The Introduction to the Pantheon

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You’re bored, play our quiz...

There was a documentary that followed the lives of schoolchildren entitled Seven Up.  If I remember correctly, they discontinued the project at Fifty-six Up — seven installments, and forty-nine years later.

Surprisingly, the original Seven Ups were the Big Four — Charlize Theron, Heather Graham, Ashley Judd, and Gwyneth Paltrow (not in any particular order).  Without further ado, here is a quiz matching the Big Four to their quotes from then.

1.  I’d like everyone on earth to be very, very, happy, someday.A.  Charlize Theron
2.  I’d like to one day become a billionaire, or else marry one, or just have two kids.B.  Ashley Judd
3.  I’d like to be able to levitate myself into the clouds.  And every child needs to be loved.C.  Gwyneth Paltrow
4.  I’d like to rebuild my country.D.  Heather Graham

Do not look at the answers until you’ve given this the old college try.  That may not be saying much about college, but so be it.

The answers:  1., B.;  2., C.;  3., D.;  4., A.

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Pantheon Removals

On to the subject of Pantheon removals — yes, there are Pantheon girls who couldn’t live up to our tremendous standards, and overwhelming expectations.  Some might say: “The Other Letter is an obscure little blog, who gives a flying eff if a few starlets don’t make the cut here, because they can make it with Time, People, the New York Times, etc...”

The reason why Other Letter matters, and those rags don’t anymore, is that they cater to the lowest common denominator, they cannot stray far away from the center of the political spectrum, they must satisfy as many readers as possible, yet still not alienate their advertisers.

Meanwhile, our standards are without equal, we have no advertisers, we don’t need filthy lucre from their ill-gotten gains.  While we toil in obscurity to ultimately deciding the fate of nations, they remain apolitical.  Their view of celebrity is of backers of the current economic and political regime, they cannot imply different for fear of advertiser and subscriber reprisals.

Then without further ado:

Ashley Judd would have been on her way out of the Pantheon due to her associations with bad elements.  If you follow this Pantheon you know we mean Pope Jorge (his real name), and Bono (his alias).  A little birdie told me she is not so foolish anymore, but I still have her on Double Secret Probation to avoid relapses.

Salma Hayek is Ashley’s bff.  She sports a crucifix, so I avoid her like the plague.  Just like at any recent Red Carpet, I am at one end and Salma at the other, both avoiding any and all eye contact.  Although I may sneak peeks at her much more than ample, top-heavy bosom.  Salma needs a walker, by the way, so she doesn’t fall on her face, and get stabbed by her crucifix...

By the way, while girls pray to God for a figure like Salma’s: Off-set, she has a walker and self-powered wheelchair; she has had back surgeries — plural; off-location, Salma regularly face plants into her restaurant dinners; on-set, she screams for pain relief from assistants ready with hookahs and morphine; and she has several pill docs on call, 24/7, fulfilling her opioid scripts.  Salma may look glamorous, but she is in absolute agony, all-day, everyday...

Reese Witherspoon was removed from an Other Pantheon because of her close ties with Oprah Winfrey.  Oprah was the one who said “Hope lives” after Trump was inaugurated.  Winfrey also allowed Michael Jackson perjurers to promote their new movie on her show.

Reese did a movie called Sweet Home, Alabama, featuring the song of the same name, which was a homage to the Confederacy and racism by Lynyrd Skin-nerd.  It would be interesting to hear how she responded to the line: “In Birmingham, they love the Governor [‘Segregation today, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever,’ Alabama Governor, George Wallace]; Watergate does not bother me.”  Most likely, she just took the approach that as long as the money is good, who cares about any movie’s social conscience.

Reese operates Hello Sunshine, which gives (young?) women a leg up in the screenwriting business.  Men who also deserve a leg up, get nothing from her.  While a Christian, Reese strikes me as someone who takes the stereotypical Jewish or Asian tack.  In other words, she is only in it for the money, and will do anything for yet more cash.  As far as life imitating art: Reese didn’t become her role of heroine Elle Woods in Legally Blond, she became her first role, the social climber, and very annoyingly ambitious, Tracy Flick, in Election.

If Reese wanted reinclusion in the hottest Pantheon in Hollywood she needs to: Distance herself from Oprah for embracing Trump; condemn Oprah for taking down Michael Jackson; disavow participation in pro-Confederacy-subtext, Sweet Home, Alabama; and patronize screenwriters regardless of gender.  The choice is yours, Reese, but we don’t have time for arrivistes with a weak ethical core.  The olive branch has been extended, and the ball is now in your court...

Tina Fey was pulled because she backed Jimmy Fallon.  This was after the firestorm he created when he snuggled up with Trump on the Tonight Show during his election campaign.

Tina has begun petitioning for inclusion back in to the Pantheon U.S. Edition via an Other Legal Channel, but frankly, we do not see this ever being ruled in her favor.  It’s like having a felony on your rap sheet, it stays there forever.  Don’t expect me to clean up your rap sheet, Fey, it ain’t gonna happen.  Sorry.  Many are called, but few are chosen.  If this sounds familiar, much of the Pantheon for Hollywood Women is modeled after the United States Marine Corps.

Tina, I know you’re out there, don’t bother resubmitting your application.  It is a lengthy, time-consuming, and expensive process.  You may think you’re made of money until you get caught in the Supreme Court of the U.S. Pantheon.  Just be thankful that you did belong to the Pantheon for a few glorious months, and just leave it at that.  This is all we can do.  I know you think you’re worthy, you’re not.  I’m sorry, I hate to break it to you, but you’re not good enough.

Jennifer Lawrence was yanked off of Other Letter when she was rude to Lilo.  J-Law said she “pukes like Lilo without the drugs or alcohol.”  And J-Law herself pukes because of nervousness, or because of the same reasons she accuses Lilo?

Lindsay Lohan (Lilo) was given the bum’s rush once she decided she was pro-Trump and pro-Weinstein, not much to add to that.  If one feels super-charitable, they could say she’s far, far out of the loop living in Dubai.

Any of those listed above will be considered for re-inclusion in the OL Pantheon once they prove they are worthy of Other Letter forgiveness, either with selfie bedroom photos, or starlet mansion invites.  Other Letter is the new power player in Tinseltown, and he will be treated as such.

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Actresses To Be Included

These are a few of the unforgettable, Pantheon women I hope to include once I find the time, the energy, and a full-time research assistant who wears low-cut blouses.  This incomplete list has unexpectedly gotten very long, and I have made serious omissions due to blind spots in my admittedly limited knowledge of the entertainment industry.

Julianne Moore would get first dibs, but she keeps turning down my advances, so I’ll profile someone who knows what it takes to succeed in this town:

Allison Janney
Amy Poehler
Angela Bassett
Anjelica Huston
Anne Hathaway
Annette Bening
Audrey Hepburn
Barbra Streisand
Bette Davis
Candice Bergen
Carol Burnett
Carol Kane
Carol Channing
Carrie Fisher
Cate Blanchett
Catherine Deneuve
Catherine O’Hara
Catherine Zeta-Jones
Chelsea Handler
Cheryl Hines
Christina Hendricks
Christine Baranski
Cicely Tyson
Claire Danes
Claudette Colbert
Courtney Cox
Cybill Shepherd
Debbie Reynolds
Debra Messing
Demi Moore
Donna Douglas
Drew Barrymore
Elaine Stritch
Elisabeth Shue
Ellen Barkin
Ellen Burstyn
Ellen Greene
Emily Blunt
Emma Stone
Emma Thompson
Emma Watson
Eva Longoria
Eva Marie Saint
Gabrielle Union
Geena Davis
Glenn Close
Glenne Headly
Dame Helen Mirren
Hilary Swank
Jacqueline Bisset
Jane Krakowski
Jennifer Aniston
Jennifer Coolidge
Jennifer Hudson
Jessica Chastain
Jessica Lange
Joan Cusack
Jodie Foster
Joan Rivers
Joni Mitchell
Dame Judi Dench
Judith Light
Judy Garland
Julia Louis-Dreyfus
Julia Stiles
Julianne Moore*
Dame Julie Andrews
Julie Delpy
Julie Hagerty
Kate Winslet
Katharine Hepburn
Keira Knightly
Keri Russell
Kerry Washington
Kristin Chenoweth
Kristen Stewart
Kristen Wiig
Laura Dern
Lea Thompson
Lee Grant
Lena Dunham
Lillian Gish
Lily Tomlin
Lisa Kudrow
Liza Minnelli
Louise Lasser
Dame Maggie Smith
Margot Kidder
Marilyn Monroe
Mary-Louise Parker
Maya Rudolph
Melinda Dillon
Melissa McCarthy
Michelle Pfeiffer
Minnie Driver
Morena Baccarin
Naomi Watts
Oprah Winfrey
Parker Posey
Patricia Arquette
Penelope Cruz
Rene Russo
Renée Zellweger
Rita Hayworth
Sally Field
Salma Hayek
Sarah Jessica Parker
Sarah Michelle Gellar
Scarlett Johansson
Sigourney Weaver
Sissy Spacek
Sharon Stone
Shirley Jones
Shirley MacLaine
Teri Garr
Tess Harper
Valerie Harper
D. Vanessa Redgrave
Viola Davis
Winona Ryder
*Next Profile
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The Pantheon Big Four are much like the Beatles, the Fab Four:

(Okay, this is the problem I have.  None of the Big Four girls want to be Ringo, but they all want to be Paul.  This whole Big Four/Beatles project might have to be scuttled.  You cannot have four girls being one Beatle, I am sorry.  The Big Four needs to be distributed evenly one-to-one to a relevant Beatle.  I am in charge here, so I decide which Beatle approximates Big Four behavior, adjusting for gender and looks.  If a Big Four girl has issue, , and plead their case, beg me really, okay?)

There’s Gwynnie, a huge Paul McCartney fan, that ever-popular and talented Beatle.  Gwynnie is very successful, and, like Paul, may be criticized for being too pop-centric, or too up front about, shh, sex (okay, not Paul, this might be more Gwynnie).  Gwynnie is a single Mom of two perfect kids (who excel at absolutely everything, they do) trying to make it in a World of status-seekers, and insane pressures.

Then there’s Ashley, John Lennon brought back to life in a gorgeous, feminine package (the Big Three get jealous when I show bias).  She sticks to her principles at all costs, and faces huge agitation from idiots who try to stand in her way, all the while making the world safe for defenseless, street urchins from India to Bangalore.  In the streets of Calcutta, Ashley is often mistaken for Mother Teresa because of her kindness, but certainly never because of appearance — Ashley looks like a super-model.

Charlize, our George kindred spirit, the quiet, Zen Beatle, into self-actualization, and also into doing good for the world.  I keep Tweeting her that she should get a refund from the orphanage because of the spirited, linoleum lizards she adopted (who already have Charlize’s loving heart), but my schemes are to no avail, Charli, the Face, is so true blue towards everyone.

Last, but never least in any sense, there’s Heather, a Doppelganger for wild Ringo (a Doppelganger if Ringo had a large bosom, and a super model’s face), who is always up for a good time — when she’s not saving Gotham.  Life is a party, this is Heather and Ringo’s motto.  To put this more simply, Heather is the tailgate party Beatle.  She is a real sweetheart though, and as a philanthropist assists with Cambodian relief agencies.

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The Annual Pantheon Sextravaganza  We’ll be having the Annual Pantheon Sextravaganza again this year.  Same place, the El Dorado Bar and Motel — it’s the motel by the Hollywood Freeway underpass.  One change this year is that instead of party clothes, to reduce the spread of STDs, you’ll get a sterile, paper hospital gown to switch into upon arrival.  We have use of the lost and found bin so we’ll use that for your clothes.

Okay, I’ll admit the year prior attendance was lighter than we had hoped...  Okay, it was just Kim K and Kenya, and Kenya was asked to leave after he charged the podium.  Kim stripped and shimmied in the lobby for tips, which wasn’t entirely unwelcome as she was between pregnancies for once, and the game was on anyway.

Next year we hope to have the Pantheon girls climbing the side of the Trump Building naked to get the word out about our Sextravaganza.  If you would like to help with next year’s Sextravaganza with any suggestions, such as truck stops with lodging that are unfrequented by the police, you may .

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Regarding Copyright  Please read this link for information how Copyright Law, and the Fair Use Doctrine, permits the use of stills on this page.  Considering that their placement here promotes movies and their actresses, I fail to see how anyone could have cause to ask for their removal.  Yet if you have legal standing, and you want me to remove your photograph displayed here, indicating the photo and the reason for the removal request, and I will do so immediately.  Priority service goes to those sending nude photos...

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Ship-launcher  [shĭp-lahn-cher]


1.  Just before schooners set sail for extended voyages to discover new passageways; a fair, captivating, friendly, and charismatic maiden would stand ashore blessing their craft, bidding them farewell, wishing them Godspeed and a safe return transit.  Later, desperately home sick for their life on land, sailors would think of her the most, and prayed she awaited them upon their return.  In point of fact, she is acknowledged as the reason why they stayed true to a most perilous course.  A woman such as this was known as a ship-launcher.

2.  Keepsakes reminding one of a ship-launcher.

3.  A Pantheon woman.

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Why wasn’t I included in the Pantheon?  You may be a Hollywood actress wondering why you have not yet been inducted into the Other Letter’s Pantheon page.  You’re a likable actress.  You’re professional, you’re not a prima donna.  You’re noted for your work — both on the sound stage, and for the public good — as well as your intelligence.  Your talents sets you apart from the pack, and you never got an acting job by sleeping with anyone, or out of nepotism.  If this sounds like you, then you’re in, we welcome you to the Pantheon.

If the Pantheon appointee has signed on to endorsement deals with which the Other Letter Nominating Committee — or in this instance, the Review Board as well — finds exception, we will work with said Pantheon appointee until an agreed upon “middle ground” is reached.  This adjudication process must take place regardless of however arbitrary the Pantheon’s negative evaluation may seem to the confused neophyte.  Usually this means pulling out of her endorsement contract by the end of the week, but the starlet knows full well that this is a small, small price to pay for inclusion on this acclaimed web page, one reviewed daily by those who matter most in Hollywood.

All we need for you to do now, is to send us your admission request, along with any publicity stills I might use.  This will soon be the premier go-to, online resource destination for casting directors, so be sure to make the photos your most becoming ones (we’re sorry, but nudity is not yet displayed here, but it will be accepted with your admission packet as an expedient to the admissions process to help us see who you really are).  Please be aware, Pantheon candidates who are unattached in relationships get much faster service than those who are (something to do with Screen Actors Guild, marriage status declarations).

Looking at the Pantheon, and seeing the interrelationships between each appointee, you see that being within two or three degrees of separation from Gwyneth Paltrow, Charlize Theron, or Ashley Judd — and recognizing the hunger and ache they have been known to generate in males — will only help your cause immeasurably.  Email your admission request packet today, including any neighbor preferences or dislikes, to: .

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Where do super-models stand vis-à-vis the Pantheon?  Super-models take note: this is just a Hollywood Pantheon.  Unless you have strong ties to Hollywood, or you have a very accomplished resume with substantial supporting imagery, especially the kind South, far South, of an R rating, you’ll need to .

The reason the point is raised is because we field dozens of Pantheon requests from super-models each and every day.  Take someone like Karlie Kloss.  She is a very career- and fitness-minded, dedicated, Victoria Secret, super-model — who wouldn’t want her to be on their team?  Ms. Kloss is one degree of separation from Taylor Swift so you would suppose she would be a shoo-in for the Pantheon.  The Nominating Committee and myself were mulling over this very issue the better part of yesterday — is she Pantheon-worthy or not?

The answer, you may be interested to learn, is yes and no.  Karlie has no movie billing to her name, let alone roles in films appearing in theaters as required for an Oscar by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.  If there was a Modeling Pantheon, then of course her inclusion would be a given.  Yet because the Pantheon rules were written to accommodate jealous starlets, we would have had to turn down her admission request, had she actually sent one to us, which she apparently forgot to do.

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I’m Pantheon, how can I vote another off the Island?  If you are a Pantheon woman and you just do not feel a fellow appointee is withholding the traditions of Other Letter’s clean-living, pure-as-the-driven-snow oath — they smoke more dope in a weekend than Bob Marley did after ganja harvest; or they’re given the sun, the moon, and the stars, and they still want anything that’s left — you have the right to vote them off the island, so to speak.

In other words, just get five other Pantheon women who agree with your position to establish a quorum — much like the Supreme Court.  Have them , giving you the right to supersede my authority, and I will remove the offender immediately.  This defines democratic governance, the ability to remove undesirables from your presence.

If you are not Pantheon-worthy, either by gender, resumé, or both, you can still vote an appointee off the island, although the requirements are much more stringent.  Just organize 100 of your friends together, and have them stating the valid reasons why they do not like a particular appointee.  She will then need to look elsewhere for someone to tout her career, because purity and appearances are of the utmost importance here, as it is everywhere in life.

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This is a non-smoking Pantheon.  Take a walk among the Pantheon’s grounds.  The birds are chirping.  Taylor is teaching Charlize and Nicole the lyre, and after a few master classes, Tay will have Cameron singing pitch perfectGwyneth is rappelling down the sheer, vertical face of the eleven-story Other Mansion running through a few, tactical security maneuvers in grease paint and khaki fatigues with Uma and HeatherJoni is guest-lecturing on watercolor to AmyAshley and Reese are hiking into the back country.

Yet as far as you can see, across Other Meadow, along the beach at Other Lake, or high atop Mount Other, no one is smoking.  Why?  Because Pantheonettes could get emphysema, or any of the cancers, especially breast cancer.  Sure, Pantheon-o-Rama, and Pantheon-4-U do not care if their Pantheonettes fall ill and die, but here at an Other Letter Pantheon, we do care.  Go smoke your butts over at a lesser Pantheon, get used to smoking in the cold in January and catch the grippe, and try to forget you’re strapped down to an iron lung.

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The Pantheon changed your life.  Let’s hear your story.  Say you were offered your best part because Other Letter listed you on OL’s Pantheon page.  Or pretend your co-star stopped stepping on your lines, and gave you new-found respect, once he knew your Pantheon credentials.  Or let’s just say that because the director of your latest sci-fi vehicle saw your inclusion on the Pantheon, he no longer pats you on your bum as if you were his Girl Friday, before he sent you out on coffee runs for the crew.  For you though, this is not fiction of course, this story is the story of your life.  So , of how OL’s Pantheon took your career in Hollywood to the next level, in an entirely new direction, and changed your life forever.

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The Pantheon of Hollywood Women



Doris Day

(Pillow Talk, 1959)

Doris Day

Doris Day (aka Doris Mary Kappelhoff) is a scene stealer.  Try to catch any of her films on cable channel, Turner Classic Movies, and you’ll see exactly what I mean — even up against Hollywood legends such as Rock Hudson who seems stiff in comparison.

She has appeared in a great number of bedroom comedies like Lover Come Back, Send Me No Flowers, and Pillow Talk, which not only ride on her considerable sex appeal, but on her comedic abilities.  She does slapstick, physical comedy, in these films as well.  Doris is also an unusually accomplished singer.

TCM has noted her comic timing, yet what I notice is that she appropriately interprets the script.  There is nuance and intonation in the expression of meaning, character, and theme.  Of the movies I’ve seen of hers, she carries the show.

Ms. Day was teased unfairly for her demure femininity.  The line goes: “I knew Doris Day before she was a virgin.”  Yet this woman is so inherently likeable.  She just melts your heart.  Hollywood today is so dour, and so bitter.  Doris Day is pure, unadulterated sunshine.

She belonged to a generation of superstars, from the Golden Age of Hollywood, that seemed to just have more star power wattage.  It’s as if there was a stronger, tighter-knit community, that established a more suitable crucible for creating screen legends.  Did greater camaraderie make for less conflicted stage and screen personalities, ones capable of more fluid performances?

Or were scripts written during a time when the movie production could not fall back on special effects making them that much more effective, and the resulting film that much more watchable and enjoyable?

Ms. Day is an activist for animal rights.  She is the founder of The Doris Day Animal Foundation, and is dead set against using animals for fur coats.

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Betty White

(Still from The Mary Tyler Moore Show

Betty White

Betty White can do no wrong — ever.  She is the ultra rare breed of women who really never makes a faux pas.  No missteps, no gaffes, never had a undeserved, mean word for anyone.  She’s all sweetness and light — and doesn’t this make her a force of nature?  She is one of the very few left, or the only one left, in Hollywood who is universally loved and admired...

Betty White is known for a tremendous list of performances, but the ones that I remember most were those of her turn as Sue Ann Nivens on The Mary Tyler Moore Show.  There she played the neighborhood nymphomaniac, a competitive, man-obsessed schemer given a WJM Twin Cities, Minnesota, cooking show.

Her homage to the home front, The Happy Homemaker, featured segments like, “A salute to fruit,” or “What’s all this fuss about famine?”  Murray Slaughter, the WJM news editor (played by Gavin MacLeod, Captain Merrill Stubing on the Love Boat), would quip that Sue Ann, and her show, should be renamed ”The Happy Home-wrecker.”  Sue Ann would address poor Mary Richards, aka Mary Tyler Moore, with perfect condescension “Dear, sweet, naive Mary ...”

While the writing was absolutely top-notch for both The Mary Tyler Moore Show, and The Golden Girls — the shows where she won the most accolades — the awards she values the most are for her comedic acting in The Mary Tyler Moore Show.  In a Movieline Interview, Ms. White said of the foundation value of the scripts, “If it isn’t on the page, we can’t do anything about it.”

According to IMDB Pro, Betty has nominated for twenty-one Primetime Emmys, and has taken home seven of them, six for acting.  She has also received four Golden Globe noms.  Ms. White has appeared on ninety-nine different television shows.  She also earned a Screen Actors Guild Lifetime Achievement Award.

Ms. White is the oldest person to host SNL, and won a Primetime Emmy for doing so.  Betty is in the Guinness Book of World Records for being the female with the longest career in television.

Ms. White is a registered Democrat, and an ardent animal rights activist.  Betty supports gay rights as well, stating, “If a couple has been together all that time — and there are gay relationships that are more solid than some heterosexual ones — I think it’s fine if they want to get married.  I don’t know how people can get so anti-something.  Mind your own business, take care of your affairs, and don’t worry about other people so much.”

Her husband, television host and personality Allen Ludden died of stomach cancer in 1981.  When asked if she would ever remarry, she has been steadfast, “Once you’ve had the best, who needs the rest?”  (In the past, Blythe Danner has expressed — and much more than likely still feels — a similar sentiment after the love of her life, Bruce Paltrow, died.)

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Cloris Leachman

(A still fromThe Mary Tyler Moore Show)

Cloris Leachman

Followers of Mary Tyler Moore know that Cloris Leachman’s turn as haughty Phyllis Lindstrom was the only regular on the show with a child in tow, her precocious Bess Lindstrom (excellently played by Lisa Gerritsen, the omnipresent, always working, Seventies child actress).  Phyllis was MTM’s landlady and self-described best friend to ever-popular Mary.

Ms. Leachman went on to play the title role in the spin-off series Phyllis for which she won a Golden Globe.  Its cancellation after two seasons was partly due to the deaths of three cast members; it became difficult to write scripts when the actors portraying mainstay characters were no more.

Ms. Leachman won the Oscar for Best Actress in a Supporting Role for The Last Picture Show.  Cloris is also the biggest Primetime Emmy individual award winner of all time, having won eight statuettes, and nominated over twenty times, for MTM and Malcolm in the Middle, among others.  In the latter, she did a turn as Grandma Ida, the Slavic and embittered Canadian (don’t ask me why the part was written as her being Canadian, Slavic, or embittered, because I haven’t a clue).

Cloris appeared in three of Mel Brooks films.  She played servant Frau Blücher in 1974’s Young Frankenstein, appeared as the deranged psychiatric nurse in 1977’s High Anxiety, then she did a turn as Madame Defarge in History of the World: Part I from 1981.

Ms. Leachman competed in the Miss America pageant as Miss Chicago, and at Northwestern University she was a classmate of character actor Paul Lynde.  After winning a pageant scholarship, she went to the Actor’s Studio in Manhattan to work with Elia Kazan.  She has appeared on Broadway in As you like It with Katharine Hepburn.

Cloris was good friends with Judy Garland and Marlon Brando.  She is the oldest person ever to appear on Dancing with the Stars.

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Carol Burnett

(Still from The Carol Burnett Show
That’s an über strung-out Norma Desmond
from the recently colorized Sunset Boulevard,
or is this Carol Burnett?
Gabi Rona | © MPTV |

Carol Burnett

Carol Burnett won yet another award, this time at the Golden Globes.  She made a few, very interesting remarks about how The Carol Burnett Show could never be created today.  For one, it was too expensive to produce, so it would be too dangerous financially to be green-lighted in the present day.

What I need to know is how she ever became so charming, geez, is that woman attractive.  Carol, how do you get to be so well-liked?  Bottle this, and you will be the richest woman on Earth...

We caught up with Carol Burnett at the Other Letter Comedy Festival, and asked the television legend what she thought of up-and-comers like Amy Schumer.  To quote Carol: “I just love what Amy is doing with potty-humor.  I mean I love hearing about gas, and of course, women’s periods are pure comic gold.  She did such a wonderful job in, what, ‘Stand up and Fart!’  She’s leading the way for the next generation, in her profession, with women in general, and especially all those teens who might look up to her.  I’m just in love with her and her work.

“In fact, I was just discussing this with Betty, Betty White, the other day.  She said, ‘More than anything we need jokes about drunkenness and drug use.  I’ve spent my whole life, all 95 years, waiting for comedians who found the joy in making fun of drunks.  Potty humor, too, I love that just as much as the next Hollywood veteran — if not more.  And four-letter words, I just can’t get enough of them.  Give it to me, Amy.’”

There is a rather pronounced difference between comedy of the Sixties, and that of the late Seventies and beyond.  In the former, the comedy is classy, and directed towards people or situations.  In the latter, it is directed at people — it is much more pointed, coarse, more edgy, and some might even say, rude.  I would say that like music of the same era, the new, hard-edge is a product of the American War in Viet Nam.  That televised, steamy jungle bloodbath, was brought to us courtesy a tragically misled Johnson Administration, and an entirely untrustworthy Nixon White House.  It blackened and soured America’s character, a sullying from which we have never recovered.  Fortunately for us, The Carol Burnett Show just got in under the wire...

I always needed a context and a forum to say what I just said about culture and Viet Nam, and unfortunately for Ms. Burnett, I just got one.  The Carol Burnett Show sketches I remember most were: Miss Wiggins, the secretary with her own entirely, separate agenda from her boss, Mister Tudball; Norma Desmond, silent screen star; Tim Conway answering a fire call in imperceptibly-slow motion; and the Char Woman mopping up when it was all said and done.  The theme song for her show — originally, and not so aptly, entitled Here’s Agnes — is actually touching: “Aren’t we glad we had this time together, just to have a laugh, or sing a song.  Seems we just get started and before you know it, comes the time we have to say, so long...”  I remember every word forty years later.

The reason she ended every show by tugging on her ear was to indicate to her grandmother that all was well, grandma didn’t have to worry about her.  Both of her parents were dealing with their alcoholism, and rather icily, her mother even discouraged her ambitions to become an actress, simply on the basis of her not a super-model looks.

Then there was her Tarzan bit, which I doubt she could pull off if she looked like Marilyn Monroe.  Carol also had more than just a few parody sketches during her eleven year run at CBS, including: Went with the Wind, a play on Gone with the Wind, and As the Stomach Turns, a take on the soap opera, As the World Turns.

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Jane Fonda

(Barbarella trailer)

Jane Fonda

Ms. Fonda, I don’t know if you have ever occasioned of reading my humble website, but if you read this, please have a chat with Ashley Judd.  She is working her damnedest to end the world’s oldest profession, and knowing you played the definitive prostitute in Klute, she needs your help...

When Jane Fonda was standing beside a Viet Cong anti-aircraft gun in July of 1972, her intent was to shorten a war that was already eight years long, excruciating, and whose bloodshed had no end in sight.  Looking at that picture, and seeing her smile with her hands clasped in what is apparently prayers for mercy, she made her point (unfortunately, I lack the Copyright to display the image).

With Nixon certain of a landslide re-election, the prevailing ethos, if you would like to call it that, was “Let’s carpet bomb and napalm the yellow-skinned ox-mushers until the end of time.”  Isn’t that the Spirit of America, a nation founded on self-determination?

She was trying to make a statement — and trolls are still forcing her to try and make it unto this day, more than forty years later — that this is supposedly the mortal enemy, yet they are not any different from us.  Given the American-initiated carnage, I am just surprised that she herself did not open fire on U.S. planes.  Ms. Fonda was a major participant in the anti-War movement who, with her formidable courage, and yes, her new breed of life-saving patriotism, did all she could to turn the tide against the bloody slaughter.

Ms. Fonda just won the American Film Institute’s Lifetime Achievement Award.  All those who spoke there touched on her uncanny acting talent, her activism in a wide variety of causes and her philanthropy, being a fitness guru, her tremendous breadth of life experience, her stellar degree of accomplishment, her unparalleled courage, and her gorgeous depth of character.  What they failed to mention though, is that Jane is a marvelous raconteur, and how old she would appear — she has the youthfulness and vibrancy of a 39 year old.

By the way, she has won two Academy Awards: for Klute, and Coming Home, as well as five nominations for On Golden Pond and The China Syndrome among others.  (Did I just lose Des Moines?)

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Meryl Streep

(Jack Mitchell)

Meryl Streep

When I opened An Other Actors’ Studio, even though I charge six-figures for ten lessons, I knew I would get all top notch talent from around the globe.  To my dismay, I got Meryl Streep to sign up.  Does anyone know why she was given a green light to become an actress?

She is of such limited abilities, she belongs in the secretarial pool taking dictation.  She aims at eliciting jealousy, when instead she only elicits contempt, and howls of sarcastic laughter from true thespians such as myself.  Here are a few examples of her failures as not only a student, but as an actress, and, I’ll say it, and as a human being.

“Everyone on their marks.  No, Meryl, do not look down.  Actresses look up, they survey the scene.  I don’t see you surveying, Meryl.  Okay, we’ll wait for Meryl...  Now, we emote, and when we are not emoting, we are emphatic...  Meryl, Meryl, Meryl, were you on the half bus in school?  Is life just one confusing blur to you?  It is, isn’ it?  Other, you are a madman!  Meryl, I am redacting your comments.  You are the worst thespian I have yet encountered, and I have encountered many inadequate thespians!

“Meryl, who did you sleep with to steal your Oscars from those much more deserving?  When one is a failure in life, one only soldiers on, when never takes away the prizes of those who are our betters.  Hmm?”

Go eff yourself, Other!  Other, I paid six-figures to get to the next level, and that sure ain’t happening here!”

“Because Meryl is so disrupting our exercises, she will lead the exit out of our classroom stage.  For once, Meryl, emote, for God’s sake!  Meryl will be singing for us, from the Actors’ Studio’s cherished songbook, Locomotion.

“Ms. I’m-better-than-you Streep cannot go home until she admits to me and the entire class, that her acting career has been one long, insufferable fluke.  Why do you make us suffer through your performances, oh why, Meryl?!  Were you whipped with the crop at an early age?  Do you loathe mankind?  Hmm?...”

Meryl Streep is one of the most gifted actresses of all-time.  She has been nominated for more Academy Award and Golden Globes than any other actor ever has, 18 and 28, respectively.  When she doesn’t win the Oscar she’s been nominated for, is it only because it is time for someone else to win?

Why aren’t there any actresses today of her caliber?  Are today’s scripts so poorly written that actresses cannot interpret them to any great effect?  Has the American cinema community become so financially reliant on making movies for kids, kids without any developed tastes, that they no longer have the wherewithal at hand to make any with sophistication?  Then does Hollywood no longer attract the talent that now goes to chasing ambulances, prescribing Ambien, or auditing transactions?

From The Devil Wears Prada and Kramer Vs. Kramer to Sophie’s Choice and The Iron Lady, her versatility as a actress truly astounds.  Her performances make you think you are watching documentaries, they are that realistic and true-to-life.

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Blythe Danner

Still of Blythe Danner in Paul
Wilson Webb | © 2010 Universal Studios.
This is what a born actress (and Mom) looks like.

Blythe Danner

Blythe Danner recently described Chadley, her daughter’s (aka Gwyneth Paltrow’s) fiancé, as being someone she adores and is well-grounded.  Couldn’t a friend of her son Moses — the one the whole family is tiring of, because he only shows up conniving for ice cream treats — be described with the same set of adjectives?  Okay, I’m jealous, but why wouldn’t Gwynnie and Blythe want to add a blogger to the Paltrow-Danner clan?  What does Chadley have that I don’t?

I have six-pack abs, I can bench over 400 pounds, and my sexual stamina is the stuff of legend.  I have been a member of Mensa, the one for geniuses, since the second grade, and I regularly prepare Cordon Bleu meals that rival 3-Star Michelin restaurants in Paris.  What is not to like, Ms. Danner?  Same question for you, Gwynnie: What is not to like?

Don’t fall for some weakling who couldn’t take Gwynnie to new heights.  While those two are thinking this over, I’ll do 20 sets of 50 rep curls of 150 pounds each bicep.  Robert Downey Junior shouldn’t be doing Ironman, that part was written for me...

Blythe Danner is known everywhere for her stage, silver screen, and TV work.  She won a Tony for her portrayal of a devil-may-care divorcée in Butterflies Are Free, and was nominated for two other Tonys, one for A Streetcar Named Desire, and later for Betrayal.  Ms. Danner has been nominated for five Primetime Emmys, taking home the statuette for Huff.  She was also nominated for a Golden Globe for her work in Back When We Were Grownups.

Ms. Danner is currently starring on Broadway in The Country House, an homage to stage actors, as they might appear to be a vanishing breed.  While the New York Times review of the play was essentially positive, they could not say any kinder words for Blythe than they already did — the review they gave her was absolutely glowing.

Congratulations on another great performance by Ms. Danner in the Sundance Film Festival sensation, I’ll See You in My Dreams.  Believe it or not, in Blythe’s fifty years of performing artistry, this is her first leading role on the silver screen, and it is already getting buzz as a possible 2016, Oscar contender.  This woman is so endearing, any praise she gets she deflects, she is that modest.  One feels like saying to her, “You’re the absolute best, Ms. Danner, just believe us.”

The roles for which many cinema-goers might know her best though, are as a mom in Meet the Parents, and its spin-offs, Meet the Fockers and Little Fockers.  She also did a truly wonderful turn in Brighton Beach Memoirs, playing Neil Simon’s always-insightful mother in his semi-autobiographical yarn.  For five years, Blythe frequently appeared as Marilyn Truman, the WASP-y mother of Will Truman on the unusually progressive Will and Grace.  Ms. Danner regularly gets cast for wholesome, and far less than wholesome, maternal figures, ones oft possessing an understated charm.  Ms. Danner has a classy, socially gracious, feminine manner that inside just makes you feel warm and fuzzy.

Blythe herself is Mom to Gwyneth Paltrow, and they have appeared together in 2003’s Sylvia, the story of Sylvia Plath.  Here, Ms. Danner played the mother of Gwyn’s title role.  In 1992, they were also together in Cruel Doubt, a TV movie.

Ms. Danner has performed in the Williamstown Summer Theater Festival for 25 years, serving on its Board of Directors as well.  Ms. Danner is very active in a number of causes including those concerned with the environment and oral cancer — the disease that killed her husband, Bruce Paltrow, in 2002.

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(Life magazine)


To Ann Margaret, Elvis likely represented an innocence lost forever.  In interviews, one cannot make fun of Elvis in front of her, her ex, even though he has been the victim of cold-hearted sarcasm for decades.  Ann Margaret would walk out on any interview where they compromised her memory of him.

It is tragic that they departed one another before their time was nigh.  For ten years until his death, Elvis Presley sent her a guitar-shaped flower arrangement to every stage show opening in Vegas of hers...

Ann-Margaret was born Ann-Margaret Olsson in Sweden (who would have guessed?)  She is known as a singer, a dancer, and as an actress.  She was twice nominated for an Academy Award, for Carnal Knowledge as the open-hearted giver opposite an icy and abusive Jack Nicholson; and later nominated for Tommy as Tommy’s mother, Nora Walker Hobbs.

For much of her early career she was labeled a sex kitten, so she chose many dramatic roles to showcase her acting talents, and to prove to critics that she was much more than an exceptionally great-looking woman.  She sang “Baby, Won’t You Please Come Home” at President John F. Kennedy’s private birthday party at the Waldorf-Astoria, one year after Marilyn Monroe’s famous rendition of ”Happy Birthday.”

In 2000, she broke three ribs riding her motorcycle in rural Minnesota.

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Susan Sarandon

The Rocky Horror Picture Show)

Susan Sarandon

Ms. Sarandon backed Bernie Sanders in the 2016 Democratic Presidential Primary, I mean backed him Hell or high water, to the end of time and back.  Of course, unfortunately for Susan, and for many others, Mr. Sanders lost to Ms. Clinton.

I feel that Sanders represented our potential beyond simply the status quo, but he would have had a better shot if he could more fully articulate his vision for the future.  What is more, any alignment with socialism, like he and his platform were doing, cannot bode well for an American, national political race.

Bernie did advance the agenda however, and for her work, Susan can rightfully be proud.  Now if Susan would only return my phone calls, Tweets, Instagrams comments, etcetera, then we would really have something to talk about — or at least I sure would...

Who could ever forget Susan Abigail Sarandon as the haughty, yet so overwhelmingly sexy, virginal Janet Weiss in The Rocky Horror Picture Show?  Her sizzling breakthrough performance in that 1975 cult classic firmed up her reputation as a seductively feminine, succulent force of nature.  Susan abetted this reputation with a turn in The Hunger, where she most scandalously (for the time, at least) had a sapphic encounter with French siren Catherine Deneuve.

Yet these were only a small portion of her work in the cinema as Ms. Sarandon has been billed as an actress in 127 films.  Susan has earned Academy Award nominations for leading roles in five of these, the one most prominent in many minds being the girls-on-the-lam buddy movie, Thelma & Louise.  Although Dead Man Walking — the true story of a nun, played by Ms. Sarandon, who befriends a death row inmate in Louisiana — is the one role that brought home the Oscar for her.

