Happy New Year!

Your Mama wishes all the children a happy, healthy, safe and prosperous New Year.

Now go out and get drunk like you're supposed to on New Year's Eve.

Just don't drink and drive babies because that's as stoopid as stoopid can be.

See y'all in the New Year.

Your Mama Hears...

...that the still pin thin and Bel Air bred celebutant Nicole Ritchie finally managed to get her baby daddy Joel Madden to move from his long time home in suburban seeming Glendale, CA.

According to several of our secret sources, the young and tattooed twosome (plus baby Harlow makes three) decamped to a Spanish Villa in the hills above Hollywood. It appears to Your Mama from listing information we dug up that the couple are forking over $6,500 per month to lease their new crib in the celebrity friendly Outpost Estates area. A bit more research shows the recently renovated house was built in 1930, includes 3 bedrooms, 3 terlits and measures in at 2,325 square feet. Listing information also indicates the property features a gated driveway, several covered terraces for sipping champagne in the shade, gorgeous drought tolerant landscaping and an elevated viewing terrace for taking in the glittering lights of Hollywood below.

Other famous residents of the Outpost Estates include (but are certainly not limited to) recently wed Scarlett Johansson, House's Hugh Laurie and married actors Felicity Huffman and William H. Macy.

Danja Mixes It Up on Mulholland Drive

BUYER: Floyd Nathaniel Hills, aka Danja
LOCATION: Mulholland Drive, Los Angeles, CA
PRICE: $2,925,000
SIZE: 4,850 square feet, 5 bedrooms, 4.5 bathrooms
DESCRIPTION: ...this totally private, walled and gated home, with a jaw dropping view, was created for lavish or intimate entertaining. The versatile floor plan provides potential for 2 master bedrooms. Featuring a state-of-the-art kitchen, walls of glass, resort style poolside area, a floating staircase, high Venetian plastered walls for an art collection, 6 car motor court and lush landscaping with handsome olive trees...

YOUR MAMAS NOTES: A couple of weeks ago we received a covert communique from a tipster we'll call Patty Cake who informed us that a Grammy winning music producer, composer and songwriter named Danja picked up a new house on Mulholland Drive. Of course, Your Mama had never heard of a person with such a name so we took to the internets where we learned that along with his super-producer mentor Timbaland, this Danja person co-produced 10 of the 12 tracks of Justin Timberlake's Future Sex/Love Sounds album as well as having produced six tracks on Britney Spears middle of the crazies record Blackout and more recently produced a couple of tracks for on the mental mend Miss Spears' chart topping comeback album Circus. Mister Danja, whose real name is Floyd Nathaniel Hill, has also worked with big name musical artistes like Madonna, Mariah, Cassie and some chick named Ciara.

Property records showed that in November of 2008 young Mister Danja–a monikor we presume rhymes with ganga–forked over $2,925,000 of his new found paper for a freshly rehabbed split level contemporary style house at the top of Laurel Canyon on twisty, turny and often very busy Mulholland Drive.

Listing information Your Mama accessed show the house was once listed as high as $4,380,000 before being reduced to $3,495,000. Which means, of course, that Mister Danja and his financial peeps negotiated an impressively prodigious price reduction on the 5 bedroom and 4.5 bathoom house that measures in at (approx.) 4,850 square feet.

Listing information also reveals the walled and gated property offers off-street parking for six shiny whips in the motor court and another two spinners in the garages. The front doors, flanked by a couple of lovely olive trees, open to a rather large and somewhat disturbingly amorphous "great room" with travertine floors, one of the three fireplaces, and floor to ceiling windows that draw the eye balls towards the explosive view over the San Fernando Valley.

The kitchen features a gigantic work island large enough to perform an autopsy at the very same time Chef prepares a four course dinner. The cherry-looking cabinetry is topped by what appears to be two different types of counter tops and there is, natch, a full suite of top grade stainless steel appliances inclues a double Viking brand oven. A breakfast area is contained in a curving and (nearly) frameless wall of glass overlooking the swimming pool.

Listing information indicates that 1 of the 5 bedrooms can be used as a staff suite and 2 of the other bedrooms can be utilized as master bedrooms so it would seem that Mister Danja has his choice of where he'd like to lay his pretty little head down at night. One of the master suites is comprised of a large bedroom (with a way too tiny tee-vee mounted to the wall opposite the bed which will make porno viewing rather difficult) and a marble clad bathroom with a separate tub and party sized shower.

We think (but can no confirm) that the room with all the heinous brown leather furniture is the other potential master suite. If the children look hard with their peepers they'll note what appears to be an entire wall of mirrored closet doors. While that may be appealing to all the people who like to watch themselves fornicate, it's a rather unappealing feature from a design snob's perspective.

The back yard hangs over the hillside and includes a curving crescent shaped swimming pool with a small waterfall. We do not notice a spa, which is rather unfortunate because we can imagine it make it easy for Mister Danja to coax all the star fucking wanna be singer ladees out of their itty bitty bikinis after a few Rémy Martins in a spa overlooking the glittering lights of the valley. But alas...

Rahma Azhari Bugil

George Furla Selling in Los Angeles Too

SELLER: George Furla
LOCATION: Clinton Street, Los Angeles, CA
PRICE: $2,295,000
SIZE: 4,417 square feet, 4 bedrooms, 4 bathrooms
DESCRIPTION: ...Exquisite Mediterranean Villa built in 2006. Grand entry w/ wrought iron staircase, walnut floors, exposed beams & arched doorways. Gourmet eat-in kitchen w/ center island, granite counter tops, stainless Viking appliances. Beautiful dining room. Living room w/ FP opens to pool, fountain & sitting area w/ FP. Surround sound throughout. Master w/ FP. Lower level w/ fabulous game rm. & direct access to garage.

