Atkins Die It!

In my last flogging, I dealt with a recent death I found personally heart-breaking: my darling Henry Gibson. Well this week Death has struck again, only this time he's done some good, and taken a tremendously evil creature to a long-deserved demise. Susan Atkins, aka Sadie Mae Glutz, has died. There's no way that's anything but good news. She died slowly of cancer. Hopefully it was excruciatingly painful. With any luck, she died in agony and despair.

Now why am I, normally the kindest, most compassionate, most utterly-selfless person on earth, doing a Fred Astaire tap dance special on the grave of Susan Atkins? Look at this picture.

That is gorgeous Sharon Tate Polanski. In 1969, she was a budding movie star. She'd made a splash in the slick trashy soap opera movie Valley of the Dolls with Patty Duke and Susan Hayward. While making The Fearless Vampire Killers, aka Dance of the Vampires, she and genius director Roman Polanski fell in love and got married. Roman went on to have his own sexual and legal troubles, but if it hadn't been for Susan Atkins, those aberrations in his life would probably never have happened.



One night, some 40 years ago last month, on August 9, 1969, pregnant with her and Roman's first child, she pleaded for her baby's life to Susan Atkins. And what did poor little "I had an unhappy childhood" Susan Atkins reply to Sharon?

"I have no pity for you, bitch!" And then she stabbed Sharon 16 times, many of the knife wounds stabbing into the fetus as well. Then Susan wrote "Pig" in Sharon's blood on the front door of the Polanski house. She also took time from her busy night to stab Voytek Frykowski to death as well. Busy knives are happy knives.

What terrible thing had Sharon and Voytek done to Susan to provoke such a terrible act from her?

Nothing at all. They'd never met before. She'd never heard of them, and they'd never heard of her. In fact, Susan and her companions in murder, Charles "Tex" Watson, Patricia Krenwinkle, and Linda Kasabian, thought other people lived there, but since they'd gone to all the trouble to drop in uninvited, why not also kill Steven Parent, Jay Sebring, and Abagail Folger? And the next night, along with Leslie Van Houten, they killed Leno & Rosemary LaBianca, two total strangers of whom they knew nothing at all. It was something to do. Apparently there was nothing good on television, although the newscasts had been pretty lurid that day, and the next day, even more so.

So fuck this evil bitch. She's died of a horrible cancer. Good. Thank you, Cancer. Munchkins: commence singing!

She was acting under the orders of Charles Manson. Charlie's hideous death is a pleasure that still awaits us. But Charlie's orders in no way expiate Susan even a quark-sized iota. Fuck her. Fuck him.

Let's be clear, though hardly guiltless, Linda Kasabian didn't kill anyone, and her testimony was crucial to sending Susan to prison until her parole into hell yesterday.

Sharon wasn't even Susan's first murder. She'd earlier killed a musician named Gary Hinman, as a favor for Charlie. She was thoughtful that way. Always willing to slaughter someone for a friend.

Here she is with Krenwinkle and Van Houton, three little maids from hell indeed, and now Susan has gone home again.

In prison. Susan embraced Christianity, often the last resort of the truly insane, evil, or frightened. They usually then try to claim they are now good people, having become Christians; never mind that Christians have committed many of the worst mass crimes in history. Adolf Hitler was a Christian, after all, as any Jew can tell you.


But the good thing about Susan's alleged conversion is that she'd then believe in Hell, and could be good and terrified of spending eternity roasting on a spit. I almost wish I could believe in it too. Oblivion is letting her off too easily. On the other hand, Poor Hell. Susan Atkins will lower the tone of the place.

She got married twice while in prison. Her first husband, Donald Laisure, had been previously married 35 times! Good lord, he makes me look like an old maid! He dumped her when wife number 37 sashayed into his life. Till lunch we do part.

Then she married her lawyer. I knew defense lawyers could be scuzzballs, but can you possibly sink any lower than marrying Susan Atkins?

She applied for parole again and again, but was always stymied by one simple question: Are Sharon Tate and her baby still dead? They are? Well then, Susan, fuck you. Her last time up for parole she asked for "compassionate release," since she was dying of cancer.