In Oh Mama!, Susan was to play a stripper finally ready to get back in the biz after a twenty year absence due to a bad knee.  This production, already seen on Broadway, involved Ginger, Ms. Sarandon’s turn, being called back into service at a senior citizen day program in Florida, once a community-sponsored dancing pole was financed and installed.  Church activists, claiming the presentation was obscene, picketed, then forced sheriff deputies to shut down the set — much to the dismay of the bored, and hard-up, seniors there as extras.  Citing scripture, the “Oh Mama No!” protest group leveled their accusations without ever seeing on stage the outgoing, and still unusually feminine, attractive, and youthful, Ms. Sarandon.

Susan is deeply involved in progressive causes such as ending poverty and hunger, stopping LGBT discrimination, thwarting racism, and galvanizing anti-war support.  In her pacifism efforts, she has teamed alongside Jane Fonda.  She is also a UNICEF Goodwill Ambassador, and Food and Agricultural Organization of the United Nations, Goodwill Ambassador.

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Diane Keaton

(Still from Heaven
© R.V.P. Productions)

Diane Keaton

Diane Keaton won America’s heart playing the sweetly vulnerable and adorable, multi-faceted, Oscar-winning, title role in Annie Hall (she was nominated for an Oscar three other times).  She has also played very dramatic parts, she was in the Godfather Parts I through III, and Looking for Mr. GoodbarWatching her interview with Ellen Degeneres, she is not only a World-class actress, she is also a great comedian.

In Something’s Gotta Give, another of her Oscar-nominated turns, Annie plays Erica Barry, a playwright divorcée opposite Jack Nicholson’s Harry Sanborn, a hip-hop exec who only likes ’em young — until he meets Erica.

What is very strange is that given all these talents, she has never been married.  She looks like the type that would have been snapped up by the time she was 25, honestly.

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Diane Lane

(Still of Diane Lane in Fierce People
Diane is having a nice life, but not exactly a charmed one.)

Diane Lane

Diane’s career has been taking off of late, which is great news considering that most actresses past fifty are ready for the old age home.  She has been in features each of the last seven years, and she currently has another two films, and one TV pilot, in pre-production.  That woman is doing something very right, and she’s so nice and sexy about everything while she is.  Sigh...

If every woman looked like Diane Lane, was as kind as Diane Lane, and aged like Diane Lane, you know what this would mean?  That’s right, an overpopulation crisis like this world has never ever seen.  Let us all give thanks that Diane is the only one as beautiful as she is...

Thankfully, Diane hasn’t gone the way of Jenny C with boob reduction work.  Just like we preserve our national parks, we really need to preserve starlets’ natural resources, and that is their cleavage.  We’re pretty sure Diane chose aesthetics over hoisting and holstering manageability.  Bravo, Diane, bravo.  We’ll see her at the movies.

Next up, is Charli getting all these great roles recently because her chest isn’t threatening to both men and women?  And is Diane being overlooked because her over-sized knockers frighten many, if not most, women?

Because these actresses don’t do Triple-X, or even NC-17 rated fare, we never see what’s under the hood so to speak, we never see them topless.  It’s foolish to make them smaller to make them look better, we never see the goodies unsheathed, we only see the outlines of them.  So even if they are sagging navel-grazers, with proper boulder-holders, we, the interested movie-goers, are never the wiser...

Diane Lane reminds me of both Maggie Gyllenhaal and Jennifer Connelly.  Ms. Lane has the looks, the smarts, and the talent, but she has not been given the roles worthy of them.  She has been in 36 films, I knew about Under the Tuscan Sun and The Perfect Storm.  Hollywood is very capricious and fickle especially when you’re less the latest trend, her acting prospects are more proof of this.

Notwithstanding, she was nominated for an Oscar for her work in Unfaithful, a drama about Connie Sumner, a fundraiser who enters an extra-marital affair, after a chance encounter with a man on the street (this is about as hot as it gets in legitimate cinema).  She has also earned three Golden Globe nominations.

In Hillary, Diane was to play the title role in NBC’s scheduled bio pic about Hillary Rodham Clinton, but the production was cancelled due to the potential for Republican demands for equal broadcast time.  She is living proof that more mature women can still look great, I mean really, really great — Blythe Danner being another sterling example.

Along with Tony Shalhoub, known for his long-running television show, Monk, Ms. Lane starred in the Lincoln Center’s Mitzi E. Newhouse Theater production of The Mystery of Love and Sex.  This is the story of a pair of childhood friends whose relationship turns romantic over their parents’ objections.  Once it does, long-held secrets of both families are revealed, throwing everyone into a tumult.  Unfortunately, this was a 2015 limited engagement, hopefully she will be doing more theater work soon.  Before Love and Sex, Diane last appeared on the New York stage at the age of 12 in 1977 in the Shakespeare Festival’s Agamemnon.

Most recently, Diane was at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner, and looked as glamorous as ever — she simply will not age.  Ms. Lane is a joy to behold.  Diane has so much going on upstairs, and she seems sweeter than pie.

Diane was just at an Oceana something or other, some celebration of what, water?  But she looked great as she always does.  She is a breathtaking woman.  Honestly, she’s fifty-plus, she could pass for under forty...  2016’s SAG Awards, again, sigh.

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Meg Ryan

(When Harry met Sally ... trailer)

Meg Ryan

The New York Times has called Meg Ryan, “the soul of romantic comedy.”  She played Sally Albright in Nora Ephron’s When Harry Met Sally ... with Billy Crystal.  Then she portrayed Annie Reed, a reporter finally finding true love opposite Tom Hanks in Sleepless in Seattle.

Another major starring role was that of Kathleen Kelly in You’ve Got Mail.  In this rom-com, emailing lovers do not realize the object of their affection, outside cyberspace, is someone they do not like.  Meg was nominated for the Golden Globe for all three of these performances.

Most recently, Meg will produce and star in a new comedy on NBC about a former big-time, big-league, New York editor.  Meg’s character returns to her previous publishing house employ where her young, neurotic boss was her former intern.  Meanwhile, she has to keep her teenage kids, her husband, and her mother-in-law all happy, but when she tries her best, it inevitably makes matters much worse.  Ricky!

Ms. Ryan supports environmental causes, and with them, supports the party that has the better record in that area.

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Marisa Tomei

(Tony Shek)

Marisa Tomei

Marisa was recently at the White House honoring the Friends of the White House, or some such party-til-dawn extravaganza, probably trying to scrounge up enough cash to build another wing.  They have an East and a West Wing, maybe they need a wing for recreation, say to have skeet shooting off the balcony.  You never know down there in Washington.  She might have asked me to go with her as her date, but I’m pretty sure I had other plans that week, so thanks, but no thanks.  Bet she looked a tad foolish trying to hold her own in foreign policy cocktail talk without me by her side.  Oh well, what can you do?  There’s only so much one man can accomplish by himself...

Watch Marisa Tomei’s interview on the CBC from 2012 with George Stroumboulopoulos, and you can easily see that she has a gift in relating to people.  Marisa is not a scripted talking head or a rehearsed sound bite, she has plenty to offer on an usually wide variety of topics.

I am not even sure how physically good-looking Marisa is, but she has to be one of the most sexy women on the planet.  Her sex appeal is just off the charts.

Facets of her appeal are based on experiential, social, and cultural sophistication, whereas many starlets’ attractiveness is only based on the fact that they are the end products of the handiwork of a scalpel-wielding plastic surgeon.  This Tuscan charmer impresses with every turn — yet she is not the least bit jaded.  Marisa unwittingly, yet instinctively, draws you into her heart, and into her soul.

A recent survey of the literature, or the paparazzi porn, as it is more affectionately known, shows Ms. Tomei looking not much different — or not any different at all — from the way she looked when she first won over our hearts twenty-three years ago, in My Cousin Vinny.  Follow the link prior, and you get to cry at the misfortune of not being her boyfriend (I wouldn’t say “the misfortune of never being her boyfriend,” because winning Lotto is also within the realm of human possibility, and her complete inaccessibility is otherwise too depressing to contemplate).

On March 13th of 2014, Ms. Tomei began a week of previews for her sixth Broadway stage play, The Realistic Joneses (she has had leading roles in three of them).  This is the comedy about two couples with the same last name and identical homes, who must choose between a perfect fantasy, or a hard reality, a choice that will have deep reverberations throughout the rest of their days.  The playwright, Will Eno, was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize in Drama, so between the acting and writing talent, this has to be one top-notch production.

...Ms. Tomei remains extremely busy, as she will be performing the recurring role of Mimi Whiteman in Fox’s Empire.  Ms. Whiteman is a billionaire who desires beautiful young women, and she makes sure that she gets all she desires.  Marisa will also be Aunt May, Peter Parker’s surrogate mom, in the next installment of the Spiderman franchise.  Then Ms. Tomei will portray Gloria Steinem in the soon to be produced biopic about the feminist leader’s life.

Marisa has been nominated for three Academy Awards, and won Best Actress for her work in My Cousin Vinny.  Marisa radiates a natural, effortless gracefulness, but I bet this very stylish, Oscar-winner only dates philanthropists.

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Sandra Bullock

(While You were Sleeping trailer)

Sandra Bullock

Part of Sandra Bullock’s popularity lies in her disarming candor and sincerity.  She is a great comic actress, as seen in Two Weeks Notice.  Yet in The Blind Side, her versatility and range is evinced.  In this non-fictional portrayal of Leigh Anne Tuohy — an adoptive mother of an abandoned youth who later became a Baltimore Ravens offensive lineman — Ms. Bullock plays a take charge, no time for nonsense, very confident Tennesseean.  For her work in this, Ms. Bullock won a Golden Globe, a Screen Actors’ Guild award, and an Oscar.

Most recently, Saundra was again Oscar-nominated for her leading role in Gravity.  In this gripping, sci-fi spectacular, Sandy plays an astronaut cut from her mother ship tether, and left adrift in the vacuum of outer space.

Sandra’s work bringing Ryan Stone to life made $716 million internationally for Gravity, and also put her atop Forbes 2014 list of the highest-earning actresses with $51 million.  Using a common metric, you are doing just fine if you earn the equivalent of your age times one thousand.  Ms. Bullock, recently celebrating her fiftieth birthday, earns her age times one million.

The same year, in the sleeper, The Heat, Sandy was Ashburn, a by-the-book New York City, FBI Special Agent teamed with Mullins, her foil, a streetwise Boston cop played by Melissa McCarthy.

Sandra gave a million dollars apiece to relief organizations: after the tsunami in Asia, to the Red Cross after 9/11, and to Doctors Without Borders, after the 2010 Haiti earthquake.  By every indication, Sandy is the easy-going and down-to-earth type, it’s easy to become friends with her.

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Julia Roberts


Julia Roberts

Mystic Pizza rightly made Julia Roberts the star she was born to be.  Her buoyant portrayal of Daisy Arujo is truly remarkable.  Not only is her Daisy having a time she will never forget, one senses Ms. Roberts is as well.  This set the stage, as it were, for later leading lady roles like Pretty Woman.

Julia possesses great strength of character, and has an exceptionally interesting and well-rounded personality.  She is not just another pretty, silly girl prancing across the sound stage in stiletto heels.  Ms. Roberts was nominated for four Oscars, and brought the statuette home for her work in Erin Brockovich, the true story about a legal assistant who almost single-handedly takes on a multi-billion dollar water supply polluter.

Her movies have grossed $2.6 billion, putting her 17th on the all-time money list for actors, and in second place for actresses, behind Cameron Diaz.  She has been on People’s annual list of the “50 Most Beautiful People in the World” eleven times, tying her with Halle Barry.

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Halle Berry

(Alexander Horn)

Halle Berry

Halle Berry, née Maria Halle Berry, is the first actress with an African-American lineage to win an Academy Award for a performance in a leading role.  She won this for Monster’s Ball, the story of a prison guard who falls in love with the wife of the prisoner he just executed.  Halle has been involved in producing five of the films in which she has starred.

She also won a Golden Globe for playing the title role in Introducing Dorothy Dandridge, the true and poignant portrayal of an actress very cruelly victimized by racism, yet still nominated in 1954 for an Academy Award.  Ms. Berry has also been nominated for three other Golden Globes.  Besides all this, she has squared off against Sharon Stone in Catwoman.

Halle regularly sweeps the awards for people of color including the Black Entertainment Television (BET), and NAACP Image Awards, and she was nominated seven times for MTV Movie Awards.

Ms. Berry has strongly voiced her support of women’s issues, and just as vociferously her objection to paparazzi terrorizing her kids.  Halle has been on the lists of the most beautiful, sexiest, and hottest women on Earth, by People (making the Top Ten seven times), Esquire, FHM, Empire, and Men’s Health.

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Ashley Judd

Once Ashley shows signs of adopting more progressive viewpoints, I’ll be friendlier here to her again.  Then, she’ll resume her position as The Thinking Person’s Movie Star.

Ashley Judd

Ashley is currently on double-secret probation — for pro-Christian, anti-sex worker, and pro-Bono violations (see the following).  The State of Kentucky, in conjunction with Other Letter, who is overseeing all necessary punishment, will both give her a clean record once she performs a thousand hours of community service along with a month of jail time.  Once she meets the working girls in the county lockup, we are confident she will change her tune...

According to a recent Marie Claire interview, Ashley Judd “loves” Jesus.  She must have never heard of my spiritual principles, otherwise she wouldn’t love someone who has been dead for two-thousand-years.  She just posted an Instagram video from her sadly mistaken congregation, in Redemption, Tennessee.  Her fellow, misguided church-goers are denominated as being Methodists.

I doubt Ashley and her fellow congregants even know what their religion expects them to believe.  If Ashley knew, she wouldn’t think they are a force for “social justice,” because they are both homophobic and misogynistic.  If she knew, she would splinter her group away from Methodism.

She shares an antiquated, and even hurtful, belief system with the Methodists, who are dead set against homosexuality (incompatible with being a Christian), and mostly against abortion (which they strongly advise against).  Ashley was until recently a Democrat, so then why is she associating with what amounts to being a hate group?

They can’t be Democrats, they’re a bunch of Trump nuts.  They must love the Kavanaugh appointment to the Supreme Court, the swing vote to taking back the Roe v. Wade abortion decision, and striking down same-sex marriage.

The only saving grace is that Ashley is not a Baptist, because they are the holy-rollers.  The foundations of Christianity, once you research it, is so weak, that it amounts to nothing at all.

Christians, and Ashley’s Methodists, are in the business of moral outrage.  They exist to push their values on others.  Christians openly admit to proselytizing non-believers, so they follow their incomprehensible rituals.

(Christ died for our sins?  Except he didn’t die on the cross.  Okay, then say he’s dead, I’m still sinning and going to confessional, what did he ever do?)

Methodists permit abortion, while disapproving of the procedures frequency, as if abortions could ever be frivolous and not entirely needed.

The reason why the Methodists’ prohibition of same-sex coupling is so off-putting, is that Ashley seems to be very, very close to a few girlfriends.  On the one hand, her avowed religion does not approve of lesbianism, but it sure seems that it’s okay for her.

Then, of course, there’s her platonic love of a near talent less, tambourine-wielding, billionaire, Bono of easy-listening, pop band, U2.

Which would be tolerable except he’s a billionaire who evades his taxes with tax havens.  He goes around pretending like he’s a man of the people, when he’s anything but one.  Bono deprives his impoverished Irish people of desperately needed tax revenue.  Meanwhile, Ashley chases him around the world, not caring one bit that he’s a fraud.  (Is she a home-wrecker?  All I know is that Bono is still married.)

One more puritanical issue of hers, at least until recently, is her wish to abolish prostitution, the world’s oldest profession.  Once sex workers found out that Ashley was working to essentially end their lives — or at least their livelihoods — they showed up at her (very) little speeches to call her out on to the mat.

(A permanent obsession of Christianity in general though, is denying sexuality, because the exchange of bodily fluids is evil to them, and they need to enforce chastity, and sterility, especially for those without a wedding contract — Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell have been faithfully together thirty-six years without signing one.)

How can a woman who did graduate work at Harvard be so patently wrong about religious, political, and social affiliations?  Perhaps, having abandoned all common sense in favor of discovering the real world via textbooks, she’s so mistaken because she did go to Harvard.  Anyone reading may wonder how this matters at all, but I have seen her genuflect before a false idol, over and over, and I am so tired of it by now.

To progressives, Ashley alienates, with so many examples of ethical hypocrisy, and so deep into patently hurtful enterprises (such as the Church, Bono and U2, as well as the prostitution abolitionist movement).  How does she ever expect to lead her fellow Democrats onto victory?  When will she ever stop letting down her biggest fan?  Riot act read...

Ashley’s favorite park is back in the news.  Of course, I’m talking about the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.  It was ranked second from the bottom in the prestigious Briarcliffe Guide to the National Parks.  The problems the GSMNP has are multi-fold.

Far up the list, is that it is essentially a dog walking park.  Everyone from surrounding Nashville walks their dogs here, and it is impossible to safely ascend the one mountain (really, a hill), Coopers Bluff, without getting your hiking boots covered with dog do.  Ashley Judd, the most vociferous dog advocate in the region, has said: “Dogs belong here, there, and everywhere.  Who cares if you step on dog crap, they’re dogs, god bless ’em.”

Yet the problems with the GSMNP do not stop at it being a five-square-mile, dog run.  The Port-a-potties are all overflowing with sewage.  Hikers exhausted from the main two-mile, main loop (with overcrowded, overnight camping), stop into the one concessionaire, McDonalds, and have collapsed, and died, from instant clogged arteries.

Because our (for want of a better word) President, is allowing coal mining in the park, hikers have to contend with mud slides and wide expanses of coal sludge everywhere.

Trump is also neglecting funding the National Park System’s budget, so large sections of barriers of that main loop have broken, leaving an entire Boy Scout Troop to vanish down Cunningham’s Ravine without a trace.  To avoid even worse publicity than the GSMNP has been getting already, the entire event is under a gag order of secrecy.

Just as a side note, the Boy Scouts of America is a feeder network for the NRA.  So while the loss of life might mean something, it doesn’t mean so much to us.

There are no longer handicapped facilities at the GSMNP.  Park infrastructure — especially those wheelchair ramps — means money, so the GSMNP is the first in the U.S. to have a new, handicapped-banned sign, one with the red circle around, and a diagonal, red line running through, a wheelchair.  Park rangers at main entrance gates tell anyone sporting a wheelchair to move it along, they are not welcome here.

Because of budget overruns, GSMNP is the very first National Park in America, and even the World, to ban the handicapped.  (Germany does not ban the handicapped from their parks, they only charge them more because they require “extra maintenance.”)

Ashley just celebrated her birthday, her 51st.  Last year, she was called out by sex workers for strongly disapproving of their occupation.  This year, though, she has decided to no longer make waves with anyone, no way, no how.  She is now middle-of-the-road, centrist and noncommittal about everything, including her favorite place on earth being number two from the bottom...

Here is a shocker, an exclusive to the tens of millions of Other Letter readers: Ashley Judd said she was raped by someone very close to her family.  Well, we all knew that already.  Okay, but did you also know that not only did she get raped, she got pregnant, and she aborted the fetus?  She said it was “excruciating.”

Now, was it the surgical procedure that was painful, or was it the decision itself the source of the tears?  We know the answer, don’t we?  As it turns out, the decision itself was “excruciating.”  Stigma, that was the source of the trauma.  We’re sure that the rape was absolutely brutal, but the decision to legally abort, and go against her Church’s bizarre and inane teachings, this was what caused her such heartbreak.

We all know the Church has very strict prohibitions regarding the termination of pregnancies.  While not based on any passage of the Bible, they serve to hold down women, even women who are raped by close family (the Bible’s only pregnancy mention is how Joseph was “taxed” with unmarried, only “espoused Mary, being great with child”).

This is historically what the Church is all about, holding down women, and denying them leadership positions in their unholy, good ol’ boys’ club.

Once Ashley understood that her skimpy halter-tops and her hot-pants caused her rape, Ashley Judd held a funeral pyre where she burned all of her revealing clothing.  Pastor Edwin officiated.  Edwin is a fixture down at Ashley’s Saint Rick’s Church.  She had been baptized by Pastor Edwin.

Anyhow, the bonfire is on Youtube.  Ashley’s Pastor Edwin keeps doing that thing with his hand gesturing a cross as the flames flicker upward.

Now, when Ashley’s around town, and not on location, the way she prevents rape is by wearing a face-shrouding burqa.  She has only wracked up her Rolls twice driving with her face covered (which may explain why Islamic men do not want their women to drive automobiles, for safety reasons)...

Ashley Judd is the University of Kentucky’s biggest booster.  All her fans know that she gives hundreds of thousands of dollars each and every year so they can recruit top talent, and continue their NCAA, national dominance on the hardwood.  Essentially, the money is spent on UK talent scouts going to high schools nationwide with Ashley in tow.  Her role is to flash thigh (and then some) to get enthusiasm for the UK Men’s B-ball Program.

In addition, Ashley has also established The Ashley Fund.  This sets aside $10,000 every year to UK Basketball, so when each player retires from college basketball and life itself, they have lodging for 26 weeks in a motel room with a hot plate.

Ashley, herself, is involved in recruitment, and often throws wild parties for the strapping, young, and African American recruits, to entice them to join her at her alma mater.  What none of her fans know is how she became so fascinated with basketball.

As it turns out, she was a top UK women’s basketball prospect until she was sidelined with a knee surgery.  The injury happened in a ferociously-contested, NCAA Tournament Final between UK and Malibu State that decided the women’s b-ball crown.

With the score tied, and with :05 left in the title-deciding match, Ashley was charging up court and guarded closely when a virtual unknown — you guessed it, Gwyneth Paltrow — t-boned her into the stands.  Ashley has never forgiven Gwynnie, which is why there are very few photographs of the two together, even though they are the same Hollywood entry class.  As Taylor Swift would say, bad blood.

Another little known fact about Ashley Judd, is that she is the only person alive today, male or female, who’s under six foot, and can perform a standing, slam dunk of a basketball.  The b-ball hoop is ten feet high, and Ashley is just five foot, seven inches tall.

Physicists are at a loss to understand how she does it.  They’ve looked at thousands of feet of Ashley highlight reel, but no, there’s no current, scientific explanation of her dunking ability, outside of completely defying the laws of gravity.  Somehow, she can just float over the opposition...

Here is an excerpt from a recent speech that Ashley Judd gave to celebrate The Year of the Ovary:

...Yeah, I’m a member of the Klan.  I got their direct marketing solicitations — well, okay, their junk mail.  So I signed up, and now, I have a lifetime membership.

Thanks to the Klan, I get preferred seating and discounts at Bob’s Big Boy, which is my favorite dining establishment.  When they run out of seconds of the Blue Plate Special, fist fights have erupted (besides unlimited-eats denial combat, starving Negro farmhands will fight over scraps).

There’s more to my Klan membership: I get first look privileges at Asheville institution, Edith’s Fashion Warehouse of Hollywood.  The finest fashion flies into Edith’s daily from Paris.  A Klan membership is a privilege, let me tell you.

I just love the Klan, my family does, too.  Toasting marshmallows and roasting wieners at a cross burning is the peak Southern experience.  These cross burnings are so down home Christian.  This makes me incredibly proud to be a Southerner.

I brought my nephew to his very first Klan rally just one month ago, and boy, oh, boy, did his eyes light up at the exciting festivities.

In this, The Year of the Ovary, why not think about what brings us together as Southerners, and as Americans, and that is, of course, the Ku Klux Klan.  They are America’s oldest fraternal organization, and I understand, the Klan has a Ladies Auxiliary, picking up the slack of the Klansmen.

So when you’re thinking of being philanthropic, please, think of the Ku Klux Klan.  They not only serve the South, they’re moving out in all directions, and if you’re lucky, right into your town!...

Post-forty-years-old, Ashley is desperate to do something with her Act III.  She has been looking for a humanitarian cause, one worthy of her status as a United Nations Goodwill Ambassador.  Ashley, your search is over.

This has been a pet project of mine for a very long time involving, well, pets, dogs specifically.  This is only in the early stages, but I’d like you to join me in eradicating the canine population.  You’re thinking, poop on your hiking boots, is there anything worse than dogs?

We can do this, Ashley.  We can eradicate dogs in our lifetime.  I’ve done research, this is known as a forced extinction.  I’ll put you up as figurehead, you’ll be the face of the canine eradication movement.  You’ll be the darling of the entire crusade.

Forget spreading Baby Jesus agitprop, Ashley.  Instead, fix one of the world’s most nagging problems, and get dogs out of our lives for good.  You have the connections at the United Nations to make this happen.  Ask around, no one wants dog do underfoot.  It could be as simple as an HIV/AIDS viral, canine infection.  Ashley, make a real difference in the world, eradicate Fido...

Welcome to The Ashley Judd Baby Jesus Prayer Companion.  That’s right, I’m Ashley Judd.  Let’s step right into it.  Just imagine our Lord, Baby Jesus walks into our home.  You get chills?  I know, that’s normal.  We serve him bitters and teas, some sweets perhaps for our sweet?

Then we get down to business.  We pepper our Lord, Baby Jesus with question after question.  How was the travel here, Baby Jesus?  Am I distracting you from a billion others in need of your counsel?  Oddly, he has no issue with this monopoly on his time.  Our Lord, Baby Jesus is ours for as long as we’d like.  More chills.  So I begin with the deepest probing: What is love, our Lord, Baby Jesus?  Oh, Baby Jesus, hehehe, I wasn’t prepared for your overt physicality...

There’s even much more to like in the rest of the boxed set, 11 more CDs, in fact.  That’s a dozen hours of me picking the brain of our Lord, Baby Jesus to get the answers to life’s most stubborn mysteries.  And I’m Harvard, so it has to be real good...

Ashley Judd’s biggest fans are waiting with bated breath to see if her espionage thriller, Berlin Station, will get another season.  A season four will surely further reinvigorate her fan base.  The only problem, is that her show is on Epix, which is not just a premium cable channel, it’s one level above premium.

So die-hard Ashley fans, looking for the latest and greatest of their favorite actress, will never see her.  Shout out to Ashley: Next limited series you star in, have it on the big three networks, CBS, ABC, and NBC, which you may not be aware, are free of charge.  And find an agent that will get you on these networks.

(I’m available, but you could never afford my rates, and my clients all have more trophies — and not bowling ones.  Call me anytime, but my agency is booked solid, I could never take you on as a client.  I’m not interested in furthering your career, but I’ll take you for dinner and dancing instead.  I’ve heard great things about the Bob’s Big Boy, which I understand, is convenient to all the South, and prepares a quality cheeseburger...)

I am finally beginning to understand why Ashley Judd is friends with Bono (the tax evader), and the Pope (the pedophile keeper), yet no one can rightfully condemn her for these friendships.  Ashley gloms onto those with more power than herself, as she is not so high up on the Hollywood totem pole.  Her only hope is to leapfrog up the ladder.

Nor is she making a ton of money these days.  The Rolls needs new tires, the horses in her horse farm have all been sold for glue, and her prize leather sofas have all worn through.

The reason she hit hard times is very simple, it’s Harvey “The Pig” Weinstein.  At the peak of her career, in 2002, she was given a shot to play Elizabeth, the Hobbit Queen, or some such similar role (IMDb doesn’t include what she was up for).  This was in Lord of the Rings, which as we know is one of the biggest cinema franchises in the history of Hollywood.  The Pig told Peter Jackson, the director of LOTR, that Ashley was impossible to work with.  She was turned down for the part.

The reason The Pig condemned her was because Ashley turned down his sexual advances, so true to his name, The Pig ended Ashley’s career.  LOTR is a billion dollar plus franchise, and The Pig stole away from Ashley, what would be her last, best shot at super stardom.  He pulled the rug right from under her feet.

Ashley is the all-time underdog (er, undercat?), she is the 1969 Miracle Mets making the most incredible comeback of all time, with Ron Swoboda making his famous diving catch in the finale of a perfect World Series.  Although in the Ashley Judd version, Weinstein swatted away the ball and that catch was never made.  Instead of Argentinean Maradona’s, World Cup, hand of God, the hand of Satan interceded against our adorable Ashley.

This is why my favorite actress, Ashley Judd, keeps a garden of subsistence vegetables, and hunts for raccoon every day.  If she did not eat them, she would wither away and die from malnutrition.  She cannot get food stamps because she made six or seven figures a picture once.  Many of her closest friends, inside and outside of Hollywood, expect her to be homeless soon.  You heard it here first.

When Ashley’s in town for an audition, she arrives in rags.  She taps on my windows looking for handouts at Other Letter World Headquarters in Beverly Hills.  I do welcome her in for coffee and a donut, but what else can I do?  I cannot feed the world, but I will allow her full access to the office fridge.  It is the least I can do for this incredibly-brilliant, cinema legend.

Ashley and I go way back, back to Ruby in Paradise, in fact.  This was before family entertainment meant feature-length LEGO commercials.  Anyhow, she needs your money and she needs my money.  So why not send a three, four, five, or six-figure check to the Other Letter-Ashley Judd Restitution Fund.  I will make sure that the cash is well spent.

She’s looking wan, peckish, these days.  I will make sure she gets proper nutrition, and will provide her educational counseling for the alternative career I picked out for, what she’s also qualified to do, and that’s as a Bob’s Big Boy hostess...

What else are Christians doing wrong?  How about we watch Ashley save the world by flying into a jungle, and crash land, pop out, and start handing out bananas to chimps?  Christians like Ashley (who was one until at least a year ago) try to help everywhere, where help is not needed.

The garden variety Christian will say: Let’s stop abortions of pregnant, teenage girls, let’s stop pre-marital sex because sex is bad, let’s stop anything pleasurable.  Anything that can be enjoyed or is beneficial, Christians will get in the way, and put themselves in charge of stopping.  They are desperate to dictate changes that will have the World follow Christ’s vision, and only Christ’s vision — or what they think Christ’s vision must have been.

Ashley may never make it back from the Bush, and who is to blame, the Christian Church, who else?  They live to meddle, to get in everyone’s way, to be goody-goodys, when everyone just wants to be left alone.

Those Bonobos chimps that Ashley has decided she will save single-handedly, they have been around longer than we have.  If their habitat is encroached on, you don’t think they’ll adapt?  Apes are very smart apes.

Ashley, get away from the Bush, you belong back in Tennessee, cultivating your garden.  Stay away from the Bush, because like the Christians who are out to mess with everyone’s head, trouble comes to meddler types.  Seriously, Ashley, get away from the Bush.  The chimps don’t want you meddling.  In fact, no one out there cares much for Christians....

Let’s listen as Ashley Judd begins yet another telethon for Southern Christian values:

“If you’re like millions of other Southern Christians, then you’re asking how we can get baby Jesus back into our public schools.  Jews just need a menorah in the supply closet for religious validation, but we need much more.  We need baby Jesus sex dolls sitting in the corner of every classroom in every State of the Confederacy.

“That’s right.  Due to an overstock of toddler sex dolls for pedophile priests, this telethon will provide Southern schools with re-purposed, baby Jesus sex dolls.  Your moppets will see baby Jesus all day long, right next to the chalkboard, not just on Sunday, or on Jimmy Swaggart, Wednesday TV repeats.

“You’re thinking that these baby Jesus sex dolls need swaddling clothes to be authentic.  Yet who has the swaddling clothes for your school’s baby Jesus sex doll but Goop.  That’s right, Gwynnie Paltrow and I are partnering to bring you: baby Jesus sex dolls attired in Goop x Swaddling Clothes For Baby Jesus Sex Dolls.  Nailed it!  Thought I’d blow the delivery?  But hey, I’m Harvard.

“Where was I?  Here I am.  Okay, please give to the Southern Baptist Conference, your school district needs the complete baby Jesus sex doll x Goop Swaddling Clothes For Baby Jesus Sex Dolls.  Get on that phone and give generously right now.  If you can’t get the Book of Genesis, and a seven day Creation, back in Johnny’s classroom, why not have a baby Jesus sex doll there instead?  It’s the next best thing.  Operators are standing by.

“The Southern Baptist Conference thanks you, as do I, a registered Baptist (at least one until last year).  I’m Ashley Judd, world-famous movie star, and I endorse this message with all my body and soul.  I LOVE YOU, BABY JESUS!!  THE SOUTH WILL RISE AGAIN!!  Pass the white bread and mayo, please...”

Ashley has that 70’s bumper sticker on her 1983 Honda: “Ass, grass, or gas, no one rides for free.”  Which doesn’t make any sense considering she is a staunch, radical feminist, steadfastly against women using their bodies to satisfy any commercial obligation.  She is also against drugs of any kind as she is well-familiar with the 12-Step programs.

Yet that sticker does grace the Honda Accord in her driveway, so does Ashley Judd lead a double life?  The reason her ride is not a Rolls Royce, is because until very recently, she has had a overwhelmingly-serious habit with blow.  Forget Ashley’s renowned spiritual practices, uni-nostril Judd spent her vast wealth on nose candy.  No, wait, there’s more.

Her doctor, her family, her closest friends, and her most loyal super-fans had to stage an intervention to get her off the junk.  (Yes, yours truly was there in attendance with reporter’s notebook in hand waiting for the story to unfold, and giving her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation every ten minutes — it was getting that touch-and-go)...

Ashley Judd has finally admitted she’s pro-Choice.  This is in defiance to her unquenchable Baptist faith in her Lord, Baby Jesus; her “good friend,” Pope Francis; and her almost-near-bff, and acquaintance, Melania Gates, who won’t support abortion services with her Gates Foundation.  Ashley deserves a pat on her derrière, which I would give to her, if I actually knew her, and if she wouldn’t have me arrested for doing so...

“We’re back.  Ashley Judd, here, and I’m leading the charge in the Fox Television Network’s Jesus in the Bush Crusade for the Congo.  It’s such a great telethon we have here for you today, and it’s such a noble cause.  We all know what the impoverished in Africa need more than anything else, and that’s Bibles, and Bible study.

For just five-dollars-a-day, an adorable Congolese moppet can receive the word of Baby Jesus.  For the slower ones, we offer cartoon versions of our Lord, Baby Jesus’ teachings, and for the brainy ones the full, honking text.  For just fifty-dollars-every-day, your Bibles will have your name, phone number, and photo on them, and will be embraced as a village keepsake, to be passed around from grass hut to grass hut, and cherished forever.

Let an African know how important the Europeans are to their futures, every last negro.  The negro is well-reminded by our program that that their savior is a White man.  Let there be no question, we are U.S. State Department, and United Nations-funded.

Our mission has trained Baby Jesus facilitators, along with their carefully thought-out lesson plans.  We make every day begin as a bright, new, sunshine morning because every negro knows the superior, White Baby Jesus loves them with all his heart.  The takeaway? — the Lord, Baby Jesus is the negroes savior.

If you act now, and pledge one-hundred-dollars-a-day, my particular negro tribe will receive my Biblical stylings, The Ashley Gospels, a twelve-CD, boxed set, one attractively wrapped in colored tissue paper.  Let’s set up the entire Congolese people, all these negroes, so they can hear me sing the haunting: Jesus the Christ is Right Around Every Corner.

The negroes will have American-style affluence if only they pray hard enough, and spend their lives kneeling before our White Lord, Baby Jesus.

At this pledge level, you also select from the Congolese Up-and-Comer Yearbook, visit one or several negroes in their native habitat, and have them show you their culture, as well as have them show you their approval of all you did for them.  If this first meeting goes well, you can hookup with the same Up-and-Comer later as part of our American-Congolese Unity Program.

The Congolese need Bibles, but more than anything else, they need the Jesus in the Bush Crusade for the Congo companion program.  Geez, folks, look at that money board light up!  Bono, why don’t you take us through the next hour?...

We all know Ashley Judd for her portrayal of the desperately conflicted dolphin trainer in Disney’s Dolphin Tale, and the overwhelmed dog trainer in It’s a Dog’s Life, Part Four (Ashley typically plays the overwhelmed), but did you also know of her other family friendly works such as: Are you gonna make it, Billie-Bob?, Not Until the Cows Come Home, Kerrielyn, or its soft core sequel, Time to Milk the Cows, Kerrielyn.  Not quite household names, are they?

The problem is that Ashley gets hired for Christian-themed movies, that no one outside the Bible Belt has any interest in watching.  Here’s another straight to DVD title: Jesus, My Champion, My Protector, My Stud.  In this one, Ashley plays a woman stuck in a ravine during a blizzard.  Her prayers to Jesus are answered, and she moves on to helm a Fox mini-series on her life entitled, Ditch Lady.

In unexpected casting, Ashley will be the First Lady in The Melania Trump Story: Back off, tramp, he’s mine!  This also marks a real departure from her non-political fare, although this is still slated for a Christmas debut under the Hallmark Heart Warmer label...

Hi, welcome to my Take Down The Patriarchy Telethon.  I’m your host, Ashley Judd.  You probably think that just because I was a Harvard Lesbian Studies major, that I may have a few issues with men.  This is the farthest from the truth.

But tonight, let me be frank, the entire female gender needs your money.  Why?  Well, say some creep looks at you below the neck.

Or let’s just say that you sell your body, you’re a Mary Magdalene type.  You disgust me.  This is not lucrative and consensual like you think it is, I’m Harvard, and I say this is “paid rape.”  I’m not a puritanical Christian — far from it.  Yet I still know that sex work is a slap in the face to all the wholesome, God-fearing people who demand that hookers and Johns join me and the rest of the civilized, perfect ones living under the auspices of our Lord, Baby Jesus.

What recourse do women who’ve been visually or sexually violated have in the current misogynistic environment?

That’s right, you have none.  The male pig has denied you your rights, but we’re turning the tables on him.  We’ll be shaking down males, the Johns, the cat callers, like they’ve been doing to us for centuries.  Forget pushing the Equal Rights Amendment, it’s party time on Venus.  Rattle those pots and pans, we is coming to getcha.  Our plan of action is beating up every last, low life, scum male.

Me and my militant feminists are about to change festering males forever.  We’re taking on the male pig here.  Send us anything you can: five dollars, a hundred dollars, or a million dollars, and we will see that those filthy chauvinist pigs never look askance at you ever again.

This has happened to you or someone you know: Your boss glances at you below the neck, which is an obvious sexual come-on.  (I was informed that a boss brush-by, how this was posted originally, depending on context and familiarity, can be very offensive.)  It is an expression of male perversion, of a hormone case on the loose.  You give him a haymaker, breaking his nose, and your son of a bitch boss files a complaint.  Now what?  Come to us at the AJ Telethon and we’ll take care of matters.  Are we over-prosecuting?  Of course not, all men are big, fat pigs.  Just ask Harvey Weinstein, he’ll tell you.

