Liz & Larry Live!

TV and Movie Lands are all abuzz about Liz Taylor and Larry King doing an interview on May 30 to “tell all.”

Much to my shock and horror, my latest suicide attempt went awry when I dropped my 12” black and white television into the tub – and then through some improbable cross-pollination of the tubes in the back, I was presented with the raw feed of the interview on some satellite uplink. I was disappointed twice in a matter of 30 seconds.

I quickly grabbed pad and pencil, and jotted down the interplay. Here’s what I got.

LARRY KING, host of Larry King Live, CNN: Liz, baby, it’s good to see you. Is the wheelchair uncomfortable? Is your oxygen line pinched, sweetheart? Maybe a little backup on the catheter discharge? You got this blue-green thing happening in your prodigious jowls, princess – anything we can help with to make you comfortable? MY GOD! What is that smell? Cameraman Bob? That you sweetheart? Liz, dear, you go pooty in your panties?

LIZ TAYLOR, physically enormous 110 year old trapped in the used body of a 74 year old, made a couple of B-grade movies over the years, used to be married to some famous guys including a construction worker: It is wonderful to be here, Larry, thank you for inviting me. No, I’m very comfortable. Thank you for asking. I work tirelessly to achieve this aqua tint. It’s a strategic pooling of blood, actually. I hope to make it a fashion trend for sick, fat, prematurely old people. And no, no pooty, my king – that hole was sewn over eight years ago after the rabid-gerbil incident. Got a bag now. Lemme make sure it isn’t leaking … [Ms. Taylor lifts her skirt and feels around underneath. Larry is watching closely. Liz pulls her bag into plain view for the camera. Little chucks of meatloaf float in a bloody mess. Something seems to be swimming inside. A tape worm? Its head presses against the bag wall and Larry begins to vomit. Liz is squeezing the bag to check for leaks. She lifts her hands to her nose and sniffs deeply, licking one, and then rearranges her clothing. Stage hands huddle around Larry, wiping him off and helping him to his chair.] No, Larry, all tight and dry. Mostly. A little around the cap, but I tightened it.

LARRY: Oh my, f----ing lord, I vomited so hard I voided myself. Liz, baby, let’s break for a minute while I go clean up. This is Larry King, and you’re watching Larry King Live! Be right back.

LARRY: We’re back! This evening is a very special time for us. Elizabeth Taylor, actress and activist, is in the studio with us. Welcome again, Liz.

LIZ: Great to be [Ms. Taylor seems to stifle a burp, perhaps a mild upchuck, and begins slowly chewing something in the back of her mouth] here, Larry. I, um, [inaudible, perhaps “oh, yes, turkey mixed with that young man who opened the door for me. Nice flavor that one.”] yes, Larry, nice to be here.

LARRY: You’ve done so much over the years, Liz baby. Tell us a good story.

LIZ: A good story, Larry? Oh my, there are so many of them! Did you and I ever get stinky, Larry? I seem to remember …

LARRY: I have a rule, Liz baby, no water buffalo. No offense intended. Got this sweet young thing …

LIZ: None taken, my sweet. You know, they say it all feels the same with the lights out.

LARRY: “They” are wrong. Trust me, Liz. Been there. Both sides of that coin. No comparison. Cough with a story, bloodhound.

LIZ: OK. Let’s see. [Ms. Taylor lifts her head as if scanning the skies for a story. Her neck fat unfolds and the pooling blood shifts like a lava lamp. Camera 3 flays off-set as the operator falls to his knees, wretching.] Oh, yes! [Ms. Taylor smiles broadly and whatever she had been chewing is visible. It has a head. It’s another tape worm.]

LARRY: Oh my, f----ing lord. [Larry vomits again. Hard, dry. The smell of urine fills the air.] Liz, baby, let’s break for a minute. Gather your thoughts and we’ll catch your story on the flipside. This is Larry King, and you’re watching Larry King Live! Be right back. Are we off feed? OK. I need a new suit, new chair, somebody spray the floor underneath me. Gimme five, folks, I’m shook to my f---ing core. Liz, get you anything, sweetheart? Tell this boy here. Anything you want. [The boy, it seems, was 19 year old Bradley. As he approached Ms. Taylor, his eyes widened as fear and revulsion surfaced when he saw her eyes fixed on his crotch.]