YOUR MAMAS NOTES: Last week the venerable Wall Street Journal reported in their Private Properties column that film producer George Furla listed his 6,220 square foot unfinished penthouse in Chicago with an asking price of $3,495,000. Well, thanks to a covert communique from a fine friend we'll call Windycity Willie, Your Mama has learned that Mister Furla is also trying (rather unsuccessfully) to unload his house in Los Angeles which has been on the market for nearly a year and is currently listed at $2,295,000.

We'd never heard of Mister Furla and after a look-see at his rehzoomay we quickly understood why. The man is responsible for producing a long laundry list of films neither Your Mama nor the Dr. Cooter have ever heard of nor would dream of paying good money to see in an actual thee-ay-ter establishment. They include (but are far from limited to) cinematic jewels such as Major Movie Star, Righteous Kill, Day of the Dead, the most recent Rambo disaster as well as some movie called Lonely Hearts that starring be-wigged Scientologist John Travolta.

Anyhoo, a peek into property records reveals that Mister Furla purchased a property on Los Angeles' Clinton Street (is this actually West Hollywood?) in August of 2006 for $2,229,000. Prop records show the Andalusian style residence measures 3,874 square feet with 5 bedrooms and 4 bathrooms while listing information indicates it sprawls across 4,417 square feet and includes just 4 bedrooms and 4 bathrooms. Who knows why the discrepancy.

Listing information reveals that in addition to the 4 bedrooms and 4 terlits, the 3 story home was built in 2006, has three fireplaces (living room, master bedroom and outdoor sitting area), subterranean parking for two cars with direct access into the house and a surround sound system that pumps music (or muzak if you prefer) throughout the house.

Other amenities includes a living room that opens to the swimming pool (which is actually in the front yard as there isn't a rear yard), walnut, stone and tile floors, lots of wrought iron detailing, exposed beams, and a gore-may kitchen outfitted with dark cabinets, beige granite counter tops and a full suite of stainless steel Viking appliances including a wine refrigerator that looks almost exactly like the two we have (one for white, one for red) where the Dr. Cooter keeps the vino collection chilled to appropriate temperatures.

The basement level is where the game room is located. We know many people like these game rooms but Your Mama hates them. If we want to play pool we're gonna head on down to some dicey pool hall in a not very nice part of town where there's always a risk we're going to get a beat down by one of the beer soaked and overweight regulars.

The front of Mister Furla's property is fully hedged, which is a good thing as it fronts very busy Crescent Heights Boulevard and sits just a hop, skip and a jump from the pricey and celebrity friendly Fred Segal shopping emporium on Melrose. The plunge pool and party sized spa are complemented by an arched tile water fountain that spits water into the swimming pool and helps to cut down on the traffic noise.

Listing information we received from one of our cohorts shows the house was put on the market nearly a year ago (!!) at $3,195,000 and has since had the asking price karate chopped down a stunning $900,000 to it's current asking price of $2,295,000, a number that will surely leave Mister Furla in the financial hole should he manage to get anywhere near the asking price. The listing clearly states the seller is motivated and wants the house sold right away, so word to the wise for all you pee-pole with a couple million to spend on a nearly new Mediterranean on a teeny tiny lot so close to West Hollywood you can practically smell the poppers wafting on the breeze.

Another Housewife Bites the Real Estate Dust

SELLER: Bob and Sheree Whitfield
LOCATION: 5525 Long Island Drive, Atlanta, GA
PRICE: $2,850,000 (off market)
SIZE: 8,903 square feet, 6 bedrooms, 8 full and 2 half bathrooms
DESCRIPTION: Benecki built resale home on large private gated lot. Quality throughout, nanny suite with separate entrance located over garages.

YOUR MAMAS NOTES: Listen children, we know what you are thinking and we do not want to hear it. Your Mama is well aware we are scraping the bottom of the celebrity real estate barrel here. But, see, we just can't help ourselves. Unfortunately for y'all, we woke up with a burning need to discuss the real estate doings of a smarmy Georgia peach named Sheree Whitfield who recently listed her suburban Atlanta mansion with an asking price of $2,850,000.

If the children will put on their reality tee-vee thinking caps they will recall that Miz Sheree Whitfield–whose claim to fame is that she is the ex-wife of pro-footballer Bob Whitfield–recently appeared on the hair raising boob-toob pièce de résistance The Real Housewives of Atlanta.

During each episode of this masterpiece of reality television, we were treated to Miz Sheree prancing her over-sized ego all around Atlanta in her her giant Range Rover acting as if she was the classiest and most dignified high society bee-hawtcha that ever walked the damn Phipps Plaza mall. Pleeze. And do not even get Your Mama started about Miz Sheree and her nascent "She by Sheree" clothing line because we would hate to burst Miz Sheree's self-indulgent bubble by saying that being a hardcore hobby shopper does not a fashion designer make.

Well children, the laws of gravity say that goes up must come down and according to the gossip grapevine, poor Miz Sheree is going down. Not only is she in effect being booted from her Atlanta mansion, some Atlanta-based scuttlebutters are snickering that she's bouncing checks all over Atlanta. Oh dear. Now puppies, we don't know if that shit is true or if it's just a bunch of wagging tongues, but it is what folks are whispering about Miz I'm So Much Better Than You.