Other women are the only ally a woman has against their eternal adversity, men.  We’re waiting for the phones to ring.  Come on New York, L.A., Louisville, Asheville, Nashville, all those villes, give us a call.  Give me a call.  You know me, it’s just sweet Ashley answering phones.  I could use a date [signal lost]...

Ashley has parlayed her millions from her many movie successes into a trailer home.  You’re thinking: A trailer home? — isn’t she investment savvy?  Doesn’t she draw on the financial acumen of herself, and of her fellow Kentuckians, to multiply her investments?

See the logic disconnect there?  Kentuckians only understand hunting raccoons, they know nothing about Wall Street strategies, only strategies involving flushing raccoons out of mountainsides.  Bring a Kentuckian on your next coon hunt, but don’t let him or her have a look at your portfolio.  It will only confuse and frustrate him or her.

But please, don’t feel sad for Ashley, her trailer home is a double-wide, and has a shower stall which has running water in the rainy season.  The laundromat is a forty mile ride into the hill country, so most often she washes her clothes down by the stream, that’s if it rained recently.  Her cuisine is coon-based, and as a Kentucky woman, she knows hundreds of ways to prepare the delicacy.

More good news concerning the financial health of Team Ashley: She drives a 1983 Honda Accord with little rust, a stellar example of fine, Japanese auto manufacturing.  She expects to turn the odometer over past 999,999 miles, at which time she enters the Guinness Book of World Records for most mileage in a non-domestic, compact car.  Way to be, Ashley!...

After Ashley’s latest, self-help seminar, the regionally acclaimed, You, too, Can Go for It, she explained her latest philanthropic endeavor to me: “Other, in my honor, they’re putting up the Ashley Judd Contemplation Wing at the Church of Saint Rick.

“The Wing has three Baby Jesus contemplation sofas, ones upholstered in naugahyde-leatherette in the ever-popular beige.  There is also a sign above the entrance to the wing with a creed I’ve kept near and dear since my days at Saint Rick’s Parochial: ‘The SS Jesus won’t ever sink, you have God’s word on it...’

“Those five million big ones also got me plaques on every door with my name on them, plus a circle of crosses around my name.  It evokes Christian seagulls in perpetual, circular flight as well as Jesus’ triumphant trudge from Galilee with spices, sacramental wines, and Mary Magdalene.

“We had a Kentucky designer prototype the plaque.  I met the designer, Bubba, he’s Kentucky School of Design and Blacksmithing.  When he’s not designing corporate logos, he’s shoeing horses.  Muscles, my spotter at acrobatic yoga, set me up with him.  We are real, and we are big, and we are effing JESUS!!!!!!!!...”

The Wildcats are actually the Volunteers.  Here’s a shocker: The University of Kentucky is actually located in Tennessee.  Subsisting entirely on raccoon, Kentuckians are so dirt poor, and provide such a weak feeder network to UK, that the Wildcats get 99% of their student body from neighboring Tennessee.

As of 2015, UK was moved to Nashville in Tennessee.  Unbeknownst to most, the Cats are really the Vols.  Does this mean UK will have to return all those national championship trophies for basketball?  Stay tuned, super fan, super-wealthy Tennessean and wealthiest Kentuckian, as well as UK alum, Ashley Judd...

Other Letter has had to declare a unilateral moratorium on Ashley deprogramming.  We will need to let slide her Bono, Pope Jorge (his real name before being anglicized and sanitized), Melania Gates (not Melinda, spelled correctly as she’s anti-choice), and Baby Jesus affiliations (see below for the nauseating play-by-play).  She may have given up on the lot of them anyhow.  The reason for this extraordinary Pantheon leniency follows.

A judge in Tinseltown threw out her lawsuit against Harvey “The Pig” Weinstein because there were no laws against sexual blackmail when The Pig tried to take down Ashley in 1998.  Because she didn’t want to have intimate relations with him, he blacklisted her to, at minimum, Peter Jackson, the director of Lord of the Rings.  If haven’t heard of that phenomenally-box-office-grossing blockbuster you have been living in outer space.

Looking on the bright side, there are sixty women behind Ashley, also harassed by The Pig, raring to take a good swift kick at The Pig’s balls.  Ashley’s attorney has three other lawsuits pending, so maybe she will see justice served later...

If you have noticed recently, I have had stern words for Pantheon regular, Ashley Judd.  Other Letter is in the process of deprogramming her from some really onerous belief systems.  We’re talking the most hard core of all: Christianity and the Pope, Bono, Melania Gates (not pro-choice), and anti-sex worker sentiment.

As soon as she sees the error in her ways, the online, corrective criticisms will all be erased.  In Trump’s America, your reputation comes and goes with the wind.  Additionally, in conjunction with the well-respected Dr. Knockers and Other Letter, Ashley will be receiving a continuous regimen of paddling as well as performing therapeutic pole dancing...

In her bid to end the world’s oldest profession, Ashley will be joining forces with Maggie Gyllenhaal of The Deuce, as well as Heather Graham, who has played several sex workers.  I am sure they will all have the exact same agenda, one of eradicating prostitution.

Ashley also wants to get input from Jane Fonda who appeared as a prostitute in her Oscar-winning role of Klute.  Ashley did not see Klute when it played in her home town of Aszkratch, Kentucky — obviously she didn’t, or she wouldn’t be trying to end their livelihoods.  Ashley would like to remind us that ending sex work, is God’s work, and these are both Ashley’s pet, vanity projects.

Then, Ashley needs the international perspective, and where else to get that but Catherine Deneuve, who played a call girl in Belle du Jour (Beauty of the Day).

Ashley somehow knows that all sex workers are lice-infested dregs of humanity needing to be saved, but when you have Jane Fonda, Heather Graham, Maggie Gyllenhaal, and Catherine Deneuve giving very credible performances as the exact opposite, who should be believed?...

Ashley’s moving into the field of industrial commercials.  That’s right, she’ll be doing promotions for pipe fittings, roadway macadam, and wide-gauge, electrical wiring.  She explained the move away from Hollywood features by saying that her approval rating as a spokeswoman is nearly zero now, so she had to move into a lower profile arena.  Blue collar types have always loved Ashley, especially when she’s shaken her booty.

Yet her approval tanked after she professed her profound passion for a fraud who’s been in the grave for two thousand years.  That, and demonstration of her full contempt for sex workers, their safety, and their rights (Ashley feels that “prostitution is paid rape”).  And one more, her platonic love affair with a tax evader, that jolly, talent less leprechaun, Bono.  To quote Queen Ashley from her sweet Kentucky throne: “Hey, I’m Harvard, and you are?...”

In another surprise move, Ashley will be doing public service announcements for the White House and Trump’s Mexicans are not Human Initiative.  To prove that she hasn’t abandoned her core progressive fan base, Ashley is founding the very first, pro-life, anti-choice chapter of the National Organization of Women.  Ashley likes NOW but loves her Baby Jesus even more (as of 2018, she wore the heathen iconography, the Crucifix), so combining the two made a natural fit.

Ashley’s Out-of-touch-with-progressives rating has gotten so abysmal, that she no longer gets high profile #MeToo broadcast assignments.  #MeToo is her “radical feminism” organization that instead of working for, and devoting resources towards a Constitutional Equal Rights Amendment, prefers the band-aid approach.  Give them a web site with plenty of sexual assault links, and corral plenty of cash, and plot your next move.

Now though, being avoided like the plague, she instead licks stamps for mailings in the mail room at #MeToo.  In typical, patented, oblivious Ashley fashion, she will not campaign for the ERA — it is not de mode, of the fashion: “Rape victims need web sites!...”

As a world-class actress, Ashley Judd lives in the lap of luxury.  As a native Kentuckian, her manse is off of I-64, inside the Exit-738, Asheville cloverleaf (heading North on KY-157, honk twice passing by her sunbathing nude).

Because Kentuckians lack indoor plumbing, and electricity, Ashley has had to make do without the luxuries that her contemporaries like Gwyneth Paltrow take for granted.  Because many in the modern age rely on lighting and heat, Ashley has broken ranks with Kentucky tradition for deprivation, and had solar panels installed, although like everyone in her entire town, she has an outhouse.

99 percent of Kentuckians live along the I-64 corridor because there isn’t any inland infrastructure per vast, Bitch McConnell coal subsidies.  Ashley was originally in the one-percent who lived “up in the hills” and she fought tooth and nail to get out, and make it down to the corridor.

The only hope for Kentuckians to enter the 20th Century is to live somewhere along I-64, where the electrical lines and water mains are located.  Still, the average Kentuckian has had much difficulty tapping those lines, legally or illegally.  Ashley has had more success, mostly because she flashes thigh to sympathetic, passing road crews, ones eager to help Hollywood starlets...

Having seen the lucrative, influential brands of Gwynnie leading the charge with her Goop, Reese captaining her Draper James, and a few others, Ashley will be creating her own lifestyle brand.  It will be called Bluegrass Hillbilly, and it will curate her core interests: rural fashion and sustenance hunting.

Ashley has searched far and wide for the perfect pair of overalls, and now she’s found them.  Branded the Regal Gal, they are replete with three pockets, one for money, another for Kleenex, and a third to put tobacco seeds for planting.  The Regal Gal is bound to turn heads.

Ashley understands the hillbilly fashionista like no other.  For one, they don’t carry wallets, because there isn’t any place to buy one.  For another, as an ethnic group, Kentuckians require head shading — it gets very hot down there — so they need quality straw hats.  Not straw hats found in Haiti fashioned by cannibals, better ones, crafted inexpensively by nearby, dedicated Seminoles.

Ashley’s line of office products also amazes.  For instance, in honor of her beloved coal country, she has Hillbilly Lumps of Coal.  Attractively packaged in zip-loc storage bags, each Lump serves admirably as a paperweight, or a valued conversation piece when things slow down in the workplace.

Every Kentuckian smokes a corncob pipe, and the Bluegrass Hillbilly has a wide selection to accommodate the native to coal-mining, or those just emulating the barefooted.  Ashley took great pains that every item in her wide-ranging collection honored her people, the hillbilly of the bluegrass.

In that spirit, she has a huge selection of hunting gear, including assault rifles, the AR-15, and the M-16.  Ashley has several of each, and she will tell you that “they deliver reliably over any distance.”  Ashley only believes in sustenance hunting, kill only what is on your ranch.  That’s her motto.

For Ashley, this means plenty of raccoon and wild turkeys.  Every wall of her entire house is covered with taxidermy of the two species — but no black bear, she is quick to point out.  She lives for the day a family of black bear crawls on to her land, and “POW!!!  RAT-TAT-TAT!!!”

Ashley rarely goes to Kentucky-mecca, Rick’s Southern Food Store, because she hunts almost all of her own food.  True, there are dry spells, when the raccoons migrate, but outside of that, when she’s not shooting a movie, she is shooting neighborhood game out back.

If Ashley’s not shooting wild turkey, she’s knocking back shots of Wild Turkey.  She plans to sell Wild Turkey, not just by the case, but by the truck pallet.  Noting the underage can get away with buying liquor because there is no enforcement in the Hill Country, Ashley will be courting the teenage drinker with explicit video ads of her naked on her porch getting very, very blotto, dancing and accompanying her idol while he performs Bono: The Stuttgart, A Capella, Improv Sessions.

Ashley is proud to include non-automatic rifles in her collection, for those less spirited, and less masculine.  As justification for supporting the “wimp market,” Ashley quotes the Bible, specifically The Book of Saint Rick, 37:15, “God saveth even the tiniest ones wielding his iron might.”

We all wish Ashley the greatest of success as she navigates her Third Act, and finally makes up for lost ground against her peers, ground she lost because of the Harvey Weinstein blacklist.  I cannot wait to place my first order at Bluegrass Hillbilly.  Why not embrace an alien lifestyle, now a brand curated by none other than the Southern Belle of Decadence, Ashley Judd...

As expected, Ashley Judd announced today that she is switching party affiliation, and will be a Republican here forward.  That’s right, next Fall, she’ll be running for Senate as a GOP candidate.  In a press conference from the White House, Trump congratulated her “as a girl in a hot package working to make America great again.”

Bitch McConnell, Trump’s favorite lap dog, also welcomed her aboard with, “I always wanted you, on my side that is, and now I do have you, by my side, that is.  Yahoo!”  In a gesture of deference, Ashley kissed both on their forehead, and whispered to each, “I’m all yours, big Daddy!”

For Ashley’s part, she took a fearless moral inventory and realized she was: Pro-Bono, so she’s pro-tax havens; and a life long Christian, so she’s anti-freedom of choice, homophobic and misogynistic.  Once she took stock, she knew she belonged with the GOP now and forever.

Most recently, Ashley spoke out in favor of sexual fascism.  She personally needs sex work to end, so she put out a public service announcement where she wants “sex to go Christian and only be enjoyed among the pure and wholesome marrieds.  Consensual sex work is done.  The sexual revolution stops right here, buster!  My name is Ashley Judd, and I endorse this message — from Baby Jesus to you!”

She gets thousands of dollars to offer her GOP musings at man-hating, Lesbian Studies colloquiums, as well as at Klan rallies where Christian-variety intolerance is de rigueurAshley Judd is the perfect Republican.  She is now the spanking-new, standard bearer of American fascism...

“...60 Minutes caught up with Ashley at the premiere of Lady Ballmore.  Ms. Judd, this work marks a departure from your other work — I mean, you’re the madam of a whorehouse here.”

“But it is a very important work, and it tested well within its demographic.  In Ballmore, we have a woman running a large business, with competing demands on her time, a whorehouse continually in disrepair, girls busting out of their britches, an unwieldy workforce to contend with, and an even more difficult client base.  She is the modern woman thrust into 1880’s America.”

“Yes, but she sounds like she’s well-bred, isn’t she Victorian? — and didn’t she inherit the whorehouse from her uncle, the Duke of Marlboro?”

“That’s right, Lady Ballmore is a transplanted Londoner.  Just as she feels entirely suffocated by puritanical, Victorian Britain, her uncle gives her the deed to a whorehouse in Tombstone, Arizona.  This is her big chance, so she takes the next steamer out of Liverpool into Ellis Island, and quickly assimilates to American ways.  Before you know it, she is heading west to stake her claim on the American Dream.  She has always longed to escape to the freedom of unfettered, American capitalism.  What really drew me to the part is that she attempts to reform the sex worker industry, but is met with contempt by employees, clients, and the railroad barons who viewed her as a vector of syphilis, as well as a despised, Wild West symbol of women’s liberation and self-determination.  Lady Ballmore says volumes about sex workers, women’s rights, and their place in American folklore.  Everyone needs to see this movie.  They’ll walk out with plenty to discuss.”

“Were you offended by the prostitution?”

“Not so much, just as Lady Ballmore and her girls must make ends meet, I as an actress must find parts so I can make my ends meet.  To be frank, I had two projects my agent had me choose between.  As a mature woman, I could be either the madam of a whorehouse, or the handicapped grandmother, private investigator tracking down a serial killer.  Hustling around in a walker like Ironsides don’t interest me — yet.  I needed a meatier script, one penetrating the American psyche, and this is what my agent sent me.  Thank you, William Morris.”

“Well, thank you, Ashley Judd, thank you very much.”

“My pleasure, it was my pleasure entirely.”

60 Minutes will return after a word from our sponsors.  That’s a nice dress.  I’ve never seen you in a mini-skirt before...”

Ashley Judd wrote something with a very surprising insensitivity to the most marginalized in society.  In opposition to Amnesty International, she has become “harmful” to a vulnerable population, claiming the high ground against sex workers plying their consensual trade.

She’s anathema to workers who hope to avoid harassment from the public, as her outrage positions herself as demanding police step up efforts to prosecute victimless crimes.  The consequence of calling an occupation, “paid rape,” means the occupation must be stopped, and using that inflammatory language, stop it by any means necessary.

With wisdom only she somehow possesses, sex work is “paid rape,” and she thinks that somehow she has been made wise by her Harvard class work, where she received an M.A. in Lesbian Studies with a Minor in Aggressive Lesbian Studies.  Her expertise in taking down sex workers has made her a sought after speaker, and co-chair of the Christian Goody-goody Crusade, one given to the thrill of purity proselytizing.

What other reason could there be but to have a sexual cleansing a la pre-Holocaust?  Really, they want to clean up the streets?  Ashley is afraid of pimps, then make prostitution legal, and there is no longer any need for pimps, prostitutes are legally protected, they’re protected by the police, unlike today.  Ashley wants to make sex work more illegal, if that’s somehow possible.

There is consensual prostitution regardless, and there’s also Craig’s List hookers.  (I have never fraternized prostitutes, but I know a few that have — hey, Trump has had sex with sex workers.)

Speaking at her radical feminism covens, she quotes freely from her grad school Black Book, the Harvard Press’ Joyous Intersection of Radical Feminism and the Church at the New Millennium.  Most surprisingly, wearing blinders, those two groups have joined forces in their attempts to terminate the world’s oldest profession at the expense of all those who make their lucrative livelihood.

For the first time, actual players, the sex workers themselves, are stepping forward to try to get her to stop her ignorant campaign of hate.  Apparently, retractions will not be forthcoming.  In her bid to end the only work of sex workers, and conquer them for Baby Jesus, she’s in it to win it.

Her Twitter feed unanimously condemned her for trying to abolish the World’s Oldest Profession, asking her how well she felt alcohol Prohibition worked.  Ashley has confused consensual sex work with coerced sex trafficking.  She is making it more difficult for sex workers to survive, as if they weren’t such outcasts enough.  Then what does Ashley think that the new job of these well-compensated sex workers should be?

Ashley Judd is another Tinker Bell Christian in Never Never Land, no wonder there are so many Christ followers who are pedophiles.  She’ll never grow up, as she demands chastity from those who do not find sex as repulsive as she must.  If she wants to do anything meaningful with her Third Act Activism, then she needs to see about getting her “good friend,” Pope Francis, to stop sheltering pedophiles...

Have you ever felt that you and your girlfriend are going your separate ways?  This is how I feel about Ashley and me.  I was drawn to her Ruby, thinking I’d at least get her alter ego in small doses, but that’s not what I keep getting.  We don’t have the same interests anymore, as if we ever did.  I brought her to the beach, the park, out for lunch and dinner, even for a night dancing followed by a midnight pizza, as well as the museum.

I even brought her to the library because I was tightening up my long-awaited thesis for the Nobel Prize Committee, the one resoundingly disproving Einstein’s, hilariously inaccurate, Theory of Relativity.  She said, “I’m Harvard, I’m wholly unimpressed.  You’re obviously siding with Marconi, you fool!”

Ashley took me to her Bible study group where the topic was always becoming one with Baby Jesus.  Of course, when I flew into Nashville, Sunday Mass was the first thing on her agenda that we needed to do, “as a long overdue, spiritual cleanse.”  I even joined her and the rest of her holy-rollers at the Saint Rick Bake Sale where she made the Kentucky Special, an inedible Raccoon Tarte in Dandelion GravyI told her it was delicious while choking back vomit.

So I’m licking my wounds, and moving on.  I wished her all the best.  She prayed that Jesus would somehow save my soul as she waved her necklace crucifix over me...

Ashley Judd got married!  That’s right, she got married to “Muscles,” her personal trainer at her gym.  The vows, administered by Ashley herself so she can keep “all control over the situation,” will combine her love of purity, and all things Jesus, with her fears for our future.  Here they are in part, abridged for readers’ attentiveness:

“We are brought together today to celebrate our love for not only Baby Jesus, but for his father, and for the Holy Ghost.  And we are celebrating our love for one another, as chaste, virtuous, and virginal, husband and wife...

“Why do Christians hate Jews, homos, women, and Blacks?  I am a woman of this incredible, dynamic faith, this beautiful, great phantasmagoric wonderment, and I feel the same hatred for the different ones, but I do not know why.  It is the mystery of the ages...

“I look up and I see god, I DO SEE GOD NOW!!!  We all see God, up in Heaven!!!  This is Kentucky, we are the ones who see visions.  Muscles care to add?  No?  That’s fine, you are learning your role as my husband.  Silence is golden...

“I do thee wed, I do, yes, I do, to you, my mighty Muscles, and most of all to the pure one, MY EVERLOVING GOD IN HEAVEN, BABY JESUS THE CHRIST!!!  JESUS, I’M SO IN LOVE WITH YOU, SO, SO EFFING IN LOVE WITH YOU, BABY JESUS!!!  I now thee wed!  I may kiss the groom...”

I have never been with a prostitute, but I’ve known a few that have, and lived to tell about it (hey, Trump has been with sex workers).  Ashley is on a personal crusade to end the practice.  I caught up with her as she began to pontificate:

“And I don’t care if the Johns have obese wives.  Kill the Johns.  I don’t care if it’s legal in Las Vegas, nuke Sin City, nuke any city with any sin.  I cannot say that I’m a Christian anymore, but all sin must stop.  Let it end with me!

There is no such thing as age-regulated sex work as they have in Sin City.  Even if it means the underage work, it is best it is all illegal.  There is no other way to deal with the World’s Oldest Profession, but abolishing it.  Write out the global abolition on paper, and the chips will all fall into place.  Except for married, consenting heteros, sex is just plain bad.

I memorized the Handbook of Christian Science Redemption, and the Harvard Guide to Sex Workers, and they both clearly state that prostitution can never be consensual, and it can never be a victimless crime.  Johns can’t afford hookers’ prices anyhow.

Hookers belong in Walmart 9 to 5s doing wholesome acts like handling returns, not handling genitalia.  Walmart shelf-stocking is Jesus’ punishment for using your body to make big money.  True, they easily make ten times more on their backs then on ladders, but a Walmart ladder is a stepping stone to dignity — dignity!!!!

I just can’t handle the triumph of the patriarchy over the unsuspecting lassie!  The sisterhood can only bear fruit once every girl can stamp their own time clock.  It’s not about anonymous, physical sex.  It’s about integration into proper society.  I’m a devoted, holistic, militant feminist, and this is Biblical law!  I’m not misguided, okay?!”

I asked Ashley if she should let the hookers eat cake.  The reference failed to register with her.

Then I reached an accord with Ashley: If she ever thinks a thought, one where she’s about to draft an email, begin a crusade for, or attend a rally or concert — about sex work, Christianity, or Bono — she cannot act on this thought until I give her express written approval.  This is the new protocol of our relationship.  The first day, I got 78 emails in response to the protocol, but we’ll see how she does going forward...

I have coined a new expression, “An Ashley,” and it means to drown in good intentions, while missing the most progressive and cause-advancing points, and sending the wheels of progress into reverse.

Is Ashley really as bad as I portray her here?  She once attended a Planned Parenthood rally, and a Baptist, Right-to-Life rally the same day, across town — and spoke at both.  Enough said — and this is hardly fake news.

Ashley Judd may run for Senate on the Dixiecrat line, but to be taken seriously for that, and avoid “Ashleys,” or just to be a leader of social justice causes — and not become a stooge for the wrong element — she first needs to clarify these passion du jour of hers:

  1. Outside of Ashley World, prostitution can be entirely voluntary, victimless, and far more lucrative than a sex worker’s other job prospect, a Walmart 9 to 5.  Her passion of ending the World’s Oldest Profession is wide-eyed at best.  Yup, Ashley thinks this can be done within a year or two, or is that a millennium or two?  Las Vegas has hookers who are vetted for disease, and there is no need for child prostitution because the adult sex workers are numerous, well-compensated, and protected by the police because they are not criminals there.  Everywhere else hookers are underage disease vectors outside of police protection — just do the math.
  2. Ashley keeps close ties with the Southern Baptist Conference and other Christian fronts, which are the most hard core of the hard core religious crazies.  Ashley wears the crucifix, she is a Baptist, so she isn’t a feminist.  A women’s right to choose is not even debated in Christian circles.  Fetuses are people, and they must be protected — this is their rallying cry.  Ancient Jesus the Christ calls all the shots of these loon birds.  Women are secondary to the male gender in any Church leadership — and gays and lesbians are strictly second class citizens.  As if this was not bad enough, the SBC did nothing while four thousand-plus African Americans were lynched.  They outnumbered the Klan more than ten-to-one, but felt doing nothing was in their best interests.  Who would want to belong to this crackpot organization?  Apparently people like Ashley Judd would, she is a lifelong member of this coven of posers, and I hope I can somehow get her to finally see the light.  The most hilarious part is that they live to avoid sin, when they’re wallowing in it.
  3. Ashley thinks Bono of U2 is keen.  He cheats on his taxes, claims to be a champion of social justice, yet steals from his own people, the Irish.  How is he not the king of hypocrisy?  If you want a champion of social justice, one with more music chops, and one who’s clean of corruption, choose Bruce Springsteen.
  4. Melania Gates is her heroine, and backs her and her husband’s, Gates Foundation (Melania, Melinda, same thing).  They will not give a dime to fund pregnancy termination.  It has something to do with Windows sales slumps.  That and the passion the sickly-wealthy have for: unplanned parenthood; unwanted children; and baby giveaways in which the birth mother will never see their offspring again.
  5. Ashley has a soft spot for gun whackos.  She has never, ever had a discouraging word to say about the Second Amendment.  True, Kentucky is open carry, and things could get very crazy, very quickly for Ashley at the Kresge’s checkout during a routine purchase of Coca-Cola (Southerners put Coke in their breakfast cereal), and her line is cut.  Yet if she or anyone else won’t speak out about solving impoliteness with bullets, the South will always be poised for lock down.
  6. Does she have an all-out contempt over dissension?  I was blocked from her Fecesbook feed, I have no idea if it was her or Fecesbook that did it.  I used to be her number one fan, no question.  I am a long, I mean, very long suffering Ashley fan (I am the Chicago Cubs fan of hers in the Pantheon, I saw her debut role in Ruby in Paradise, in its first release).  I have seen her drop the ball on issue after issue.  You know Ashley could be poised for greatness, but she’s signed on to the most milquetoast, regressive political and religious movements, ones coalescing around questionable ethics, where she often gives the indelible impression of being a complete hypocrite (to me, at least)...

Ashley and myself have gotten quite chummy over the years, so from time to time she invites me over for her world famous grits and Southern biscuits.  Later, after Ashley gets her AR-15 from her gun locker, we like to take a walk around the perimeter of her Kentucky farm.  Today, she discussed the power of praying to Baby Jesus.

Turns out that because Jesus the Christ is all powerful he can fix tragedies of the past, such as World Wars.  Ashley went on to explain how her and her team are using passive prayer to bring the war dead back to life.  In conjunction with the Harvard School of Divinity, and her very own Harvard School of Public Policy (where she won her Masters, and was often cited for her “friendliness”), Ashley is determining where she can put the living dead after Baby Jesus resuscitates them.

Once Ashley gets started talking about how petitioning Jesus changes everything, she cannot stop.  This is what she had to say:

“Bringing back the dead is all a logistical problem.  The first order of business is getting the dead properly attired so they don’t frighten the younguns.  I’ve been organizing with clothing donation depots throughout Kentucky to outfit these un-dead.  I’ve decided on outfits like bold tartan, Scottish plaids that easily identify the returned to life.  The problem is that Salvation Army and Saint Vincent de Paul don’t always stock tartan so we’re also leaning towards monochrome, cotton weaves like jeans.

“T-shirts with a bulls eye on the back will make it convenient for SWAT team snipers.  You know, because they may need to stifle uprisings.  The Target department store chain said they’d pitch in with the T-shirts.  The color coding paves the way for the un-dead to be readily brought into adoptive families, and accepted by the community.  We also need to integrate those coming from say WWI or earlier with today’s high-tech iPhones.  Don’t worry, Other, I’m setting up committees to handle tech intro seminars for the un-dead.

“No question, we will get the dead back walking on Earth.  That’s the power of prayer and Baby Jesus.  Give it up to God, leave it to him in his throne.  I don’t have to do anything, God does all my heavy lifting.  Never seek people to work with you.  Nope, depend on the ether above.  I checked my Bible for his show of miracles, and what do you know? — he did bring the dead back to life.  Anything is possible with my main man, Jesus the Christ.

“Because my alma mater — the one and only Harvard of which there are only superlatives — is all about quiet, peaceful contemplation, I’m organizing a prayer-a-thon to bring back the dead, and get this all started.

“The Prez at Harvard (who is a very good friend of mine) loves my idea as he felt as I do that their institution glaringly ignored the metaphysical, supernatural, and White Christianity, in their past curriculum (currently, we lack a Jesus’ Sexuality course, even though we do offer a very popular Major and B.S. in Lesbian Studies).  We haven’t hit pay dirt quite yet, but with Baby Jesus every great thing is always waiting just around the corner...”

The Hallmark Holiday Television Theatre will be presenting Ashley Judd in the partially auto-biographical, I won’t be Home for Jesus.

Hallmark has been looking for new ideas to enliven tired, old Christmas fare, so they’re replacing titles with the word “Christmas,” for titles with the word, “Jesus.”  Coming soon is: A White Jesus, Jesus in Connecticut, Jesus Eve, The Night before Jesus, the list of exciting remakes goes on forever.

This marketing strategy dovetailed well with Ashley’s biopic, her latest ode to the guy up on the cross.  Here, she’s a country singer who’s stuck on the I-95 in a blizzard, and she’s lost her belief in Baby Jesus.  She prays and prays, and her Mercedes is about to run out of gas, until Jesus offers deliverance: The snow becomes rain.

Ashley has a Southern bake-off in celebration followed by an American Idol-type country sing-along, both not entirely apropos of freezing to death on a road shoulder.  Regardless, you can see her latest masterwork this Christmas eve on the Hallmark, the Closer I am to Jesus Television Network.

Yet there’s a second, just as compelling story here.  Her Benz never did ran out of gas on I-95 that fateful day in the sub-freezing temps.  Just like the Pharisees and the Corinthians in Judea who didn’t run out of lamp oil for Hanukah, Ashley’s Benz did not run out of gas, and for this she thanks Baby Jesus the Christ.

Ashley’s Miracle of the Mercedes, within her movie, I won’t be Home for Jesus, was previewed by her “good friend” Pope Jorge (Anglicized and sanitized to become Pope Francis).  He was so taken by the Miracle of the Mercedes, that he fast-tracked Ashley’s canonization as a saint.

Now known as Saint Ashley, the Saint’s Mercedes was shipped via Air Force Vatican, and now rests beside Pope John Paul II’s Pope-mobile in the Curio del Santos (Curiosities of the Saints), in the Pope’s Canonization Museum, which is a partially converted air hangar (it contains several of Pope Jorge’s fleet of ultra-modern, 330-seat, Boeing 787s, for when the choir boys are back in town).

If you ever visit the Vatican, Saint Ashley’s, light-to-moderate service 1998 Mercedes is in the back of the hangar, by the dozen Sikorsky helicopters, and is quite worth the transcontinental airfare.

(Saint Ashley is taking bids on her cherished Miracle Mercedes.  Buyer must arrange delivery.  Saint Ashley is a non-smoker.  Bidding begins at $199,995, that’s €175,995...)

Here’s Ashley Judd’s latest, Christian public service announcement in its entirety (you haven’t seen it, because it’s for a Southern demographic):

Hi, my name is Ashley Judd, and I’d like to wish y’all a wonderful and joyous Christmas season.  Put down the turkey baster, the newborn, or both, for a minute, and let us reflect together on all that Baby Jesus has given us the year prior.

Perhaps you bought a new car or a new house.  Well, it’s time to thank the lord up on high.  Or your teenage daughter finally gave you a grandchild.  Praise be to Baby Jesus.  Or your son at last lost his virginity to a welcoming priest.  Or there was an opening at an out of State, sexual conversion camp for your Junior, and knowing how desperate you were to get him off your hands, Jesus answered your prayers for admittance to this sexuality boot camp.

When you think of all your Baby Jesus blessings, offer payback, and do as I do.  Give to the Southern Baptist Conference today.  (Give to the Vatican, too, they also do work against the Jewish menace.  They have a Pope-priest clemency initiative to ensure that those of the cloth, stay of the cloth, although they must spend a few hours each year with personal prayer and penance if they did things that the public frowns upon, but the Church, and us Christians, understand completely).

Our missions of mercy need money so the poorest of the poor in the Congo and Somalia can have what they need more than food and water, and that’s hard cover, white Bibles and salvation.

Your money is important to us: To our mission as good and holy Christians administering to the heathen; to advance our campaign for Baby Jesus so each one of us receives his love back here on earth; and most importantly, to provide a well-organized bureaucracy of spirituality for the big guy upstairs so we can make proper accounting of our now-computerized, absolutions of sin.

I love you, Baby Jesus the Christ.  We all do.  Oh dang, do we ever love you, Baby Jesus, yowza!  The Christian Church has been our house of worship for two thousand years, they get the credit for everything.  Isn’t now the time to generously give back, and take on the Jews once and for all?  I’m Ashley Judd, I sponsored this message, and I’m a god-fearing Christian.  Dang!

These days, as celebration of Christ’s divine plan that women are homely, prune-faced witches past forty, Ashley Judd does mostly family fare with Christian-friendly, neutered, submissive roles about women, and her latest is not an exception.  Here she plays FBI agent Mary Magdalene, who is hot on the trail of the coldest, cold case of all time, the mercy killing of Baby Jesus the Christ (if you’re not a Christian it was a mercy killing).

Anyhow, Ashley is searching everywhere for clues as to who knocked off her Baby Jesus.  The climactic scene is the most potent as Ashley pounds the dirt with her fists, crying in the rain, knowing that the killer may never be known.

Meanwhile back at Other Letter HQ, we do know the real story.  In Luke 24:39, following a well-timed, mind-blowing, crowd-pleasing eclipse, one coinciding with the Crucifixion, Christ said: “Have ye here any meat?”  Jesus is of flesh and blood, he never died during the mayhem of the eclipse.

Ashley is looking to rewrite her oh-so-precious New Testament, if only she could discredit Other Letter, and find a backer at the Vatican who would take the current ten-billion Bibles in circulation, edit them down, and recirculate them so Christ doesn’t look like a complete loser...

Ashley is influenced by the word of Baby Jesus in all she does.  For instance, Baby Jesus is against pride of appearance, and in fact, pride of any kind.  Homeliness is a higher virtue, with the ugliest being the closest to Baby Jesus.

Ashley has had long discussions with her Christian spiritual advisor as to whether or not it’s okay to shave her legs and underarms.  Would Baby Jesus be offended if she did?  Would he be more offended if she didn’t?

These questions were brought before her congregation for clarification, and resolution.  After a three-hour debate, where half the church took the side of Baby Jesus, and the other half, Lucifer, it was decided that Baby Jesus, while always right, could not be expected to embrace modern realities of romantic relationships.  So in a rare instance, the Church sided with Lucifer.

This meant that Ashley’s Church of Saint Rick allowed her the continued usage of shaving materials, and thus allowed her full enjoyment of the Twenty-First Century with all the rights and privileges therein.

The congregation then debated plastic surgery for the faithful.  Would Baby Jesus give this a thumbs up, or a thumbs down on this vital and urgent topic, one Baby Jesus obviously had clear dominion in deciding?  Another heated debate, and yet another important advisory: Lay people can get plastic surgery, but the nuns at the nearby nunnery could not, nor could the monks in the abbot.  The reason is simple: They answered a higher calling, one of ugliness and homeliness.

This brought Ashley and her contingent to discussions of fashion.  Is it okay to be fashion forward, to wear presentable clothing, even outside of Kentucky-ware, such as dungarees and Daisy Dukes?  Ashley quickly raised the point that purchases of haute couture benefit the economy, both regionally and nationally.

Except for those of the cloth wearing the thread bare, Ashley’s group sided with their only nationally-known representative, and she then hurried to prepare their final report unambiguously in favor of designer duds, and female hygiene; yet ambivalent on plastic surgery, especially plastic surgery for those of the cloth.

Ms. Judd herself will present their Revelations on the Homely at Vatican III to her “good friend” Pope Jorge.  Their findings will be in an attractive naugahyde-leatherette, three-ring binding available for inspection every weekday between 9AM and 10AM in the rectory room, at her Church of Saint Rick (the Church’s newly-installed, armed guard will direct you to the rectory)...

Ashley had noticed recently that the Negroes in her town appear rather slovenly, they seem to lack vitality.  Ashley brainstormed with her best friend forever, Bono, and they realized this was an opportunity to take the lead of yet another important cause.

They threw ideas back and forth until they came up with this: Come on, Blacks, Work Harder.  This is the solution, they would end negative stereotyping of Negroes by making them work harder.  Their motivational methods would be used in every Negro school, night clubs where they congregate, and parks where they lollygagged on blankets (to the outside world, she had to call them Blacks, but she always referred to them as her Negroes).  Ashley was, and is, determined to make her Negroes better Americans, more productive ones, and ones embracing Christian values of ambition, materialism, and chastity.

Ashley asked Bono if he could come up with a theme for their movement, and he had one in five minutes.  Ashley heard it, and hoped he would refine it further.  They had a few months of leisure ahead, so Bono explained to Ashley how he composed his classics like, Bloody, Sunday, Bloody.

He always chooses the key of C Major.  Every significant work by the grandmasters are written in C Major, he said, and they encompass the white keys on the piano.  Bono explained to her good friend, Ashley, that using the black keys on the piano gets very, very tricky, and besides, he can’t play the piano anyway, but he does play a mean tambourine.

Ashley is also a tambourine devoté, so Bono arrived at both of them playing a duet, the Come on, Blacks, Work Harder tambourine duet.  Bono said he would run all his musical ideas by his A & R man for tweaking to give it added humph (A & R is artist and repertoire).

Bono felt the chorus should include an homage to tax havens like his, which are a key to working just as hard, but also getting way ahead financially (true, you can only get in at over one hundred million dollars, but what do Negroes know).  Ashley embraced this, because it would improve the poor’s financial acumen.

Next up, besides their tambourine anthem, they had to have it played somewhere that would give them both visibility to their cause, Come on, Blacks, Work Harder, and to their own careers as well.  First, Bono contacted his buds at I Heart Radio to arrange a demo of Come on, Blacks, Work Harder.  The network execs were more than impressed, they would give just the demo, not the finished recording, airtime every day for as long as it still had legs, as long as it still sounded fresh.  Bono and I Hurt Radio knew they had a winner, and that it would play all year for at least the next three years.  Bono had to grease the palms at I Hurt Radio for this level of privilege, but he wanted to impress Ashley.