LARRY: [Walking off-set] It’s going to be a long f---ing night. Somebody find those glasses that fuzz everything about a foot or more in front of me. Maybe I can interview this hag better if I can’t see her. God, I need to hosed down and deloused, and I am not a page into my notes.

LARRY: Hey! We’re back with legend Elizabeth Taylor. Liz, you have a story for us?

LIZ: Yes, Larry. The first of many in our interview, I hope.

LARRY: The contents of my stomach are in the waste basket over there. My bladder was emptied on my chair. I even voided myself. Been hosed down twice and disinfected once. I’ve got all night, love. OH, S—T! Did I say all of that out loud? F—K! OK, OK, just edit it out. Let’s tape with this: Liz, sweetheart, I’m here forever for you.

LIZ: Well, Larry, it was September of 1975. Richard and I …

LARRY: Sir Richard Burton, your 5th and 6th husband?

LIZ: Yes, Larry. Richard and I hadn’t been “together” [Ms. Taylor lowered her head and put special emphasis on the word] in over a year. Well, I was rubbing the bedposts by that time!

LARRY: Is this going to be a sex story, Liz?

LIZ: Yes.

LARRY: I’m still a bit queasy here, babe. Think we can lead up to sex? Got anything neutral for now?

LIZ: We can lead anywhere you want to go, Larry.

LARRY: No, we can’t, Liz. Water Buffalo Rule, remember?

LIZ: Oh yes. Nasty little rule, tisn’t it? [Whereupon Ms. Taylor turned her head and flashed her violet eyes. The camera came in close and caught a twinkle. Larry was oblivious because of the glasses he was wearing. His eyes were magnified to almost three times their normal size, filling the oversized lenses.]

LARRY: I like rules, Liz baby. Particularly those that keep my ankle spanker safe and sound.

LIZ: Ankle spanker? Does that pump-action yogurt chucker come in flavors?

LARRY: I – think – I – am – going – to – be – sick … [Larry then leaned over and dry heaved himself into unconsciousness.]

BARBARA WALTERS, magically appearing in Larry’s seat: Good evening again, ladies and gentlemen. Larry was so overcome with emotion during his interview with Elizabeth Taylor that he couldn’t continue. I have asked to continue this important discussion.

LIZ: “Lady” is a funny word to come out of your mouth.

BARBARA: I slept with nothing that didn’t go looking for it first, tele-tubby.

LIZ: Who you calling tubby – you anorexic stick? Here, have some food! [Ms. Taylor then threw open her skirt and rapidly unscrewed her colon-in-a-bag. Placing it on the desk, she slapped down hard and the tape worm leapt onto Ms. Walter’s neck. Unfazed, Ms. Walters grabbed the worm, bit its head off, and spit it at Ms. Taylor, striking her in the folds of her neck.]

BARBARA: Tastes just like chicken, you fat slut! Worked yourself all the way down the food chain to a construction jock! You’re pathetic. [Ms. Walters then leapt over the desk and, knocking Ms. Taylor to the ground, started to pummel her face.]

[The feed continued for several more minutes, but was just audio. The fight was allowed to continue as set workers could be heard placing and paying off bets. The last words picked up probably came from the producer – “What an f---ing nightmare! Somebody call the fire marshal. I want a permit to burn this set. Maybe we can run “National Velvet” and have a bottom feed saying she wasn’t feeling well so the interview has been rescheduled. With any luck, she’ll die before then.”]

Untitled

Being lonely in a crowd is boring compared to being crowded when you are alone.

I sit in my living room when the others are gone. Across the room, next to the window, is a rocker. I’ve never sat in it; wasn’t meant for me. Only when I am alone and feel still does he come. He sits and looks out the window, scanning the yard sometimes but usually peering into the woods beyond. I’ve never noticed his clothes, but I think he wears the same ones always. Our eyes never meet, they can’t: he can see right through me.

He was or is someone’s grandfather. Not mine; I’ve never seen him before he started to visit my rocking chair. But when he comes, my shoulders relax and I forget to hold my face as tightly as I usually do. I feel safe like I used to feel before the fracturing times of decades ago.

He never lived here. My house is too new for that. Perhaps he farmed this land a long time ago. Maybe he hunted in the woods. Perchance he was just waiting for me to put his rocker there so he could relax at long last.