Property records for the Whitfield's 1.81 acre estate on Long Island Drive NW show it was purchased in August of 2000 for $2,395,000 and the snarky children will note with some righteous eyebrow raising that the property was owned solely by Mister Whitfield and that Miz Sheree's name never appeared on the paperwork for the property. That's right puppies. Neh. Vah. Which means, of course, Sassy Sheree never actually owned the house and was merely squatting there until her dee-vorce was settled. Well, ain't that interesting?

Anyhoo, listing information for the house Sheree calls home shows it measures in at a good sized 8,903 square feet and includes 6 bedrooms and 8.5 bathrooms, a count which we assume includes the nanny quarters above the garage.

In addition to the ballroom sized living room with its elaborately stenciled ceilings, dark stained wood floors and King Arthur-esque furnishings, the sprawling English cottage style mansion includes a modest sized dining room with a faux paint treatment, all manner of crystal lighting fixtures and, gack!, red velvet curtains that look to Your Mama like something she purchased at a yard sale of an upscale bordello in Reno, Nevada.

Besides the copious knickknacks cluttering up the counter tops, the bronze colored ceiling, all that stoopid crap shoved up in the ceiling corners and the bird's nest up in the chandelier, the fully equipped kitchen really isn't so bad. The stainless steel appliances includes twin dishwashers, a mac-daddy Viking range and a double wide SubZero refridgerator/freezer, all good things.

The commodious but low ceilinged family room features more faux paint treatments, a giant beige sectional sofa, an intricately carved and ass uglee coffee table and and even uglier pool table with crazy carved up legs. Somewhere in the house is a home gym with all manner of exercise contraptions of the sort Your Mama scrupulously avoids, a fully mirrored wall where Miz Sheree can admire her toned and tight middle-aged boo-tox, and another faux paint treatment on the walls. Listen Miz Sheree, let Your Mama give you a word of deco-raytin' advice. Just because you like the faux paint treatment your nice gay decorator did in the dining room does not mean you should have him do up the entire house that way. Your Mama's boozy pal Fiona Trambeau calls that sort of thing, "Flooding the car." Think about it.

The gated grounds include a crushed stone driveway which terminates in a small motor court where the front door stands opposite the four-car garage. Out back is a large and attractive rectangular shaped swimming pool surrounded by a stone terrace that includes an outdoor fireplace and peek-aboo views of a small pond.

Listing information now shows the Whitfield house is currently "off market." We don't know if that means Sheree is stayin' put or if, more likely, it means she's a little peeved about the publicity she's getting for having to so publicly downsize her lifestyle. Them's the breaks when you put yerself on tee-vee Miz Sheree.

Naturally, Your Mama does not have a clue where Miz Sheree will reside when and if this house gets sold but we're pretty sure that her be-weaved blond gurl friend Kim Zolciak would let her and the kids shack up in her 3,396 square foot condo on Bent Tree View in Duluth, GA that records show she purchased in January of 2006 for $486,000.

Listen puppies, we know we sound like a catty bitch talking nasty about Miz Sheree. And we are. However, there is nuthin' more loathsome to Your Mama than a person who will (fake) smile at your face and then turn around and wag his or her vicious tongue to anyone with ears. And that's exactly what Miz Sheree did week after week on the first season of The Real Housewives of Atlanta. And we can hardly wait until season two begins to see more bee-hawtcha back-biting and learn more about Miz Sheree's lowered circumstances.

A Message For Rick Warren.

It's the holidays, so I'm feeling generous and giving. In just six more days I'll be making my debut posting on The Huffington Post, with my annual Dead Celebrity Round-Up for 2008. (Actually, I only do an annual Dead Celebrity Round-Up, I don't do an annual Dead Celebrity Round-Up for 2008. Prior to this year that would have been prescient, and after this year, it would just be repetitive, so this is the only year I'll be doing the the Dead Celebs of 2008.) It's the one time all year when I only discuss other celebrities, and selflessly omit myself. (I hope.)

The "Deadline" is in just five more days, sooner still if you're dying alone at home, and have to have your body discovered before the cats eat you. Everyone is scrambling to get in under the wire. Yesterday, on Christmas, when people should have been thinking about others, like for instance, about ME, we still had celebrities with nothing on their agendas but getting into my column. Eartha Kitt and Harold Pinter were elbowing each other aside to die their way into my column in time.

Harold was a great writer. Shakespeare never wrote the equal of this inspiring moment from his play The Birthday Party, or, as it's also known, The Straight Version of The Boys in the Band: "[PAUSE]"

And there was an hilarious line in act 1, after Stanley tells Meg that the cornflakes she's just served him are putrid or terrible or something.

Meg: "You're a liar! They're 'refreshing.' It says so on the box."

But like I said, time is running out. And I'm speaking to you, Pastor Rick "Unrepentant Homosexuals are not allowed in my church" Warren. We're all just dying to honor you by including you in my Dead Celebrity Round-Up of 2008, even though, a year ago, no one outside of Saddleback (I thought that was just the name given to the sexual version of playing "Horsey") had ever had the misfortune of knowing you existed. Thanks to President Elect O'Bama, and his First Official Bone-Headed Presidential Decision, we all know of you and your Evil Ministry, as you prepare to dishonor the country by befouling the inauguration.

Bone-Headed Presidential Decisions are a duty of The Office of President of the United States of America at which Dubya excelled far beyond all previous presidents, even Reagan, Nixon, and Harding. Further, Bone-Headed Decision Making is an area where O'Bama has so-far been particularly lacking. The one aspect of his expertise where O'Bama has shown excellence in Bone-Headedness is in Pastor Selection (Rev. Jerimiah Wright anyone?), and to get his administration off on the wrong foot early, he has made the exceedingly Bone-Headed decision of inviting this fat scum to desecrate the inauguration with an invocation that excludes homosexuals, and supports Proposition 8.