To complete the equation, they needed a march on Washington, a march of the Come on, Blacks, Work Harder variety.  This sounded like a cause Trump would love to get on board with, Negro empowerment and concomitant service to the White, but he couldn’t march citing commitments with North Korea.

The dynamic duo couldn’t find a Negro to headline the march.  This was until Ashley had a light bulb flash in her brain: How about Bill Cosby?  True, he is going to prison, but if we caught him before then, wouldn’t that work?  The Cosby Show was revered by both Negro and White alike.  Bono shouted: “High fives all around.”

This left the final composition of the Come on, Blacks, Work Harder anthem.  Bono put on his thinking cap, and spent the next week in seclusion, hammering out melody, lyrics, harmonies, relevant syncopation, rhythm section, as well as string, woodwind, and brass sections.  He showed it to his bestie, Ashley, which prompted more high fives.  It went something like this:

Come on, Blacks, Work Harder.
Don’t you have it in you?
You’re not giving it all you got like us Whites do.
All your life, didn’t you want to be just like us?
Ask Kenya West, he’ll tell you: “Trump is my idol, White is the way to be.  Is there a Negro who isn’t a White wannabe?”
Can’t you see it’s the only way, Negroes?
Hands over heads, clap like you really mean it.  Shed laziness now.
Take our hands, Negroes, and together we’ll reach the heights prophesied by Jesus the Christ in the Negroes’ Book of Rick.
No more being a second class citizen, Negroes, just work harder.
[In the anthem video, this is where a dozen Blacks lift Ashley and Bono up in the air, and they’re all trying to shake the tambourine duet’s hands.  Ashley is brandishing a bull whip in this scene.]

Be like us, all you Negroes [not “Blacks” in the master recording].
Negroes, you can be rich like us, but you’re just not trying.
Come on, Negroes, Work Harder.
Jesus needs you to work harder, do it for him.
Bono and Ashley Judd are telling you that you don’t need to be lazy anymore.
Join us, join Jesus the Christ.  We know you’re ready.  Get working.  [Bull whip snaps over and over.]

Ashley knows it’s winter in the South when the temperature gets below sixty degrees.  At this point, every one of those self-reliant Kentuckians starts chopping firewood, and begins the salting of the raccoons shot in the Fall.

This is also the time to make their beloved dandelion jam.  While only a weed to their neighbors of the North, dandelions are a rich source of protein, vitamins, and minerals (especially iron), and are great for snacks out in the woods or on the trail to god knows where.

Everyone in the South has triple-Polar™ down jackets although it rarely, if ever, gets below fifty degrees.  The only snow anyone in the South has ever seen is on the nightly news, usually falling on New England Interstates during their biweekly blizzards...

Ashley and I are the tightest of buds, we go way back together.  I saw Ruby in Paradise over twenty-five years ago, and with the advent of social media we have nearly conjugated our relationship.  She has liked my comments twice.  Things are about to get hot and heavy, we both expect wedding bells to be ringing within the next two or three months.  There is, however, one thing I can’t stand about her, and that is she loves the riffraff.  I talked to Pastor Sue down at the congregation about what to do if the lady you love has sleazy SOBs as friends.

Pastor Sue wondered who these sleazy SOBs were.

“Well,” I said, “Bono and Jorge.”

“Who’s Jorge?” she asked.

“This is Pope Francis’ real name.”  I went on to explain how his hate group actively denies women reproductive rights as well as prohibiting the holding of offices in his hate group’s leadership.  I also told her how Jorge and his coven is homophobic, how it’s also a pedophile sanctuary, and how they somehow get tax-exempt status.

“Well,” Pastor Sue said, “I kinda liked Bono, a nice pop music feel, a bit of Muzak to end your day.”

I replied: “He is just a tambourine player, Pastor Sue, he cannot play the guitar or piano.  But the worst of it, is that he is a tax evader.  These are Ashley’s good friends, Pastor Sue.  Her main agenda as a political activist is women’s rights and Jorge is completely uncaring, and Bono has no moral compass.  I’m at a loss, Ashley and I may be tying the knot, getting hitched, and her friends are nauseating, these two are both pathetic.  Ashley has latched on to a pair of posers.”

Pastor Sue said, “You may need to make this a condition of your wedding vows, that she vows to stay away from these bad apples.”

“Sounds good, Pastor Sue, next time we hang out, I’m telling Ashley that it’s them or me...”

Besides Ashley Judd’s work in cinema, she is also known for Ashley’s Joyride Kentucky.  Ashley, in conjunction with her house of worship, the Lexington Gospel of Rick Baptist Congregation, has been out on the Interstates looking to do her share.  That’s right, Ashley has been out on the Blue Ridge-Smoky Mountain Corridor picking out vagrants along truck stops, and bringing them to her ranch in Louisville.

There, they shower, get hot meals, and do yard work, plenty of soul-restoring yard work.  Right now, she has seventeen of these new found handymen and handy women, although oddly, more handy women than handymen.  Because this is the warm South, Ashley’s prospects for soul saving all sleep outside.  When it rains, they can huddle under trees.

After morning prayers, Ashley serves up her signature vittles, grits, and gravy.  Each former vagrant is given his or her assignment for the day.  Some are more arduous, such as clearing the back forty of brush with an ax, or planting corn seed by hand over a typical twelve hour day.  If they’re younger, they are given kitchen tasks to do, like dish washing and doing the pots and pans, or doing general janitorial work.

When they have done their chores, Ashley leads both the benediction and the homily, often reciting Biblical passages regarding Jesus the Christ’s struggle over the Pharisees, or his conquest of the Corinthians.  This is Biblical concrete proof that there is hope out there, they just need to find it.  Once Ashley has set them straight with the Lord, usually after six months of labor rehabilitation on her farm, it is back on the Interstate, to drop them from once they came.

Ashley puts a fiver in their shirt pocket, hands them a pair of overalls, and lets them out.  She leaves them with John 3:16: “No one so ever is so lost, that the road cannot find them a new home...”  Invariably, the former vagrant has tears in their eyes, as Ashley knows she has done her precious Church work, converting lost souls to Jesus the Christ.  UK three-pointer, with nothing but net, Ashley Judd...

Ashley and I just had another one of our vicious, cyber fights, with plates thrown (not Greek wedding style; but duck, incoming style instead).  She won’t stop seeing Bono, or as I like to call him, Boner.  You’re thinking: “Other, have you flipped out completely, Boner’s a billionaire, of course she wants to see him over you, you are only a lowly, pitiful, blogging—”

Okay, I get your effing point.  But if she wants to make time with a tax evader, a billionaire deep into tax havens that only the super wealthy have access to, what can anyone do?  And so much for Boner’s man of the people bit.  Instead, the tax money he pockets for himself belongs to the Irish, he is stealing it from them.  If Bono is Ashley’s kind of people, then she isn’t my kind of people.  This is who she belongs with, not anyone with any integrity.  If I get a C & D for this, a Cease & Desist order, so be it — freedom is never free.

I kept telling Ashley to stay away from the immoral, married trailer trash, even if this particular trailer trash owns twenty mansions.  Is Ashley hoping for a “loan” from Boner repaid with her sexual services, a “loan” to shore up her finances?  Is her thousand-acre, Kentucky, ranch mortgage in arrears?  Is she late on a Rolls payment?  Is the repo man chasing her all around Kentucky?

Or the knife to my heart, are Ashley and Boner attending daily, erogenous bible study?  I would say she’s above being the other woman, but how would I ever know?  She met recently with Boner, George Lucas and his wife for a lunch.  Was this only lunch, or was there drinks, too?  This is where the Us Weekly report trails off.

Did they go to a strip club or Chippendales after hours?  Can anyone say for certain?  I would have to think that they all have some super kinky sex lives going on, perhaps involving bestiality, but I cannot say for certain so I will avoid any libelous remarks.  Bestiality, or what, a dwarf fetish?  That’s it, dwarf-tossing, with dwarf dominatrix, and lilliputian dungeon masters?

This explains everything.  This is the reason Ashley will not reply to my social media posts.  I have discovered Ashley’s dirty little secret.  I am on to her like black on ink, and white on rice.  She is afraid at what she has become, and I represent what she was before Bono got her so into dwarf tossing, and dwarf S&M.

Ashley Judd, if you’re out there: For shame, for shame, you used to be someone, now you’re just lower than low.  You are unrecognizable, sunglasses donned indoors, walking into walls like R2D2 of Star Wars fame with its circuitry fried.  This is you, Ashley, the new Ashley, let’s all forget forever your persona as America’s darling sweetheart (or was that Taylor Swift?...)

At a recent Hollywood roundtable, one designed for directors to look over talent, Ashley was asked what she feels about kids going to sleep away Bible camp.  As we all know, Ashley is just in rapture about the New Testament, so she had this to say:

“You cannot give kids too much exposure to Jesus the Christ.  If they can cry for food, they are old enough to cry for Jesus.  I’d say start ’em at eight years old with Revelations and the mark of the Beast, “666.”  (Skip the Book of Luke, he was a Biblical mole, his gospel is only heresy.)

Once they know most of the Bible, good and evil, woman’s creation of original sin, they have recommitted their lives to Jesus the Christ, and they can impart their values on other underage moppets.

Of course, there is adult supervision, but this costs lots of money, so keep it to a minimum.  Create a Lord of the Flies environment, with an adults-in-absence mentality your moppets will never forget.  For the real camp experience, the adults’ role is limited to dishing out slop (to the Christian, food is not for enjoyment, only Jesus the Christ’s love is).  This means adults make the mac and cheese every day, and fill the ten gallon Gatorade barrels with bug juice.  Bug juice is what insects find so appealing at camp — and kids do, too.

I will admit you need a pastor of some kind at Bible camp, just to make sure the kids find the key passages in the black tome of hope.  The kids who really take to the Bible program are the discipline problems, who have spent their lives in detention halls.  They will do anything to avoid more stays in detention, they are your best test cases for arcane Bible verses.  Wait until Jesus fills their pea noggin’, they will never be the same.

But kids love, I mean love, Jesus, and will be spending nights in front of the bonfire with s’mores and the New Testament.  Have them quiz one another, and keep score, with seconds at dinner going to those with the highest scores.  Every kid must go home having rededicated their lives to Jesus the Christ.  If they haven’t they should be taken aside and interrogated by staff, and fellow campers.

Kids who can recite full chapter and verse of key gospels get avoid swamp relays.  Bible summer camp is the most beautiful way anyone can experience summer vacation.

I spent every summer there, and they were pros.  They got it, and they shared it with me personally.  Kamp Korinthians Kentucky began my endless adoration of my honey bunch, Jesus guy.  I am so glad to promote my religion everywhere I go, and Bible summer camp, like mine at the KKK, was my springboard into the pool of Jesus the Christ passion.

Surprisingly, even Ashley with her very own upright citizens’ brigade in tow, did not get any work with the Hollywood directors at the pageant, despite her overarching wholesomeness...

Ashley is a booster for the University of Kentucky.  This means that she’s comped air fare to exotic locales.  Most recently, the Wildcats had a tour of China, where Ashley got free food and lodging.  Ashley has a reputation for knowing all about b-ball, when in fact she knows three things about the sport: It is played with a round, orange ball, that bounces.  Excuse me, she’s Harvard grad school, the ball is not round, it’s spherical.

To Ashley, watching the game is a confusing mish-mash of people hurriedly running up and down the hardwood, whistles blowing, and fans screaming for reasons Ashley simply cannot fathom.  When those around her applaud, she does, too.  She’s learned that applaud mimicking is a safe strategy, especially when paparazzi are in attendance, or alumni want a picture of super b-ball fan, Ashley Judd.

What she loves most though, are the cute Black kids with rippling physiques and indomitable stamina.  She has dated all of them, under the cover of darkness, and with a Kentucky State Trooper chaperone present.  Ashley essentially owns Kentucky, she isn’t their Favorite Son, she’s their Favorite Daughter, so the police have no issue doing anything she asks, outside of private, cop strip shows with an audience of one, Ashley (which they have included in the budget for her anyway, but being demure, she declines).

There is rotisserie basketball, Ashley calls this rotisserie dating, a new guy a month, a week, or daily, if she’s very naughty.  The team calls on her for motivation when the team is holed up in a long string of road trip motels, then it’s super-fan Ashley’s turn to drop demure, wave her freak flag wide and high, and put on a strip show of her own.  Does anyone wonder why UK has championship teams year after year?  Look no further then Ashley’s Super 8 motel room past midnight — and let’s not get started with the cheerleaders joining the fun...

Just last Friday, I called together a Pantheon Meeting™ to discuss a topic vital to the continuance of this grouping, and that is self esteem.  As A-list actresses, they are well-known for their looks, but is there a downside?  Are they just cheesecake?

Ashley uses SAT words in interviews, does she feel insecure about her place among the elites of Hollywood?  She seems like she still needs to prove herself, but why?

We walked down to the Pantheon Olympic-size Pool and Other Letter Grotto to get a little privacy along with the real scoop.  Ms. Judd told me that this is how she talks: formally when discussions are formal.

Ashley said she still identifies with hillbillies, but I told her she wears no dungarees or straw hat, doesn’t smoke a corncob pipe, or hunt raccoons for sustenance (unless she has a secret life only those closest to her know about).  Then she excused herself so she could tend to her laundry.  Questions concerning Ashley’s front of learnedness persist, and remain painfully unresolved...

As Ashley pushes beyond the far side of fifty years of age, her trademark roles as “the good girl in trouble” begin to go to younger starlets.  As seen from the recent photo above, she can’t shill burgers, or cars, she’s just gotten too darn ugly.  What was once a beauty, now just looks like a bridge troll.  So instead, Ashley has begun her second career, exploiting the world’s natural resources, more specifically, bonobos apes of the Democratic Republic of the Congo.

Ashley Judd will be traveling to the Congo to save her beloved and endangered Bonobos apes from extinction — or so it says in her press kit.  The Congolese government has given her exclusive rights to bring back a hundred bonobos annually to her compound in Tennessee for: pet breeding, their fur, their bush meat, and animal medical experimentation.  Turns out, with her name and her well-deserved reputation for Aryan-like insensitivity, Ashley will be granted status as the sole breeder of bonobos in North America.

Through a Freedom of Information Act Request, I was able to see Ashley’s plans for the “Ashley Judd Bonobos Facility.”  Because her work is so sensitive, and so subject to public outrage, it is only described by its acronym,“AJBF.”  At the AJBF, there will be two, five-hundred-square-foot cages.  The first houses the breeders, the second the older Bonobos for bush meat slaughter.  You’re thinking: How diabolical, how unfair, where did she come up with her twisted designs?

Be prepared for a shock: They are straight out of the Jane Goodall, top-secret field manual for Gorilla Capture with Companion Ape Cookbook.  Jane is well-established as a bush meat distributor across the South and Midwest, where she is known, not so affectionately, as Miss Jane, Butcher of Gorilla.  Ashley had been in close contact with Jane, but now Ashley wants her mentor’s sales territory.  Well, good luck to Miss Ashley, Butcher of Bonobos.

If all goes according to plan, and because of her stature in Hollywood, U.S. Customs will just give her the old nudge, nudge, wink, wink, and wave her through with her many boxed cargoes of apes.  She’s looking forward to making regular poaching visits to the DRC.

Ms. Judd has even bought a fleet of food trucks so she can sell all her bonobo bush meat during travels up and down her Franklin County and all throughout the rest of Tennessee.  I am sure the demand will be brisk as Ash has been known to bare thigh to get what she wants from the public.  Kinda warms the cockles of your heart knowing someone in Hollywood cares so much about, well, what, filling the exotic food pipeline?

Ashley is working very hard with the Tennessee Department of Education to put bonobos burgers, and bonobos deli cold cuts, onto the school cafeteria menu statewide.  She’s even videotaped a PSA, a public service announcement:

Kids, why not enjoy lunch the Ashley way with bonobos meats and meat by-products?  I just love ’em and look how far I’ve gotten — and you can, too.  Ask your cafeteria matron to only stock AJBF brand bonobos [secret code acronym for: Ashley Judd Bonobos Facility].  You’re Southerners, kids, now that’s not too much to remember, is it?
[Cut away to Ashley at a school lunch table sharing a bonobo rib with excited children...]

U2’s front man, Bono, is a tax evader.  He’s a billionaire playboy who is also a hypocrite heavily invested in Dutch tax havens, so he pays next to no tax to his people in his homeland, Ireland.  Meanwhile, he preaches the Gospel of love for humanity, and self-sacrifice for the good of the cause — such self-serving, double-talking b*llsh*t.

Ashley does not hear my pleas to renounce her love of Bono and U2 in favor of good common sense.  U2 is a band of fossils with “classics” like Joshua TreeJoshua Tree was, if you remember (and no one does), a concept album with no concept, just kinda like a louder, up tempo Beach Boys B-side from their experimental mushrooms period, with more reverb and sustain, and it sounded just as interesting.  Maybe it was about a tree, or maybe it was Biblical, does anyone know?  Does anyone care?

Ashley travels around the country to see the boys of U2, and especially the Christian pretender, Bono, at every opportunity, just like a Deadhead (I know we’re talking apples and filet mignon, but bear with me).  She has been known to pay upwards of $20 (yes, you heard right, scalpers are commanding $30 a ticket — or did I hear $1,000-plus) for a front and center seat.  This way she can hear her heart sing time after time with U2’s classics, such as Sunday, Bloody, Sunday (with its immortal words paraphrased: “...How long must we hear this song?...”)

I try to let Ashley know that Bono’s act is cheesy, flatulent pop, because apparently she has been hoodwinked by limited music programming in her Hill Country of Kentucky.  Bono also sports a fake social consciousness (the music itself is not real Rock by any stretch).

Somehow Bono thinks he can steal money from his people, the Irish, by evading taxes, and be an arbiter of social causes.  He still gets good press, crazily enough.  The New York Times missed the call with their review of his dated, nostalgia act, which they likely backed because of his philanthropic reputation.  Yet how significant of a personal sacrifice is he making when he’s worth nearly a billion dollars, and he cheats on his taxes?

Bono is also in love with Pope Francine, I guess Boner is also misogynistic and homophobic, just like Francine.  If Ashley claims she is a woman of God, why is she standing by a tax fraud, as well as a misogynist and homophobe?

If Ashley wants the real deal, and see a real man of the people, but not some ersatz pretender to the throne, check out Bruce Springsteen while he’s still on Broadway.

(If this is libel, so be it.  I don’t know about you, but I am fed up with seeing unindicted criminal types walk free — in rock arenas all the way to the White House.)

Ashley Judd’s favorite band is U2, the one with front man, Bono.  You’re thinking, yeah, she has good taste, but did you also know that Bono keeps millions in tax havens, ones designed to avoid paying taxes?  Because of his great wealth, he can shelter his cash from the taxman in ways most people can’t.

So while Bono pontificates about the greatness of the common man in every one of his songs, he’s making money hand over fist, tax free, in the Netherlands, and elsewhere.  U2 is worth $908 million, so they haven’t been sharing their wealth as is the common perception.

Ashley, in association with Time/Life Books, and in conjunction with the New York Times, Outdoors section, has just published, Ashley Judd: Wilderness Girl.  In it, Ashley recounts many of her hiking exploits.  We have secured this prosaic gem from the section detailing her descent down the back side of Diamond Head Precipice:

...It was a long day, over thirteen hours worth of non-stop trudging through rain, sleet, and snow, but this was the Smoky Mountains in March, then so be it.  Yet it was all worth it once I used my portable, heat-seeking javelin to snare my very first, trophy-winning, fifteen-pound, mosquito.
The aroma of the campfire and this prize specimen were overwhelming, as I am sure my selfies will attest when seen back home.  I was not sure whether to go for the wing or the white meat first.  I had fifteen hours to make tomorrow, so I figured I would savor the mosquito’s wing today, and keep the white, mosquito meat secure in my pack for Paducah.
I always try to put a carrot in front of me as motivation, and dear me, was mosquito filet ever motivation.  When I pitch my tent at sunset by the Kentucky border, my next stop, I will have deserved this mosquito.  You’re wondering: Why do I camp and brave the elements?  This is why: a mosquito I could just as well bring to a taxidermist, and then place above my fireplace mantle, but instead, one roasted crispy, medium-well, on a Coleman-8000 stove.  It simply doesn’t get any better than this...

The New York Times hailed Ashley Judd: Wilderness Girl as: “...A testament to the human spirit, and the profound impact nature has on every one of us.  Bravo, Ashley Judd, bravo!!!  Adapt this into a film, and the Oscar is yours!!!...”

Ashley Judd has sued Harvey Weinstein for what is often categorized as mental distress and hardship, as well as the derailment of her career.  He blacklisted her when she was near an offer from Peter Jackson, the director of Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, one of the biggest blockbusters of all-time.

After Ashley rebuffed his sexual advances, he told the director that Ashley was “a nightmare,” to work with and that Jackson should avoid casting her, “at all costs,” among other damning, derogatory remarks.

A few years hence, Ashley was hospitalized for depression.  Weinstein knew exactly what he was doing, he was destroying her career, and he didn’t care, he went ahead and did it anyway.  Why isn’t he being prosecuted for depraved indifference to human life?

Personally, I hope — as do millions of others — that he pays for his despicable and indecent behavior, and that he serves jail time just as Bill Cosby is doing.  The only difference between the two, is that Cosby used drugs to solicit sex acts, Weinstein instead blackmailed to extort sex, and held their careers over their heads like a Sword of Damocles.

What I would also hope, is that this civil suit is not settled out of court with hush money, as Trump did to Stormy Daniels.  Drag Weinstein through the mud, these are unconscionable acts...

Ashley recently posted an advert for a religious organization which counts her as a member.  The ad is for a speech about Jesus the Christ and Mary Magdalene, his apostle.  What I wonder, besides how Ashley has never heard of the Crucifixion Eclipse, is how Jesus did not contract syphilis.

He fraternized with at least one hooker, Mary, and Mary had girlfriends who were likely hookers.  Then how could Jesus the Christ not be covered with canker sores?  And if he had at least one hooker girlfriend, who was servicing the twelve apostles?  It would have to be the same hookers, and they must have all hung out at the girls’ place, the whorehouse.

True, they were all hanging out discussing scripture that would be written later, and what their next moves would be, but weren’t they sexually interested?  Or was desire only removed with the establishment of the Vatican and their teaching that sex is generally not a good idea, celibacy is, and that even contraception is wrong?...

Ashley recently posted a video from her church where her father sang for the congregation.  She is that tight with the Baptist community.  In fact, she believed a recent sermon her pastor wrote, was about her.  Now that we’re taking Ashley’s moral inventory (believe me, we are), what is a leader of the feminist movement doing regularly going to services at a Baptist Church?

The fundamentalists prime political objective is to stand in the way of a woman, her body, and her right to terminate her own pregnancy.  Given her abiding belief in the Baptist church, Ashley must believe in a God above with thunderbolts in a throne always watching over us.

Why would a woman with a Harvard Masters degree believe in these fairy tales of heaven and hell, when belief in the majesty of Creation is so much more compelling?  I am just about ready to give up on Christians ever seeing reality, or the true light of day.  They all need deprogramming from the Jesus the Christ junk, and need it 24/7...

Ashley is celebrating the big ‘Five-oh,’ her fiftieth birthday.  The last year has been huge, not only for her in exorcising old ghosts who sexually harassed her, but for all women in the #TimesUp movement she was instrumental in founding.

The New York Times broke the story about movie mogul Harvey Weinstein, his despicable behavior, and later, his eventual fall from grace.  Ashley was the main victim in the Times account.  She made the cover of Time magazine as well, and was on several network news programs to tell how she found the strength to come forward to tell her story.

All in all, not a bad year leading up to her fiftieth, she can at last put some disturbing memories to rest, and do so for the rest of the world’s women as well, having put every hurtful and manipulative man on notice that their time is up.  Of course, others are rushing in to take credit, but Ashley was the first to lead the charge...

Ashley was telling me all about the Southern Baptist Convention, and how their conference will be at Madison Square Garden this Spring.  She showed me the travel package brochure, “How to Survive New York City.”  Her hometown residents of Hog Tail Falls, Kentucky, are giddy with excitement at the prospects of proselytizing the New Yorker.  For most, this is the first time traveling outside their home State.

Then she played a Betamax tape entitled, “Writing up the Negro.”  In it, the Baptists demonstrate how to report all errant Negro employees to management.  A family sits at a Bobs Big Boy, which Ashley tells me is both convenient and high-end, elegant, Southern dining.  Also, there are no Northern substitutes at this price point so this had to be filmed in a Big Boy.

A Black waiter hurries back and forth and spills water on the edge of a paper place mat which infuriates the White, adult Southerner.  Instead of screaming bloody murder, he speaks to the “New York Negro’s” manager in an effort to get him fired.  This is all done in the name of Jesus who would never tolerate the slovenly, but still would avoid creating major scenes, especially if other Negro diners were nearby as there were here.

The wife points to the husband’s gun, as the Southerner (mistakenly) thinks New York has right to carry laws.  The family storms out without paying while yelling “Jesus the Christ saves, you’re lowly sinners!!!  Repent!!!”

Ashley asked me what I thought of this tape, and of her religion.  “Well, Ashley,” I said, “You are a persuasive people, bound to centuries of tradition.”  To which Ashley said, “No, we’re not, we’re just a bunch of crazy hicks.  The South is overpopulated with sadistic crackers who still get away with murder...”

Ashley will not throw her celebrity weight into ending the proliferation of guns.  Is this because her family has guns?  Nah, they all seem like peaceniks, Ashley included.

She unwittingly stirred the hornets’ nest though, especially with her Nasty Woman speech, and her desire to prosecute social media trolls.  I would not be surprised if this poor, sadly beleaguered soul received death threats from a part of the country where the hunting and gun “subculture” is pervasive.

America is unfortunately yet correctly known as a violent nation, but the South was known to be even worse.  Southerners were the whip crackers of slaves.  Did these instincts to inflict pain magically disappear?

Repealing the Second Amendment, or even speaking out against guns, may not be a cause she feels so comfortable embracing.  Someone else needs to raise that gauntlet in her stead...

Ashley just returned from her latest hiking trip on the Appalachian Trail in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.  You wouldn’t ever think of it, but Ms. Judd is an adrenaline junkie.  She camps so often that except for her daily trips to the Asheville Dairy Queen, her body rejects all but freeze-dried food (by the way, her favorite ice cream flavor is “Bacon,” she’s Southern after all).

She spends much of the year hiking either: the Appalachian Trail (the AT), the Pacific Coast Trail (the PCT), or the Continental Divide Trail (the CDT).  She is the only through-hiker in existence that hiked the big three back-to-back without sag van support.  This is how: Before each leg, she mails her provisions to the destination post office’s post master.

If you do find yourself on the AT, Ashley is the only one you’ll see sprinting by you, sixty pound pack jiggling to and fro.  Half of this extreme athleticism she attributes to year-round training with Nashville Titans NFL strength coaches where she is pitted opposite defensive linemen, and the other half to her addiction to Cappuccino, which she thanks for keeping her off of rock cocaine.

By the way, Ashley cannot compete in the NFL despite growing League hopes for her, because liability insurance is gender chauvinistic.  Going into this Fall’s campaign, Titans scouts felt she would have made an excellent nose guard, and likely a future Hall-of-Famer.  Oh, well.

She had a track coach in high school who had her pegged for the Olympics in, well, in any sport she felt like competing, but Hollywood called, and she answered the call.

Because she is so high profile, she does have a phalanx of Secret Service agents following her on the trails.  Coptered in trailside, they might be spotted off in the bushes with walky-talkies, wearing suits and ties.  A Smith & Wesson adds additional security for Ash, and while this has not been widely reported in the media, she did fatally shoot an autograph hound on the Delaware Water Gap portion of the AT.  This Hollywood legend-in-the-making, not normally noted for her extreme brutality, means business, even on the AT...

As mentioned below, Ms. Judd recently visited the Rohyinga people, where refugees are facing horrific conditions.  You think you have troubles?  The only thing these wretched souls have is the shirt on their back.  This is why Ashley, in conjunction with the United Nations Family Planning Agency (UNFPA) will be exporting these people as domestics back into the States.  This is the only hope they have for a better life.

Ash, herself, has several Rohyinga she keeps in the shed out back.  For the price of three squares a day — it can just be slices of bread — you can support the destitute so they have a quasi-normal life once more.  They are unusually industrious, and do not require any other investment other than food starch and shed-like accommodations.  Get them to dig their own latrine and you’re good to go, and so are they.  The UN frowns on whips and chains as behavior modifiers, but honestly, who’s going to know?  Ashley thanks you for your support, as do I...

Ashley we know you will be presenting at the 90th Academy Awards.  I need to give you this heads-up, I have intel there will be numerous Weinstein sympathizers in the audience who will be shouting you down, throwing tomatoes, programs, champagne bottles, chairs...

They will be interrupting you, just like when the winning field goal is about to be kicked, and the opposition is psyching out, and icing, the kicker.  I’ve been there, Ashley, you need to wear blinders.  Your eyes should not stray from the Teleprompter.  They should be glued on it.  If need be for concentration, walk up to the Teleprompter.

Be well prepared for anyone rushing the stage, just like Kenya did to Taylor Swift.  It would be a first in 90 years, but be ready.  Constantly scan the audience for attackers.  Walking up to the podium, brandish several karate moves to show you mean business.

Oscar audiences are well known to be openly hostile, but use this to your advantage.  Say things like, “Do you know how sickening you look to this global audience, hmm?”  Or, “You make me wanna puke, ya know?”

I’m not trying to make you even more nervous, you are a theatrical pro, you regularly die on stage.  You need to stay on guard for balloons filled with poisonous gas while at this podium.  That, and pigeons with lasers strapped to their chests hell bent on one thing, blinding you and frying your photogenic ’do.

Before the bus takes all of you to the Dolby Theater (better, split cab fare with five or more, Dolby wait staff), see if you can pick up num-chuks, like the ones in martial arts?  Or just buy a compact semi-automatic pistol, everyone knows Oscar security doesn’t know what the Hell they’re doing.  Because, like it or not, you have become a prime target of everyone from ISUS to the NRA to the Girl Scouts (for nude scenes).

Remember Kareem Abdul Jabar in the 1971 Finals for UCLA when he drove inside the paint with three seconds on the clock, and slam dunked in Doctor J’s face?  This is who you are, a 7 foot, 6 inch, power center who can score at will against Doctor J — and don’t you ever forget it.

When the applause erupts, and you get that standing O, you stare down Doctor J as the buzzer sounds, and you are carried off the hardwood by your teammates, all over seven foot — because, this is who you are, you are a b-ball legend...

Ms. Judd just recently gave a speech before the United Nations General Assembly.  Ashley was outlining how she would like to receive a block grant of a hundred million dollars to propagate a race of super humans that would run most corporate and government functions by the year 2070.

The 194 nation U.N. convened a special session of the Security Council, because they were so impressed with Ashley’s proposal.  What began the international bidding war for her designs was her expectation that her super humans will be genetically engineered to work 24/7, without ever resting.

Ashley’s spec also requires that the clones all be blond-haired and blue-eyed, the guys solidly muscled, with the girls having full figures.  At this point, the German contingent started whistling and humming their State marching hymn, “Der Fatherland, we’re coming home.”

We applaud Ashley for her tireless initiative to improve civilization, if not her comprehension of the dangers of eugenics.  Now on to Other Ashley news...

Ms. Judd is decompressing from her United Nations Population Fund trip (UNFPA) to Sri Lanka.  There she served again as celebrity spokeswoman articulating and publicizing their plight.

She’s trying to come to terms why she, and all of America, has so much, and are often not so nice, even vile, when the Rohingya people are the salt of the Earth, and have nothing.  (She offered this to me telepathically.  Because of our busy schedules, we often cannot find time to chat.)

Besides poverty, they are persecuted for being Muslims, by of all people, the Buddhists.  The Dalai Llama supposedly leads Buddhists.  I have no clue why he has no sway over this evil faction.

Ashley might want to consider that even though they lack everything, they still have one another, and that can be more than enough.  This doesn’t mean we shouldn’t strive for their refugee camps to have working toilets, but rather that they deserve so much better than what the rest of the World has taken from them.

The reason for their poverty is very simple, Ashley.  They lack green, engraved bank notes from the United States.  If they had large supplies of this magic paper, including special designs indicating how trustworthy our particular God is (or was), they would not live in misery.  Ashley, you’re thinking this is only paper?  Well, no, this paper has been imbued with special powers.  It can buy happiness, if happiness is decided when one is not starving, has shelter, and when one has ready transportation available.

I have to mention though, that there was a bit of a fracas, a real shouting match — with Ashley screaming, “Terrorist!!!  Terrorist!!!  Terrorist!!!” — as Ashley tried to pull the hijabs off of all the Muslim women.

She felt the hijabs were an insulting affront to every American who survived 9/11, or at least survived it in spirit, and especially to Christians, who keep the world puritanical for everyone else in their quest to become the proselytizing, dominant religion.  After the refugee guards pried apart Ashley from the Sri Lankans and their hijabs, an uneasy calm was restored.

Looking at photos from Ashley’s trip, many of the women in the camps did give side-eye to her, and covered their hijabs with their hands so Ashley wouldn’t try to yank them off of their heads again when she walked by...

Ashley is in Sri Lanka right now, making the world a better place.  She is a director at the United Nations Population Fund, and her responsibility — besides determining UN funding for key, non-Christian nations ripe for conversion to kneel before Jesus the Christ iconography — is making sure every Sri Lankan is born from mature, responsible parents.

In other words, she is their God, their Lord, and their overseer.  While in the States, she doesn’t go by “God,” in Sri Lanka she must be formerly addressed as such, or the UN will start reducing aid there.

Ashley will be promoting eugenics in Sri Lanka, as she has in countless other locations around the globe.  If you’re thinking Hitler promoted eugenics as well, Ashley’s eugenics makes a much smaller footprint than Adolph’s ever did.  Ashley and I are very tight, so she loves when I spread her UN-sponsored message of ethnic cleansing.

Besides racial purity, Ms. Judd is also on a mission to promote Acroyoga, which is a form of yoga with acrobatic elements.  Ashley is pretty much a complete jockette, and she gets guys in Kentucky and now, Sri Lanka, to be her bases as she twirls above them, sometimes flying forty, or even fifty, feet above the ground.  Mostly she does Acroyoga to meet eligible bachelors for canoodling, but there is also an athletic component, one which she finds just as challenging...

I’d hate to be rude to devout Ashley Judd, but the word, “Christian,” can be substituted for the word, “loser,” without any change in meaning.  She is in the middle of a Christian deprogram, and we are really making unbelievable progress.

She no longer prays to Jesus the Christ at day’s end, and she has given away her dozens of golden Crucifix necklaces to an area convent.  Her rosary beads were separated from the string, thrown on the floor, and now make a great cat toy.  The wooden Crosses in every room in the house made a fine bonfire.

And last, but not the least, are her collection of Bibles, which were the kindling for the bonfire.  These numbered thirty-seven at last count, and including twenty-six, advanced, never translated from the Latin, source editions, each over one thousand years old, with one known to have been hand-written in the Aramaic by Jesus the Christ.  These were courtesy of her former American Baptist Church library reference collection where she was Relics and Antiquities Chair including Saints’ bones acquisition...

This just in: Ashley has a cold.  Let us all join hands and pray for her swift recovery: “Oh, Creation, empower positive, recuperative energies on our dearest Miss Ashley.  Om!”  In twelve hours, she will be breathing normally, and will continue her b-ball, hoop studies at U. of K.  Of this, may we guarantee...

The Other Letter has sad news to report, Ashley Judd may have found her super man.  It’s her costar from her new limited-length series, Berlin Station.  This has not been publicly announced though, and according to Wikipedia, he is passing as married, his wife is listed.  Yet Ashley recently posed for a Instagram photo with him, crouching beside him with her head at his crotch level, and her superstar standing up.  What is a senior Pantheon official to believe?

This could have just been a confidence builder to level the playing field between the more and less experienced, between an actress of Ashley’s renown, and an actor of lesser renown, but lets not go there, because this was a full violation of Pantheon protocol.  In these instances, we give said starlet as difficult of a time as is possible.  Before we begin excruciating feather torture, consider if Ashley was trying to make her costar feel on edge for any of his possible indiscretions...  But who are we kidding?

Except for the effect on her costar’s wife and kid what could possibly be wrong with a bit of stress-relieving, Christmas time adultery?  Ashley is generally not seen as a home wrecker — she is very quote-unquote spiritual, and spends many hours a week looking up at the Cross of Jesus the Christ in her place of worship, her den — but all these Hollywood types are known shape shifters.  Any evil is possible once they find the right opportunity.  Then they pounce when you’re least aware.

So what can be done?  Except to wish them all the best, knowing that Ashley’s crackpot reverse Jesus loves them, and cherishes them in a way no one else could possibly ever understand.  The Other Letter crackerjack legal team is drafting up Pantheon release papers for her boyfriend hardship emancipation (this is the standard Pantheon legal loophole, the boyfriend hardship exemption — because otherwise Pantheon participation is a legally-binding, lifetime term of servitude to “the cause”).

Oh, well, we find ourselves back in the market for replacement starlets having also just lost Gwynnie to her engagement.  This is why there is so much heartbreak in Hollywood, the best ones are always taken.

Even if Ashley makes a go of it without yours truly, I bet, no, I know, that she can make it on her own.  She might just make it after all.  So in Ms. Judd’s honor, hit it, Mary Tyler Moore:

Who can turn the world on with her smile?
Who can take a nothing day, and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile?
Well it’s you girl, and you should know it
With each glance and every little movement you show it
Love is all around, no need to waste it
You can never tell, why don’t you take it
You’re gonna make it after all
You’re gonna make it after all
How will you make it on your own?
This world is awfully big, girl this time you’re all alone
But it’s time you started living
It’s time you let someone else do some giving
Love is all around, no need to waste it
You can never tell, why don’t you take it
You might just make it after all
You might just make it after all...

By now, everyone knows that by opening the floodgates — first with Ashley’s exposing of Harvey Weinstein — she single handedly set the wheels in motion saving womanhood forever from predation by males.  But did you also know, that Ms. Judd is returning to the Jesus salvation junk now, she’s saying her victories are all through God.  Ashley will not admit the triumphs were of her own doing.