I don’t get up when he visits because when I have, he has always left. So I fall asleep with him sitting near. I dream vividly and awake refreshed, but alone.

Next time I feel still, before I sit on the couch, I will put a hair brush next to his rocker. Perhaps the time afterward, I will try to find my stillness as I sit between the rocker and the window. Will I feel my grandfather brush my hair?

Ut-oh

I am feeling very dirty this morning. Drift a few posts down to "One-Handed Typists." I did a spoof piece on masterbating and was amazed at how many hits I got because of the misspelling, masterbaiting. OK. I can co-exist with the most stunning array of dysfunction. It's a talent of mine. But now, but now new lows have been achieved by net fans and I have been dragged into the tar pit with them. I hold the cherished number one spot on google when some deeply lonely person searched "how do i masterbait my dog."

Yuk. Just fricking yuk. No, I didn't look at the rest of the hits to see if someone actually provided instructional material. np.

Slick way of blowing town

So this guy in India, Netrapal Singh, wants to marry this girl. “Um, no,” she says and begins to marry another guy. “Oh, yeah! Well, time for a new menu item – here’s a little Netrapal stew on you!” And he promptly triggers a switch in his shoe and blew! Little itty-bitty pieces of Netrapal on the wedding cake, the groom, a few bystanders. Yuk. Everyone was hosed off and the wedding continued. What’s this world coming to when you blow yourself up and all you get is a slightly annoyed look and the party goes on without you?

Speaking of people for whom the pieces would be greater than the whole, Moussaoui is home in Colorado now. Prediction: He knows now and will accept soon that the only way he can contribute to the jihad is to die. He figures that they’ll send his body home. Lots of Muslims in France. He’ll be dead soon. Hunger strike? I hope so. Seems our response is to restrain and cram hoses through the nose. It strikes me humorous to think about who “won” and how much better a death sentence would’ve been as I picture his emaciated bald head with mini-fire hoses cranking in a thick brown liquid. Probably tastes like chicken.

Wow! Did you know that canola oil is some communist plot to liquefy our brains? It ain’t even made from canolies! Toxic build-ups lead to guacamole. This is amazing stuff. Scary. The cure? Drink water. Oh. UPDATE. Boy, just can't trust some net sites, eh? "Canola" is not an abstract word, it is a contraction of "Canadian oil, low acid." Learn something new every day.

Maybe we can give Moussaoui a canola-oil enema then blow him up. Might make the clean up a little easier. I think the pieces wouldn’t stick as much.

Condi's biscuits on crack

W’s gonna talk about immigration on Monday night. Here’s a little bit of what he’s expected to say.

What I find amazing is that the dems and libs will come out in droves – from street-level junkies to WDC whores – to tell us how incredibly stupid the man’s plans are. It’s not like he’s Ted Kennedy who’s been drunk since election night 1960. W’s working hard and making the best decisions under the circumstances. Shut up, cut him an f’g break for once, and focus on your own pathetic problems. Quit transferring your failure to succeed onto a reformed alcoholic that’s been elected as governor twice and president twice. Your claims of “incompetent” and “fool” and “liar” ring a bit hollow when I look into your eyes.

Speaking of hollow, WDC Mayor Marion Barry pulled into traffic without looking. This guy is like a bad penny. Always popping up in circumstances that remind a person of being on crack. A cracked penny. Some people should have the decency to just die. Culling the herd. Ancient concept. Net increase to the gene pool. Isn’t Marion a chick’s name? Anyone look up his skirt lately?

This is one of the funniest protest letters that I have ever read. This adjunct English “professor” at Boston College “resigns” because Condi Rice is a “liar” and she’s been invited to speak at the school. The sitting Secretary of State – the first black female in that role and the highest black female in any position ever in the United States government – and this loser “resigns.” So funny. An adjunct? That’s like saying, “I drive past Harvard every business day on my way to work. Because you have [insert garbage political position here], I am hereby and forthwith changing irrevocably my commute route.” The speaker would then stomp his feet and purse his lips into a pout. Maybe his head would flick backward as his hair catches the wind he made. His support group would then begin a murmured chant of his terrestrial name as our defiant hero fights back tears. Weeks later, he’ll revert to his old commute route because he gets easily confused and seems to sleep poorly under such stress. Poor sleep patterns always changes his bowel-movement cycle which results inevitably in poorly timed flatulence, including (most unfortunately) when his new boss introduced himself and shook our grandstander’s hand. Our political grandstander knew the permanent damage done to his career when he overheard the boss saying, “so I grab his hand, shake, a little pump, and out the other end comes this ‘toot!’ It was like a carnival toy except I didn’t have to insert a quarter! Oh, yeah, wait, I pay the guy a wage. Set him up for failure – shouldn’t be hard – let’s get rid of him by month’s end. This company’s got enough issues. We don’t need problem farters. Poor guy’s probably holding them in now. Gonna start puffing up, looking jaundiced. Could you imagine the headlines, let alone the Worker’s Comp claim, if he explodes from excessive methane reserves? We don’t need that kind of publicity.”