In his hilarious defense of this Bone-Headed Decision, President Elect O'Bama has said he did it to demonstrate "Inclusion," although how including a minister who excludes gays from his ministry (Which, if you think about it, is doing them a favor.) constitutes "Inclusion" escapes me. But then, having all of his decisions make sense would be a very Un-American approach to being a 21st Century American President. After all, none of Dubya's decisions made sense. I just notice that O'Bama hasn't invited a Ku Klux Klan pastor to do the benediction. That's not very inclusive if you ask me. Barack, don't you want to reach out to racial bigots along with the Religious Wrong? They're all a part of America's Big Table. If you exclude the KKK, who's left out next? The Neo-Nazis? Not that I'm equating the KKK and the Neo-Nazis with Rick Warren. Oh wait a minute! I am too.

(By the way, off-topic, but why is Tom Cruise advertising Valkyrie as a suspense thriller? It's about an actual historical plot to assassinate Hitler. We all know Hitler wasn't assassinated. Where's the suspense? Only to morons from The Tonight Show's "Jay-Walking" segments, those idiots who think that World War II took place in 1970, and involved Lincoln freeing us from England, can there be any suspense about whether the plan to kill Hitler will fail or not. Tom, in promotional interviews, keeps saying, "It's not a World War II movie." It's not? Has he set it in The Civil War? The Crusades? No wonder the plot to kill Hitler failed. It was being run by that imbecile Tom Cruise. BTW, Scientology is another religion with a poor track record on gay issues, to put it mildly)

Maybe the Mormon Tabernacle Choir could sing at the inauguration. They could even sing the little ditty I wrote for yesterday's posting: A Utah Yuletide. That would be lovely, and so inclusive. And then we could tell them to all go jump in a lake, perhaps jump into The Great Salt Lake. They certainly won't sink, but don't let it get in your eyes. We could get the polygamist Reverend Warren Jeffs (Beware of any pastor with "Warren: in his name.) to speak on how immoral Gay Marriage is.

I know that the Official Mormon Church says they are opposed to polygamy. After all, Brigham Young only had 26 wives. With such inhuman restraint, it was practically monogamy. My dear friend Guy Thanatos was in a movie some years ago, titled Brigham Young, Frontier polygamist. The picture featured an unusual romantic triangle subplot, when Brigham Young was briefly tempted to cheat on his twenty-six wives with thirty-two cheap sluts he met at his lake resort. However, the limpid, weepy eyes of his fifty-six children stopped him at the last minute, and kept him on the straight and narrow path of polygamy, making love only to the mobs of women he was semi-legally married to. Talk about inspiration and morality.

You know I have had at least ten husbands, maybe more (Way more, if you count other people's husbands!), but call me old fashioned, I had them one at a time.

Of course, Rick Warren is no Mormon, he just aids them in robbing gay people of basic civil rights. He's an advocate of "Religious Freedom", being one of those people who think that by legislating his religious delusions into our laws, he's helping Religious Freedom, rather than destroying it. Yet my religious beliefs are that he is a crock of shit! Hallelujah!

Rick Warren went on TV recently and equated Gay Marriage with incestuous marriage (which, oddly enough, he's against.), pedophilia, marrying animals, and so on. This week he announced that he does not equate Gay Marriage with incest, pedophilia, and bestiality. Rev Rick, we have this modern invention which you may not have seen yet in your Saddleback Church, mired as you are in the 18th Century. (I'm sorry. That was a terrible thing to say about the 18th Century, aka The Age of Reason. I meant the 12th Century.) It's called "Video tape". Using it, we can still see and hear you equating Gay Marriage with incest, pedophilia, and bestiality, so your denials don't work.

Speaking of Idiots United Against Gay Marriage, or I.U.A.G.M., Pat Boone publicly wrote that anti-prop 8 protesters were as bad as the terrorists in Mumbai, who murdered a lot of people. So far the Anti-Prop 8 Death Toll stands at 0, while the Pat Boone Brain Cells Death Toll stands at "All of Them." People like Rick Warren, Pat Boone, The Osmonds, the Mormons, the Nazi Pope, etc., sort of beg the question: Are they stupid because they're religious, or are they religious because they're stupid? Boy, there's an impossible-to-answer "Which came first, the chicken or the egg?" conundrum for you.

While we're at it, someone should explain about video tape to Dubya, and Vice President Lon Cheney, and Donnie Rumsfeld, all of whom these days are saying that they never said or did things we have them on video tape saying and doing. Hello? Don't you morons ever watch The Daily Show, or Keith Olbermann, or Rachel Maddow? Stephen Colbert claims to agree with you, but he's putting you on. Okay, Rachel is an unrepentant dyke, so watching her would be like watching your sister, or molesting a kid (Either kind of "kid": a child or a goat.) but Stewart and Olbermann are straight, and they all have these new-fangled video tape devices that keep catching you in lies. At least Nixon believed that no one but him would ever hear his tapes. But Dubya, Cheney, Warren, oh, and Blagojevich too, don't have that excuse.

Anyway, Rick Warren, my deadline is coming up. A shameless attention-grabbing media whore like yourself (Does he refuse to allow unrepentant Media Whores into his congregation? I bet not, or he wouldn't be able to be there.) won't want to miss out on being on my 2008 Dead Celebrity Round-Up, so get the lead out and kick off right away; today would be good. Make your demise your Christmas Gift to America. Besides, if you wait another year to die, you'll probably no longer be a celebrity, and I'll have to ignore you. This is your only chance to go out famous. So grab it! If you're wondering about how to do it, well, today is Boxing Day, and I know about 18,000 Californians more than willing to punch you to death.