When Ashley was first debating implicating Weinstein, her advising team had me aboard as an adjunct psyche coach-advisor, Jesus deprogrammer.  Team AJ knew that with the stress of her changing the world right down to its core, she would revert to “God is great” hokum.

So here I am, alone in my mission, and my hopes, that she will at last let go of her security blanket up there in the sky.  She is now incommunicado, she is flying solo, despite my pleas to save her from inorganic, unnatural, guilt-enhancing, and dead-as-a-doorknob Jesus.

Of course, anything I say will go completely unheeded, she is that deep into getting validation from the ether above right now.

If she was to say that she finds strength in her newly-found, loving unity of humanity, or the majestic, interdependent family of Creation, I would say, there is no problem here.  At least she isn’t pulling any Jesus-saved-me pablum, so I give praise for that (but not to God up in his throne or in Jesus at God’s right hand calling out audibles on the “field” below, but instead credit belongs to the magnificence of Creation at large).

Before we condemn a beautiful woman for, well, nothing, is Ashley being outspoken about God because it gives her a false sense of security, one found in the vacuous ether above; or because if she speaks of goodness around college students — which is a fairly typical audience for her speeches — then talk of God is meant to keep them on the straight and narrow...

Ashley seems like a wonderfully warm person, just a true sweetheart, but could it all be an act?  We’ve all heard the rumors, that she is an avid bow hunter who owns Glocks as well as Bushmasters.  And those deep into Ashley lore know that in high school her nickname was “rawhide.”

She keeps an arsenal that’s fully approved for effectiveness by the NRA, one that she’s constantly replenishing by visiting every gun show in Tennessee and Kentucky, in other words, hundreds of shows each and every year.  Ms. Judd keeps them all in her subterranean bunker which she only leaves when shooting movies.

She is a firm believer not in farm to table, but in bramble to table.  To that end, the only meals she doesn’t hunt for are McDonalds ones.  If it moves, and it lives in the Southeast, Ashley has had it for dinner.

I have also heard, from reliable sources, that she is likely plotting to take over New York, specifically Manhattan.  If you play the scene in Dolphin Tale backwards, where she is teaching Flipper English, you can clearly hear her say: “the South will rise again, just you wait and see.  You thought American Sniper was bad.”

I know, really scary stuff, but Ashley has done dozens of horror flicks, or suspense ones, same thing.  Her bent on nihilistic destruction is all a carryover from her life as FBI agent Jenny MacErnerney in Kiss the Girls.

Word on the set was that she was speaking to the security consultants at every opportunity, all in a twisted effort to lay siege to Central Park South.  Her co-star, Morgan Freeman, asked her, “Why Central Park South, Ashley, why?  But you know that no matter where you attempt your fiendish plot, great Americans will stop you.”

She replied, completely out of character for those who are unfamiliar with her dark side, “Why Central Park?  Kill yield, Morgan, I must maximize kill yield per magazine spray.  Given urban population density maximizations, of course.”

Horse-drawn carriages heading out of Central Park, are set to bring Ashley and her fellow scruffy hillbillies to North’s second Ground Zero.  Intel suggests her guns will be a-blazing, waving the Confederate Flag wide and high, and all the while screaming, “Long live the Second Amendment!”  Damn you, Ashley, how could you?!!!...

In an interview on Good Morning America, Ashley Judd was asked what she would tell Harvey Weinstein, who sexually harassed her.  She said, “What I’d say to Harvey is I love you and I understand that you’re sick...there’s help for a guy like you.”

Hold everything, Ashley loves him?  He sexually harassed over sixty women using his influence as a Hollywood mogul.  The Pantheon will be holding Christian deprogramming seminars, so that the victimized such as naive Kentuckian, Ashley (victimized both by Christianity and Weinstein) learn to stop turning the other cheek, and avoid the Stockholm Syndrome so they no longer love their oppressor.

Ashley has fallen big for the Jesus the Christ junk, and with our patented seminars, she will learn to detach, unburden, but never, ever fall in love with the predator.  Hearing this, does she love similarly-disgraced Fox anchor, Bill O’Reilly the same way?  If you go around hurting people for decades, you deserve love, not stern rebuke?  If anything, the victim may hope the predator straightens himself out, so he won’t continue to go out and violate other innocent victims.

You might be an instrument of Creation’s peace, but love for Mr. Hyde is sick in and of itself.  If Weinstein doesn’t serve jail time, will Ashley stop over his place for drinks?  If you love him, why even broach the issue of his sexual harassment?...

There appears to be a discrepancy between the happy starlet photos with Harvey Weinstein, and the subtext of his sexual harassment.  Two stages are in evidence.

In Stage One, the starlet has the company of the biggest man in Hollywood (literally and figuratively).  This is the amiable, if grossly overweight, Dr. Jekyll.

In Stage Two, the evil stage, the Mr. Hyde stage, the starlet realizes what this is all about, her sexual services are being put on offer to advance her career.  She leaves disillusioned, dejected, and probably, suicidal.  Weinstein just heads for the next victim never chastened.

The trick was to not have to perform a sexual favor, and still keep your job.  The success rate at it is not known...

I would think Ashley would want to go in for the kill against her former nemesis, Harvey Weinstein.  Instead, she seems very ambivalent about finishing him off.    Ashley seems to feel sorry for Harvey.  Did he feel sorry for her?

This may be the reason why: There’s the touching new rom-com, a romantic comedy, a rapprochement, that’s now in the works from the Weinstein Company, and — surprise, surprise — it stars top-billed Ashley Judd.  It’s called: Keep your Hand on my Tush, Harvey — Where it Belongs.  It’s subtitled: You will always be my gorgeous mounds of round, Harvey.

(I ran “...mounds of round, Harvey” by my 24/7 Legal Department that I keep on retainer — past 10PM, I’m talking to Bangalore, India.  They said, and I quote: “Other, satire is protected speech.  While this may not actually be funny, if in court you can get a few members of the jury to laugh, we doubt you will have to serve any prison time...)

Harvey Weinstein sexually harassed Ms. Judd, along with eight other women.  Weinstein is one of the biggest players in Hollywood, but with this news, his career is pretty much over, or at least that’s what he deserves, his banishment from the movie industry.  He has been mounting an exceedingly expensive PR campaign to downplay his crimes.

His alibi is that he is only a product of the Seventies, that all males from then were born sexual predators.  He made extremely aggressive, sexual overtures for massages and to watch him or the starlet shower.  This was in combination with his being an official Hollywood power player who could make or break careers.  Weinstein is full of it, he is just another pig in a Tinsel Town full of male chauvinist pigs...

We’re still debating this down by the Other Letter Water Cooler.  Ms. Judd was having her bags X-rayed in Europe and she was called a “sweetheart.”  She was also touched on her shoulder — I am pretty sure it was her shoulder, not her butt cheeks.

Her Facebook contingent weighed in evenly.  Half — more women but not entirely — said she was justified in reporting the apparently not-so-bright X-ray machine operator; the other half said, give the guy a break.  Details are sketchy, because Ashley forgot to wear the body camera she normally wears in airports, and anywhere else.  How did that joke get in there?

Okay, not funny, at all, yet I heard this, and I am still wondering why this is such a crime.  As a Pantheon operative (my code name: Don Rickles), I am their last resort in all conflict, and I guess I am dropping the ball.  This is sexism?  I like being called sweetheart.  Touched on the shoulder?  I have no issue.  For women, this is a diametrically opposed take, it is so different?  This is sexual objectification?

Was the X-ray guy the epitome of tonsorial ugliness, or was he sartorially uncoordinated?  Did his work uniform lack polish?  Was he the most awkward troglodyte that trod this Earth?  Could he only walk on two hands and two feet, not upright on two legs?  Was he shaking as though he was coming off a bender?  Because of all these factors, was she pawed at like a dog needing scraps, or a pat on the head?

Then this is what Ashley needs to do, next time someone at the X-ray station comes on to her (which given Ashley’s looks, probably happens when she gets on every flight), take out White House-strength pepper spray, mace spray, and zap him (again, check code name of this Pantheon operative).  If she is hormonal, then she needs to have an attack Doberman to drag through Kennedy, and have her sic them against this level of incomprehensible evil.  Just make sure the body camera is rolling, so the entire sordid affair can be captured to lead that night’s Entertainment Tonight...

The Pantheon will be staging an intervention to keep Ashley off the Jesus junk, and extricate her from a potent brew of: the Vatican; a ghost that is satisfied by murdering people (witness abortion clinic bombings); and the clouding of judgment both cause.  She is absolutely hooked on Hail Marys, Pope Francis, and Bingo Night at her local, heathen, gambling parlor (translation, the Church of Perpetual Sin and Continuous Prayer).

If you have any books or articles to help get her out of this crazy, religious rut she has been in her entire life, please forward them to me, and we will use them to exorcise her spirit of that goofy intoxicant, Jesus the Christ...

Why do we not see the Pantheon chicks enough in theaters?  Is it because movies are now only seen in bedrooms on cable TV?  Chicks, just forget the idea that acting is about memorizing lines and emoting silly bits, it’s about clawing your way into your next movie on your back.  It is survival of the most accommodating, my chickadees.

Getting ahead means spending hours on the casting couch.  It means being intimate with your director, and your leading co-stars, male or female, from the first day of shooting.  Get on the set, Day One, and point out to important production people where your trailer is located, and that your loins are all gratis, for recompense like script approval and rewrites at your discretion.

The most successful starlets know that the real work in Hollywood is done on their backs, making above the line talent happy, including the rest of the cast.  Offering sexual services is the real reason they were hired, and they should never forget it.  This is why Ashley will not be in Alien 7 — plain and simple, she won’t put out.  Virtue is for the 1940s...

Ashley is in the newest incarnation of the mysterious Twin Peaks TV series, but the New York Times has no mention of what will be her starring role.  Instead, I did come across her script on the Internet in a backwater for screenwriters known as  Here is Ashley’s lines verbatim from the show, where she appears as Kitty, the waitress with a heart of gold at the Peaking Diner:

Kitty:  The usual, Dr. No, the cream pie?

Dr. No:  Yes, the usual.

Kitty:  I’ll return with your order as soon as it is prepared.

That was it, that was her entire role in Twin Peaks.  I know, I am about to cry, too.  Actresses make comebacks every day, I was just hoping this particular one of an Other Letter fave would be more, well, stellar.  Of course, I will be watching to see how her two lines are delivered.  It’s all in the inflection, you know...

Haute cuisine in Tennessee means: Bob’s Big Boy, land of the three-pound, cardiac burger; Mickey D’s Southern Edition, grease infusion menu; Krispy Kreme, pacemaker on every wall, and in the bathrooms; plus Denny’s Southland with enhanced double, deep-fryer, lard-coated entrées.

At every meal, these are Ashley’s mainstays of grease and artery-clogging, pseudo-nutrition.  The only reason she’s not a deuce or two, is because between acting jobs, the only thing she ever does is work out.

When you drive down Nashville’s main strip, she makes you stop at every fast food joint — this was on her 60 Minutes feature.  You just need to be careful she doesn’t bite off one of her fingers, and she remembers to wear a bib so she won’t stain her prized overalls.

To supplement her intake of fat, Ashley is an avid chewer of tobacco.  She lives for a fresh pack of Skoal, and on every set she has her own monogrammed spittoon, along with an assistant charged with giving her a spittoon to aim for and hit with brown spit...

Ashley’s beloved University of Kentucky men’s basketball team did not make it past the Final Eight.  Actually, I need to check this, are they still playing?  Is there a May Madness besides just a March Madness?  They’re always playing ball down there.

Anyhow, Ashley now turns her attention to small game hunting in her expansive backyard, or as it is known to locals, “Ashley’s Gun and Game Frontier.”  This year, expect many, many Instagram photos of prize raccoons and wild boars brought in from Ashley’s foothills, with her ear-to-ear grin.

Will this be the year she brings in a few record-breakers?  While backyard hunting is generally illegal and considered unsophisticated in neighboring Virginia, there are no such restrictions or reservations here in Kentucky or Tennessee, where the hunt is part of the annual Easter pageantry.

It’s open carry there, so if you do travel South, and, say, go to a women’s finery boutique just outside Nashville, you may even see Ashley walking the aisles with her kill around her neck, and a rifle strapped across her back like they always do in Mexico...

Per Pantheon and Big Four edicts, and to keep everything Kosher, Christian super chicks can no longer believe in Christ.  We will make a few exceptions allowing Christ worship under extremely mitigating, traumatic circumstances.  (Don’t worry, Jews are saying goodbye, farewell too, to all but the matzo ball soup, and the gefilte fish.)

As exceptional hardship examples, a Bergdorf Goodmans’ sale was missed, and the only laser-fitted jeans available on this planet are out ot stock.  Or A Night to Remember with Barry Manilow was sold out, even though they camped out in front of Madison Square Garden for weeks in advance in their double-decker, recreational vehicle (including jacuzzi, BBQ pit, polo pony trailer, and sauna with exercise room and track).

Here, we will allow the appropriate Christian sacrifice to calm their nerves: in Spring, it is free range chickens they keep for show; in Summer, it is squirrel road kill hit when they are double the legal limit of intoxication; and in Fall and Winter, their exes are sacrificed, at least Voodoo doll versions of them.

Through their many, many, other-worldly, religious experiences, a few even non-Christian in nature, they have reached Karmic oneness with their enemies, at last they are coplanar with everyone they have taken issue.  This just means they want them dead, and would absolutely love to hire a hitman to do the dirty deed.

The only things getting in the way of this greater glory are various penal codes and criminal sentences, along with a Holy Bible weighing in with its Ten Commandments — one of the few prohibitions we can agree with of theirs...

After Ashley gave her famous Nasty Woman speech, doing her absolute best to point out injustices to her gender, Bill O’Reilly said something exceptionally mean.  He said, “Ashley, you will never work again.”

There are different ways of dealing with transgressors like O’Reilly.  You can forgive him, he is on a cable television show, and outside of that comment, he’s probably a real charmer, a real lady killer.  The New York Times has, in fact, found that he has $13 million in settlements for harassing women.  He is sure a killer.

Now what if Ashley cannot forgive her trangressor, O’Reilly never even apologized to her after all.  At this point, the best you can do is hope that he takes his life by his own hand.

You’ll say, that’s so extreme, where is the Christian forgiveness here?  Christ was apologetics for Roman political excess.  Forgiveness only works for minor infractions with people you know fairly well.  When a stranger goes out of their way to do a number on you, can there really be true forgiveness?

If the trespasser ever gets their act together, and that’s not likely, they can forgive themselves, they don’t need you to let them off the hook, Ashley.  There is no love lost when there was no love in the first place.

People like Bill O’Reilly only deserve the World’s pity and condemnation.  No matter how powerful they have undeservedly become, they are only bad seeds.  He is the leader of a boy’s club show on Fox, on a boy’s club, cable television network.  O’Reilly can only impress and make it with boys, with women he’s hopeless.  The only way he get any is by sexually harassing innocent women who mistakenly thought they could get ahead in the World.  That is, before he ended their dreams.  He sounds awfully queer to me.

There are two kinds of people in this World, those who trespass, and do so regularly, and those who get trespassed upon.  I’d even suggest that you aid the trespasser with taking their life by their own hands, Ashley, by telling O’Reilly and anyone else, that as meanly as he tried to put you down for your compassion, you will take him down for his creepy lack of character...

These are four, fairly typical posts to Ashley’s social media feeds following her Nasty Woman speech, and her subsequent fallout with the Right Wing of the Western Hemisphere:

“Ashley they’re gonna put you in the back ward of a psycho unit and feed you Twizzlers all day.  You’d like that, wouldn’t you?  Your family won’t even visit.  Why?  Because they, like everyone else, hates your stinking guts, that’s why.  Get Satan out of your stinking life, and get Jesus in there.  Bible study every day, it’s the only way.  That and the exorcist.  Go to hell, Ashley...”

“What’s the difference between Ashley Judd and Mengele or Goebbels?  They’re all war criminals but at least the Nazis fought the good fight.  Do you honestly think you’re Miss American?  Not last I checked.  Go back to the Kentucky coal mines where you’re welcome.  Dig some coal for the stockings of the kids who won’t have Christmas now because of you’re stinking selfishness.  You see how this works.  Can you fit this into your pea noggin?...”

“You are the anti christ, Ashley.  You have not only brought shame on the foot hills of Kentucky, but east coast to west coast and overseas as well.  Gandhi lovers at your little UN hate you now, too, Ashley.  Got that?  God only made you to humiliate and try to take it to the good ones.  But none of us is gonna let that happen.  When you get to hell you can look up Patsy Cline.  You have so much in common.  You’re both country music legends — you wish...”

“I’ll never go to one of your movies again.  We’re white Ashley, we’re better than everyone.  True you’re a woman but at least you’re a close second in god’s eyes.  I don’t hate you for being a woman, I hate you for not trying to hide the fact you are — like they do in towel head land.  Do something with that ugly mug of yours.  Cover your face, Ashley.  You act Muslim anyway, whip out the burka.  Don’t you realize that you look like those guys I always see in GQ.  Come on.  Get with the program.  Slut...”

“It’s half time at the Krupp in Downtown Ashland, and we are going to Ask Ashley, the show where Ashley Judd — the world’s biggest University of Kentucky basketball fan, or simply, the world’s biggest basketball fan — answers your deepest, most probing questions about basketball.  First caller, you are live with Ashley Judd.”

“If we’re being blocked inside, and our perimeter shooters shoot over, say, 46%, do I dish to them, or pound inside until their defense weakens, coughs up the ball, etc.?  Or say the perimeter shooters shoot 7%?  How does the strategy change?  Do I have the same players on the hardwood?”

“Well, what do you have, six-foot plus inside?  Then bang the boards inside hard.  Show them no mercy, they’re just pussies anyway.  When you intimidate your opponent, that’s when they turn over the ball.  Next, just dish out to your point guards when your big men need relief.”

“We’re all five-foot-two and shorter...  Hello?  Hello, Ashley?  How tall are you, Ashley?  Ashley?”

“This is NCAA Halftime, with Ask Ashley.  Hey, Ashley, when you post inside, who do you look for?...”

“If we’re on transition and going coast to coast, I look for the power forward to finish it for me.  It also depends how deep my bench is, do we have enough cushion?  Nine times out of ten I do.  We definitely don’t need second string collecting splinters in their rump.  If red shirts are stuck sitting on the bench for half the game, I say they should really be seeing some action.  Agreed?  If my team is tired, I’ll call a time out.  If not, I’ll call a play from the court.

“Right here, this is the perfect time to call a Kentucky Double Penetration Special, assuming we’re not running out of time, and our time management is at least adequate.  If we’re not good with the clock, again I could call a time out, but then you’re eating away your time outs for the final seconds.  One final note, don’t ever get rattled by the clock.  Let it work to your advantage down the stretch.  Whatever you do, don’t get overly intimidated by the second hand.  You’re very big, hopefully virile, young men—”

“This has been Ask Ashley, where Ashley Judd frankly answers your deepest, most probing questions about basketball...”

Ashley loved her time on the Starship Enterprise as Ensign Jenny, Star Fleet Girlfriend.  The crew did as well.  In fact, they would riff on popular Star Trek memes in the Star Fleet craft services.  To quote Ashley: “I’m giving it all I got Jim.  He’s not human, he’s a Vulcan.  Scotty, beam us up.

“Jim, I hardly know you, get your hands off my ass.  I’m not a miracle worker, Jim, I’m only a doctor.  Jim, please, not in the mess hall — the cast will talk.  Well, I kind of feel the same way about you, Jim, but it’s just too soon.  Yes, the costume department made it fit extra tight, shows them off nicely, doesn’t it?  You say I’m cute?  It’s good to get a little appreciation around here.  Really, in the supply closet there’s a bed?  Star Date, March the Fourth, 1967, signing off...”

[Hey, my first libel suit is on the way, because, except for being way cute, Ashley is known to be the opposite of promiscuous...]

Ashley, you know if you find yourself a lot in India for your talks, get them to build you a villa, with a swimming pool.  It gets hot in Calcutta.  Tell your agent (could be me, but we’ll hold off on that for now), if you don’t get a villa — with swimming pool — just forget about anymore speaking engagements.  Air conditioning is non-negotiable, but also get those Horizon pools that have no edge.

I’d make sure it has an obscene number of rooms, start at fifty and work your way down to, say, 35.  Then say you won’t go lower, you started at 50 for Chrissakes, what do they want from you anyway?  Are they daft?  No, 50 to 35, and then you’re out, you’ll start giving speeches in Thailand, because Bangkok is very, very interested.  Is that what they want, an Ashley caliber superstar, super-genius speaker in Thailand, not in Calcutta where she’s known and loved dearly?  Let your Calcutta friends absorb what you’ve just said.

Plus you need a primo ride in Calcutta, Lexuses are for losers, it’s Rolls, or you’re going to Thailand.  Ashley, it’s time to play hardball.  We’re talking a NEW Rolls, not low mileage crap.  Put that in your contract: THE ROLLS MUST BE NEW, NOT LOW-MILEAGE.  And, and, you also like Bentleys and need the two vehicles for comparison purposes.  So, in writing, you say you would like a NEW Bentley and a NEW Rolls.  Plus, a live-in mechanic, although the mechanic has to be a female.  This must also be in writing, Ashley.

It’s very simple: You say I’d like X, Y, and Z, and if they only give you X and Z you’re off on the next flight on Punjab Air to Thailand.  Sign up an in-house chef, a servant essentially, to make Indian stuff, what do they like, pastries with curd?  Again, the in-house chef must be a female, and trained in the finest in Indian cuisine, which may just mean lots of curry in the daily chicken.

But you have to learn to bargain with these people, Ashley.  After a negotiating session, they should be weeping, or you’re not demanding enough.  They’re Indians, they’re all into passive resistance crap.  They think Gandhi is so great?  Can you imagine Mahatma Gandhi taking a hit in the NFL?  They don’t eat, Ashley, they are skeletal; and it’s not because they don’t have food, it’s because it’s in their culture to starve themselves, they enjoy it.

That’s what you need to play on, Ashley, their weaknesses, and for this group, it’s Gandhi-worship.  When you negotiate, get ready to pounce.  Take no prisoners, Ashley, you mean business!!!  WIN!!!  WIN!!!  WIN!!!  Get ’em glassy-eyed in your talks about the value of tolerance, the end of materialism, and all that Mother Teresa nonsense, then you whisk yourself home in your Rolls or your Bentley, whatever you feel like driving that day.

It’s called gaming the system, Ashley, and those Indians are ripe for the picking.  You need to show them who’s boss, you’re the American conqueror, what are they?  Who is known for eating three squares of dirt every day?  See?  You know exactly what I’m talking about — it’s dirt with curry, I bet, too.

And see about dropping the stupid, no-beef-eating rules.  Cows are sacred?  My ass, they need McDonalds everywhere.  When their monsoon season hits, where will they find anything to eat?  That’s right, at McDonalds.  Ashley, speak to McDonalds about accommodating you and your grass-eating friends.  Get Kroc on the phone, and say you want Big Macs in Bangalore...

Our Ashley gave a great, stirring, unusually passionate speech at the Women’s March in Washington.  It was designed to rouse up and galvanize the crowd, and did so extremely effectively.  My only criticism was that it was too effective at inciting hate, hate against herself.  It was not an olive branch to get conversions, she was preaching to the choir.

The trolls were absolutely ready to kill her on her Facebook feed that night.  Even with my deliberate, calm post to her page, they wanted to kill me, too.  Ashley shouldn’t have to tone down her rhetoric, of course, but if she is looking to bring people over to her side, I cannot say she succeeded.

I wonder if she ever worries about giving career ending speeches?  Although it is a given that she has millions of fans, and the ones at her presentations have traveled some distance to watch her deliver.  I would also wonder if she is thinking about speech effectiveness every second she is on stage giving an address, by gauging reactions to detect message penetration...

Ashley brings her pooch, Shugs, with her everywhere she goes for protection, because fame doesn’t entirely agree with all of Hollywood’s starlets.  Jennifer Lawrence, for instance, also has a lap dog she brings with her.  J-Jaw was granted a service dog accomodation exemption at the Oscars, and so it will be attending the ceremony with her this year.  As for my bud, Ashley, I wish I could help Ashley with her, what is it, her fears?  First, I trade in her little Shugs for a Doberman.  Shugs is older, so Ash shouldn’t expect to command top dollar for him.  Anyhow, she needs something that instills fear in everyone.  A dog that will attack on command, or just attack on sight, say if you look funny at Ashley.  This is how you feel safe in the modern world...

Ashley gets more than her share of world class idiots on her Facebook page.  Apparently Ms. Judd thinks she’s ministering to a quarter million reprobates, that she is doing good PR, or that she is coming to the defense of her good name.  Whatever she is thinking, it is not what I am thinking, and that is to see if I can take down these obnoxious losers.

I mean, seriously, see if you can get them to take their own lives.  They are wasting precious food and shelter.  We all know Jesus said: “Forgive them, they know not what they do.”  That’s BS.  They know exactly what they do and they have no intent on stopping what they do.

Jesus’ patter is just BS courtesy of the Roman emperor, Tiberius, who needed to keep the status quo in line, and to keep the bad asses going strong so they can continue to provide their strong arm, policing functions.  If Jesus had anything on the ball he would have said: “Cut off those who won’t get out of the way, because they ruin it for all the peaceniks.  They are a waste of flesh.”

Ashley, use these principles on your Facebook page — clean up Gotham, Dodge, get it in tip-top shape.  Make yourself proud that you winnowed away the flotsam, that the waste products returned to the swamp.  Feel good for once about your online community.  Those who come down on you without cause, do not deserve your respect, understanding, or forgiveness...

Ashley’s mother, Naomi Judd, has recently been treated for severe depression.  Because of her anti-depressant treatment, her face is now so swollen, and puffed up, her doctors have advised her to steer clear of open flame, or otherwise she’ll pop.

Ashley and I have had lengthy discussions (okay, arguments) concerning the course of her Mom’s treatment.  I say she needs to be treated in New York, or at least, North of the Mason-Dixon Line, and she says her Mom’s care in the hill country is just fine.  I try to tell Ashley, being treated by guys in dungarees and crooked teeth, who have a funny, uncontrollable laugh, may not lead to fast recoveries.

Yet Ashley assures me that Dr. Bubba, the treating psychiatrist, has many years fixing stuff like removing splinters, as well as older women with bi-polar.  The argument goes on for hours — no, more truthfully, it goes on for days — yet I cannot make any headway.

Ashley reminds me that growing up in the hills changes your perspective, right down to footwear.  The entire State of Kentucky goes barefoot, and even socks are unavailable Louisville to Lexington.  I leave it at that, beat again by what is inborn, and what should never be...

Ashley Judd has headaches.  Yet don’t we all?  She has taken a medical leave of absence from Berkeley to have a surgical team, the ST, start working on her brain to fix the throbbing.  The Pantheon girls and I are against this brand of invasive medicine, and we’ve been pleading for her to avoid the knife, and the “elective lobotomy” so in favor with headache experts.

The Pantheon girls and myself were discussing this over dinner the other night.  The headaches stem from Act III, second career fears.  The roles have not been rolling in recently, so she’s thinking maybe she’ll make it as a Fox newswoman.  She wouldn’t need journalistic chops, just parade around in micro minis and bend over on cue.  Anyhow, she is getting an advanced graduate degree, well, mostly to kill time before a real juicy part in a movie is presented to her by her agent.

Ashley lives on a thousand acre farm in Kentucky, and the horses have to be fed, the Rolls has to be gassed up, and plus, she can’t spend the rest of her days perfecting competitive fiddle for the State Fair, because her sister, Wynonna, is the one with all the musical talent.  Ash has been searching everywhere for a sugar daddy, but this is Appalachia, so that’s not going to happen.

But Ashley can be a bit stubborn so we will let her entertain the wonders of surgical science.  There, entertained, Ashley, we’ll have no veggies in the Pantheon.  Ashley wanted a skull cap to celebrate the impending lobotomy, so we reluctantly purchased one as a holiday gift.  At least this way she can be identified from a distance out on the Pantheon lawn in her nurse-pushed wheelchair.

Ashley claims the doctor writing her opioid scripts is the most important man in her life.  He is the latest “healer” for whom she has done backflips.  Along with the pill doc, her ST (in an empty office) has been giving her a steady regimen of unpronounceable medications, and now Ashley is not Ashley, she is “mmbaklllklk,” she can no longer remember her name.  Between drooling sessions, Ash claims she no longer has any more headaches, only just before the next dose when she has a monster one.  The Lord save us all...

The Pantheon just got out of another hours-long, emergency, management team meeting addressing the Ashley question.  We’re weaning Miss Ashley away from what may save her very life (while I have been very vocal on this issue, the Big Four at the Pantheon, drooling Ashley excluded, have also stepped forward — Gwynnie, Charli, and Heather).  Elective lobotomies are known to be extremely beneficial in combatting headache, and everything else brain-related.  She will be provided with an ear-affixed, drool tub so what could possibly be the problem?  If the drool tub is not affixed in time for public appearances, we always have the drool cup, and the drool cup wrist-leash so she will never lose her drool cup...

Ashley Judd has been one of our kindest and most thoughtful stars, spending hour upon hour fighting for global peace and social justice.  Well, that star is beginning to fade and tarnish.  She has now hired a censor to remove Facebook posts that are not “positive.”  In other words, if it doesn’t benefit her public relations juggernaut, she does not want to see it, or post it on her Facebook page.

She wants you to spend time crafting good PR for her, but likely she will never see it, and the decision to censor will likely be made by a grad student who doesn’t “get it,” to use Ashley’s own language.  This all stems from abuse she gets, which every star gets, but which she will never deal with again.  Ashley has completely shut out the outside world, can anyone tell her apart from Nora Desmond in Sunset Boulevard?

A primary benefit of her site, is that it was a forum for all kinds of viewpoints.  Now, she only wants happy, positive things said about: her bid to end the World’s Oldest Profession one call girl at a time; her Trumpy, whose pearls of wisdom she feels are always misconstrued; and her latest movies which regardless of their merits deserve “Two thumbs up, way up,” even when they are three hours long and about dolphin rescues.  Welcome to the Ashley Judd World of Pretend...

While Ashley originally identified with Christianity, she gave that up for another form of paganism, Wicca or benevolent witchcraft.  I know what you’re thinking, Ashley is a witch?  Well, my friends, if you have submitted as many unanswered social media posts as I have, you would know the truth, Ashley Judd is indeed a witch, she is Wicca!  She seems inviting, doesn’t she?  Yet Tweet her, or comment on her Facebook posts, and her lack of communication proves she is a witch!  If you tried floating her in a pond in Salem, Mass, she would float, which proves it!!!

I’m not about to start a witch hunt here, because if you check the social media feeds of every starlet in the Pantheon, they are all Wicca — not the benevolent kind, but the kind with the wart on their nose on Halloween — that kind.  What do you think they are doing when they’re not practicing their lines?  That’s right, your first guess, too, they are out there practicing witchcraft.  While their nannies are taking care of their moppets, what else do they have to do?  That’s right again, nothing.

They never reply in social media.  If you asked them how they would characterize the relationship with their fans, haughtily they would give their stock response: “I live as a predator does, like say, a vulture.”  They flash their come hither looks on the Red Carpet, play beach volleyball with the crew (buns improperly exposed, and of course, maneuvering into position so they are in full sight), and show all those home movies of their strip poker tourneys.  Then they go to the office and analyze the click-through metrics on their lifestyle sites.  No one has ever seen such Internet traffic as that generated by Satan’s girls bopping about in yet another of these PR shoots.  It makes these starlets’ lifestyle biz cash register go, “Ka-ching!  Ka-ching!  Ka-ching!”

They are Wiccan, witchy, predators, and it is better you heard that here than from a stranger on a tour bus in Los Angeles claiming they’re sugar and spice and everything nice, because they ain’t, okay?  They prance around the Garden of Evil half naked with gigolos all day, while their kids are at home screaming, “Where’s my Mommy?!  Is she mixed up in another porn shoot?!  Or downing shots at O’Malley’s with Lucifer?!”  To which the nanny replies, “I’m sorry, but Satan has Mommy tied down, er, tied up right now.  Go play with your Legos™.  I need a drink...”

Not even hard-core Ashley Judd fans know this, but she had the recurring role of Ensign Jenny, Star Fleet Girlfriend, on Star Trek: The Next Generation.  Each week she went out with a different, occasionally age-appropriate, Star Fleet officer.  A few dates involved reaching Tier Three mission objectives, but it wasn’t all work.

Most of the time Ensign Jenny, Star Fleet Girlfriend, was the love interest of the Enterprise.  Once, she was even caught in the backseat of a shuttle craft with Captain Picard.  This led to a top-to-bottom, Star Fleet Academy reorg concerning inter-generational dating among commissioned and non-comm officers (although predictably, Captain Picard and Ensign Jenny were exonerated of all wrongdoing).

For whatever reason, the Ensign Jenny, Star Fleet Girlfriend segments were the longest running subplot in any of the Star Trek series.  In fact, there were entire episodes devoted to her character including: Ensign Jenny, Star Fleet Girlfriend, Chooses her Star Man, and Will Anything Ever Get Done with Ensign Jenny on Board?...

While I am incredibly fond of Ashley Judd, she suffers from the disease of Christianity.  I know she needs treatment, and I know there is help available.  Yet she will not seek it out.  There is her urge to put her hands together at the most inopportune times, the urge to kneel before perpendicular pieces of wood.  I so wish she could only get the help she so, so desperately needs, but I am absolutely powerless.  There is nothing I can do to help this woman.  What she needs to understand is that divinity is everywhere around us, not in the ether above us.

I know the progression of this hideous and shameful affliction.  There is Holy Roller behavior, where she rolls on the ground speaking in tongues: “Oh Jesus, the nearer I am to thee, the more I long for your loving touch!  Hear me, Jesus!  Sinner no more I am, my beloved!  Jesus, you were here a moment ago, where have you gone, my dearest!”  I am almost thinking she is beyond any hope of human redemption, that she has given in to the Christian humours, that all is lost for her.

Let us all join together our hands and pray proactively to Creation that someone might intervene on Ashley’s behalf.  Perhaps one of us can contact her beloved Mum, Naomi, so she might intone: “Cut the crap, Ashley!  I only sent you to Sunday School to keep you from getting pregnant!”...

Ms. Judd was at the Democratic National Convention in Philadelphia, and she also marched in a Black Lives Matter demonstration.  She now officially goes by the name, “Everybody’s darling,” and “that super righteous chick.”  Okay, she doesn’t, and she might not like the possessive form when describing herself, but I still think she is a real angel, if not my real angel...

I get the impression, just by looking at Ashley’s social media, that she is forced to defend herself against much more than her share of trolls.  She is a sensitive and gentle woman, and the trolls descend like flies on the ones who think they can get away with crap.  Also, a liberal feminist in the conservative South can be harassed just as Blacks are, and everywhere else.

What even better explains the hatred and contempt directed at Ashley, is that she ran for Senator from Kentucky.  There is not, there has never been, and much more than likely, there never will be a woman Senator from the State of Kentucky.  A woman running for the Senate in the State of Kentucky runs a campaign on streets being more regularly cleaned, but not on women’s reproductive rights, or on repealing the Second Amendment.  They are known for moonshine and inbreeding, not for women Senators.

Ashley does not belong in Kentucky, she has written of concern for neighbors carrying guns.  Long Island is not quite the Garden of Eden, but I don’t have to worry about NRA crazies around here.  (In my social media experience, the more I have worth saying, the less the Right Wing wants to hear it.  Then let us all hold hands and pray for Southern Secession.)

I can understand the abuse she receives as a University of Kentucky booster, that’s entirely understandable, but hate speech for any other reason is actionable.  Go Seawolves!...

One can tell Ashley Judd hails from the South, and not just because of her accent.  Her choice of words is of a poetic vernacular Northerners may never hear.  I love the way this unpretentious Southern belle talks — any North of the Mason-Dixon Line just aren’t able to express themselves the way she can.  She is a daughter of genteel Kentucky, and possesses a certain effortless charm — they know how to raise their girls there, with principles, with class, and with dignity.

Ashley is very active in progressive causes such as Youth AIDS, women and children’s charities, environmental work, and foundations benefiting the Third World.  There are very few who approach Ms. Judd’s generosity of spirit, and depth of character, and she practices all she preaches.  Inside and out, Ashley has an entire wealth of what most women only wish they possessed any of at all.

If you would like to see some great work of hers, where she fully embodies her role, you can see her first film of note, Ruby in Paradise, here in its entirety.  Another showcase of her talents is the drama, Double Jeopardy.

More recently, she has appeared in: an adaptation of an early Blue Ridge Mountain novel entitled Big Stone Gap; the story of a marine rescue called the Dolphin Tale, with long-time co-star Morgan Freeman; and the Divergent saga, concerning a futuristic dystopia where caste is decided in one’s teens.

Because of Ashley’s roots in Kentucky and Tennessee, she is a huge fan of bluegrass music such as what one hears at Nashville’s Ryman Auditorium, and the Grand Ole Opry.  Follow the link to hear that “high, lonesome sound” brought from the British Isles to Appalachia in the Eighteenth Century — several musicians on strings accompany each other’s melody variations in turn.

Ash has a Master’s in Public Administration from Harvard University.  She was mulling over a run for U.S. Senator from Kentucky, but was disillusioned with what she and many others perceive as heartlessness in Washington, and the fact that she would be facing the Senate Minority Leader, Mitch McConnell.  Regardless, with her brilliance and her dedication to democratic, progressive principles, Ms. Judd belongs in public, executive office.  Although a House run might get her feet wet before a Senate one.

Ms. Judd is now mulling a run for the Governorship of Kentucky.  Ashley would be the hippest, most poetic governor on record — not to mention the nicest, the most compassionate, and the most well-versed in the issues of the day.

Ashley will be typecast as Betty Anne Natividad in the soon to be released, The World’s Oldest Profession, from the Jesus, Show me the Way Now, inspirational, family-friendly, Southern Bible series.  Betty Anne just left her husband, and to boot, two of her prize pooches, Winky and Tapioca, have run away from home.  So Betty Anne felt it was time to venture into the World for the very first time, and find real meaning in her life.