Someone is finally making the connection between the Da Vinci Code and the PBUH Cartoons. I hate to write it, but I don’t really know what the Da Vinci Code is all about. My first brush with it years ago suggested that if you sent in three box tops from Cocoa Puffs and $1.95 and a self-addressed envelope that you would get in return a special decoder ring. The ring could be used to find fun things in the Bible. Something not far removed from observing that the middle verse of the Bible is Psalms 118:8. That’s two pair. Noah (animals two by two). A name of two two’s (two vowels and two consonants). Desmond Tutu. The wa-tut-ze. Number 9. The White Album. Another two pair (John, Paul George, and Ringo). The Beatles … beetles … bugs … animals … Noah! The circuit is closed. So let it be said, so let it be written, so let it be done. I think if you look hard enough at anything, you’ll find what you want to find – it’s up to you: looking for the deepest recesses of God’s mind or an anus pumping out methane? Send me $1.95 and an envelope. We’ll talk.

This is a very cool site of old cookbooks. Whenever I look at a recipe, I always think of my dad. He had one cookbook, the NYT Cookbook. I got it. Stuck amongst its pages is a handwritten recipe: “Mom’s biscuits. 1 cup milk. Enough flour to make a biscuit. Bake at 350.” Can’t improve on that.

I haven’t eaten chicken since the late 1980’s, but I have never forgotten Chicken & Dumplings. It was a marvel to me as kid how the dropped biscuits covered the top and it was a stew underneath. I love to cook, and I think seeing the magic of this recipe was a huge motivator for me at an early age. This recipe is the closest I can find to my childhood memories.

Keith Richards has been discharged from the hospital after falling out of a tree. My son said that the initial measure of success for Keith’s brain surgery was finding anything inside his skull. I think his theory was premised upon drug use killing off brain cells. Smart kid. Very good at logical reasoning.

GMail has been down for almost two hours. I’m about to act out. In fact, I think I will. Now.

One-handed typists

Wanna increase site traffic? Write a post using a misspelling for a sexual act. Instead of “masturbate”, try “masterbait” – as in MasterBait Fishing Lures. You can hide behind a false wall of innocence whilst the spelling-challenged amongst us go in search of their prurient interests.

Recent searches have been masterbation methods, large masterbaiting toys, how to masterbait, average amount of times a male masterbaits, girls masterbait, masterbaiting advice, girls that like to masterbait, how do I masterbait the right way, masterbait properly, masterbait with a broom, how to masterbait with shower head, and naked masterbaiters.

It’s comforting, on some level, to know that people want to research such a potentially sensitive act before embarking, and also that they want to learn by watching how other people, um, do it. My advice? Yes, do it naked. Use the shower head. Stay away from the broom. The thought of large toys is not pleasant – anything that closes the circuit from your dick to the power grid is to be avoided (as a general proposition). Get a dictionary.

Boy Kennedy

My sides are hurting from laughing so much. I love it when the press tries to paint a tragic figure. This boy is a complete a-hole. No sympathy.

The quotes:

"Most people feel sorry for him because he's obviously troubled," said a veteran Democratic consultant. Troubled about what? Not his checkbook balance. Not his job. Is he gay or something? Are the Christians going after him?

"He walks around as though he has the weight of the world on his shoulders," the consultant said. "He's had these unfortunate brushes with the law and with addiction. He came to Congress with a tremendous amount of promise, and it hasn't really worked out for him." The weight of the world. So sad. So young and frickin’ handed one of 435 seats in the United States House of Representations. So clearly beyond his intellectual and emotional capabilities. But c’mon – “it” hasn’t worked out for “him.” He hasn’t worked out for it. Period.