Compassionate release? Perhaps the parole board remembered her answer when Sharon Tate pleaded with her for mercy and compassion, because freely translated, the parole board's answer was "We have no pity for you, bitch."

And we can only look forward to the deaths of her accomplices as pleasures yet to come. It's kind of nice that they've had long lives, because I don't believe the dead suffer.

When I find out where the evil cow is buried I'll let you know, and we can hold a grand ball. We need a lot of people dancing on this evil creature's grave.


On a lighter note, I am flogging away at The Huffington Post, recapping Survivor: Samoa. Catch the latest one: Law & Order: Samoan Psycho Unit. Enjoy.

Cheers darlings.

Regarding Henry.

At my age (112, but who's counting?), I've survived the deaths of so many, many people that I don't react as much as I should anymore. But this week we had a passing that I actually shed tears over. My dear, sweet Henry Gibson.


Everyone knew his great talent, and have seen his over 100 movie and TV appearances. Is it possible he's still best known for Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In 40 years later, after such films as Nashville, The Blues Brothers, Kiss Me Stupid, The Long Goodbye, Innerspace, The 'Burbs, Magnolia, Gremlins 2: The New Batch, and The Incredible Shrinking Woman? The man worked for such directors as Robert Altman, Joe Dante, John Landis, and Billy Wilder. (He was also directed by Jerry Lewis, having made his screen debut in the original The Nutty Professor, but it didn't seem to hurt his career.)


But along with his great talent, there was the man himself. As it happens, I had the joy of knowing Henry a bit, back in his Laugh-In days. Little Dougie was a mere stagestruck 18 year old when he met Henry on the Laugh-In set at NBC in Burbank. Henry took a shine to the stagestruck teenager, and allowed him to sit about his dressing room, just chatting about any and everything.


Henry was the sweetest, kindest man who ever lived. That warm, loving persona he put out on TV, reading his poems was the real man. And every time he read a poem labelled "By Henry Gibson," it was by Henry Gibson. Henry only performed his own poems on the show.


So I think the best way to remember Henry is to share a couple of his charming verses. These poems are indeed "by Henry Gibson."


The Cobra
The cobra always wears a smile
As he creeps across the ground
He grins like he's up in the clouds
I think that he turns on.


The Bullfrog
The bullfrog is my pal true blue.
He don't smoke or drink or chew.
His only hang-up is he sniffs glue.
If I was a bullfrog I would too.


Marshall McLuhan
Marshall McLuhan,
What are yuh doin'?


The Thumbnail
Did you ever stop to figure
Why the thumbnail is so hard?
Well it hasn't any choice
With all that skin to guard.
It may look fat and pudgy
But it's heart is good and true.
It's prettier than a toenail
And easier to chew.


Admit it, you didn't just smile; you laughed.


The world has become a less-funny place lately, and I'm not just referring to Jay Leno's excruciating new TV show, although it's hard to be less funny than that thing. (An over-50% drop in the ratings between the first show and the fourth. Ouch.) The loss of Henry Gibson is a personal one to me, but the loss of Larry Gelbart, whom I never met, makes the world less funny as well. Rather than go on and on about this genius's brilliant resume, allow me instead to refer you to a remembrance of him by someone who knew him, our mutual friend, little Kent Levine, who posted a beautiful and moving memory of their years of friendship over on his blog.


But the closest you can come to spending some actual time with Larry listening to his stories is to read his wonderful 1998 memoir Laughing Matters: On Writing M*A*S*H, Tootsie, Oh God!, and a Few Other Funny Things. Find a copy online, order it, and read it. In a desperate pinch, you can even read it at a public library, although their books are crawling with germs. You can't borrow my copy, as I am rereading it.


My gig recapping Big Brother 11 over at The Huffington Post ended this week, with my account of the finale, Big Brother 11: Dumb Luck. A surprise highlight of the gig was having dinner the night before the finale with BB houseguest Casey and his lovely wife, just the two of them, me, and Little Dougie, who insisted on crashing the party uninvited. Typical!



However, I have immediately begun recapping Survivor: Samoa, with my first posting, Survivor Samoa: Samoa, Samerrier.

