name up in the media again ever! She's been reunited in Media Hell with the man she always claimed was her One True Love, darling little J. Howard Marshall II, a fairy tale ending to one of the greatest love stories of all time. All America is now sobbing worse than darling little emotionally unstable Ashley Ferl in a Ryan Seachrest-Sanjaya Maladroit manwich. The Headless Indian Brave is beside himself. (How does he do that?)

As for me: although my personal pathologist started my autopsy sometime ago, saying "Why wait till the last minute?", the results aren't in yet. Stay tuned. Until then,

Cheers darlings.

My First Mistake

When you're nearly 110, you make the rare error. I made one in my earlier post, Betty Hutton Makes Her Heave. I said there that Betty Hutton's tale of an immoral tail, The Miracle of Morgan's Creek, was directed by Preston Sturgeon, the man who wrote & directed such classic wartime comedies as Ed Sullivan's Travels, The Great McMuffin, Ramadan in April, and my own classic transvestite farce The Lady Steve. Oops.

Roger Ebert, who apparently has nothing better to do while he recuperates, struggled out of his sick bed to call me and berate my error, pointing out that Miss Hutton's tragic "Comedy", in which a poor single mother of five, the daughter of Uncle Charlie, ends up married to Eddie Bracken (Could there be a worse fate?), was written & directed by some obscure hack named Preston Sturgis, like I give a rat's ass. Stick a thumb in it, Rog. I haven't forgotten your review of my directorial debut, The Carpetmunchers. ("It reminds me of entertainment, but not often.")

The movie I was thinking of, that my divine director and friend, comedy genius Preston Sturgeon, wrote & directed, the stunning story of Morgan Kockenlicker, the first gay man to get pregnant via butt-fun, was titled The Miracle of Morgan's Crack. Now that was a great movie, unlike the crap excreted by this Sturgis hack. I believe Ebert gave his Thumb Up Morgan's Crack, maybe both, though that would have been quite a stretch. It stars Betty Hussy, Justin Thyme, Sabu, Olivia DeHeffalump, irascible character actor Wally Damitall, who was in all of Preston's movies (Guess why.), and Harry Rumpole as Morgan. Netflix it today.

I should have known something was fishy about this Sturgis.

Cheers darlings.

Third Time's The Charm

All right, you can reset The Celebrity Death Meter back to zero. In my flogging last week, Betty Hutton Makes Her Heave, I mentioned two celebrity deaths, Betty and the English comic pouf John Inman, who often was, and then discussed how they say celebrity deaths always come in threes. Well, the prophesied third celebrity death has occurred, and to the relief of my thousands of surviving fans - you who go to bed each night praying, "Oh Lord, please take me before Tallulah Morehead, as I don't want to live in a world without Tallulah." - it wasn't me. Ennio Morrocone breathed a sigh of relief also.

This time it was Calvert "Larry 'Bud' Melman" DeForest, the only man to have a Quotes Nickname within a Quotes Nickname. The late Bob "Big Republican Tool" Hope must be seething with envy in Hell, while he simmers in a lake of fire.

Calvert, like the late Vicki Lynn Hogan, aka Anna Nicole Smith Marshall Stern Birkhead Denk Hatten Morehead von Anhalt Gabor, was a celebrity devoid of any trace of talent or acting ability. Apparently, the less talent a celebrity has, the more names they require, not that I, Countess Tallulah Clytemnestra Morehead Knight Thalberg Tepes Karloff (Pratt) Towers (Suderstrombork) Herkert Borgnine Bronze Berman, have any experience being talentless. Calvert DeForest had the extra added advantage of a weird name. Who ever heard of anyone else named "Calvert"? Was he named for a sewer? How romantic.

However, unlike Miss Smith, Calvert was post-modernly, ironically-knowing about his lack of any perceptible talent. That was the whole point of him, rather like Ruby Keeler. He was an inspiration to the pointless. If he could become famous and successful, who couldn't? Next time a homeless person asks you for money or a cocktail, tell them, "Hey, if Calvert DeForest could be a TV Star, and George W. Bush could pose as a 'President of the United States', why the hell aren't you a Queen of England?" They'll stop listening to you after "If" of course, unless they are a Queen of England, but you'll just feel better getting it off your chest. I know I always feel better when someone gets off on my chest.

I met Mr. Melman-DeForest a bit over 20 years ago. He was very sweet, unassuming, friendly, approachable, and accommodating. In person, he was even less appetizing than on TV. He had soft doughy, spongy skin the color of old snow, that hung like my breasts, in loose, shimmying pouches. He looked like the Pillsbury Dough Grandfather. He was so physically unappealing that I almost didn't offer to have sex with him.

And then, on top of all that, he turned me down! Okay, I'm a quarter of a century older than he, and he was 65 then, but really! It's not like women were lining up for him. Joan Crawford was dead. I'll have you know, my marriage to Trevor Berman still lay in the future at that time. Trevor wasn't too proud to schtup me, and he was over 70 years younger than me, and gay, yet he still managed to hold his breath and dive in, once I told him where it went. Hell, if I was good enough for Quasimodo, I should have been good enough for Larry "Bud" Melman.

So let his Hideous Fate - dying peacefully at age 85, beloved by many for doing quite little - be a lesson to all of you out there; NEVER turn down sex with Miss Tallulah Morehead! In fact, I suggest you all hop in your cars, drive out to Morehead Heights, and shag the bloody hell out of me right now. Think of it as medicinal sex. I take all major health plans and HMOs For that matter, I've always taken, and often married, all major HOMOs.

Learn from The Tragedy of Calvert DeForest; don't wait until it's Too Late!

Cheers darlings