She packed up her bags, headed West by Greyhound, and embarked on a crusade to end prostitution by killing all the hard-up Johns as they leave their so-called “Church.”  “The Church,” the movie’s narrator states with authority, is John-speak for their favorite house of prostitution.  For Betty Anne’s part, this means patrolling, locked and loaded, the last bastion of legal prostitution, without pimps, outside Las Vegas.  The “penitentiary,” using the patois of these ladies of the night, is where the prostitutes are kept in their “cages,” or working sty.  After Betty Anne kills the Johns, she frees the prostitutes from their cages, and they all ride off into the sunset together, ultimately becoming Wall Street bankers, federal judges, neurosurgeons, and Oscar-winning actresses.

Think Dirty Harry cum Charles Bronson cum Gloria Steinem.  The narrative will also include a side story involving Betty Anne’s alma mater (I know, it’s hard to tell Betty Anne and Ashley apart), and how it centers around basketball instead of education, and how she tithes all her money to b-ball after paying for her food and housing because, as team mascot, she gets meet and greets with big, young, black men, and is supplied booster airfare on an Air B-Ball U jet.  All she has to do for this unlimited private airfare is run out on the parquet at half time, do a few back somersaults, and spin around in circles a dozen times, waving to the crowd.  Ash does acro-yoga, and she was also a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader, so this is cake for her — and she does take several Dramamine, for spinning dizziness, before the spotlight turns to her on the hardwood.

Ashley feels this is a story for all ages, so she is hoping for a G rating with cautions in the opening credits about sex, drugs, violence, and misspent educational funds.  The World’s Oldest Profession, coming this Fall to your town, and to a theater near you.  We wish Betty Anne, and for that matter, Ashley, all the luck in the World.  (By the way, Ashley is actually the most well-educated woman in the entire Pantheon, so it is no surprise her head is filled with all these proven, and not-so-proven, ideas to change the World.)

To top of Pantheon



Nicole Kidman

(Still from To Die For Kerry Hayes | © Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc.
For all the scandals in which Nikky regularly immerses herself (such as her Etihad Airlines involvement), we would still like her back in the Pantheon.  Please come home, Nikky, where you belong, where you are welcome.  Join us, won’t you?  We’ll save you a place at the table.  We haven’t changed the locks, yet.
I hate to harp on this, but is she the most gorgeous woman in Creation, ever?  Time starts to take it toll, and she got married to a swell guy by many accounts, and I think she’s like eighty now, so it doesn’t matter.  Sigh.)

Nicole Kidman

Fellow Aussie, Naomi Watts, has lived her entire life in Nicole’s shadow.  They both graduated Magna Cum Laude in the Aussie Performing Arts High School in downtown Sydney (beside the kangaroo exhibit).  Will there be subterfuge one day — a Naomi-engineered, Nicole take down?  Most say this is more than likely.

We’ll just have to wait and see, but Other Letter has studied the footage and we believe that this take down is much more than imminent, it’s the next Vegas sure thing.  Incoming, Nicole!  Duck and cover!...

Like the Starship Enterprise traveling to strange new worlds, I have a strict policy of non-intervention.  So I will not comment on Nicole and her partner.  But I will say this, they are depicted in the mass media as being the biggest love birds of all time.  Yet, somehow, I’m not so sure.

To avoid yet more acrimony directed at the Other Letter family of blogs, I will just hope that they may live in matrimonial heaven for the rest of their days treading this Earth.  And if they can’t, then Nicole, please look me up, I’m listed (and not as a sex offender).

This is not being crass, a cad, or being opportunistic, this is, well, maybe it is all that, I just feel you deserve the best, like you would get with me — a professional blogger...

Most Nikky fans are certain that her marriage to her husband, Davy Jones, is rock-solid.  I’m not so sure.  He’s deep into the baby Jesus, Bible study, and serving the Christ.  For Christians, this means being holier-than-thou, and being inexplicably prideful wearing the badge of honor, the crucifix.

The crucifixion pendant is given to prove survival of the first Holy Communion.  The newly-minted holies comprise a club of elitists.  After all, you have survived indoctrination and brain-washing into a cult.

For Davy’s part, I wonder if he is more of a cold fish from Christian pride, and its elitism, as opposed to being a man of God and love, one connected to all Creation.

Ms. Kidman, herself, has had it with belief systems, having lost two of her Cruise moppets to another cult, Scientology.  Thought control is a major part of the cleave in any future heartbreak of theirs.  Of course, I wish Nicole and Davy all the happiness in the world, but I just don’t see real wedded bless between them.  It’s like apples and fake, international orange...

I don’t know how to describe how Nicole looked halfway through this year’s American Country Music Awards.  Hmm, she must have had a cold, because she looked like she drank a lot, I mean a lot, of cough syrup.  And not the kind without the kick — if you know what I mean...

Was it the Screen Actors’ Guild Awards?  Nicole was blathering on how this brass statuette she just won is dedicated to her family, her husband, and her eight weiner dogs.  I can tell though, that who she really wants is a blogger, this blogger.  I can see it in her eyes.  She knows that only me, the Other Letter, will satisfy her emotionally, and dare I say it, physically as well.

Someday the cameras will pan down from the ceremony stage to Nikky, and she won’t be sitting in her assigned seat, because she’ll be with me on the empty Red Carpet with only the amused cleaning woman pausing from her sweeping, while Nikky and I have yet another, discreet yet gossip-page-worthy, extended make out session...

The Other Letter’s Pantheon Editorial Review Board has been working on Other Letter HQ’s Guidelines regarding admission to the Other Letter Pantheon.  We all agree that Nicole does not have what it takes to be listed here, mostly because of her association with Etihad Airlines, which discriminates against women stewardesses.

We are having a big end of October blowout in the main OL HQ, where Nikky can plead her case with the staff.  If she wants to stay listed with the Pantheon, so she can continue to get serious PR, then she’ll join us at our monthly jamboree.

This is a quid pro quo.  If she makes nice with the staffers here, we will consider her re-inclusion in the Pantheon.  When she gets to our penthouse offices, she will be given appropriate attire, a g-string and pasties.  Sorry, Nicole, but you really pissed us off about misogynistic Etihad...

Nicole is set to star with Worldwide Wrestling Federation attraction, Dwayne “the Rock” Johnson, in Outback on your Back.  As the story opens, Nicole and the Rock are searching for the next gold mine in Australia, except the Rock steps on a land mine left in Brisbane during World War II.

Nicole must then carry him on her back for the 200 miles to the nearest town, Camp Kangaroo.  She mistakes the sign for that Camp and winds up in Camp Koala Bear, where things really get out of hand.  The Rock gets tired of staring at the ground, and Nicole is tired of carrying someone twice her weight.

To prepare for the role, Nicole will not be following Dwayne’s lead turning down steroids — Dwayne said he tried them once, they did nothing, and you can see exactly what he means.  Instead, Nicole will take as much as her body can withstand.  We cannot wait to see the new, ’roid-head Nicole.  She will be a great example to follow for all those girls out there seeking a rippling, awe-inspiring, muscular physique.

The production company is already seeking product placement from Gold’s Gym, which might be difficult given they are in the Australian outback.  Perhaps a mirage gym scene will do the trick, where they both break into pushups, sit ups, and squats; where more than anything else, even water, they need to bulk up.  With dirty-cheat Nicole mainlining the junk, and Dwayne going the old-fashioned, non-performance-enhancing drug, Sixties NFL way — and if you look at the NFL from then, don’t the offensive linemen all look like the Rock?

Eventually, the burly prospectors fall in love, and have seven kids at Camp Koala Bear.  This is where the movie ends, Nicole rushing all her kids off to school, so the Rock, with a few toes amputated, and her can go gold prospecting, which is their favorite pastime.  There is already Oscar buzz for the leading butch, leading man here.  This carefully marketed, action-adventure/love story/drama/comedy/war movie has something for everyone...

Nicole recently said she doesn’t mind acting in the nude.  In fact, if the script doesn’t call for her to bare her bosom she’ll goad the director to write in some cheesecake.

Paddington, one of her most recent cinematic efforts, is a good example.  While partially animated, and ostensibly for family audiences, she felt there were a few lulls in the action where if she did a striptease it would perk things up immeasurably.  The scenes were actually filmed but were left on the cutting room floor as studio heads couldn’t figure out why she was shimmying in front of Paddington’s adoptive parents.  Studio big wigs also censored Nicole giving oral sex to Paddington the bear much to Nikky’s bewilderment and consternation.

She considered her stripping and sexual performance to be a free speech issue, and was ready to bring her complaint straight to the Supreme Court, but her director himself felt the scene wasn’t intrinsic to the narrative and geared for the family-age target demographic.  Nicole continued: “How is this any different than a live-action, Fritz the Cat?  The director had no rebuttal other than this is how things had to be.

Nikky received a Best Actress nomination for Lion, yet it had no nudity, and of course, we know how that did at the Academy’s ceremony — Nicole came home empty-handed.  The problem there was it was already green-lighted for broadcast on the Disney channel, and they have a strict prohibition on soft core porn going back to Walt Disney.

Big Little Lies gave the public and Nicole ample opportunity to enjoy her set of assets.  Repeats of BLL had double the Nielsen ratings when Nicole shed her duds compared to when she remained fully clothed, as viewers sought out those episodes for second viewing by the millions upon millions.

Trump, wanting to take advantage of a good thing, even asked her to pole dance in the West Wing, but ever the lady, she demurely declined by saying it would have been an honor, except long standing morés regarding adultery prohibit her.  Regardless, she’s a Democrat and pole dancing in a Trump White House would be seen in many circles as crossing party lines...

There are some movies where they need nudity to compensate for, or add strength to, weak parts of the script.  Nicole’s latest, a limited-length, TV series called Big Little Lies, shows her topless, for instance.  The show is what might be called, “TV worth watching,” but to make up for lulls in the action, off comes Nicole’s top.  If you’re interested, somehow her chest looks like that of an eighteen-year-old young woman, or she had a body double, but she has done topless scenes before to great effect.

Yet in her latest Oscar contender, Lion, the viewers are not so fortunate regarding Nicole’s state of undress.  This makes sense as, regrettably, she is not a soft core porn star.

Big Little Lies, while offering compensatory nudity in the form of Ms. Kidman’s boobs; compensates again, but entirely negatively, for how good she looks.  She is beaten by her husband.  The reason, apparently, is to make her relatable and to make everyone feel that Nicole is not better than them, or that even though she is unattainable, who wants her?  She is only damaged goods.  That they wrote Nikky as a pin cushion here likely spoiled it for many...

From the alt-Right file, this time from Australia, comes this absolutely galling libel.  Very much like Trump’s Chief Counsel and publisher, Stephen Bannon’s Breitbart News, this is sewage, forehead-high.  These are bad ass publishers in the Land of Oz that get their kicks from libeling Nicole’s father, who recently died of a heart attack (just Google or Yahoo “Antony Kidman pedophile”).  Some of it is so outrageous, it borders on the hilarious, but it is not meant to be, and after awhile it is just sickening, pinhead-satisfying, fruity evil.  Did you know, for instance, that:

“...the reason why Nicole got so big in hollywood was because her father knew people in high up places in Hollywood and he was supplying the children for the hollywood jewish paedophiles to rape...”

Or that:

“...he [Kidman’s father, Antony] was murdered for his alleged involvement in a Satanic-Pedo ring called the Ninth Circle...”

Or that:

“...Her [Fiona Barrett, elusive loony-toon at large, making these claims reported everywhere in Oz] perpetrators her grandfather, kidman, two former australian prime ministers, a parliament house governor general and a state police commissioner. as with child pedophile rings in the netherlands, europe, canada and the us, the australian pedophile network was said to include police officers, psychiatrists, biochemists, psychologists, actors, writers, politicians, university lecturers and medical doctors...”

Then there’s this descent into twisted, alt-Right insanity:

“...The entire story of EWS is about the Pedo-Ring that was introduced to Hillary and Bill Clinton by none other than the Prince, Charles of the fake-Windsor family...”

Essentially, they’re claiming that liberals are pedophiles, and the pedophile ring includes: “two former australian prime ministers.”.  This is professionally, slickly-produced brainwash, and “alternative facts,” as is Chief Counsel’s Bannon’s publications of hatred.  These are sub-human zeroes who get off in very sick ways...

Nicole has been tapped for the next Mad Max sequel, Mad Max: Let’s Sing for It, Kangaroo!  The director’s need for full authenticity meant having an actual Aussie in the lead of this Oz-situated thriller, natch casting Nicole.

This Mad Max will be the first in the franchise to be a musical, with a few song and dance numbers to keep it livelier than the dreary, Mad Max: Fury Road.  Again, Nicole is the natural choice, especially considering her work in Moulin Rouge.

Studio market research shows that movie goers are chomping at the bit for more musicals, especially after the appetites whet with La-la Land.  So here, the audience has a musical, a thriller, and cheesecake, all in one amazing package — it’s sure to be a winning formula.

The sequel will follow all the prequels as Nicole’s Turbo and company search the desert for water, and this time for non-negotiable gold.  Yet expect more relevance to today in this outing, and a nod to the Bond franchise with the discovery of, and difficulty using, nuclear and DNA modification secrets left behind before the apocalypse.  Most interesting will be watching Nicole hook up a nuclear reactor, and grow corn from parched dirt.

We are sure there will be plenty of cat fights between Nicole and tattooed, bald-headed villainesses, and of shots of Nicole sweating out the omnipresent midday Sun, and rolling in the sand, often down hills into mirages.

A grudge match is sure to be queued up between Charlize’s Fury Road Furiosa in a morality-reversing cameo (she went bad over water greed), and Nicole’s Kangaroo! Turbo.  There is also a subplot slated involving Charlize stealing Nicole’s pet koala bear, which will be symbolic of the passing of the torch, which here represents the title of best-looking woman on Earth.

How is this for method acting via personal experience?  We understand Nicole is learning to drive a semi, 18-wheeler, 10-speed, and learning to fix flats on four-foot-tall, truck tires, on her 917,200-acre ranch in Tennessee, the El Dorito (she has applied for Statehood but not being born in the contiguous 48, and not being connected to Trump, she was denied). 

The song and dance numbers will be loosely patterned after Oklahoma, where the wind comes sweeping down the outback.  Obvious picks for short list of the villain, here known as the Sandman, include Robert De Niro, and Alec Baldwin...

I was hacked by Bill Gates again.  He takes everything nice I say about someone, hacks into Other Letter, and makes them look so, so bad.  The latest hack was against Nicole Kidman.  Bill felt she deserved unkind words about her misperceived political alliances, and we ended up having to talk this out at polo the other Friday in Argentina.

So, dear readers, you would never believe the harsh words Bill had for our Nikky — “Moulin Rouge was sub par, and Eyes Wide Shut was derivative of both Allen and McDonald (I think he meant Ronald, but I had no interest or intention in having him belabor his point).”  Regardless, I extricated my web site reins from Microsoft functionaries, and ta da, we are back up and running.  Sincerest apologies, Nicole, but it is all Bill’s fault.  Ask him...

Other Letter stated earlier that Gwyneth Paltrow is actually three feet, ten inches tall.  Well, Nicole is really six feet, eleven.  She would have joined the Women’s National Basketball Association, the WNBA, as a center or a power forward, but her performance in Eyes Wide Shut was so well received she gave up a promising and lucrative career in professional women’s athletics for the silver screen.

Yet we can still look back at typical game calls from Nikky’s playing days: “Kidman with the block and she goes coast to coast with the easy lay up...  Nikky scrambling on the paint inside, steals, then dunks!  This girl is setting this arena on fire, she is one, big crowd pleaser...  Kidman with the tray from downtown...”  We all miss when Kidman ruled the hardwood...

Nicole’s patent ugliness became a game-changer.  It became okay for an actress to induce both...  Nausea...  And sadness.  Nicole Kidman is our all-time troll.  She gave trolls new depth of meaning and repulsiveness, yet new respectability.  Girls wanted to be trolls just like Nikky...

Nikky has no skin pigment.  If the lighting is right and she’s wearing a bikini you can see her liver, her musculature, and the blood coursing through her veins.  This is why there are so few pictures of her in swimsuits, and why her movie contracts demand that she only be illuminated with soft lighting — she’s translucent.  Nikky is the World’s only Oscar-winning albino.

In fact, her one and only screen test for a fantasy, super-hero role was the stuff of legend.  They rejected her by saying, “We want a fresh-faced Princess Leia, not a pale-faced Bela Lugosi.”  To which Nikky screamed (yet still with her characteristic Brit-Aussie reserve), “Damn you, I am human!” — Cher’s hideously deformed son, Eric Stoltz, said the same thing in Mask.  True story...

One or two bad endorsement deals does not a war criminal make.  Yet read the following and see where you stand.  I mean I wouldn’t kick her out of bed, but I’d sure be tempted.  Is this conduct unbecoming a starlet?  Isn’t the fact that she is pitching the airline from Hell, isn’t that itself a crime against humanity?  Is this an offense so depraved and indifferent to human life that the Pantheon must court-martial?

“Let them eat cake,” is that what you’re saying, Nicole?  You’re saying: let the stewardesses eat their pride?  You have communication issues don’t you, Nikky?  ’Fess up.  Cake substitution almost worked for Marie Antoinette, but I don’t see this working for you.  For one, do the stewardesses like cake, hmm?  We’ll be running through the entire paddle selection until we get you to finally toe the line, until you at last get the beet-red justice you need and deserve.  Other Letter, well, we’re at a membership crossroads, and .

If I may, I have an ax to grind with Ms. Kidman.  She is a spokeswoman, past and present, of Etihad Airlines from the United Arab Emirates.  The American flight attendants union cried most foul, saying that that airline does not offer maternity leave protection (get preggers and you’re done), and what has to be even worse, they keep their air hostesses in “compounds.”  The airline attempted to refute the first claim, yet had nothing to say about the second.  Nicole is a UN Ambassador for Women, so endorsing a sexist business does not at all jibe with any of her seemingly hollow humanitarian ideals and efforts...

Nicole may have responded to the harsh criticism and no longer works for that airline, or she is snuggling up with execs in the Etihad HQ conference room telling stories about the Oscars and why she always wears as skimpy clothing there as possible...

Nikky cannot call her manager and say her fans hate her for promoting misogyny, because they are not her fans anymore.  They are her former fans.  So she can either side with her filthy rich, capitalist pig, terrorist-financing friends in Arabia, or she can stick with any humanitarian ideals she may or may not have left.  Nicole is on her way out of here on these pages anyway, this we can be sure.

This may sound harsh, but if she is ever seen at a Pantheon-sponsored function, she will be given the bum’s rush, and bodily escorted by security guards out of our facilities, and back onto the streets where she belongs.  This is a promise to Nikky, with her crummy attitude; and my fans, who most understandably need justice.  Right now, this is all I can do.  I cannot hand down justice when it is not in my power to do so.  We have the paddle selection at the Pantheon Compound, but this is reserved for internal affairs, we have no jurisdiction over hangers on like Nicole who only stop over uninvited to steal from our buffet, or show some leg and cleavage for drinks...

Nikky is returning onto the endorsement campaign trail.  This time she’s in Shanghai, China shilling Swisse, Australian multi-vitamins (no explanation for the Australian vitamin maker’s association with Switzerland).  Does she actually use these vitamins?  Is it worth it to try to get the Chinese to use Australian multi-vitamins?  After Etihad, how much endorsement booty does Nikky need?  Or is this to cleanse our collective palettes of Etihad’s bad business practices.

Instead, why not promote something good and wholesome with universal appeal like, well, I can’t think of anything, but she should brainstorm and use her imagination.  She’ll think of some consumer product we can fall madly in love with — now that we’ve lost a good deal of interest in her, that is, because of her over-commercialization...

People Magazine recently voted the Kidman-Urban’s the most jealousy-inducing couple on the entire planet.  Just as an aside, Nikky has her back covered in tattoos, mostly of Lucifer, but a few of the McDonalds corporation because she will be doing a few promotional spots for them in the Fall.  Her hubby, Keith?  Yes, the rumors are true, he is actually from another galaxy, but strangely enough he has never revealed which one.  We’ll find out eventually, Keith.  Then there’s all those rumors about no one wearing the pants in their household.  The problem is that Nikky is 100 percent, hot-blooded, gorgeous woman, but she is not ours.  Someone else got there first...

Here is a little known fact: Nicole Kidman is so light-skinned she is actually an albino.  She must always wear colored contact lenses, or else she looks like the wife of Satan.

Nicole Kidman, the captivatingly elegant and classy, red-headed beauty from Australia, is best known for Moulin Rouge!, The Others, and Eyes Wide Shut.  Nicole’s riveting portrayal of Virginia Woolf’s descent into madness earned her the Academy Award for Best Actress in a Leading Role.  Ms. Kidman again won an Oscar nom for her role of Satine in the musical, Moulin Rouge!  Most recently, in 2011, she was Oscar-nominated for the role of Becca in the drama, Rabbit Hole.

Looking at her work thereafter, it is almost as though a producer was cobbling movies together, needing an exceptionally well-known, well-regarded actress to really bring film-goers in the theater door.  The movie mogul might intone, “I don’t know if we have much here to make anything great, but why don’t we call that gorgeous Oscar-winner from Oz?  The fans are in love with her.”

If you want to see a woman so beautiful in so many ways that she might even bring tears to your eyes, catch Ms. Kidman’s performance in Moulin Rouge.  Nicole is feminine, elegant, graceful, startlingly great-looking, and a master of her acting craft.

This gorgeous, free-spirited dove currently has eleven titles in development.  To me, How to Marry a Millionaire definitely stands out, and she does have the intellect to take this on in a producer’s capacity.

It is more than a little saddening to see the roles Ms. Kidman is saddled with these days.  She is still the radiant beauty she has always been, ever demure, and self-admittedly a tad on the shy side, but she gets parts like this one, looking like the equivalent of a “nurse from a bondage movie’ (NY Times quote) in the kids flick, Paddington.  If Hollywood gave out awards for the biggest sweetheart, Nicole would be the top pick of many.  Her recent roles however, not her keen interpretation, are the kind that only receive Razzies.

Nicole’s difficulty in getting very juicy roles must have to do with her looking like a super-model (or now some might say, a super-model after the catwalk is over).  Her looks have become her liability.  All her roles have, in fact, been ones with hyphenates like: UN interpeter-super model (The Interpreter), psychiatrist-super model (The Invasion), geneticist-super model (Photograph 51), or archaeologist-super model (Queen of the Desert).  There is a simple solution to this of course, just have Ms. Kidman play a super-model (for the roles listed, the viewer assumes she was a super-model before she was a: UN interpreter, psychiatrist, geneticist, and anthropologist).  Either that, or get the recognizance issue out of the way as well by shaving her head bald, as they did to Charlize Theron in Mad Max: Fury Road.

Nicole strikes one as unusually maternal, she does have four kids, two adopted ones from her previous marriage with Tom Cruise.  Nicole has never mentioned why Tom filed for divorce, although she still loves him.  Tom Cruise is a devout scientologist by the way, and Nicole wouldn’t raise their kids as such.  More recently, her 22-year-old daughter, a devout Scientologist as well, was married without her parents, Tom and Nicole, there to wish her well.  Kids these days (especially the ones who belong to Scientology) go figure.  We are glad that Xenu popped his (?) head in from the Galactic Confederacy to say “Hi.”

For Nicole’s Scientology kin, the approaching Holidays means daily prayer for the return of Xenu, their sci-fi god (goddess?)  Nicole showed off the official issue, holiday greeting cards from her estranged Scientologist children.  Her favorite has a picture of frozen-smile, Mr. Cruise and Mr. Travolta, photo-shopped beside a popular depiction of Xenu with the inscription: “We are ‘clear’ for whatever comes our way this holiday season.  Most fond.”

While Nikky has nothing but the deepest respect and admiration for Scientology, she yearned for someone with somehow more traditional values the next go round, ones slighter closer to her own, and found them in a John 3:16, religious worshipper.  To that end, her children will be instilled with the fire and brimstone, Book of Genesis values so revered by the recently disenfranchised of Scientology, especially the families (and law enforcement officials) who found its methods too all-encompassing, and perhaps, even a bit on the invasive side.

Ms. Kidman will be finishing two and a half months of theatrical performances on London’s West End this Saturday, November 21st.  She is playing pioneering DNA researcher, Rosalind Franklin, in the well-regarded premiere of Photograph 51.  So if you hurry and hop aboard a jumbo-jet, you’ll still have until the end of the week to catch her, although ticket sales have been understandably very brisk.

Naomi Watts is her bff from high school, and also from the Victorian College of the Arts in Melbourne, Victoria.  Nicole has claimed that she tends to be rather shy, although this has diminished over time.  Given all she has going in her favor — looks, charm, and smarts — how might this social unease ever take root?...

To top of Pantheon



Jennifer Connelly

(Still of Jennifer Connelly in Mulholland Falls
© 1996 Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios Inc.
All Rights Reserved.
My point is that the star here is a bombshell,
now is different, bocce balls be damned.)

Jennifer Connelly lacked the career success commensurate with her talents.  Was there anything she lacked?  Where could she have fell short?  It’s a mystery.  She’s brilliant, she’s extremely good looking, and she earned an Oscar early on in her career.  She’s from Upstate New York, and that probably didn’t help.  She sounds entirely unconnected to Hollywood.  Her career never seemed to click like one would expect it would for her.  Many feel the same way about Ashley Judd, while her difficulties stem in large measure to being blacklisted by disgraced, movie mogul, Harvey Weinstein...

Okay, this is the deal.  If you want a busty mega-Hollywood-star, you are out of luck.  Well, if you are over thirty years of age you are.  If you are younger, you may find a few with racks before they are reduced, because soon the disappointment in their figures will be much like the disappointment in a Christmas, Ramadan, or Hanukkah toy that broke straight out of the box.

Maggie, Jenny, Penelope, maybe Heather (we need full visual confirmation first), Kirsten (okay, early reports were inaccurate, she’s keeping hers — bravo!), they are all looking forward to miniaturizing them so they may pursue careers as gymnasts.  GOD HELP US ALL!!!

Susan Sarandon needs to talk some sense into these girls.  Perhaps Ms. Sarandon could offer a lecture series on keeping them over-sized — even have the series televised live on broadcast and/or cable networks.  Then why not arrange a pay-per-view pricing structure, and give it a mature rating so Susan can show off hers?

I have a theory on what is going on here.  UCLA medical students, to drum up support for a new plastic surgery center, are going around door-to-door in Beverly Hills attired in medical scrubs.  They ask if the woman of the house is available for a quick consultation,  They show a photo of the chest of a ninety-year-old woman and of an eighteen-year-old, and they say this is before and after the boobs reduction surgery.

They suck them in that way.  I don’t have proof yet, but just like at the Nuremburg Trials, soon I will have all the proof that I need...

Women are under the false assumption that their boobs can be miniaturized anyway they see fit — that they can go light, go bouncy, or go gymnast.  Not true, boobs reduction is not their prerogative, it never was.  Who paid for their super-stardom with ticket after ticket to all their movies?  That’s right, you and me.  We decide, not them.  Who do they think they are anyway?...

The following may be seen as being in exceptionally poor taste, but I still think this is a valid point to be making: If you have big boobs, keep them, don’t have them reduced.  If a significant portion of your appeal is your physical appearance, why compromise it?  Sue me, Jenny C. — and you probably will.  We will battle it out in court, and the World will finally understand your position, because I sure as Hell don’t...

(This is a battle in my brain when I push the envelope further than society at large might allow.  Either Jenny C. read this and hated it, or she never read it, and never will.  Who knows?  I sure as Hell don’t...)

We all have the age old debate — did Scarlett get reduction work?  Your draw as a Hollywood actress, if you have them for show, is mostly your boobs.  Any third grader can recite nonsense, today’s actress needs to show us all she’s got.  Getting reduction work done cuts into the bottom line, they lose talent representation, they can only get the matron or cleaning woman roles, ask Jenny C.

Okay they are not part of her draw as a starlet, they are her draw.  Her entire world collapsed once she lost those cup sizes.  Remember the tragedy of Jenny C, Scarlett J.  I’m not shameless.  I’m not.  I’m just a realist with an acute business acumen.

See, Scarlett thinks: “I’ll go sporty and lightweight with reduction work.  I want to see what it is like to jog, play tennis, do gymnastics, or shoot a round a golf with less than an 80 handicap.  I want to know what it feels like to not have stretch marks halfway down my torso, or to not be too top-heavy to swim (in fact, women bigger than a D-cup seriously risk drowning in waters above their waist).  I need to see what it’s like to not put padded bandaging on my shoulders to prevent bra strap cutting, to not carry bocce balls everywhere in front of me, ruining my back and posture, and making me look like the hunchback of Notre Dame.”

Except it doesn’t work that way, Scarlett.  She simply has no clue what motivates the movie-going connoisseur of women.  Once they expect a certain cup size, if the audience doesn’t get the boobs they want, they walk right out of the theater.  We’ve all seen it.

It’s all built on expectations.  Have a cup size, deliver on that cup size.  That’s all there is to it.  Jenny C should have known better.  There is no live and learn, that cup size is history.  For shame, Jenny C, lower your head in shame.

This is a cautionary tale for not only Scarlett, but for Maggie, Kirsten, and Amanda — all the girls who might be thinking the weight of their chest is too much of a burden to bear.  I’m not going to just sit back and watch their careers go down the tubes, I can’t.  In fact, their friends at Other Letter will be mounting a Save their Boobs Campaign.  To join, blanket, pepper, no harass and troll their social media accounts with soon-to-be-welcome, “Save those Boobs, please, we need them,” Tweets.  If we get enough of a , we will notify their studios.  At some point, they must see the light.

In a world where everything has just turned to crap, where there is endless compromise from Washington right down to Main Street, can’t starlets keep the size of their boobs the same?  We don’t ask for much.  We lost Jenny C to the plastic surgeon, how many more, how many more?...

Jenny C and her husband were seen, where else? — but in the south of France with moppets in tow.  Now this site does not ever engage in idle gossip.  That would be repugnant.  I wonder what the basis of their relationship could be when hubby goes for preppy and Jennifer’s a bit of a hippie.  One tell tale sign that Ms. Connelly is looking for greener pastures is the ring necklace.  That could only mean one thing.  Jennifer is looking for love on her side of the fence.  My break up prognostications bat one thousand, by the way.  But what screenwriter has the time for idle, Hollywood gossip?

I’ll just add one more bit to this brilliant exposé.  She used to be fuller in the bust than she is now.  Doesn’t science prove that age increases their size?  Did she get work done?  Why didn’t she try to clear this first with her fans, with say a Facebook poll?  Aren’t they the ones ultimately putting bread on her table?  I’ll tell Jennifer right now we would have voted down her reduction sans prospectus.

Did casting agents notice the top work and send her packing into the dark Hollywood night without letting her read for all those vital super-hero, love interest roles?  Were those given to Christina Hendricks instead?  Except when that super-hero eye candy has to jog after a villain, a stunt double must be called onto the set.  A nation has many questions needing many answers, Jennifer...

For her supporting role as Alicia Nash in Ron Howard’s A Beautiful Mind, Jennifer Connelly received an Academy Award, a Golden Globe Award and a BAFTA Award.  Besides her Oscar-winning performance, she’s known for He’s just not that into You, she was the best part of Rocketeer — lighting up the screen, and stealing every scene, she was that good in this — and in 2014, she co-starred with Russell Crowe again in the Biblical saga Noah.

The problem with Rocketeer though, was that it had all this stuff about rockets, when it should have just been about Jenny C smiling, and making conversation with everyone.  They hardly know how to create fine, engrossing cinema anymore.

Ms. Connelly — along with her trademark, playful, coy, knowing, or devilish half-smile, as well as her brunette hair and green eyes, her buxom figure, and her deep, sultry voice — has appeared in 41 films.  In 2005, Amnesty International named Ms. Connelly an Ambassador for Human Rights Education. She has been a Revlon cosmetics cover model, and in addition, was a child model.  Periodicals such as Time, Vanity Fair, Esquire, as well as the Los Angeles Times have all included her on their lists of the world’s most beautiful women.

In Career Opportunities, Jennifer portrays an unusually intuitive, young woman, who is beset with issues at home, and doesn’t quite know what to do with her life, until she is trapped overnight with a janitor at a department store.  One can easily see her overwhelming sex appeal and femininity in yet another, understated, never-recognized, and grossly under-rated performance.  It is just a treat to watch her in this film, and this is so early in her career.

I would have to think she did all her own roller-skating in this clip, partly because it would have to be so difficult to find that voluptuous of a body double for Jennifer, and partly because in the shots where it is obviously her doing the skating, she is doing it very well.

The hope here is that Ms. Connelly will play Melissa Fletcher, the leading lady in my fifth screenplay, the new romantic dramedy, Lone Star Resistance.  The role calls for a very ambitious Texan, yet one never unfeeling, who is a middle manager tasked with job responsibilities that are now becoming too distasteful to stomach, especially considering her impeccable moral compass.

Most recently, Jennifer took on the role of Hannah in Shelter, a romance about two homeless people who need each other to get back on their feet.  This Oscar-winner does not shy away from the hard-hitting dramas.  Shelter reminds one of her role as a desperate drug addict in Requiem for a Dream opposite other hard-core chemically dependent users, overwhelmed by the power of their addictions.

Next up, Jennifer goes back to her bread and butter, joining the mainstream ranks once more to play a night shift manager’s meteoric rise to day shift in McDonalds, the Movie.  Pitted opposite villains Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson of corporate-booster, Google, the Movie fame, Ms. Connelly realizes that both in this movie and in real life, job prospects can be slim pickings for a woman over forty years of age, even for a World-class actress of incomparable beauty.

Ms. Connelly will be doing a twenty-eight city tour to promote the movie by appearing at the movie’s namesake, McDonalds restaurants.  Hands full, hear her as she yells, “We’re looking at noontime, and I still don’t see any Heirloom, double BigMacs in the hopper ... I can’t keep being go to on fries — where’s Ronald?  Has anyone seen Ronald? ... What do you mean he’s called in sick?  I just saw him ...”  While her fans see this gig as demeaning, Jennifer and her manager claim that at least the costumes are nicer than they were promoting Noah.

Ms. Connelly studied English at Yale University, transferring to Stanford, and completing her degree in Drama there.  Not many know this, but growing up in the Catskills of Upstate New York, Jennifer was nick-named “The Mountain Cat.”

To top of Pantheon



Heather Graham

(Still from NBC’s True Crime; Menendez Brothers, 2017
— some actor guy with her was photoshopped away
Heather looks better than ever,
we suspect nutritional supplements)

Heather Graham

It is winter.  This means just one thing to Wisconsin born and bred, Heather Graham, and that’s returning home for ice fishing.  This is the time of year that Heather forgets the inanities and ultra-seriousness of Hollywood, puts on her hip waders, and heads out on her Ski-doo for a day in her ice fishing hut on Lake Oshbegosh.

(Heather has a 2007 Grand Touring Ski-doo.  Everyone she’s ever known has owned a ski-mobile.  She does all the work on hers — she has a lift in her garage — much to the amazement of her friends on the lake.  Heather has even taken it across frozen Lake Superior to Northern Ontario for lodging and dancing with First Settlers.)

The temperatures are typically 30° below zero, but Heather just loves the peace and quiet communing with nature out on the Lake.  All her girlfriends are into the sport, and they help net the tuna-size crappies that she often catches.

After they bring in their haul — Heather’s are always biggest — they take turns where they hold a big fish dinner.  Heather’s sisterhood of the ice fisher women date back to when she was just seven years old.

Heather holds the record for crappies, not only on Lake Oshbegosh, but for the entire State of Wisconsin.  Crappies are typically panfish, and eight inches long, but somehow the biggest ones from up and down the entire Mississippi River all end up on the end of Heather’s fishing line.  She must have the magic touch.

So next you see her playing her typical vixen or cheerleading coach, just imagine her grinning and holding up a trophy-winning, eighty pound crappie for the cameras.  Smile, Heather!...

Heather, you are very familiar with the sex industry.  Ashley Judd needs your help in defining her hastily-crafted agenda to end the World’s Oldest Profession.  Can Ashley lay out traps for them, as one would rats, and bring them to some crematoria?

To satisfy Ashley’s pagan Jesus god, should we leave out all the sex workers on an altar and starve them to death?  This may not satisfy you, but apparently it will satisfy Ashley’s pagan lust for sex worker blood.  Isn’t this the Christian thing to do?  Remember, she said, “Prostitution is paid rape, abolish it in all forms...”

Heather has been having a tough time finding work, so she’s finally going to sit for the post office examination.  She has me to thank.  I gave her relevant study guides, and she thinks she’ll do well enough to become a U.S. postal courier.

Wouldn’t that be great?  I’m so proud of her.  Heather is closing in on the big five-oh, and she doesn’t have any third act, so I did what I could in setting her up (Ashley Judd cum Republican will soon be 60 years old, I’m setting her up to volunteer at the Kentucky Hostel for the Elderly, which is her next home anyway).

I researched this for Heather, and I’m sure once she passes the postal preliminaries she’ll be overwhelmed with gratitude.  I can just see her now in the regulation, blue and gray shorts, and blouse.  Oh, and the cap, can’t forget the cap.

Isn’t it nice when older starlets have a career to fall back on when they no longer have their looks?  She’ll be so pleased once she starts, and she has a steady income again.  Apparently, she can choose locale, so I’m hoping she gets my block.

Ding-dong!  Oh, here Heather is now!

Other, you have to sign for this package.  [I sign for it.]  You have a nice day.

Stay for tea and chit-chat, Heather, United States Postal Courier?

Sorry, but I’m on duty.  See you tomorrow, Other.

Yes, see you tomorrow, Heather...

And so on, and so on...

Heather is a wonderful woman, one who men love as much as women do (although has her relationships with men been a rocky road?), and she has made a livelihood with matters of the heart, and with, well, sex.

Yet you will notice that she never wears short sleeve shirts.  This is because she is covering up the trans dermal Syphilis patches she always wears.  She has to spend a full two more hours in the makeup trailer covering up the mouth sores...  Heather is planning my fatal “accident” as we speak...

Sad news from Hollywood, today, Heather’s top heavies did give up in their battle against gravity.  She had them reduced in size to shore them up, and prevent down-pointing.  She has decided to join the ranks of the gymnast.  She will soon be issuing an apology to her shocked, dismayed, and outraged fans...