Just a friendly reminder. Don't be left out. After all Rick, better dead than gay wed.

Cheers darling.

PS. Darlings, my first flogging chained to The Huffington Post is now up for all the world to see. Please do check it out: Dead Folks Cheers!

Victoria Gotti's Hot Mess of a Mansion Hits the Market

SELLER: Victoria Gotti
LOCATION: Birch Hill Court, Old Westbury, NY
PRICE: $3,500,000
SIZE: 5 bedrooms, 5.5 bathrooms
DESCRIPTION: This exquisite custom brick estate with Old World charm and elaborate detail on 4 acres of magnificent property was built in 1993 and features a pool with cascading waterfalls, guest/cabana house, gazebo with pond, stable/paddock, 4 car garage, fountains, children's playground, tennis court.

YOUR MAMAS NOTES: If the Long Island children will simmer down and listen very closely they can probably hear all the lock-jawed blue bloods in old money Old Westbury, NY sitting around their exclusive (and "restricted") country clubs quietly clinking their brandy snifters at in celebration that mafia princess turned gossip writer turned novelist Victoria Gotti has listed her 4 acre estate with an asking price of $3,500,000.

According to the gurls at Newsday, this is far from the first time Miz Gotti, a questionably klassy ladee who once pretended to have breast cancer, has attempted to unload her mafia-style mansion on the North Shore of Long Island. First listed in 2003, then 2005 and again in 2006, the over-processed property once carried an asking price of $4,800,000.

Property records show that weavetastic Miz Gotti and her former huzband Carmine Agnello (who was, surprise!, jailed in the year 2000 for racketeering) purchased the Birch Hill Court property in 1989 for $175,000 and proceeded to build one of the ass-ugliest mansions Your Mama has ever had the displeasure of laying eyes on.

Miz Gotti reportedly shares her Old Westbury estate with her three college age cugines (Carmine Jr, John and Frank) who revealed themselves to be nearly inarticulate, obscenely entitled and wildly ill-mannered morons on the family's lurid and stomach churning reality tee-vee program Growing Up Gotti which has, thankfully, been cancelled. Even Your Mama and the Dr. Cooter, who are unashamed and unrepentant reality program addicts could not sit through an entire episode of that television train wreck.

Anyhoo, listing information for Miz Gotti's estate indicates the two story house (plus finished basement) of indeterminate and completely whacked architectural pedigree includes 5 bedrooms and 5.5 bathrooms while property records show the house measures 5,739 square feet with 7 full and 2 half bathrooms. Your Mama can not account for the terlit count difference, but it may be the larger pooper count includes bathing and evacuating facilities in the detached guest house/cabana which looks like some half-assed, please poke our eyes out with a stick attempt at re-creating the damn Parthenon.

Listing information reveals the fully landscaped property, which rather unfortunately backs up to the service road of the very bizzy and very loud Long Island Expressway, includes double drive gates, a large motor court, any number of fountains, a cascading waterfall, dark-bottomed swimming pool, vast (featureless and furnitureless) paver-tiled patios and terraces, long stretches of lawn, a gazebo occupying on a small island in the middle of a private pond (gack!), stables and paddocks for the horsey types, a children's playground, a tennis court, a damn go-kart track and a 4 car garage for all the Gotti family's many mafia-mobiles.

While the puzzling and perplexing exterior has Your Mama's hair standing on end, it's really the interior spaces that make us go all glassy eyed, slack jawed an in desperate need of a large nerve pill and a gigantic gin and tonic. Guests, associates, buttons and compares are greeted in an entrance hall with a too-low looking ceiling and twin curving staircases where Miz Gotti can make dramatic entrances with her white pant suits, deep decolletage and riotous Rapunzel like tresses. The large living room features wood floors (that look like they might be cherry) a grand piano (that we'd bet our long bodied bitches Linda and Beverly has never been touched by the Gotti boys), all manner of over-stuffed chintz sofas, funeral home style drapery, and perhaps most unsettling of all, an entire wall completely covered with floor to ceiling mirrors. Who does that? Seriously. Who? The dining room ceiling, like that of the living room, has been stenciled with flowers, an affectation that makes Your Mama gag a little, inlaid wood floors and more funeral home style drapery.

The kitchen, with its tile floor and mirrored built-in buffet/display cabinet, is clearly in need of a complete overhaul and Your Mama does not even know what to make of those curly-cue iron stools that have been pulled up to the pill shaped work island, but we sincerely recommend they be taken out with yesterday's garbage because they are making our back ache just lookin' attem.

While Miz Gotti's office with its fireplace, inlaid floors and black walls almost (we stress the word almost) passes muster for not being completely vomit worthy, we are completely over-whelmed by the decorative tragedy of Miz Gotti's boudoir and private bathroom. For some reason, some misguided decorator has draped and swagged yard after yard after yard of gauzy textiles over Miz Gotti's four poster bed which sits, as you might well imagine, on a pedestal. The eagle eyed children will note how the swoopy chaise lounge at the foot of the bed appears to hang over the edge of the pedestal. Niiiihce. Miz Gotti's rose and gold colored bathroom is quite possibly one of the most upsetting examples of a bathroom on which we have ever laid our beady little eyes. How much do the children want to bet that all those floral arrangements are silk or plastic dust catchers? We'd also like to direct the children's limited attentions the baseboard heating elements which are certainly not what we expect to see in a multi-million dollar mansion, even on Long Island where baseboard heating is as common as sand at the beach.

There's a saying in real estate which is that, "Every lid has a pot." However, Your Mama imagines that only another mobbed up family with a few million clams stashed in a hidden compartment in their late model Escalade will find this is the right pot for their over the top design luvvin' lid.