Wait a minute! What is Kanye West doing in there? That egomaniac is even interrupting flogs now! Take that bottle of Hennessey's away from him and give it to me. Honestly Kanye, behavior like yours could give alcoholism a bad name. Do you want that on your conscience as well?


Here's the cast now. And come Monday, check out my Emmy Awards Show review on the HuffPo as well.

Meanwhile, in Henry's honor, I'm getting plastered on Gibsons. Cheers darlings.

Plastered in Paris

Okay, I have to add to last week's posting about idiots on Who Wants to be a Millionaire?, because tonight they had on another moron contestant, opposite Big Brother's eviction episode, which I discussed over on the HuffPo in my column Hell Hath No Fury. Check it out

Liz Schuller, an elementary school music teacher (Parents, get your kids out of her classes!), was asked this question for $16,000:


Fittingly, "The Jules Verne" is the name of a restaurant located on the second floor of what world landmark?
A. The Leaning Tower of Pisa.
B. The Effiel Tower
C. The Taj Mahal.
D. The Kremlin.

...and she had to "Ask The Expert," in this case, luckily enough for her, Mo Rocca, the bright, funny, former Daily Show correspondent whom I adore, who, not being an idiot, knew the obvious answer.

As it happens, I've eaten at "The Jules Verne." Above is a picture of Little Dougie and I in Paris, with "The Jules Verne" in the background. Even if I hadn't eaten there, and even if the "Verne is French; only the Effiel Tower is in France" logic was too much for my tiny brain to work out on its own, as it apparently was for poor, hopelessly stupid Liz's, I think I could still take this walk through the choices.

Do you really think there are many tourists clamoring to eat in The Kremlin? "Hello. Welcome to our restaurant named for that French swine of a fantasist, Jules Verne. My name is Khrushchev Gorbachev Breshnev, you can call me KGB, and I'll be your waiter tonight. No need to give me your order, as I heard what you wanted for dinner when I bugged your hotel room. And in any event, all we have is boiled cabbage and vodka. Now get down on the floor, for you are under arrest, you American spies, for sneaking into The Kremlin!"

Then there's the Taj Mahal. It's a tomb! Yes, who doesn't enjoy dining among the dead? "Hello. My name is Mahatma. I'll be your waiter tonight. We serve only Indian food here, made from actual Indians. Please try to ignore the stench. However, it's Hunger Strike Night, so you're getting nothing." At least the place has - ah - ambiance.

And as for The Leaning Tower of Pisa, how could you serve meals on the second floor of The Leaning Tower of Pisa? The food would keep sliding off the plate.

They should call the Millionaire revival Five Weeks with a Buffoon.

Cheers darlings.

Who Wants to Be an Idiot?

Hello darlings.

That collection of hunks and freaks above is the cast, or "houseguests" as they call them, of the current edition of CBS's reality freak show Big Brother, which is the reason I haven't posted anything here in nearly a month. I've been recapping it for The Huffington Post, as I may have mentioned. It pretty much uses up my flogging energy. How much flogging can a woman my age be expected to take?

They are a prize group of freaks, but not all of them. Dr. Michele is an intelligent and reasonable person. Jordan is dumber than the vacuum of space, but she's fairly sweet, as opposed to the petty, vengeful Lydia, the vicious, useless Natalie, and the raving, insane megabitch Chima. More on that monster shortly.

On the male side there was pretty surfer, actor, & doofus Braden, who turned out to be a bigot with a nasty mouth, incredibly hot Russell, who is a major competitor, but who is also given to explosions of rage, but only on strong provocation, like being asked the time in the wrong tone of voice, or being looked at "funny." There was Casey the 5th grade teacher. No hunk (In fact he avoided appearing shirtless, which is usually a requirement for the men on this show.), but an intelligent man one could probably enjoy the company of. After he was evicted from the house, as detailed in my column No Joy in Mudville, he even left a comment in that column's comments list, in which he indicated enjoying the humor. I could read between the lines. He wants to party with this old movie star. Well who can blame him?

The major eye candy in the show consists of Russell and Jeff. Russell calls himself "The Love Muscle," It's an odd nickname for him, since he is best known for starting tremendous screaming matches, and when asked about his girlfriends, said he "ran out" of girls. Is the "Panama Canal" in his basement full?