Brushes with the law? (such as shoving an African-American airport security worker). Wow. I always forget that the rules of civilized society don’t apply to these people. I gotta write that down somewhere, maybe put it in my wallet.

Okay. Let’s not nit pick. Let the boy speak for himself. "I don't need Bush's tax cut," Kennedy shouted to a shocked crowd of young Democrats in 2003. "I have never worked a f-----g day in my life." F--- you, son. Just plain, f--- you.

The Democratic operative said: "He's like the boss' son who sort of falls into the family business and doesn't really belong." A little honesty, thank you. But a big correction – running the United States of America is not the Kennedy’s family business. And, well, f--- you for thinking it is.

Another D.C. Democrat, "I felt he has always been striving to live up to people's expectations of what a Kennedy should be. The weight of that must be tremendous." “What a Kennedy should be” … what a great phrase. Let’s see. Drunk. Yes, that has to be first. A murderer comes to mind – Keg Head Ted and the Girl that wouldn’t Float, and that Michael whatever that uses Kennedy as his maiden name and wrapped the 4 Iron around that young girl’s head. Rapist applies. Not a pilot – no, they tried that, didn’t work.

There must be more. But even with this short list, I can see the guy’s point – such a tremendous weight. I almost - but not quite - feel sorry for the poor guy.

Clowns visit Mayo whilst cheeseaters play adult marbles with squirrels.

Never be surprised when a Kennedy either gets special treatment to help them avoid prosecution or admits to a substance abuse problem. Too wasted to drive, yet sober enough to remember to claim he was rushing to a congressional vote, thereby allowing him special protection (although Congress was closed at the time (3AM)). And now this pill-popping drunkard is going to do his second stint in five months at Mayo to help with his “chronic disease.”

What an f’g loser. The entire clan is a complete waste of carbon. Time to cull the herd, eh? Hey, Rep. McKinney! Do you perceive special treatment for this rich, white fellow democrat?

Speaking of all things Kennedy, I had no idea that clowns had a news site. They do draw lines (as well as ring bells and wear big shoes): Their editor shares, “Since we are a 'happy' newspaper, we ignore the stories of people dressed up as a clown, who do bad things.” I guess that excludes coverage of Michael Jackson and Hillary Clinton. But maybe they can get coverage over here – I Hate Clowns.

Ever think of having a squirrel as a pet? Here’s an article that seems thoughtful and perhaps too complete. The first paragraph states, “I don't feel that a loving relationship between a human being and a squirrel is any of the government's business …” From polygamy to same-sex marriage to squirrel love. Makes me glad to be a dog lover. Whoops! Did I just say that out loud?!?

This is an incredible on-line cheese store. Buffalo mozzarella made from buffalo milk! No yak cheese, but you can find that here.

This is so cool! Marbles at wholesale. Marbles have always been a secret joy of mine. Growing up in Scranton, I used to win the coolest marbles during my grade school years. I had quite the collection of little guys and boulders (that’s what we called the big ones; dunno what they are actually called). Just looking at the linked page brings back so much. Late 1960s, Longfellow Public School (No. 28), circles drawn in the dirt, Ronald somebody.

De-nutted drunken terrorist sings, dies, then gets VD

Moussaoui. Life. Admax. Poured-concrete toilet. 23-hour solitary. Thin mattress. Frequent butt checks. Bu-bye! May your death be at your own hands and your virgins infect you with 72 different diseases. PBUH.

Musical interlude. Opening stanza of an Irish tune called The Moonshiner:

I'm a rambler, I'm a gambler,
I'm a long way from home
And if you don't like me,
Well, leave me alone
I'll eat when I'm hungry,
I'll drink when I'm dry
And if moonshine don't kill me,
I'll live til I die

Next. Anyone in your family ever die right after saying, "Hey y'all watch this"?

This is priceless. Keg Head Ted Kennedy’s son, Patty. "I was involved in a traffic incident last night" near the U.S. Capitol, Kennedy said in a statement. "I consumed no alcohol prior to the incident," he added. He forgot to add in his initial statement that he was on drugs. Loser.

Got some guilt over de-butting your dog? Get him a set of fake balls. How thoughtful.