None the less, we wish Miz Gotti and her three cretin kids all the luck in the world selling her real estate white elephant and respectfully request she not send any of her deceased father's former enforcers out looking for Your Mama's and/or the Dr. Cooter's knee caps. Capeesh?

A Utah Yuletide.

Have yourself a very Morman Christmas,
Make your loafers light.
From now on our homos will be out of sight.


Have yourself a very Mormon Christmas.
Make the Yuletide gay.
If they win, our weddings will be wiped away.


Here we are, what a pity,
Salt Lake City,
Oh wow.
Faith-based friends who are queer for us,
Can't be near to us,
They vow.


Some day soon the courts will all resolve this,
If the Latter-Day Saints allow,
But till then, tell Brigham Young to screw a cow,
And have yourself a very Mormon Christmas now.

Cheers darlings.

Happy Holidays!

Your Mama and the Dr. Cooter wish all the Children a Happy Christmas, Merry Kwanzaa, Joyous Chanukah or whatever damn holiday it is you celebrate this time of year.

Old Holiday Chestnuts

Merry Christian Cultural Incursion darlings. It's December, the month where everyone is a Christian, whether they want to be or not. It warms the heart and turns the stomach.

You know, we have to put up with a lot of crap from the superstitious and the religiously deluded about how "America is a CHRISTIAN Country!" even though any 8th grader who has read the Bill of Rights knows that this is a secular country, forbidden by the constitution from establishing any religion as "America's Religion." This gets particularly heated whenever the Religious Wrong are trying to justify legislating their delusions into our laws, such as during the ongoing anti-gay marriage battle, or the grossly offensive appointing of that walking-piece-of-shit Reverend Rick Warren to do the invocation at the inauguration next month. (Strictly speaking, this being a secular country and all, there really shouldn't be an invocation at all at an Official National Government event like an inauguration.)

I got into an argument with a religious moron at Disneyland, of all places, when visiting The Magic Queendom with Little Dougie at Thanksgiving. This idiot, after blessing the Moron Church, I mean the Mormon Church (Though what else would you call believers in "The Angel Moroni"? I mean, how upfront could he be?), for "Saving us from Gay Marriage," trotted out the tired and mistaken "This is a Christian Country" idiocy, and then added "We came here for Religious Freedom" (Apparently he was a 300 year old Puritan.), without noticing that legislating his particular religious delusions into our laws is the very essence of destroying Religious Freedom.


He babbled on about how Our Founding Fathers were all Christians, which is not true. Here's Thomas Jefferson on Christianity: "The day will come when the mystical generation of Jesus, by the Supreme Being as his father, will be classified with the fable of the generation of Minerva in the brain of Jupiter." Notice how this pretty much denies any meaning to Christmas. Merry Christmas, Tommy. Here's another Jefferson quote: "I ... do not find in our particular superstition (Christianity) one redeeming feature." Now there's a devout Christian.


The founding principles of America were taken from Common Sense by Thomas Paine. Here's a quote from Thomas Paine: "The Christian system of religion is an outrage on common sense." Paine also wrote: "The study of theology, as it stands in Christian churches, is the study of nothing; it is founded on nothing; it rests on nothing; it proceeds by no authorities; it has no data; it can demonstrate nothing." Paine was not only not a Christian, he was, in fact, an atheist. Sense? Yes. Common? No. Rare sense. Too rare.


Let's take another particularly beloved American Founding Father, Benjamin Franklin. Here's something Ben had to say on the subject of Christianity: "I have found Christian dogma unintelligible. Early in life I absented myself from Christian assemblies." Not exactly something you'd expect to hear from, oh, say The Nazi Pope. Next time someone tells you this is a Christian Country, tell them what a surprise that would be to those famous non-Christians Tom Jefferson, Tom Paine, and Ben Franklin.


For the record, George Washington was a Christian, but that doesn't make America a Christian country.


But we do still have Religious Freedom in this country, despite the best efforts of the Religious Wrong and Georgie Bush Jr. to remake this nation into a Theocracy, including the freedom to be a Muslim, a Jew, a Hindu, a Mormon, a Buddhist, an Atheist, or even a Christian Scientist, while still being just as American as Thomas Jefferson, though you Christian Science dumbells really need to get your kids proper medical care. Religious Freedom does not include the right to kill your kids in the name of Mary Baker Eddy. And you all get to celebrate Christmas or any other religious festival all you like.


Here's Little Dougie, his mom, and his sister Gretchen, in 1955, celebrating Christmas the way it should be.


Here he's awash in gifts. These days, it's all I can do just to get him to wash. By the way, are you perhaps wondering what the perfect gift is in this holiday season? Well here's what Hunky Santa, The Gay Claus, recommends.

And it's inexpensive. You can get "New or Used" copies from Amazon for embarrassingly low prices. That is important this year as we try to have a nice holiday in our ravaged economy. Someone stole America's prosperity over the last 8 years, through sheer stupidity, applied Reganomics (Same thing really), and rampant, unchecked greed. Who could it be? Who did such a terrible thing? Why, most of the Whos down in Whoville can barely afford to buy their children shoes to throw at the President.

Disneyland may seem like an odd place for a Religious Freedom and American Equality argument to break out. A mother nearby clucked at me: "There are children here. They don't need to hear this."

I'm afraid my snapped reply was, "Oh? Are they too young to learn that America is supposed to be all about Equal Rights for Everyone?"