Jeff is gorgeous, amiable, and excessively proud of not reading books. He's just not too bright. Jeff's grasp of the English language is not unlike Dr. No's grasp on the metal strut he slides down to boil to death in the atomic reactor at the end of the movie Dr. No.

Anyway, Russell & Jeff have formed the Bromance Alliance, and have been quite successful so far. I think it's true love, and that Jordan, with whom Jeff is faking a Showmance, is really just his beard. Jeff & Russell are the true showmance.

Not that they never flirted with returning muscled narcissistic Adonis and boob Jessie. (Yes, I know that men usually spell it "Jesse," but Jessie insists on spelling it the girly way. He's obsessed with "I".) Anyway, as you can see here, as we prepared to make a Russell, Me, and Jessie sandwich (talk about ham and cheese!), Russell is definitely a top.

Lydia is the Tattooed Nutjob, who liked to creep into Jessie's bedroom and stare at him while he slept, imagining his dreams. She said she hoped he was dreaming of baby unicorns. My theory is that he dreams of something else. Which do you think is right?

But in recapping the treacherous adventures of these clowns, I've taken to giving some of them them nicknames that express their true natures. The first was "Ronnie," a 30 year old "Professional Video Gamer" obsessed by Star Wars, who called himself "Emperor Palpatine" at one point, and who repeatedly stated that he was the Smartest Person in the House, never mind that Dr. Michele has a PhD. He was a loathsome little self-impressed dork and weasel, and so I renamed him, and enjoyed tremendously
chronicling his his downfall in my column The Empire Strikes Out.

This last week the house was shook up by a mystery power granted secretly to one of them, whom they called "The Wizard." The Wizard turned out to be lovely, dopey Jeff, whom I dubbed Gandoofus, The Lord of Dimness, when I told the story this week in The Wizard of Wacko Place.

There's always a token gay man, and never more than one. Usually they cast ones who are witty and fun, but this time out they cast a boring, bitchy, treacherous attitude queen named Kevin, who's a coward as well as a bore. I've found his true identity in my recent column as well.

But until about 24 hours before writing this the most horrible person in the house was a 32 year old journalist, self-involved diva, and hyperbitch named Chima. She's insane. She's spoiled. She's vengeful. She's vicious. She's repulsive. She thinks she's funny when she isn't, and she's a hypocrite. But apart from that, she may like kittens. But I'm not so certain of that that I would ever leave my kitty in her care.

But as of 24 hours ago, she is gone. Her plans last week were utterly foiled and she was nominated for eviction, and the spoiled, self-entitled diva staged a day long tantrum, ignoring the producers orders, inciting her Manson-cult-like followers, Lydia and Natalie, to commit acts of petty vandalism. Chima herself spent much of the day sitting on the washing machine, so no one else could wash their clothes, refusing to wear the microphone they are required to wear at all times, and finally, when ordered again by the producers to put it on, threw this $5000 piece of equipment into the hot tub. She was summoned into the Diary Room, and the houseguests never saw her again. She was fired, and not even allowed back into the house to pack up her things. That's entertainment!

Sweet little Jordan's stupidity is amazing. She's in her 20s, and she can't tell time from a clock, doesn't know where Iowa is, can't do simple math, and has a - let's say limited vocabulary. I had had more than enough of idiots. I needed to see intelligent people again.


So I tuned into this past week's revival of of Regis Philbin's quiz show Who Wants to be a Millionaire. You have to take a test to get on. It rewards knowing stuff. And you have to answer difficult questions to win the big money.


So imagine my shock at some of the monumental ignorance I saw on display. Listen to these:

For instance, Angela Watt, a "mother of twins," was asked this question for $1000:


The Earth’s equator passes through all but which of these oceans?
A. Pacific.
B. Indian.
C. Atlantic.
D. Arctic.


And she had to use a lifeline! I guess she just hates those cold arctic nights on the equator. Then she was asked for $2000:


Which of these U.S. coins is the thickest?
A. Penny
B. Nickel.
C. Dime.
D. Quarter.


She answered "A quarter." I guess she never bothers with change.


