Well my catastrophe is passed. Oh there was no salvaging even a drop of that vodka that I'd poured into my computer in the vain hope that it would loosen up a bit, and stop giving me error messages, and maybe even fork over some free porn. No such luck. An entire fifth of vodka ruined. Even cutting out the section of carpet below the computer desk and wringing it out into a bucket did no good, although those were the happiest roaches I've ever squished. Anyway, I had to salve my horror with a few gallons of vodka I had on tap, and today, on post-Thanksgiving Day, I sent Little Dougie out at 4 AM to sit in line at The Liquor Barn with the savings-minded winos, awaiting the opening of the doors at 6 AM for their annual Vodka Clearance Sale. Oh, and while he was out, I also had him pick me up a new computer, so --- I'm Ba - ack!
What to write about today? So much is special about November 23. For one thing, it's the birthday of my fourth or fifth husband, Boris Karloff, who would have been 120 today. But I wrote about that last year, in my flogging Some Pratt's Birthday.
Then there's my annual annoyance at the way people start celebrating Christmas before the turkey is cleared off the table. (Though, to be fair, sometimes it's damned hard to get him to put his clothes back on and leave once I'm through with him.) Little Dougie wrote a wonderful song about it I love to trot out each year. Here it is:
TOO MUCH CHRISTMAS
It's beginning to look too much like Christmas,
Everywhere you go.
Thanksgiving was yesterday,
And now the streets look so gay,
Your eyes will blur,
And you'll get vertigo.
It's beginning to look too much like Christmas,
Gets worse after dark.
I really do hate to grouse,
But my God, my neighbor's house,
Looks like Disney's park.
Horrible tinsel and way too much chintz'll
Make everyone wish they were dead.
By far the worst folly is trees looking jolly,
When all of their leaves have been shed.
And I will grant another Santa,
Fills me up with dread.
It's beginning to look too much like Christmas,
Please gouge out my eyes.
You'll soon see a Yule log,
Blazing at the synagogue.
An elf robot? My brain lobotomize!
It's beginning to look too much like Christmas,
Soon my brain will split.
I hate to sound so gruff,
But I've already had enough,
Of this Yule bullshit.
Isn't that lovely? It always brings a tear to my thighs. At least I think they're tears. It's wet anyway. What other significance is there to November 23? Well, this year, it's the 44th anniversary of the original debut of Doctor Who, which you may remember, this past year included me as a character in their story Daleks in Manhattan. It's a sad anniversary this year,as Verity Lambert, the lady who co-created Doctor Who and was it's first producer and showrunner died yesterday. Why don't more people follow my example, and live? There's no trick to long life. It's simple. Just don't die.
Doctor Who is an appropriate place to start on my real topic today though. The Doctor, as a Time Lord, can regenerate whenever death approaches, a tactic that apparently slipped Verity's mind. Regeneration is a dead giveaway that someone is really a Time Lord, which brings me back to my recent sabbatical at Hogwart's, because, as all moviegoers know, Professor Fumblewhore recently regenerated! Check it out:
As if revealing himself as a Time Lord by regenerating wasn't revelation enough, we all know there was another big revelation about Fumblewhore this month, wasn't there?
Well, it's true. And not just Fumblewhore either. Remember Gandalf? We all know what a big old homo he is. Ah, I bet Fumblewhre and he love to reminisce about their days at the Brandywine Street Fairs back in West Hobbiton, flirting with the hotter elves.
Oh let's just face the fact: All wizards are gay. Every last, vibrating-wand-wielding one of them. Do you need further proof? Check out this shot, snapped at the Hogsmeade Gay Pride Festival only last week. (By the way, they aren't kidding when they named that town Hogsmeade. All they serve at that notorious gay pub The Hog's Head is butterbeer and mead actually made from hogs. It's ghastly. If I hadn't been so drunk, I wouldn't have drunk so much of it. When in Rome...)
At one point, during a wild night at The Hog's Head, the Invisibility Quilt slipped off the noisy bed across the room from me, and this was the horrible sight I couldn't stop looking at, photographing, and cheering on.
That's Fumblewhore underneath of course (Surely you realized he was a bottom? It's so obvious!), and on top, none other than Oz The Great and Terrible himself! He's versatile, but in which position is he great and in which is he terrible?