But Disneyland was getting kinda weird on the subject itself. We went on the newly-revamped It's a Small World boat ride. Normally riding It's a Small World ranks right above waterboarding as an aquatic form of torture, what with that endlessly repeated, monotonous song. Back when they had ticket books, the E Ticket said right on it: "Subjecting an unwilling person to riding It's a Small World is a violation of The Geneva Conventions." But at the moment, it has been done up for the holidays, and instead of The Sherman Brothers' musical horror, they are playing a variety of secular Christmas songs - all different ones, not just Jingle Bells played over and over.

But here's the weird thing. It's a Small World is supposed to be all about how people are all the same despite our cultural and geographic differences. However, with the "Holiday Overlay," we suddenly have no cultural differences at all beyond costumes. The "Children of the World" even all have the same face! We currently get to see that we're all Christians!!! Because, as we cruise through the ride, we see that EVERYONE IN THE WHOLE WORLD CELEBRATES CHRISTMAS!

There they are in Saudi Arabia, celebrating Christmas! No pesky Muslims in the Arab countries on this ride! There they are celebrating Christmas in India, in China, in Japan, all over Africa! I don't know how the Muslim woman seated behind me in the boat resisted standing up and yelling, "This is very offensive!" through her bhurka. They might as well have been singing:

It's a Christian World after all.

It's a Christian World after all.

It's a Christian World after all.

It's a Christ- ian World!

But if the Christers were bound to be happy to see all those other belief systems wiped out of existence by singing doll robots, over at The Haunted Mansion they were probably shrieking in horror and clamping their hands over their kids' ears and eyes, because the vastly-more-entertaining holiday overlay on that attraction was all themed to the charming Tim Burton animated musical The Nightmare Before Christmas.

Jack Skellington and the denizens of Halloweentown run rampant all over Christmas there, this Holy Christian day being defiled and mocked by witches, wizards, devils, mad scientists, and demons from hell, and it's all a big laugh. It's delightfully sacrilegious. I loved it.


The only thing more obnoxious about the Christmas Season than the way Christianity forces itself on everyone all month, and accuses you of "Waging War on Christmas" if you insist on resisting their cultural Fascism, is what it does to television. When you're 111 like me, you don't always feel like going out on the town every evening, and TV is essential. Without TV, I'd be so desperate for entertainment, I might even be forced to resort to - gasp! - reading! God help me! And what is on TV this week? Well, some of our beloved, and less-than-beloved, regular shows, but all in repeats. And what else is on besides shows you saw two weeks ago?

The billionth repeat of of Charlie Brown's Christmas. Darlings, Charlie Brown in on Social Security. He's almost 70. How The Grinch Stole Christmas, not the unbearable Jim Carrey horror movie (Though that is on, if you know any children you really hate!), but the delightful animated version starring my ex-husband Boris Karloff. Darlings, Boris has been dead for 40 years. The show still airs every December! Also on, the hundred billionth repeat of Frank Crapra's It's a Maudlin Wonderful Life with Jimmy Stewart. That picture was shot 100 years ago. For everyone in that movie these days, It's a Wonderful Death, because they are all dead, and if I ever have to sit through that movie again, I'll kill myself too. If an angel had ever shown Crapra what Life would have been like if he'd never been born, he'd have seen that no one ever made this movie, and the world was full of a lot fewer bored people every Christmas.

What else is on? Repeats of all the Christmas shows that have been on every single year since the manger in Bethlehem. (If we pretend for a moment that the Christmas Fable is actually true, and is not what it so obviously actually is, a myth. Hint: Virgins don't get pregnant. Believe me, I tried that one on my mother a century ago and, unlike the Reverend Rick Warren and his ilk, she wasn't stupid enough to fall for it.) Frosty the Red-Nosed Reindeer (Had a nip or two have you Frosty? Me too.), The Little Bummer Boy, Rudolph the Big-Dicked Pornstar, Miracle on 34th Street, A Christmas Story, and of course, 8000 different versions of A Christmas Carol. Much as I love Charlie Dickens (And I might add, he adored me!), how many times can I see that same exact story? Who is your favorite Scrooge? Alastair Sim? Albert Finney? George C. Scott? (George, here's a note that obviously your director was afraid to give you: Scrooge is supposed to be English. You might have at least thought about trying an English accent.) Patrick Stewart? Mr. Magoo? Scrooge McDuck?

What was that, darlings? You don't remember Rudolph the Big-Dicked Porn Star? How could you forget him? Well, let me catch you up.

You know Arpad and Mattox, Russo and Ryker,

Six guys all named Chad, Stefano and Stryker,
But do you recall?

The hunkiest porn stud of all?

Rudolph, the big-dicked porn star,

Had a very shiny ass.

And if you ever saw it,

You would say it's smooth as glass.

All of the other porn stars,

Used to laugh at his behind.

They never let poor Rudolph,

Come and play and fuck them blind.

Then one horny Christmas Eve,

Chi Chi came to say,

"Rudolph with your dick so hot,

Won't you do my money shot?"

Then all the porn stars loved him,

And they shouted out with glee,

"Rudolph, the big-dicked porn star,

You'll go down on him and me."

Doesn't it bring a tear to your eyes? I know it makes me moist. Anyway, if the TV networks can put on nothing but Christmas reruns, why not me too? So here are two of my favorite holiday entries, both posted before.


First off, my favorite holiday song, perhaps because I wrote it. Enjoy:

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,

Are trees looking jolly,

When all of their leaves have been shed.

And I will grant, a-

-nother 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.

Remember Mel Gibson's drunken, Jew-baiting arrest two Decembers back? I did when I wrote, under my non-de-plume, this instant Christmas classic. Again, enjoy my present to you.