One of America’s best and brightest, highly decorated (and highly decorative) army Lieutenant-Colonel Jacob Shaha was on. Now you wanted to love this guy. He was gorgeous. He had a small, but growing family. He’s served honorably in Iraq, and will shortly be going to Afghanistan. But then he was asked this question for $8000:


"Fittingly, which of these popular 20th Century authors is buried in Tarzana, California? [Non-italics mine.]:
A. Edgar Rice Burroughs.
B. Ray Bradbury.
C. Dashiell Hammett.
D. Arthur C. Clarke.


Honestly. The answer is right there in the question. You could boil it down to "Who wrote the Tarzan books?" What kind of ignoramus doesn’t know the answer to that question? (Hint: He's by far the worst writer of this quartet.)


Now first off, Ray Bradbury isn’t buried anywhere! At least I hope not, because darling Ray is still alive! How rude to include him. I hope he wasn’t watching. I can just hear his famous, soft voice saying to his wife, "I hope it’s not me."


Lieutenant-Colonel Shaha needed not one, not two, but three lifelines. "Expert" Candy Crowley (Who? I have no idea who she is, and Regis didn’t tell us more than her name) had "no idea," but her guess was Dashiell Hammet. Ah yes, before writing his excellent, highly literate, hardboiled detective novel classics like The Maltese Falcon and The Thin Man, Hammett first knocked out the ridiculous Tarzan novels, which, if you’ve ever read one of them, are not exactly well-written, and feature horrifically bad dialogue, not to mention the inherent racism, and the ludicrous scientific ignorance. Burroughs never set foot in Africa in his whole life, and it shows in his books. I’m surprised Dashiell didn’t rise from his grave to slap her face. Dashiell's lover, the great Lillian Hellman, wouldn’t have spat on the author of the Tarzan books, even if Edgar had begged her too.


Jacob’s phone-a-friend, his dad "Steven," guessed it was Arthur C. Clarke, who is buried in Sri Lanka, on the opposite side of the earth from Tarzana, as far from it as you can get. The only way he could have been more wrong would be if he’d said "The Moon." Clark was also much too good a writer to have turned out the ludicrous Tarzan novels, let alone have sullied his brilliant science fiction legacy with with Burroughs's extremely silly, badly written books about Mars and his At The Earth's Core. I've read Tarzan of the Apes. This is not a well-written book.


Jacob answered D. No wonder we haven’t found Osama Bin Laden yet.


But the most embarrassing contestant moment came when Anthony Sloan, a "Stay-at-home Dad," i.e. unemployed, was asked for $50,000:


In the 2009 blockbuster Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, which of these characters is an evil Decepticon and not an heroic Autobot?
A. Mudflap.
B. Bumblebee.
C. Starscream.
D. Sidewipe.


And he not only got it right, but he had the answer right off the top of his head. The only people who should know the answer to that question are people whose ages are still in the single digits, and a lot of justifiably bored and hostile film critics.


You want to see intelligent people on TV? Switch over to BBC America, and watch Torchwood and Doctor Who. Meanwhile, I’m stuck with several more weeks of Big Brother. At least I won’t have any more of Chima and Emperor Palpatwit to endure. You don’t need to watch it yourself. Just read my recaps.


Cheers darlings.

The First Men in My Moon!

Yesterday, July 20th, was the 40th anniversary of the day Nassau shot a live action remake of my darling George Pal's fantasy film Destination Moon, entirely on one hell of a rugged, remote location, without even paying him a royalty. Honestly. How rude was that?


H.G. Wells had ripped off George's great idea even before Nassau, disguising his theft by writing his Pal rip-off novel, The First Men in the Moon, before George was born, and then dying before Destination Moon was made. Very smooth Herb, but it didn't fool George. He sued Wells, and received the film rights to The War of the Worlds and The Time Machine as recompense. Then George allowed Ray Harryhausen to shoot Herb's First Men in the Moon, knowing that it would be seen for what it was, a poor attempt to steal Destination Moon by moving it back a century. That's how the secret ways of Hollywood work.

But when Nassau's unlicenced rip-off, Apollo 11, came out in 1969, everyone got so excited, even though they'd cut out all the Selenites, moon monsters, and caves full of beautiful women who have never seen a man before. Really, did they expect us to believe a moon with no monsters or blonds in skimpy skirts and red pumps? They didn't even encounter Zsa Zsa Gabor! I'm serious! How stupid do they think we are? Nassau even had them using rockets to get there (Really!), instead of Cavorite-coated spheres, as in real life.