I should have realized Fumblewhore was gay. I made my first visit to Hogwart's for their Tri-Sexual Wizard Tournament. If you saw that movie, the maze where the tournament climaxed may have looked familiar. They shot it in The Befuddlement, the hedge labyrinth here at Morehead Heights, although in the movie they used special effects to make it look much smaller and simpler than it really is. Believe me, no matter how magical they are, you wouldn't send kids unescorted into The Befuddlement. You'd never see them again. Shelley Long went in at the party I threw celebrating her leaving Cheers (Why did she attend a party celebrating her leaving?) over 20 years ago, and she's never been seen since, or missed. Honestly, when a few cast members, and producers, and crafts services people, in all fun, suggested as a gag that she "Get lost", they didn't mean she should wander into The Befuddlement forever, although they have all learned to live with it. They just meant she should wait 20 years and then get cast on LOST. (They all hated JJ Abrams!)
Anyway, when I was there, Fumblewhore kept hitting on me, and even proposed marriage, a sure sign of homosexuality. If only he'd had a bigger wand. Or at least hadn't come between me and that grail full of hog's mead.
But I was quite taken at the time by the gamey keeper Fagrid. Because I like a Big man, if you know what I mean, and if you don't, I mean a man with a big dick. And Fagrid is about as big as they come. And he seemed to take to me as well.
We danced the night away at the Hogwart's White Party. Of course, since he's a half-giant, I wore heels. Unfortunately, I borrowed the heels from Ryan Seachrest. They're the ones he wears to try and look half as high as Simon Cowell, so my height was overcompensated.
I thought Fagrid loved me, but it turned out to be a misunderstanding. Someone (I suspect it was Draco Malfoy.) told Fagrid I was a drag queen (Which I am not! Will that rumor never end?), and he misunderstood, and thought I was a dragon. He loves dragons. The odd part is, we dated for two weeks, and even slept together a few times, before he realized I wasn't a dragon. I mean honestly, I do not look like a dragon, no matter what that old bitch Delores Delgado (a Hogwart's graduate herself, the old witch.) used to say. When I asked him about it, he said, "Well it's true you don't look a lot like a dragon, but your breath had me fooled." I've got to be more careful about exhaling around candles.
Speaking of Fagrid, he says his father was a normal-sized man. Fagrid could stand him on his shoulders when he was 12. It was his mother who was a giantess. This makes no sense to me. A normal-sized woman and a giant man I could understand. Why do you think I was dating Fagrid? For his looks? The man looks like Robbie Coltrane with extra hair. Who would want that? But a small man and a giant woman? Where's the fun in that? I guess Poppa Fagrid just liked a walk-in vagina! Fortunately, Fagrid had his mother's dick.
I mentioned in my earlier Hogwart's flogging that I was mad for Severus Snape. Well, that big old queen decided I wasn't his type when he found out I wasn't a drag queen also. He kept trying to keep the students away from me, calling me a "Fermentor," whatever they are. Honestly, you let it slip that you're a disciple of The Drunk Arts, and right away people are calling you a Fermentor, like the guards at Assmybuns prison. And this from Severus, a former Death Drinker himself. That's the gin calling the bourbon wet.
So I listened to the audio books of the whole freakin' Hairy Pothead series:
Hairy Pothead and the Stoned Philosopher. (Probably Plato. What a dipso. Ah, those Athenian nights we spent together.)
Hairy Pothead and the Secret Chamber Pot.
Hairy Pothead and the Prisoner of Assmybuns.
Hairy Pothead and the Gobbler of Fire Island.
Hairy Pothead and the Order of the Penis. (It was a Margarita.)
Hairy Pothead and the Half-Drunk Queen.
Hairy Pothead and the Deadly Bores. So what's the problem with me and children?
Most of Hogwart's graduates live in England or Middle-Earth, but I knew one famous Hogwartian who lived right here in Hollywood. Charming little Margaret Hamilton.
Maggie not only lived in California, but actually used to babysit my now-long-missing daughter Pattycakes. My darling daughter loved having Maggie sit with her, all alone in my large, haunted mansion so much that whenever I told her Maggie was on her way over, she would shriek and scream in delight, even as she padlocked all the broomclosets. Oddly though, Maggie scared the crap out of the Headless Indian Brave.
Maggie was a champion Queerditch player in her day. I've never been any good at Queerditching myself. I keep marrying them instead.
Anyway, as a parting gag I placed a curse on Little Hermione What's-Her-Name, the insufferable know-it-all. I cast a charm that soaked her hands in imaginary water whenever she slept. She never suspected it was me.
Well, we're beginning a new year here at The Morehead The Merrier. I hope you'll all stick around, and bring in your friends as well. Oh, and Little Dougie asked me to ask you to buy his new book The Q Guide to Classic Monster Movies, but you don't really have to.
Cheers darlings.
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