The Passion of the Elf
by Inclement Clarke Morehead


'Twas the night before Christmas, all through Morehead Heights
Not a creature was stirring, 'cept deep in my tights;
My pantyhose hung by the chimney with Nair,
In hopes that Huge Jackman soon would be there;
The vodka was nestled all snug in my head,
While visions of sugar-tits made my legs spread;
Like me in my turban, the brave with no head,
Had just gone to sleep, or perhaps we were dead.
When outside my skull there arose such a clatter,
I fell out of bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I crawled like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up my hash.
Then mooning my breasts from my new-fallen pants,
Gave the luster of porn to my sagging implants.
When what to my blurry red eye there appears,
But some really big gay, and eight quite tiny queers,
And a little old driver, so drunken and glib, son,
I knew in a moment it must be Mel Gibson.
More rapid than virgins, his coursers they came,
And he humped them, and shouted, and cursed them by name;
"Now, Flasher! Pole Dancer! Fag Prancer, you Vixen!
On Slutty! On Trampy! On Scrotum and Nixon!
To the top of her porch! To the top of her house!
Now dash away! Dash away! Tear off her blouse!"
As dry heaves that before the wild hurricane barf,
I can’t get these stains off my lovely headscarf.
Up to my house-top they flew just like Krypto,
With the drunken old fool who made Apocalypto.
And then, in a flash, I heard on my ceiling,
The horrible sound of my juices congealing.
When I stuck out my butt, to show my endzone,
Down my chimney Mel Gibson came hard, with a groan.
He was painted bright blue, and was covered with gore,
And he smiled and he laughed and he called me a whore;
A bundle of buttplugs was flung on his back.
He was stinking of gin, my aphrodisiac.
His eyes -- how they watered! His dimples -- how sexy!
I don’t know why he gives the Jews apoplexy.
His wet drooling mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as yellow as snow;
The stump of a leg he held tight in his teeth,
And the blood it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face, narrow mind, and round belly,
That shook when he raved, like petroleum jelly.
He was skinny and drunk, a right smelly old elf,
I got damp when I smelt him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his knob,
And his purple-eyed warrior started to throb.
He spoke not a word, but just started to jerk,
And soon stained my poster of Young Captain Kirk.
Then shoving his finger inside of his nose,
And giving a prod, up my chimney he rose;
He soon gave his team a quite mean disemboweling,
And then filmed their deaths, as they all lay there howling.
Last I heard him exclaim the incredible news,
"Happy Christmas to all. Now go kill some Jews."

So darlings, I'm your Auntie Christ, keeping the Christ out of Christmas. On behalf of myself, Little Dougie, the Headless Indian Brave, Eduardo my gardner's son, and everyone here at Morehead Heights, I'm wishing a very happy holiday to all of you little people sitting out there, in the dark, watching me, and touching yourselves.

Cheers darlings.

Today Is A Travel Day...

...so unfortunately y'all are going to have to go without your daily fix of Your Mama's celebrity real estate sass. We'll be back attcha as soon as we can.

Is Michael Jackson on the Move?

According to the good folks at gossip juggernaut TMZ, fallen pop music icon Michael Jackson recently leased a humongous house in the posh Holmby Hills section of Los Angeles for a staggering $100,000 per month.

According to property records, the lavish and exuberantly decorated pile on N. Carolwood Drive is owned by Roxanne Guez who is (or was, we don't know) married to Hubert Guez, a somewhat controversial bizness man who made his millions manufacturing apparel in Mexico for all sorts of recognizable mass market brands. Mister Guez now serves as the CEO of a coterie of clothing brands including Ed Hardy and Christian Audiger.

Listing information we ferreted out shows the 3- story Richard Landry designed "French Chateau" style estate was built in 2002, measures in at a whopping 17,171 square feet and includes 7 bedrooms and an unlucky 13 terlits. Until sometime last week, the fit for a Saudi royal property was listed for sale with a blistering asking price of $38,000,000.

Other amenities of the gated and heavily fortified estate include subterranean garaging, 12 fireplaces, an impress-the-guests style entrance hall with a curving staircase, formal living and dining rooms, a wood paneled den with adjoining library, a theater room, a gore-may kitchen with eating area, family room and, of course, a wine cellar where The White Lady can store his rare collection of Julio and Gallo "Jesus Juice."

The 1.26 acre property includes a heated swimming pool (which we can't imagine Mister Jackson can use due to his various skin conditions) and an adjacent guest house for whatever handlers, minders and sycophants he still has on his payroll.

Of course, Your Mama don't know nuthin' about nuthin' but what we do know is that according to information we received, the house in question was indeed leased for $100,000 per month. But as of early this a.m. we're just not sure if it was (or was not) leased to Mister Jackson.

Although Mister Jackson has leased houses in Los Angeles in the past, including a big tacky thing up on Shadow Hill Way, Your Mama can't imagine why Mister Jackson would leave his relatively incognito digs in Las Vegas and come to Los Angeles, land of marauding paparazzi, can you?

Calvin Klein Wants to do His Part to Stimulate the Economy

The financial markets are in turmoil, a man named Bernard Madoff (allegedly) made $50,000,000,000 of other people money disappear in a spectacular Ponzi scheme, the credit markets are locked up tight, the banks and car companies are rattling their tin cups all up and down Pennsylvania Avenue and sixty-something year old bisexual fashion icon Calvin Klein applied to the town of Southampton to demolish the 50,000 square foot oceanfront mansion he bought five years ago for nearly $30,000,000 and replace it with a more modern, more minimalist, more fabulous, and, for him, more modest 17,500 square foot glass and concrete beach hut.

Ain't it nice to be filthy, stinking, up to your ears in money rich children?

Deep Throat Gags.

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