And don't get me started on that Jules Verne thief, claiming to have invented science-fiction when it was George who is known all over Hollywood as "The Father of Science-Fiction." At least in Verne's Pal rip-off, From the Earth to the Moon, he didn't fall for all that rocketry nonsense. Verne much more sensibly had his astronauts shot to the moon from a giant gun, the way any normal person would travel. How difficult can it be to figure out how to get to the moon (Cavorite or a giant gun)? It's not rocket science.

But yesterday was also the anniversary of a vastly more historically-important event: the unbelievable bender I went on following the premiere of the final movie of my career, the only film I ever directed, a hardcore adaptation of Radcliffe Hall's novel The Well of Loneliness (he should have called it Women in Love, but D. H. Lawrence of Arabia had already used the title), updated into the world of stewardesses and cheerleaders. It's all documented in my autobiography, My Lush Life.

The premiere, on July 17th, was a disaster, and I went off to get good and drunk. When I woke up a few days later, July 20th, I was in the most barren resort I've ever seen. It was blisteringly hot in the sunshine and subzero in the shade, and the air was so lousy I felt absolutely smothered. I haven't had such a hard time getting a breath since I went down on Milton Berle.

It turned out that I was on some kind of kinky "Double Date" with a pair of pretty hot guys who called themselves Neal and Buzz. Well it was easy to see how I'd been seduced. "Kneel" has always been a command I've taken with pleasure, and there's nothing I like better than getting a "Buzz" on.

It seems that I'd gone off in the most cramped vehicle you could ever imagine with Neal and Buzz to this very remote private resort, called Tranquility Bass, on the shore of a body of water called The Sea of Tranquility (And let me tell you, the tide was out!), in some country called Luna. I'd never been there before, and I can assure you, I'm never going back. This place was terrible! No staff. No ammenities. Not even a souvenir shop.

Neal and Buzz must have been afraid of contagion or something (I have this effect on men sometimes), as they were both wearing what looked like Haz-Mat suits all the time, and would not take them off! Not really my idea of good sex. And here I was, so svelte it was like I'd taken off five-sixths of my weight, and yet I couldn't get a shag from the men who'd brought me 240,000 miles just to be alone. I hadn't felt so suddenly light since the day I - ah - adopted my daughter.

And when I did finally get Neal to get romantic, he said to me, "That's one small step for man, one giant slut for mankind." A bit rude, if you ask me. I also overheard Neal and Buzz gossiping on the phone with their buddies, Dick Nixon and Walt Cronkite, about sex with me, saying, "We came in peace for all mankind." All mankind? Even I won't do all mankind! I wouldn't do Nixon for one, and I'm never doing Dick Cheney again either. (Trust me ladies, don't do Cheney unless you don't mind him shooting you in the face. Normally I don't mind that, but he hadn't even brought along any moist towelettes.) No, the most I'll do would be most of mankind. Let's say a quorum.


Fortunately, Neal and Buzz had had their driver, a guy named Mike, waiting in the car, orbiting overhead, motor running, so after the most airless, uncomfortable, lousy-sex-filled 22 hours of my life, I got the guys to take me home again, although man, that was a long drive back. And then they stuck me with the bill for the trip. Holy Mother of Groucho, that was the most expensive excursion I have ever been on! They didn't even reduce it for triple occupancy! You could go to Mars for that much money, where you'd at least be able to hang out with Ray Walston.

An odd lousy date to commemorate, but the other big thing to happen that month was the break-up of The Beatles, and who wants to remember that?

Sorry to have been so long between posts, but they keep me busy over at The Huffington Post. I'm doing weekly recaps of Big Brother there. Here's links to the first three, Big Brother 11: Meet the Fockers, Big Brother 11: Deride the Wild Surfer, and Big Brother 11: May the Dork Be With You, and here's a link to the heartbreaking piece I posted about the death of The Sexiest Man No Longer Alive, Karl Malden: We All Killed Karl Malden. Enjoy them as you would me.

Cheers darlings.