Senior accountants at Other Letter are doing an audit, and they need to know how true the Heather Graham, neater boobs, reduction story is.  I told them as forcefully as I could, that no one knows the status of Heather’s boobs right now.  The accountants pressed: “Have they been made smaller in fears that they’ll soon be down-pointers, navel-grazers, or floor-dusters?”

Are the bean-counters fears irrational?  Has Heather been hoodwinked by some Beverly Hills plastic surgeon into taking God’s gifts, and reducing them to Hershey Kisses, or at least more hopefully, to the larger, Stay-Puffed Marshmallows?

Without independent examination of Heather’s boobs in our offices, we shall never know.  So Heather, if you’re a regular reader (and all of Hollywood is these days), drop by Other Letter HQ so we can make an independent, indisputable, jiggle determination.  We won’t pass audit until you do...

Earlier reports here about Heather getting her boobs reduced in size were erroneous.  Her boobs are fine.  While I have not yet had the good fortune to inspect them from close range, in recent photos, they appear similar in size to earlier photos — they’re still big.

What threw this reporter off was her hormonal fluctuations.  Sorry for the false alarm, readers.  I know, it’s in poor taste to say a woman’s breasts got smaller, when they really didn’t.  Apologies go out to Heather Graham, wherever she may be.  And earlier suggestions are similarly retracted that she should apologize to her fans for getting them reduced.  I’m glad that I could straighten all that out for her...

Followers of the Pantheon may have noticed that most of the press goes to their preoccupations: Gwynnie for money; Ashley for religion; and Charli for cannabis.  Heather is big boobs, but there is nothing funny about big boobs — just ask Donald and Melania Trump.

There is no comic angle to big boobs, either they are in your life because you married into them, and now nearing navel-grazing proportions; or you’re crying that they aren’t in your life, and won’t be unless you divorce your current wife, and mother of your children.

Anyhow, I just felt the need to share why, of the Big Four — Gwynnie, Ashley, Charli, and Heather — Heather does not get the time of day.  They’re just too big and serious, Heather, they’re floor-dusters...

Heather’s directorial and writing debut Half Magic was well-received.  Okay, let me quality that, it was very well-received in some quarters, and less so in others.  But this was an indie production, which means a very tight budget, so no car chases with Rolls Royces going into the Hudson River over the side of the George Washington Bridge.  Meryl Streep does not make her first appearance as a pole stripper.

No, this didn’t have the earmarks of a mega-blockbuster.  Gwynnie Paltrow does not make her first, full-blown lesbian love scene with long-rumored love interest, Ashley Judd (you laugh, but there are photos found via search engines that’ll make you wonder).  Those shots would require tons of money, but what this movie did have was heart, and a timely, well-conceived message about gender inequality...

If you listen to how Heather tells it, she regularly dates bottom of the barrel guys.  Or is this just PR to make her sound available?  Is she choosing her suitors from such a small, inbred pool in Hollywood?  Is Heather a victim of endless poor luck?  Does she self-destructively only date guys with little appeal, but who she favors as reclamation projects?

Can you imagine a woman of her caliber with limited dating prospects?  Could this be possible?  Where I live, she would get a marriage proposal a week, maybe not immediately from an elite blogger such as myself with infinite interest from all manner of girls, but definitely from kooky doctors and lawyers with chips on their shoulders, and possessing limited skill sets vaguely remembered.

I bet that part of the problem is that Heather is considered a sex object and so she’s treated like dirt.  Somehow she is supposed to solely exist for men’s pleasure.  We know this is only partly true.  Oh, never mind...

My readers always ask: “Where is the Heather intel I need to go about my day?”  Well, this is a podcast where everything you always wanted to know about Heather is revealed (Heather’s segment begins at 29:05).  Although, oddly enough, her prize-winning boobs were never mentioned, specifically any boobs reduction work.  I’m pretty sure she’s holding off on revealing this earth-shaking secret until I interview her...

If I was Heather’s doctor and she wanted her boobs reduced, I would have sat her down and said:

“Heather, you have a great rack.  Why would you want to damage your earning potential?  It’s a very bad idea, Heather.  Keep your boobs.  They’re keepers, Heather.  Believe me, because medicine is my calling, I know.  We have a word in the medical profession for girls like you: Ungrateful for God’s gifts...”

Heather Graham traded in her Marilyns as did Jennifer Connelly, Maggie Gyllenhaal, and possibly Susan Sarandon (she hasn’t stopped by our offices yet for verification).  You guessed it, they all had their boobs reduced.  D-cups are not owned, they are only rented.  What do we, the fans, who really call all the shots, like better: D pluses or Cs or Bs?  Just because they’re bigger, doesn’t mean they have to droop.  As they get older, big girls just need to do more calisthenics.

, and via advanced analytical techniques I’ll decide which version of you has more appeal.  You think you only jettisoned navel grazers, floor dusters, of down pointing pancakes?  Let me be the judge of this.  You think snip-snip and you’ll be enjoying a ten pound weight loss, and you’ll hit your fighting weight?

Guess again.  Family and friends will no longer recognize you.  Restaurants will no longer seat you at your favorite table by the lobster tank.  Law enforcement won’t pick you up on a DUI, then release you on your own recognizance, because they cannot recognize you sans boobs.  No one can anymore.

After boobs reduction you have become a non person, a non entity.  Your agent and your boyfriend will no longer call.  Don’t say I never warned you.  Enjoy being a pariah, but your boobs will no longer get in your way, so enjoy your new life as a gymnast...

Heather belongs to a subspecies of woman/girl, and that is Mammarian Magnum.  This is a taboo subject to discuss in mixed company, especially in a G-rated web site like The Other Letter.

Regardless, to deny the existence of this subspecies is wholly without merit, because they exist in large numbers in the grain belts of the Midwest — such as Heather’s birthplace of Wisconsin — and the Russian Steppes where they are aka “the milk maidens.”

I have never heard these terms used in polite circles near Heather, but like a DD-cup bra, she sure fits them well...

Heather and me got to chatting the other day by the Pantheon Cabana in Other Letter’s satellite recreation facility in Porto Villarte.  I was regaling her with my usual stories of seafaring adventure on the Other Letter yacht when who should appear but the entire Pantheon, and topless no less, to wish me a happy birthday.

After a Marilyn Monroe-worthy rendition of Happy Birthday, Mister President we had birthday cake.  And then it was time for them to all return to their seaside chores while I ate the cake...

I met up with Heather in the Pantheon Café where she was wondering about my interest in meteorology.  She began: “What is this weather crap?  Why are you interested in this garbage?  It gets hot, or it gets cold, why should you care, hmm?  See, you just don’t think.

“Hey, Other, here’s a joke, what does everyone complain about, but no one ever does anything about?  Give up, Other?  Come on guess!  The weather, ha, ha, ha!!!

“But seriously, Other, predicting the weather is such an effing stupid hobby.  Puh-leez!  That’s the hobby of retards, Other, is that what you are?...  Hey, where are you going!  I just had root canal!  I’ll give you all the details.  Come back!...”

It was once true that Gwynnie could use all the good will that Heather possessed, because Gwynnie has reached lightning rod status, as has Ashley.  This is not true of Heather anymore though as she was nailed for cultural appropriation for wearing a skeleton costume, yes, a skeleton costume.  In the world of SM (social media), they will search high and low for anything to nail you.

I tried to come to Heather’s defense by noting on SM that she shouldn’t wear a leprechaun costume next year, or she’ll insult the Irish.  I was told by a garden variety troglodyte that: “you’re an ass, you don’t get it.”  If I really wanted to give him a taste of his own medicine, I would have said, “Then you’re an a*hole,” which likely would have gotten me in more trouble than what he said would him.

(If you really need to take action besides the meaningless reporting route, here’s a few words that may or may not get you into trouble: ass, worm, weenie, ignorant, grow up, “you’re odd,” even “you’re disgusting” went unpunished, and was within their standards — to which I told the Fecesbook referee that he was disgusting, and that must be fair as well.

Just as George Carlin had the seven dirty words you can never say on television, the ones listed above are the seven words you can say on Fecesbook.  Yet the way the table is run today, avoiding foul language is being conservative, anything really goes.  In my experience, they penalize no one, even those extremely deserving of punishment.  Maybe a four-letter rant may suspend your account, or maybe not.)

The troglodyte in question proudly announced his interests as accounting and couponing.  Soccer was my sport, is couponing a sport?  This lowlife had 13,000 plus followers, is he a Russian bot?  Or did he became the leader of the hater community as a pro troll?

The reason for all this extreme hostility is most likely a result of her being proud of her work in Boogie Nights, while her costar, Dirk Diggler, was ashamed of his work.  Diggler claimed it violated his newly discovered Christian principles.

In case you did not know it, Diggler is a violent felon in real life — look him up.  Oh, okay, you forced my hand.  The violent felon is Marky Mark WahlbergChristians have incredible hang ups from their repressed sexuality, hence the take down of Heather without cause by both Marky Mark and the coupon-loving guy.

They’re out there, they’re incredibly stupid, and they are just as icy.  For the part of SM executives, they could not care less, because it costs money to police their sites, money they could spend on their fifteenth mansion...

Evidence is filtering into OL World HQ, that Heather did decide to go demi-lite after all, and join the ranks of the gymnasts.  Misogyny?  Piggery?  Remember of which you read.  (For those who need to brush up on discreet OL code lingo, this refers to boobs reduction.)

I spoke with her publicist.  She says Heather’s are having much more bounce now, she no longer looks like Quasimodo from the Hunchback of Notre Dame, and she is absolutely doing back flips over the results.

I continued my inquiry with her publicist (as I have a privileged relationship with Team Heather): “Is this too private a fact to know of Heather, the current state of her chest?”  She said, “No, not at all, we’re looking to get the word out about the current size of her boobs, and you’re really helping the cause.  This needs to be shared with the public.  Thank you, Other.”

This is how you build relationships with actresses in Hollywood, you use discretion and you use sensitivity...

Heather has signed to do promos with online gambling meccas, and  You might say, “Why doesn’t she plug more wholesome products?” but once an actress passes forty years of age, she will take most any part her agent sends her way.

Past forty, a Hollywood actress is permanently in comeback mode.  She will do anything to kick start her career, even by shilling crap like public health risks, and hurtful, environmentally unfriendly, or addictive products.  They must think their careers are over, so they need to take advantage of any sex appeal they have left.

So up next, we will be sure to see Heather hawk: Jack Daniels, Hitler-fave Mercedes Benz, and McDonalds — who are introducing a new food substitute menu, which not so surprisingly, is much like their old menu.  (McDonalds, by the way, is now hawking their franchisees as first job experiences.  It must be tough to get potential customers enthusiastic about Big Mac suet.)

She won’t be shilling nutrition-free Coca-Cola, because Taylor Swift is already on board there (all kidding aside, Ms. Swift is a Coca-Cola rep, she may feel it is better to get hooked on caffeine and sugar at an early age, then suds).  Heather also auditioned for the part of the Marlboro cigarette cowgirl, but wardrobe couldn’t find a vest that would fit her.

The Foxy product line also includes: Foxy-oxycontin, so Heather will be entering the opioid marketing space, as well as Foxy-Microsoft, where she will attempt to convince America that the Windows operating system CD does not belong at the bottom of every landfill.

If you had a product that was bad for mankind, wouldn’t you want a wholesome, gorgeous starlet to be saying how important it was to humanity, or at least important to your every day?  Especially one whose looks are fading much like the setting sun, and who in ten years, everyone knows, will be indistinguishable from over-sized prunes...

All of the Pantheon has been doing well recently, with many enjoying a very successful Second Act.  Heather is a great example having just been cast in Law & Order True Crime: The Menendez Murders.  Heather will be playing Judalon Smyth, who is a sexy yet emotionally fragile woman who is having an affair.

Having been Heather’s drama coach for many, many years, I know exactly how Heather should approach playing this role.  First, now this may sound unorthodox, I ask her to remove all her clothing.  This is how best to be the most expressive, even though the role is not technically soft-core porn, although aren’t all actresses’ roles really meant to be performed in the nude?

Heather eagerly obeys, she has no choice, I am her teacher, she is my student.  Then I ask her to reach skyward, imagining that she is a flying goddess.  Then I check to make sure that her body is firm enough for various camera angles.

Next, I prepare her for the method acting in playing a woman about to go off the deep end.  I ask Heather, “Have you ever found yourself in a compromising sexual situation?” Heather answers, “Of course, this is what it is to be a woman.”

I say, “Very good, because you will be drawing on that experience here.  Just relax, and I will stand in for your leading man by walking you through all the sex scenes...”  And we proceed with the lesson for the rest of the weekend.  Heather, of course, is so grateful and thanks me profusely for the masterful acting lessons.  Then she shows her appreciation during our undressed rehearsal, sex scenes, putting out an unforgettable, Oscar-worthy performance...

We’ve just had a boobs scare with Heather.  There was long and concerted debate around the office as to whether or not she had reduction work done.  We are still not entirely certain, but after we analyzed photographic evidence from today, at 45 years old, and then in her twenties, we came to the conclusion that they appear to be untouched by surgical science.  This is typically where my office breaks into prayer groups emphasizing our gratitude to all of Creation...

As your Big Four manager (Gwynnie, Ashley, and Charli round out the set), I need you, Heather, to get down to Coachella.  Screw the music, it’s just clashing garbage can lids run through synthesizers anyway.

We’re looking to get in paparazzi pix.  Just act all goofy, tipsy even, we want “dumb blonde” here — think new-age Marilyn Monroe — do you have that in you, Heather?  Sport your mini skirts and ample bosom, offer the photogs close ups of them.  You don’t have to flash your boobs per se, although that would create a giant buzz around the Coachella compound.

Kiss, and put your arms around, any other Pantheon girls you see.  That’ll draw crowds.  I’m not sure if any other Pantheon girls will be there though, the whole lot of them is aging fast.  I understand that due to a lifetime of doing tons of Molly at raves (one trip in particular did a huge number on her self-confidence), Gwynnie can no longer remember her name, and her kids don’t recognize her anymore, often mistaking her for the in-house cleaning lady...

We have sad news to report: Heather found another man.  I know what you’re thinking, you provide them with everything they could possibly want, and they still leave.  Did she stop to think about every amenity that the mountain-top Pantheon, now effectively a city, has to offer the modern Hollywood actress?

Horizon pools overlooking the two-mile-deep Other Canyon in every residence suite (not rivaling the Grand Canyon, far surpassing it).  You can hop into your parachute in your stowage unit; leap outside your terrace door after breakfast; and the canyon floor shuttle will get you home in time for lunch.  These free fall excursions will be led in-house by our very own Ashley Judd, an accomplished expert at extreme sports of every kind.  Be they rank amateurs, or polished cliff divers, Ashley will be sure to get these Pantheon adventurers home in one piece.

If that sounds a bit too adventurous, the Pantheon sports three dozen tennis courts with night lighting, and a Ben Hogan-designed golf course that even LPGA pros have found challenging.  We have Three-Star Michelin™ meals served every day, breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and there is the Pantheon’s unrivaled nightlife at Club Other.

There are refresher courses in acting, in languages, and even in lovemaking, because these girls are on the set for months, sometimes even years at a time.  The lovemaking courses are offered by young woman who only seek face time with our starlets, and so are willing to offer all sexual favors for free.  While this is generally kept a secret, some here feel they’d like to keep their lives transparent so no one gets too nosy trying to find out what is already well-established in certain circles.

Ms. Graham is turning this all down, so we convened an Other Review Board.  We now know why Heather left.  She has signed on with Satan.  This is the truth, she now answers to the underground, red-eyed, trident-carrying guy.  How else can her behavior be explained, and what else can you do?  Her penalty for leaving the Pantheon would be so severe at this point, there really is no point in setting up a masochism regimen.  No spreader bars, ball gags, it is far too late.  We considered solitary confinement for Heather, but her Satan nuttiness would only become plain old nuttiness.

An Other Review Board has already assigned Kirsten Dunst as backup.  Kirsten brings to the plate voluptuousness like Heather, but without all of Heather’s darkness — because of lifelong objectification, Ms. Graham, and those looking as she does, do not seem to be the type that are all so high on life.  We won’t miss her insistence on non-shared beds.  Nonetheless, we wish Heather all the best with her new boy toy...

Heather is in production with a straight-to-video, new feature entitled, I Feel so Stupid Now.  She plays a 46-year-old actress whose prospects have diminished because of ageism in fickle Hollywood.  She leaves the comfort of a loose collective of her fellow actresses known as the “The Pantheon” in favor of a dalliance with a producer/sugar daddy/Trump-acolyte.

In no time at all, Heather is wined and dined, then whisked to her sugar daddy’s mountain-top lair where she is trafficked as a sexual slave to Arab princesses and kings, and a few princesses as well who heard great things about Heather and decided to see if she is worth all the fuss of regular alpine shuttle (they all agree she is worth the trip from anywhere).

At first she enjoys the work, the job even provides knee pads.  What Heather likes most is that her trafficker is a big name in Hollywood and her hope is that this might add to his esteem for her.  Except for a few princesses from exceptional lineage, the hours and the brutal clientele make it pure torture.  Heather can only dream of the days topless out on the veranda back at the Pantheon.

Back at the Pantheon, they are heartbroken, especially the Gwynnie Doppelgänger, who was especially attached to her bosom-buddy Heather...

Heather was recently seen with Gwynnie’s ex on the beach, unescorted, and outside the Pantheon perimeter.  We know nothing further.  For instance, was this a chance encounter?  Was a clandestine, Pantheon-illegal, tryst arranged?  I checked downstairs at Corporate HQ Records, and Heather never even filed the necessary paperwork to have this get together take place.  I doubt it would be approved anyway, but as those in law enforcement are quick to relate, paper shuffling is two thirds of the law.

What does this all mean?  Well, it means a few of the girls and I will be reviewing the paddle selection for proper punishment.  I personally prefer the Tush Blusher™ but I know the rest of the squad will want in on the action, as they have their own favorites in these kinds of emergencies.  We usually don’t like leaving marks or any other evidence from corporal punishment, but given the level of this offense who can honestly say what will be required to get Heather to toe the line around here?  This is what Heather exposes herself to (her rear) for egregious chit-chat with non-approved parties...

Heather Graham is very well known as a sex symbol, one evocative of Fifties, buxom blond bombshells, and even of a gorgeously-proportioned Barbie Doll brought to life (to be perfectly blunt, how did Heather survive gym class in high school?)  Yet she has also done early work in very serious films including Boogie Nights, Drugstore Cowboy, and Six Degrees of Separation.

Boogie Nights was her breakthrough role.  In this, she played Roller Girl, a young woman who always went around in roller skates, and would perform loveless, sexual favors at the drop of a hat.  In Drugstore Cowboy, she played Nadine, a drug addict traveling around the Pacific Northwest robbing drugstores with her like-minded gang.

She has also been in quality popcorn movies such as Bowfinger, Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me, and The Hangover: Search for the Cure.  Her slew of TV credits include: Californication, Growing Pains, Twin Peaks, Arrested Development, Scrubs, and most recently, the TV movies, Flowers in the Attic, and Petals on the Wind.  These last two are a partly autobiographical adaptation of a novel relating how a financially desperate widow leaves her kids with her religiously fanatical mother, who then keeps them locked in her Milwaukee attic.

As she finds sexual roles fascinating, Ms. Graham has played porn stars, a sex kitten, a porn director, a prostitute, and a stripper.  With her performances, she hopes that women ultimately have a healthier, less conflicted sexuality.  Ms. Graham feels that women, or more often mothers, are supposed to be pure and wholesome on the one hand, and yet never indulge any wanton sexual passion on the other.  Heather’s hope is that by seeing her films, their messages will help change the way repressed women feel about sex.

One of the most gorgeous women on the planet is in production with her latest work, a sex comedy entitled Half Magic.  What sets this apart from any of her other work is that she is not only acting the lead, but she also wrote the script, and she’s directing it as well.  This woman never ceases to amaze us.

Heather is backing efforts to stop sex traffickers in Cambodia and elsewhere, as well as supporting an end to climate change.  Like the Beatles, this progressive thinker is also an avid practitioner of Transcendental Meditation.  At every awards ceremony and charity dinner that Heather attends, she is definitely one of the most, if not the most, tastefully and attractively dressed.

To top of Pantheon



Uma Thurman

(Still from Pulp Fiction © Miramax)

Uma Thurman

Ms. Thurman was in a horrific auto crash over a dozen years ago, mostly because she was prodded into it by her director, Quentin Tarantino.  While still dealing today with the joint injuries from that crash, she puts the blame squarely on Harvey Weinstein for covering it all up.  Weinstein is by no means a sympathetic figure to anyone anywhere, but he cannot be blamed for everything wrong in cross-gender relationships.

The reason why Uma will not blame Tarantino for this is simple — or to me, it’s simple — she needs the work, and she likes or loves him.  Her entire career is associated with Tarantino, if she is looking for continued franchise opportunities, in say, Kill Bill Volume 8, she cannot be badmouthing Tarantino, because he is her meal ticket.  I am not one hundred percent certain I am right about this, but it all adds up in my estimation...

Ms. Thurman will be appearing on Broadway in The Parisian Woman.  This is not a dinky, pitiful off-Broadway production, mind you, or even dinkier, and more pitiful, off-off-Broadway.  This is the Great White Way.

Bear with me, I’m Drama Desk for the New York Times, I only speak the well-honed truth, even about which I know surprisingly little.  My colleague at the Times just did an article on her, which congratulated her staying power having been in Hollywood for more than five years (but I’d say she’s been gracing our screens for closer to thirty).

Anyhow, after the dust settled, and all the readers vent their unfounded hostilities they harbored towards Uma in the Comments Section of the piece, it is on to me, yours truly, with the only opinion that truly matters, my own.

My concern with Uma is tempered by her being such a towering presence on the silver screen, where her profoundly sensitive portrayals are bigger and more majestic than life itself.  Instead, I wonder if I have ever seen her happy, near-tearful grin — not even once.  (I’ve seen Ashley Judd tearfully grinning, and Gwynnie, too — both of these joyous divorcées look like they’re having a better time of stuff.)

Uma sure seems to me to be one introspective chick, when she smiles, is that often a wistful smile, or am I just being hypercritical?  True, Uma has spent much of her career working with Quentin Tarantino, and we all know what light-hearted romps he makes about forgiveness, with each production having its own incredible arsenal of blood-seeking, revenge weaponry.

If I cast her in any of my nascent productions, I will be sure that she grins, and not just once, a few times, several times even.  Until I see any evidence of grinning, she will never appear in any of my screenwriting masterworks.  Her photos on the Internet, at least, are not of a beaming woman enjoying life to its fullest...

Uma Thurman’s Pulp Fiction portrayal of a moll won her an Oscar nomination.  At the same time, the film established her as the muse of Quentin Tarantino, the film’s famous director now best known for relying on incredible visceral sequences.  Uma went on to receive Golden Globe nominations for that cinema classic, then for Kill Bill Volume I and Kill Bill Volume II, and took home the Globe for Hysterical Blindness.

The latter is the story of how a few women in 1980’s New Jersey go looking for love in the bar scene, and ultimately find that their friendship is what truly matters most.  In the Kill Bill series, Uma plays Beatrix Kiddo, a woman introduced as a bride covered in blood, who is later out for revenge against the killer of her ex-lover.  Ms. Thurman spent three months learning martial arts for the part.

In a 2003 Time magazine piece, Tarantino professed his admiration for his favorite actress, putting her right “up there with Garbo and Dietrich in goddess territory.”  To date, U, as she is often called, has 51 acting film credits to her name.

Partly because of Uma’s obvious great looks, and partly because of her commanding stage presence — being a five-foot-eleven glamazon cannot hurt — Lancôme and Louis Vuitton retained this part-Swede’s services as a spokeswoman.  The Government of France has also knighted her for her achievements in the Arts and Literature.

Uma grew up in Boston, although she did spend a good deal of time in India.  Her father, Robert Thurman, is an Ivy League, Buddhist academic who brought the family to the Himalayas on occasion.  The Dalai Lama was a very good friend of her Dad, and Mr. Thurman once brought the religious leader home.  Nena von Schlebrügge, Uma’s Mom, was briefly married to Timothy Leary, the one-time, Sixties psychedelia pioneer.  ‘Uma’ is an alternate name of a Hindu goddess, and it means ‘light.’

To top of Pantheon



Amy Adams

(Still from American Hustle
Francois Duhamel | © 2013 Annapurna Productions LLC)
This is the scene where she is the visiting,
adjunct professor of astrophysics at MIT, and she tells her class
to withhold judgment at what she claims is the new dress code.

Amy Adams

Amy Adams is firmly in the Charlize Theron camp of extreme beauty.  Amy has such joy, but she’s married as the day is long, so we avoid her discussion...

It has often been said that a man who criticizes a woman’s weight has a death wish.  Yet I am concerned — frankly, I am much more than concerned — about a Pantheon actress.  Amy looks significantly heavier than she has in the past.  Maybe she is only hormonal, but if you see a recent photo, you would doubt this.  Did her marriage tank, did her kid have to take remedial French (who hasn’t been there?)

Please, if you live in Amy’s neighborhood, and can assist her: walk her dog, get her car washed, reshingle her roof, read lines opposite her for her latest, referee fights with her significant others, or make her a nutritious breakfast, please do so.  I have done my part in alerting the Universe (and so am now a target for all of Hollywood).

Now it is up to you, Amy’s friends, family, and neighbors, to pick up the slack, and get Amy back in fine fettle.  For key roles, Hollywood actresses have been known to lose sixty pounds in two weeks, but still, starvation diets leave stretch marks, and Amy, we don’t need you looking like a prune...

Amy is not a natural redhead, she is actually a blonde.  The same goes for Emma Stone.  Tragically, and with no sense of remorse, both have been pulling the wool over our eyes for years, make that decades.  They whisper Hollywood has no soul, that it’s all fake, well, now we know the rumors are all true.  Virginia, there is no Santa Claus, okay?

Nicole Kidman is an actual redhead.  For those keeping score at home: Charlize Theron is a blonde, Gwyneth Paltrow is, too.  Unless we get anymore shocking news, like we did with Amy and Emma, Lindsay Lohan is also a redhead.  Kim Kardashia was originally a blond (see Taylor Swift section for explanation).

Amy said that once her ’do went ginger, she started getting all the feisty, quirky, fun roles.  When she was a blonde, she got roles playing stuck-up bimbos.  By the way, if you read about a hair color fraud of which most are unaware, or better, notice one yourself; please drop us a line at the ...

Just like Ashley Judd, Amy Adams has credited the guy said to be hanging by his wrists two-thousand-years ago for all of her success.  Both tithe at least fifty percent of their salary to Pope Francis, either by dropping million dollar checks when the hat goes ’round at the daily services they attend, or during their annual audience with the Pope.  Depending how that goes, they decide if Francis gets one, five, or ten million dollars.

In the Vatican, each of them have gardens of reflection named after them with appropriately blessed, Holy water fountains.  The fountains include life-size, true-to-life, nude marble figurines of the starlets in contemplative, religious poses (although some have said the poses are much more suggestive than contemplative or religious).  Amy’s statue is entitled Amy Bathing Girlfriend at the Eden Pools, while Ashley’s is called Ashley enjoying Young Woman.

Both statuary get millions of parishioners on pilgrimages every year, and are included in many, premium Vatican tour packages, but these are extremely popular, so book well in advance...

Here’s a little known fact.  Just like Gwynnie Paltrow, Amy is only three foot, ten inches tall.  Shh, we don’t want her secret to get too far away from her.  People don’t notice because image in Hollywood is only a matter of camera angles and the proper lighting.  They are both co-chairs of Hollywood’s Mighty Midgets for Height Tolerance.  They both regularly appear at major charity events to raise awareness of their “crippling tinyness,” and where, donning football helmets and padding, they are celebrated for what they are in dwarf-tossing competitions...

Surprisingly, Amy Adams has a tramp stamp the size of a football on her lower back.  In fact, she has two of them, both in celebration of the Hells Angels of which she has signed on as a lifetime club member.  Before Amy turned to acting, she was a biker chick.  Then at the insistence of her biker boyfriend, she became a trucker hooker where her street name was the “Red Menace.”  When asked about the tattoos, and her lifestyle back in the day, Amy had this to say:

“Hey, man, c’mon, we’re all on our own groovy, little trip.  I’m responsible for my head trip, and you’re responsible for yours.  And I’ll tell you what this world needs, it’s a bit less buzz kill.  Capeche? — you think maybe just a bit?  We need more good times flyin’ down the interstate on our hogs at a hundred miles per with the wind in our hair.  And less of that nasty buzz kill.  Get it?  Got it?  Good.”  [To the student of dialects and linguistics, Amy borrows from Detroit Street Gab, Lower East Side Mob Hustle, and a rare version of High School Wasteland.  Of course, this reflects her hardscrabble upbringing as a street urchin.]

That’s the irrepressible Amy Adams, or “Ten-buck Amy,” as she was known when she worked the I-95, snowbird corridor on her Harley from Bangor, Maine to Sarasota Springs, Florida...

We have sad news to report, Amy Adams has gotten married.  Sure, this is great news for her, but for those waiting in the wings it is a time to cut our losses and move on to greener pastures.  Our only hope is that her marriage lasts forever, or at least a few months, enough time for her to understand how fickle the human heart is, and how faulty its judgment can be...

Amy was recently a presenter on the Golden Globes.  That woman is such a charmer, soft-spoken, and demure.  What’s more, most women have lost their looks past forty, but she looks as attractive as ever.  Sigh.

Ms. Adams has been typecast as a princess, although considering her humble roots, this is far from the truth.  Amy was an Army brat traveling from base to base until the age of eight.  Her parents instilled in her an almost all-pervading faith that still guides her to this day.  Amy is a complete sweetheart whose wholesomeness — depending on whether or not you spend Sunday mornings in a spired building — is almost uncanny.

This explains why she worked at Hooters.  In retrospect, she said that while Hootering, as it is known, she quickly learned that short shorts and beer must keep their distance.  After she resigned herself to the fact that she would never be a prima ballerina, she joined a dinner theater troupe in Minnesota for three years (that alone is the makings of a bio pic).  She still looks back fondly on the camaraderie and togetherness there.

Amy Adams’ first of five Oscar nominations was in the year 2005 — surprisingly enough, she has yet to bring the little guy home with her.  She has appeared opposite Clint Eastwood in Trouble with the Curve, and in Steven Spielberg’s Catch Me If You Can with Leonardo DeCaprio.  This particular role offered her proof she could hold her own with the most talented of actors.

Working on her role in Junebug convinced her that acting was her calling.  She has been praised for her range within a role, and between them.  Enchanted, the story of a fairytale princess banished to New York City, was a huge commercial and critical success, with what critics called Ms. Adams breakthrough role.  She played a nun in Doubt, beside Meryl Streep, Viola Davis, and Philip Seymour Hoffman.  In 2013, Amy played a hustler in American Hustle.  Both Ms. Adams and her vehicle were nominated for Academy Awards.

In 2013’s Man of Steel, Amy played reporter Lois Lane, the love interest of Superman.  Also in the cast were Diane Lane, cosmetically aged to play Superman’s mother, Russell Crowe as the Man of Steel’s natural father, Kevin Costner as Superman’s adoptive Dad, and Laurence Fishburne as Perry White, Lois’ editor at the Daily Planet.  While abetted with this stellar cast, the script of this installment of the franchise was noticeably lackluster, as the characters lacked any real depth.  Amy’s performance was a joy to watch as per the usual, but there was no engaging, relatable dynamic pitting good versus evil.

Despite Ms. Adams’ classy femininity, down-home integrity, modesty, sincerity, and grace, she has claimed to be shy in large groups.  Because of her great looks, talents, and intellect, one would wonder why she doesn’t realize that she is held in such great esteem.  In this regard, and given her auburn mane, she reminds one of Nicole Kidman.

With the Sony email hack, it was learned that Amy and Jennifer Lawrence were given two fewer percentage points of the back end, post-expenses, gate receipts from American Hustle than their male counterparts, one of whom is a virtual unknown.  This amounts to $4 million that is not hers because of gender bias that I would have to think would be very difficult to refute by Sony in a court of law ($250M gate - $50M budget * 2% ‘gross points’ difference between the good ol’ boys and Amy).

Salary discrimination and employment bias based on gender is a very serious crime, but remember that back here in the States, any crime with a gender or race component is given the “nudge, nudge, wink, wink,” once-over.  These crimes do not matter, because if you are not a white male with money or authority, you do not matter.  Just after the announcement of the Sony salary leak, Amy was seen twirling a bird feather at a press conference for a different movie from another studio.  I would have to imagine that the feather temporarily placated the desire to throw chairs.

Ms. Adams guest-hosted Saturday Night Live a few nights after the devastating news from Sony, and carried the non-Sweeps-month show anyhow.  Surprisingly, Amy has a beautiful, operatic-quality singing voice, and not so surprisingly, she has very sexy dancing moves.  The last sketch involving two runners of a kitten shelter was the warmest, and the most natural that night, and I thought the best, part for Ms. Adams to play.

The Today Show, an NBC/Comcast crummiest cable production (does NBC stand for “Nothing But Crap”?), cancelled having Amy as a guest because she did not want to discuss the Sony Hack, and how she was contractually raped out of $4 million by the head guy at Sony.  A rape, contractual or otherwise, is a difficult topic for a woman to discuss, and there might even be legal ramifications of answering questions of that nature as well.  This cancellation was something of a blow for Ms. Adams who was attempting to promote a film not in especially wide distribution.

As a “news organization,” Today claims to be even-handed and their producers need to talk about whatever it is that would make their ratings soar.  So to demonstrate their even-handedness, and their tacit desire to be the first to uncover stories without concern for anyone’s feelings, I suggest they ask GW Bush if he would have invaded Iraq had he known four thousand-plus U.S. soldiers would be killed, that there were no weapons of mass destruction, and that there was no relationship between Osama Bin Laden and Saddam Hussein.  Have Bush spend several hours discussing that.  Ask this question, and then you might be able to run around saying how even-handed of a “news organization” you are.  Until then, subjects do not decide the questions — where on Earth?

Amy picked up her first Golden Globe for Big Eyes as the painter Margaret Keane, who created great original art for which her husband tried to take all the credit.  Ms. Adams had been nominated for five other Golden Globes, and five Oscars, but this is her first keeper as she was long overdue for her turn at the podium (Amy gave a truly beautiful, non-self-congratulatory, acceptance speech, by the way).

Just recently, Ms. Adams was at the airport and noticed a serviceman with a seat in coach.  As stated, her father was in the military, and she must well understand their travails.  In typical Amy fashion, she swapped her first class ticket for his one in coach.  How is that for generosity of spirit?

I would have to think the toughest role for an actress to play is of herself as a bona fide movie star.  All can see that Ms. Adams vibrantly beams that part more and more with every one of her movies’ photo calls, and much more importantly, in her films.  With five Oscar nominations, Amy is not on her way to making it, she is there for good.

From all outward appearances, Ms. Adams originally thought of herself only as an actress, but now has warmed up to the public relations role incumbent in marketing a large Hollywood production.

To top of Pantheon



Charlize Theron

Of the entire lot on this Pantheon page, the one I have the most respect for is Charlize Theron.  (Or Charli — pronounced Shar-lee — to those closest to her.  Her best buds also know her as “Dimples.”)  She’s got it all together, and from every outward appearance she is an unusually pleasant woman.

This photo is via Charlize Theron’s Instagram page. Is Charli, aka “The Face”, as gorgeous on the inside in person, as she is on the outside anywhere else?  Watching her in interviews, one would certainly have to think so.

Charlize Theron

Charlize Theron is Dutch.  That’s right, her first language is Afrikaans, which is a Dutch dialect unique to South African colonials, and she’s a White chick — a White, Dutch chick...

Here’s a quote from Charli’s, Paris interview from 2018, where she speaks her mind about what is so wrong with America:

“Outside of my circle, I face open hostility from strangers, even hostility directed at my children.  America is so sophisticated?  Nope, not so.  Europeans are sophisticated, America is a Trump-sponsored, Klan rally.  I can’t wait to get back to Holland where everyone is civil with one another, and away from all these bullies...”

Then I received this email.

“Other, I am Charlize Theron, and this is libel.  You’re putting words into my mouth that I would never utter.  I love America dearly.  I have a flagpole topped with the red, white, and blue, that’s perched so high, it can be seen by millions from the Santa Monica Freeway.

“And don’t you dare say anything bad about my Donald.  I have nothing but praise for that beautiful God of manhood.  At the White House Celebrates Hollywood Month, I’m all over my honey, my Trump Meister.  Once Melania turns her back I go in for the kill.

“He is one virile, potent dude.  Trump makes my socks melt.  And it’s not just Trump Towers Manhattan, it’s his family, too.  The Trumps remind me of the Corleones, except more of a Corleone lite.  You know what I’m getting at?

“Anyhow, my passion for America has no bounds — none.  And the freedoms only Americans enjoy?  Do you understand how many soldiers die all the time so we may live free, so we may have private conversations with friends?  Many, many, die, Other...”

I’ll have to draft some type of response to Charlize, do I need a lawyer for this?...

Charlize Theron will be launching a nationwide ad campaign on Oscars night shilling bargain-basement, Budweiser beer.  With Charlize’s well-recognized and very substantial talents, she needs to have a sideline selling suds?  American beer is not even such great beer.  Canadian beer like Molson Golden is much better than American piss water...

Finding Your Roots is a long-running show on PBS (Public Broadcasting System), hosted by Henry Louis Gates Jr.  In it, celebrity guests learn everything about their genealogy, even learning some things they probably didn’t want to know.

Charlize Theron was on the show recently where her true racial identity was revealed.  Born in South Africa, she’s an African American who’s actually White, or is she?

Mr. Gates ran her DNA against the Mumbabwe tribal databank in Dahomey Kingdom.  Mumbabwe 16th Century, papyrus birth certificates were kept in a central depository inside a quonset hut, in the middle of every village.  Once the show’s investigators found the depository (beneath hundreds of bibles left behind by frustrated missionaries), it was not a problem at all verifying Charli’s genetic results.

As it turns out, Charlize is both an Oscar-winner, and a Black, albino African.  During the ruthless, colonial slave trade, the Chieftain had all the albino men and women of their Black tribe intermingle and mate.  This way, Charlize’s direct ancestors would be overlooked as slave prospects because they appeared White.

“That’s right, Charlize, your great, great, great, great grandmother was Lamoyne, but your great, great, great grandmother was Mary Elizabeth.  How does it feel to be one hundred percent Black African? — if simply albino Black.”

“I am stunned, I’m a Black person in a White shell?”

“That’s right, you were protected from becoming a slave by having your bloodline made ivory, with albino Blacks.”

“I have to tell my kids this.  I adopted two Blacks kids and they always looked at me askance for being White bread.  Well, now they won’t have to, I’m one of them, right down to the genetic level...”

Charlize Theron is releasing her new stoner classic: Why Everybody must get Stoned.  In it, she plays a wake and bake clerk at a super store of an inconsequential town named Dullesville, one where no one has ever gotten high.  Charlize takes every customer into the storage closet and proceeds to blow their minds with the strongest sinsemilla.

Eventually the entire town is toking, including Mayor Numbnuts, Pastor Buford, and Sheriff White-bread, all former owners of Dullesville’s once-thriving whiskey distillery, yet now dreadlock-donning stoners...

By the curtain close, Charli is getting high fives all around for her primo bud and cannabis marketing acumen.  Why Everybody must... is headed for a Christmas release under Charlize’s own production company, Daphne and Dubuque, and Hallmark Heart Warmers...

Who caught the Golden Globes?  And did you see who the looker among the lookers was?  That’s right, our Charli Theron.  There is a huge professional problem with her beauty, because any one she plays automatically lacks realism.  No one but Charli looks this good.  Ms. Theron has been relegated to become an Oscar-winning action hero.  She is passed over for any serious dramatic scripts.

Well, I have the solution, Charli.  You need to look your age, you need to honor your maturity, you need crows feet, you need lines on your face.  Then you will have realism, and roles that adults would appreciate.  This is how you get that aging: Live for a month in a bus terminal, or in the woods.  Follow this with a three-month cocaine bender.  This is what is known as method acting.

That is how you succeed in Hollywood, looks do not matter there, we all know this.  To get out of the action hero trap, you must look your age, Charli.  Now, get ready for your agents constant calls, ones begging you to play wizened women deciding whether to kill for a Happy Meal, or to kill for a cigarette.  Oh, wait, did you already play that in Monster?...

Charli finally followed my advice and tried to arrange a return of her adoptive moppets.  Things did not quite go as planned, however.  Charli presented them to the orphanage, and the orphanage director told her their policy: “Orphans sold here will not be accepted for return.”

Per my earlier coaching of Charli, she started throwing everything in sight: computer monitors, pencil sharpeners (it was an old facility), chairs, desks, on and on.  Orphanage workers started filming this on their cell phones, and that’s when things really got nasty.

Ms. Theron started screaming: “I DO NOT WANT THESE MOPPETS!!!  DO YOU UNDERSAND ME?!!!  DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH WORK IT TAKES TO RAISE THEM!!!  TAKE THEM BACK, NOW!!!”  And then she ran outside with every employees cell phone and threw them into oncoming traffic on the one-oh-one, where the phones were all run over and smashed into bits.

After Charli told me this, I knew we needed to come up with a better plan, but unfortunately for her, I didn’t have one...  Yet, they were orphans from Africa — that’s it!  We would Fedex them back to Africa, where they came from!  High fives, all around...  To be continued...

Charli, as your best friend (or at least I’m in your top twenty), it is time we talked about returning your moppet.  He is under performing.  Get your family attorney, or your business one, and bring the moppet down to the orphanage, and demand a refund.  If one is not forthcoming, you have a variety of legal measures to put your moppet back in the hands of the orphanage.

At this point, your moppet will retain a public defender.  Do not worry.  Public defenders are not actual attorneys, they go to correspondence law school.  Your moppet will not, repeat, will not beat this rap.  Find a judge you like at Los Angeles Municipal Courthouse.  Just flash some thigh, and they’ll come running.

Demand back wages for tending to this moppet.  Demand restitution of all food costs for feeding said moppet.  They will ask for receipts at this point, again, flash thigh.  This is American justice.  Eventually, the orphanage will relent, and give you everything you ask for.

If you find the wheels of justice slowing, start screaming at the judge in charge of your case.  This looks bad for them, and you are high profile, so you will get all you want from these monkeys.  They do not expect respect, show them your thigh under the table and hike your skirt.  That’s what they expect.  In gratitude, they will make the orphanage pay triple damages.  This is how the system works, you just need to game it.  Justice has now been served...

Charlize Theron’s moppet, Jackson, is five years old or so.  He is very fascinated with girls, so much so that he wears pink costumes with long trails.

The fear in Hollywood, across America, and everywhere on Earth is that he is transitioning into a girl.  Charli cries every night and gives daily masculinity lessons to Jackson per Tom Cruise and John Wayne (good luck to you, Charli).  Charli has introduced Jackson to full-contact football, and jiu-jitsu, in the hopes it will spark a more masculine nature.

I would imagine there aren’t many males in his orbit, especially ones he finds relatable.  He does have Charli as a Mom, and a regular parade of Charli’s super model girlfriends, so I’d have to think he’s kinda into the girl scene, and not at all into the boy one.

Visit the Theron household when Jackson is ten years of age, and I’d have to think Jackson’s gender orientation falls along the usual gender lines.  I guess if he liked girls, his Halloween transvestitism would mean nothing to Charli and the authorities, school and penal.  I wouldn’t let him go to school dressed like Snow White though, kids would talk...

All’s well with Charli.  She is not in any intractable legal situations.  She’s not seeking a cash refund for any of her moppets from the orphanage.

Which, of course, brings me to Charli’s dancing, she is an incredibly feminine dancer.  In fact, she was a dancer, until she got into Hollywood.  The pearly gates of Tinseltown opened wide, and the night she got her first role, in 2 Days in the Valley, she rode up Mulholland Drive in the San Fernando Valley, gloating, and perching herself above downtown Los Angeles as a heron might.

She had made it at last, it took one incredibly long, soul-searching, week.  Come on, look at that face, “The Face.”  I’m just surprised Hollywood talent scouts don’t find her when they scoured Cape Town or Soweto, her favorite haunts on Earth.  Instead, she had to fly into LAX, get a room, walk into a bank, and get discovered.  One effing week, Hollywood, you have nerve.  You made Charli wait one goddamn week?  For shame, for shame...

Ms. Theron is making every effort to give back to her native South Africa.  As we speak, Charli is having ribbon-cutting ceremonies for 87, count ’em, Charli’s Mud Pie Restaurants.  Because they are horribly poor down there, they have learned to subsist on mud, specifically mud pies.

These are not your Mom’s delicious mud pies made of chocolate and old-fashioned goodness.  Instead, these are made of, well, dirt and water, or mud.  Her family was given the secret mud pie recipe by her servants, ones she kept before the end of Apartheid.

The franchises were test-marketed in both Cape Town and Soweto, and test groups remarked on how faithful they were to decades-old mud pie recipes.  The marketing kit depicts Charli shaking her fists at the Gods in appreciation and adulation.

This is yet another business for the Charli portfolio.  She already has her Rags to Riches Boutiques that sells, well, rags.  We applaud Charli’s ingenuity in further colonizing the colonized with, truth be told, questionable yet profitable goods.  Charli has said that all profits from the mud pies and rags after her salary go to important neighborhood charities such as Cannabis South Africa...

Charli hates the intrusiveness of the paparazzi.  They follow her everywhere, they interfere with her life.  She does not like them around, but they do not care.  Charli scowls seeing them, likely in an attempt to make their photos of her worthless, and denying the pesky paparazzi a pay check.

A super star of Charli’s caliber does not need the extra promotion of the paparazzi, she is globally known already.  That is, unless a new movie of hers is being released, then she has to pretend as though the photogs are her best friends in the world.

Come to think of it, Charli well understands boundaries, the paparazzi are encroaching on hers, and if she believed in hand guns, they’d all be dead...

What’s new with “The Face”?  Charli was in the Emirates, or Saudi Arabia, or Yemen?  She was in one of the places promoting kids’ welfare, or was this for a disease-free kid, or maybe teen STD prevention?  She was on a panel discussion — she looked so hot as always.  At least this part I remember very well.  Hey, I’m in the general ballpark.

(By the way, I was advised by a conscientious, a what, an annoying meddler?  He said I should not talk so appreciatively of women’s beauty.  I guess I am only supposed to regard the most gorgeous women on earth by their intellectual capacity, which I like to do anyway.  It’s just that if you are looking at a girlie magazine, which social media might be seen as to some extent, do you think to yourself: “Damn, what were her SAT scores?...”)

Charli had to bow out of the Oscars this year because of insomnia (see discussion below).  So she did her best to make a few bucks on the pair of free tickets, and scalped them along Sunset Boulevard by waving them at passing motorists.  She later told Us Weekly that she turned a tidy profit, selling both tickets for $7,000 apiece to a Russian couple wearing turbans and knickers.

She said she’ll use the proceeds for a good cause, that being her sleep meds, which are a kilo of primo Sensimilla.  At $14,000 per kilo, this is affordable if you are an Oscar winner, and you are a household name (see Jennifer Connelly profile for one who is definitely the former, and not so much the latter)...

I’ve run Charli’s insomnia problem through a few statistical models.  I know her height and weight through IMDb, so it was just a matter of uploading her personality metrics that I keep into the diagnostics profiler account.  I have one set up at McGill University for just such an occasion.

I won’t bore you with methodology, but what she needs to do, is to have a shot or two of whiskey, a glass of wine, or a bottle of beer, and only on occasion, to get to bed at a reasonable hour.  Weed may be her drug of choice, but alcohol has only one psychoactive drug in it, alcohol; while grass has THC, and apparently several more, or even many more, compounds.

Medicinal weed and recreational weed are meant for different purposes.  Charli, you’re looking for weed that’s a combo of the two, which may not even exist.

True, alcohol is more addictive long term (for Northern Europeans especially, possibly much more addictive), but it fully excretes short term.  Or you could even try Phenobarbital, if you’re aiming to get a coma-like, near-death experience.

You can also clear your head by speaking with a counselor.  Find one that has the appropriate level of expertise for dealing with whatever is on your mind.  If you’re dealing with the loss of your pet turtle, Moscow, you will need less intensive therapy, and require a less trained therapist, than if you keep a dagger in your office desk drawer to “take care” of your boss, the producer.

You know what, Charli, this is what you do, you build an olympic track and field oval in your back yard.  You have the money, just buy out your neighbor for their extra land, or just get them condemned somehow, you have the legal resources.

Anyhow, nearing bedtime, you start jogging, and you don’t stop until you are ready to collapse.  That’s how you get to sleep, the old fashioned way, you earn it.  How do I know so much about medicine?  Am I a practicing physician?  Well, I was almost pre-med as an undergrad, just do the math...

Looks like Charlize is hooked up again.  She was a self-confessed wake and baker, meaning she began every day with bong hits.  Now that she’s losing patience with her sleep habits, she feels it is time to go back into the deep, sluggish and lazy waters of cannabis usage that she left near a dozen years earlier.  I would guess she found a connection who told her how to get back on track sleep-wise.

The reason she stopped waking and baking in the first place was because she started to get boring, and at one point found herself staring at length at her refrigerator.

Charlize does not think that this new habit could knock her seriously off track.  If she were a warehouse worker and she needed a means of amusement or relaxation, then on a Saturday night, could that kill her?  But no, she had a wake and bake habit for starters, and plus, she is a world leader who dozens, if not hundreds or even thousands depend on for her complete clarity of mind and judgment.  Maybe there is a talk show host “friend” with large boobs pulling strings.  I will be the epitome of discretion and not mention any names.

You know what it is, it’s her moppets again.  I keep telling her to return them to the orphanage for a full refund.  An orphanage cannot sell you sub-prime moppets.  Speak to the FTC, they would love to hear stories about defective orphanage product.  There are laws governing moppet sales.  Was your moppet part of a sale, a BOGO?  Was the moppet, buy one, get one free?  They unload slow-moving moppets in this way, you know.  Your youngster may be a lemon, and is subject to State and Federal Lemon Laws typically reserved for used-cars.

I bet you were waking and baking when the terms of your moppet purchase were reached.  Yes, Charli, admit it, you took one toke over the line in your Rolls, just to relieve the so acute stress of moppet financing.  Once you cemented your reputation as a wake and baker, the orphanage knew they could take advantage at the bargaining table.

Charli, you want to fall asleep?  Then this is what you do.  You put your head on the pillow, and you imagine the successful return of your moppet to the orphanage at full price.  Either this, or imagine your moppet winning some prestigious award, like the Nobel Prize, or an Oscar.  Or just imagining them putting their dinner dishes in the sink can do the trick.  You will sleep like a baby...

All quiet on the Charli front, as she likes it given her serene style.  Hopefully, she will have read my advice on orphanage returns.  I keep saying, if they won’t accept returns of her unruly moppet adoptees, you can seek damages.

First check the California Consumer Protection Board.  If you cannot get satisfaction there, then go to the Federal Trade Commission.  Orphanages cannot be selling sub-standard moppets, and it’s bad business, especially from the sensational headlines if they get caught.

Charli, you know I’m on your side, I only offer sound advice.  So if you aren’t absolutely thrilled with your moppets, it is time to upgrade to more feature-rich ones that can, say, compose classical music arias, and never whine...

Charlize Theron is an African American, having been born in Cape Town, or some such outpost, and while she has been in America for over twenty years, she still struggles desperately with the understanding of the English language.  Her native language is Afrikaans, and she still speaks it to this day, requiring her multitude of servants to speak it as well.

I know all this because we date on and off (sadly though, more off recently as she started hooking up with the LA polo crowd — damn).  How did a blogger meet up with an Oscar winner?  Well, this is a fascinating story...

I joined online dating, specifically Plenty of Dates.  Because of my amazing, interpersonal technique, and my sincerity (not to mention my NFL-caliber physique), I was bumped to the top of the dating heap, as it were.  I was set up with the top-secret, Special Z Pool, which is comprised of half the starlets in Hollywood.

Billionaire bachelors, and even married gentlemen, each pay tens of thousands of dollars every month to correspond with the Special Z Pool, but for me it was gratis, because of the unusual rapport I have with women.  They signed up, and stayed subscribed to Plenty of Dates by the hundreds, just to hear me prattle on stuff.

So that’s how Plenty of Dates set me up with Charli.  Like I said, she cannot speak English for beans, so we would go to the local sandwich shoppe, and I would drill her on vocab.

For instance, “Charli, vocabulary, vo-cab-u-lar-y, do you understand what that word means?” And she would invariably shake her head no.  So I would say something like: “the stock of words used by or known to a particular people or group of persons,” right off the top of my head.  She was so impressed.

Eventually, her vocabulary improved enough that she could read scripts, like the one that won her the Oscar for “Snow White and the Huntsman.”  I prepped her extensively before the ceremony: “Oscars, Charli, Oscars, repeat after me, Oscars, where they give away statuettes to the best looking...”

Charli cried after the show, saying she would have included me in the acceptance speech, but the orchestra cut her off for going too long.  Ah, c’est la vie, I said.  That’s French for: “the time is nigh — nigh, Charli, nigh...”

On the Internet, you can find a photograph from 2002 of Charlize smoking from an apple bong.  Or at least the National Enquirer says it’s her.  It doesn’t look much like her, both in her face and in her body.

Charlize has never come out of the (smoke-filled) closet admitting to be a big stoner like others in Hollywood have.  What’s more, she now has kids, so that would prevent her living the life of a pothead.

It’s probably not her in the photo, although it’s a little surprising that with her money, she didn’t try to take down the National Enquirer in retaliation.  Plus, she can’t afford a real bong, she can only make one out of an apple?  If she’s a stoner, she’s an amateur hour stoner...

“At Pantheon dinner last night, Charli and I exchanged words.”  To which Heather replied, “but you two were so tight.”  “Well,” I say, “She loves going to the fights — boxing, that is.  I keep telling her that boxing was no longer a sport once Ali went on his losing streak.  You know, the one that gave him Parkinson’s, and brought him a slow death.  It was a tragic end to an otherwise incredible career.

“I tell Charli, ‘You’re from South Africa, get into soccer or cricket.  You know that Ashley loves basketball.  There’s a wholesome sport.  Check out a University of Kentucky men’s game with her.  It’s athleticism without the stitches and the shakes of boxing.’

“But she’ll have none of this.  She loves watching men beat the crap out of one another.  She even goes for UFC human cockfighting.  She says, and this is a verbatim quote: ‘I enjoy the art of boxing.  Okay, who am I kidding?  It’s because I’m from South Africa, and that’s how we enjoy our men — macho, courageous, and lethal with their fists.    Have you seen the movies I choose to headline?  What can I say, I enjoy the bloodshed of revenge.  I would absolutely love to be in a Tarantino movie.  Two-fisted retaliation, M16 mayhem, lawless gun crazies, I am there.  Bring it on, Quentin.  I’m your girl.’

“Heather, I keep thinking that she’s only in a phase.  She won’t be 85 years old and screaming: ‘Let’s see blood.  Knock his block off.  And do it in the seventh because I have five bills riding on this one.’  She won’t be saying that like she did at the Mayweather fight last week...”

Charlize is always championing her side, her cause, or more specifically, her female gender, and she will only work in movies where women dominate men by beating them up mercilessly — as she now does in her star vehicle, Atomic Blonde.  At The Other Letter, we believe in equal time and balanced cinema, so we will be creating a new franchise with many, many sequels, that we will be calling Man is Rising.

It will feature women deferring to men in all the most important forms of endeavor: commerce, professional sports, cuisine, government, bullfighting, skydiving, and hand-to-hand combat.  The next sequel, patterned upon the first, sure blockbuster will be Woman cannot Live a Day without Man.  In direct opposition to Theron, sequel after sequel will delve into all the ways women are irrefutably inferior to men.

This represents a cinematic revolt against the Charlize film space.  Patterned after mega-blockbuster Star Wars, in that we are developing eight stories, ours will all show that women cannot function without man telling them what to do, and how to do it.

Thanks for the tip, Theron, in showing the Other Letter team an unmet need to exploit.  At last we have the key to cinematic greatness, and that is Hollywood representation of the power of the super man over weak, crying women, ones who only exist to keep man, their master, satisfied (think Citizen Kane with less cerebral effort on the part of the viewer, along with female subservience)...

Charli, like most major starlets of today, is in the market looking for action, you just know it.  But not just from anyone, from a big league blogger, like the big guy, the Other Letter.  There is a problem here, and this is that starlets enter your life, and leave just as quickly.  One day I have a bevy of beauties in a line at the edge of my bed, hoping to give me a lap dance, the rest they only want face time with a blogger at the top of his game.  But unfortunately, this lap dance-face time combo does not necessarily mean the attention has to come from the same guy all the live long day.

No, it can come from many, many guys.  This is why I demand clean blood work from all my starlets before we get down to business.  Rubbers would work, too.  My point is, Charli has been seen working out at the gym with Keanu Reeves.  I know I could get very upset with Charli, and blow a gasket, but no, I keep my cool, and grill her with a few hours of questions designed to understand how she could, after all we have been through together, start seeing that, well, start seeing that ape.

You see what I’m getting at, when you have all the babes in the Universe doing lap dances and wanting face time, this doesn’t mean they are not lap dancing and face timing with other guys when your back is turned.  This is mostly a free country, even for the Other Letter girls...

Charli apparently thinks she can make a difference in this world, especially in ending AIDS.  What I keep trying to tell her via social media is that this stuff just takes care of itself.  The more Man gets in the way, the longer it will take for this disease to run its course.  Just think back to ancient history and how much human sacrifice and untreated disease played a role in making us a more hardy species, and helped us to advance the gene pool.

That’s right, South Africans are no different from the Mayan and the Inca.  The sick and weak become human sacrifices, the ones pushed into the volcano.  Although here it’s the South African volcano, and they are not dying of mountain rot or lava, they’re dying of the cat house disease.  Once you understand the science and economics involved, Charli, what I’m saying will all make perfect sense to you.  People cost money.  Money is limited.  Save the valuable ones, throw away the waste products.  The healthy stay, the diseased get hurled into the volcano.  Have them satisfy the bloodlust of the God of something or other.  What do we care?

Do we coddle the sick and dying?  No, because then they will only continue to breed.  Only look after the strong and fit.  In order for the strong to not starve (because the sickly will eat everything in sight), the weakest must be pushed into the volcano, the STD volcano.  Always promote the survival of the fittest or the luckiest, Charli, because this Darwinism is entirely cost-effective.  Gene pool cleanliness is next to godliness.

Do not make the mistake of asking the West for help, our plate is full.  First and foremost, our gun issue comes before your national sex problem.  In America for instance, we need more guns, jellyfish types say less, but locked and loaded or not, ultimately it is every man for himself.

If you would only listen, this is the lesson God is always trying to teach you South Africans: claw your way to the top of the dung heap.  This is what life has been all about since the days of the Garden of Eden.  That’s God’s only hope for us, that to survive, we become self-interested and selfish.  Once your people learn these golden lessons which I am handing down to them via social media, they will live in self-centered bliss until the day they die, just like your big brother Americans have been living, and will live forever...

Do you know the reason why Tobey McGuire and Tom Hardy found Charli to be so notoriously difficult on the set?  They both gave the same reason.  She is so damn hard on the eyes.  To put it bluntly, she’s one of the most hideous looking trolls ever to walk the face of this earth.  Her sight in plain daylight is enough to make the average man get nauseous; and the leading men in her movies wish they were back in their trailers playing video games.  To play opposite her in a love scene requires having a production assistant nearby with an air sickness bag.

To quote Tobey: “Retch!!!  Okay, I think I can do this now.  Retch!!!  Almost.  Retch!!!  Can I have my back turned away from her in this love scene?  Retch!!!”

As clichéd as it sounds, Charlize Theron wants to make the world, particularly her native South Africa, a better place, and devotes considerable time and energy doing just that — especially regarding her continent’s out-of-control, and ignored, AIDS epidemic.  Charli’s upbringing has made her unusually resilient and courageous, yet thoroughly compassionate and kind-hearted.  Charlize possesses a spirit as free and beautiful as nature itself.

Given her looks, it is more than a little curious that the roles she generally plays are anti-heroes, and her parts are very rarely ones that are just sweetness and light.  Charlize Theron won a Best Actress Academy Award for her riveting portrayal of the prostitute, Aileen Wuornos, in Monster.  The Academy nominated her again for another non-fiction role — one that defied any typecasting — of the miner, Josey Aimes, in North Country...

Great news for Aileen Wuornos fans, there is a sequel in the making for those needing a lighter introduction to the whole Monster saga.  With a working title of Lighten Up, Monster, or Time for Dancing, Aileen, this version will be for those less familiar with the original movie, and looking for a more upbeat, date movie.  Get ready for dance numbers with the original cast, including Charlize, of course.  Pre-production has already begun as Ms. Theron has been shipped a 200-pound box of chocolates to get her weight up to where it needs to be.  Understandably, the ending has been rewritten, and it is a very happy one, as Aileen swears off all illegal activities, and eventually marries the Chief of the Pensacola, Florida police department.

Were that not enough, Charli has a great sense of humor no one seems to know about — she has a deft turn of phrase, a subtle twist of logic.  For instance, that ‘engagement ring’ Charli was caught by paparazzi sporting at LAX the other day, looks like something one would find at the bottom of a Cracker Jack box.  The tabloids jumped on this one though: “THERON’S GETTING HITCHED!!!”  Sean shouldn’t have offered such extravagance, he really shouldn’t have.  We are all waiting for paparazzi photos of Sean stumbling into a jewelry store.

Ms. Theron is so elegant, but in a natural, vivacious, and wholesome way, she makes it incredibly difficult on the competition.  Charli possesses such intellect, taste, and genuine warmth.  As seen above, she is just so gorgeous — her beauty is almost other-worldly.

Charlize Theron’s most recent film, Mad Max: Fury Road, is getting rave reviews, especially because it is seen in many circles as a feminist action picture — the women kick butt, with Ms. Theron’s Imperator Furiosa doing most of the damage.  Per the film’s press releases, Charli decided to keep her head shaved from start to finish.  One would have to think that because she is so widely known as an actress, no one would believe her as anyone other than herself, Charlize Theron, on screen unless she was well-disguised.

Most recently, Charlize was the guest host on Saturday Night Live.  What would have to be the most challenging sketch was the one where she sings.  To the best of my knowledge, Ms. Theron has not done any singing numbers in any of her movies, she has never been known for her vocal abilities, nor has she ever fronted a rock band.  But she pulled this one off: without cutting away to commercial half-way through; without anyone cringing on-stage — and most likely without anyone cringing off-stage as well; and with everyone wondering why she has not sang in any of her movies (I would link to the Youtube video, but SNL does not offer every sketch there).  Might a reprise of Monster as a musical be in the works?

Much to the delight of people who can appreciate science, Ms. Theron has criticized newfangled, gluten-free diets — outside of those required for celiac patients — as a So Cal, New Age way of getting everyone, especially the diet-conscious, more dizzy about food than they already are, if that is possible.  (It must be noted however, that there is apparently enough science supporting the healthiness of products made gluten-free, that just about every food today has a label touting that it is no longer being made with any of it.  Old School pragmatism versus the experiential or anecdotal New School, it’s your call.)

Charli forgot to pay her tab on her $3.75, frozen yogurt treat.  So in typical, Hollywood mega-star fashion she paid her concerned server with a Benjamin, a one-hundred dollar bill.

Most recently in the news, Ms. Theron proves once again that she is one of the World’s most beautiful women, both inside and out.  She gave a homeless person a fiver at a 7-11 in her hometown of Brentwood.  On that acclaimed app for So Cal’s homeless, Spare-Change, Charli’s generosity bumps up her convenience store’s parking lot to a Triple-$ prospect rating from a Single-$.

Besides all this, in 2008, she was designated a United Nations Messenger of Peace.

Even more recently, Ms. Theron wrapped up shooting on Monster 2: The African Connection.  Turns out, Aileen Wournos never really died in the gas chamber, but escaped via the help of prison guards in exchange for profit participation in a movie deal.  Charlize’s character hops on a jet to Africa where she has escaped detection by law enforcement officials for the last twenty years.  Her guise has been so complete, she now looks like an international super-model as well as an Oscar-winning actress, and is mistaken as such everywhere she goes.  The protagonist even began a charity endeavor that bears the name of this new alias.  Is this art imitating life?  Life imitating life?  Who knows, as long as we get to watch Charlize on the screen again, and gratefully, not with her head shaved like we had to witness in Mad Max 13: the Road Warrior Cruises over Sand.

Charlize will star next in The Huntsman Winter’s War.  Plot details are not yet known, except she will be reprising her role as Queen Ravenna.  This is probably a prequel because her character died in 2012’s Snow White and the Huntsman.  Most of the movies in which Ms. Theron appears in have huge budgets and recoup their entire investment, although many, while not at all flops, just break even.  To financiers, simply getting their money back is apparently enough of an investment incentive.  The hope must be that as word of mouth increases for her franchises, they will become more and more profitable.  Either that, or the investors are billionaires who just want to know what it feels to be a part of a Hollywood production that has Charlize Theron getting top billing — and they hope to meet her in person.

While Ms. Theron is the absolute picture of cosmopolitan perfection, one might see a few signs that Charlize has been hardened from her hard scrabble upbringing in South Africa.  For instance, every sentence of hers begins with a four-letter word (and it’s not “Babe,” or “Sean”).  And she refers to all Americans as “those whiny, uncouth, ineffectual, immature children.”  This is because South Africans are so poor, and so entirely self-sufficient, most subsist entirely on mud and tree bark which they have to yank away from the wildebeests.  Off sound stage, Charlize tells jokes so dirty it makes all her porn star girlfriends blush.  Then she’ll recount every murder in every Quentin Tarantino movie to the point where even the actors get nauseous.  Or between takes, she’ll reenact every scene from Monster where she shoots up the johns...

An actress recently took Charlize to task for Charli’s comments regarding how acting parts are less available because of her striking appearance.  But isn’t it obvious that an actress can be rejected for a part because they’re too good looking?  For instance, a role is written into the script who doesn’t get the gawking because she looks like, well, Amy Schumer.  There’s no chance Charlize would ever get saddled with that role, even if she hadn’t worked for a decade, because it would be so beneath her, not to say against cast.

The opposite also would prevent plus-size Amy Schumer from a turn playing a statuesque Charlize, because Amy’s a heavy-set, blue comic, even when she says she’s not a plus-size, because she is one.  Amy is like Kim Kardashia, both will do most anything for PR.  In fact, Amy knelt at Kim’s feet on the red carpet.  If she didn’t, no one would ever know who Amy was.  Think of that.  Those stunts helped prevent Blythe Danner from getting her Golden Globe bid, as Amy took Blythe’s nomination for the Best Actress category.


To top of Pantheon



Gwyneth Paltrow

This is the Gwyneth Paltrow mug shot, she is currently at Leavenworth doing hard time for negligent homicide.  She sold vitamins that were toxic, and several people keeled over and died (see specifics of the actual, factual story below).  The reason for the ball gown is that the inmates are allowed one social each year — Gwynnie’s mom, Blythe, flew in to Kansas to drop off the ball gown.  The day provided a bit of levity for Gwynnie and her fellow prisoners, with Gwynnie providing color matching and accessorizing advice...

From what I’ve seen recently, Gwyneth may have cleaned up her act over at Goop.  It was either that, or defend against legal claims on many fronts for product liability, and unsupportable claims.  I say that we give the kid a break — until further notice...

(Photo: Jared Purdy.
Photoshopped without permission being sought: Other Letter.

Mug shot of Gwyneth Paltrow

These are many of Gwynnie’s celebrity friends.  They are mine as well, but I’m far less public and showy about it.

Anyone who follows the life of Gwyneth Paltrow knows that she is very precise and meticulous.  Yet did you also know that she keeps a three-ring binder entitled, Eulogies for Friends, Family, and Acquaintances.  Each eulogy is updated as new events occur.

While she refuses to divulge any eulogy before “that fateful day,” she did offer “an amusing anecdote” on Martha Stewart’s eulogy.  While the two are not exactly the best of friends, Gwynnie had this to say:

“We went to a White House dinner once, and Martha drank far too much.  I was embarrassed to even be near her, and Secret Service did have to escort her out of the West Wing Dining Hall.

“As Martha was leaving the White House, she projectile vomited into Barack Obama’s face.  The pandemonium was so intense, with the Secret Service running to and fro thinking Martha was a terrorist, and White House staff trying to clean off Barack’s face.

“Because the Sultan of Brunei was there, we had an international incident on our hands, one of escalating magnitude, as Martha could not keep down her gluttonous portions.  I will always remember you for this, Martha, may you rest in peace...”

Gwynnie is being sued by a skier three years after an accident that left Gwynnie entirely uninjured while somehow leaving this same skier with broken ribs and knocking him unconscious.  He claims she was skiing too fast, but was he skiing too slow, or did they just cross tracks?

He also claims he was abandoned on the slope by Gwynnie as if this were a mountainside hit and run.  Apparently, he expected mouth to mouth resuscitation.  There was a witness to the carnage which means there was a means of rescue assuming such a means was necessary.

The victim would need to produce X-rays of his broken ribs as evidence.  I sincerely doubt he’ll be able to do so though.  He’ll say his ribs healed, but these so called incriminating X-rays are still available somewhere, aren’t they?

The wealthy are forced to regularly deal with those trying to glom on to their fortunes and that’s what definitely seems to be in evidence here.

Yet there’s another factor in operation here.  If you live in the public eye, you live in mortal fear of strangers, and you seriously avoid any involvement with them (with my extremely limited exposure to celebrity because of Other Letter, I have experienced the inexplicably, openly hostile and aggressive).

There are a multiplicity of reasons why they are forced to live in fear of strangers: They could be kidnappers, murderers, psychotic fans, or just plain psychotic.  Or as in evidence here, they may also be extortionists who want your money...

Gwynnie’s latest New York Times Famous Author Bestseller is entitled: Shopping Be Not Proud.  Subtitled: Intimate Stories of Every Retail Magnate that only Gwyneth Paltrow Can Tell.

“Chapter One: Jeff Bezos was such an Amazonian Superman that he ignited a fire in my loins I would never extinguish.  Jeff, as I call him, is a billionaire by the way.  We were both still married when we canoodled, but I just could never resist an incredibly wealthy Adonis.  For his part, he said “an Oscar-winner had his interest.”

“We were talking about forever, but he left me as soon as a soufflé I prepared for him couldn’t stay up.  Jeff, honey, sir — okay, you liked to be called master.  Master, if you’re out there, your soufflé will stay up next time.  I promise.  My girlfriends will help with the soufflé.

“He used to call me his prime piece of ass, like Amazon Prime, and prime shipping, but I’m his prime piece of ass.  The words still fall trippingly from my tongue.  That superman is so adorably inventive with complimentary phrases.  I’m not just a piece of ass, but a prime one.  I get chills just saying that.  Hear that, Jeff, er, master?  When you called me a prime piece of ass, it gave me chills.

“Emperor Bezos (another pet name I had for him), has the Midas touch, he can turn water into gold.  Amazon is a mail order catalog business just like Sears Roebuck was at the turn of the Twentieth Century.  Emperor Bezos took that and made it the biggest selling business on this Earth.  Of course, he added e-commerce to his site, but anyone can do that.

“That is genius, my friends, taking a nothing idea and getting filthy rich from it.  I am passionately in love with my dominant superman, Jeff Bezos.  Money, money, money, mm, mm, mm...”

After the drubbing I gave Gwynnie earlier for her supplements not being entirely well-conceived, ones dangerous to anyone who ingests them (read the next article), there is still more I’d like to add to the State of the Goop address.  She’s put heart and soul into her company, a retail operation I’d call aspirational commerce.  Gwynnie’s customers aspire to be like her, but being like her may get very pricey.

If Gwynnie and her marketing team possess a modicum of business acumen, then they are attempting to benefit from inelastic demand by carrying items whose demand is uneffected by price changes.  These are outrageously-priced items meant mostly as a joke and to generate traffic via curiosity.

(The Goop management squad is SoCal however.  If a movie camera is not pointing at them, they get very confused, so business decisions such as pricing cannot be competently made.)

I don’t do lots of my shopping there, they don’t carry much in my gender, or have a Goop X Men brand, and I’m not a cross-dresser, but I have heard a few women on social media say they love the offerings, but it can just get too expensive.

Gwynnie is resented for the price points of this luxe market she has set with Goop, although not her entire line is luxury.  She occupies a single point in the retail matrix of value and price.  She cannot occupy all points, ones including both KMart and Neiman-Marcus.  Goop is her niche, and if this offends you, Dollar Castle has the mom jeans you’re looking to purchase...

Gwynnie will be having a Netflix show where her Goop consumer goods are featured.  Now, does this mean that she’ll be selling her infamous line of potions?  Will she maintain her reputation for selling snake oil?  Or did she drop that product line amidst multiple lawsuits from consumers?

Gwyneth’s foray into the Gwynnie Medicine Show has been a descent into commerce Hell.  People hear bad things about Goop because of her supplement line, and it drives away business across the board, and then that drives up prices.  Gwynnie is a comfortable living, fashion and lifestyle retailer, she is not Doc Gwynnie.

Checking Goop, Gwynnie only partially addressed (at best) what brought on these truth-in-advertising lawsuits.  Eventually the medical injuries will mount, and she will face yet more litigation from a wide, wide variety of disgruntled, hopefully still breathing consumers.

Here’s a prime example of malfeasance following a cursory review of just one product: The Mother Load packet, formulated for pregnant woman.  It contains 5,500 International Units (IU) of Vitamin A.

However, the established UL, or upper limit, is 3,000 IU (and even that is far above the Recommended Dietary Allowance, or RDA, of 700 IU).  Vitamin A — and other fat-soluble vitamins like E and K — can build up in the body and become toxic.

Apparently, to Gwynnie and her Goop team, hustling product to market, and cashing in on her name, is much more important than following scientific recommendations, or any concern for her customers’ well-being, including the health of pregnant women.

Gwynnie’s business creed must be: Take the money and run.  Otherwise, she would do the responsible thing, and take this dangerous product off the market, as well as stop making outrageous claims.

If you misrepresent health goods, you could even be responsible for negligent homicide lawsuits.  This woman is in way over her head, and she seems too stubborn to bother trying to fix matters.  Otherwise, she is looking at her business through $-sign blinders.  Gwyneth gives every impression of putting profits before people.

(In my experience with social media, Ashley Judd is also unusually stubborn.  Anyone can patiently explain what either of them do is wrong in ways that would convince anyone else, but because you’re not a Hollywood industry, or a Washington DC, bona fide, you’re never given the time of day.)

Lets watch Gwynnie’s hair turn gray as she finds out that these consumer protection laws have real teeth, and watch as she heads headlong to her ruin.

The problem that many medical professionals have with her product claims is that there is no science behind them — the claims are pure fiction, or anecdotal at best.  There isn’t any double-blind placebo-active ingredient testing.  Goop is just winging it.  A doctor I know confirmed my beliefs that her line of snake oil is a huge, I mean gigantic, mistake of hers.

These supplements, especially with claims of being “undoubtedly magical,” are well on track to have her living in a walk-up in Montana, and shoveling snow to make money, while Gwynnie’s moppets get out of school early “as part of the Paltrow Hardship Exemption” to grab shovels and support her.

Gwynnie can sell all the haute couture and fashion accessories she’d like, all the bed sheets, throw pillows, and sex toys, this is her strength.  Plus, she is recognized most anywhere on this planet.  She has plenty of good will, but she’s tossing it all away with this product line of, well, crap.

I feel so sorry for her, but she has stepped into the chasm of go-for-broke, easy money and career-ending litigation with her untested, and outrageously priced, snake oil ($90 per month for vitamins et al).  Here’s a claim that could put her in jail for negligent homicide, or even infanticide: “Natal protocol — you can take it prior to conception and while pregnant as well.”

Gwynnie could seek out a White Knight with an investment bank to fix her business model, one free of potions and snake oils, but as it stands right now, she’s treading the very slippery slope of corporate litigation.

She must have been misadvised, or else she decided she’d just wing it, and completely jeopardize the family fortune.  Hopefully, she at least understands limited liability corporations, where she can only be sued for her original investment.  The American commercial environment, both in terms of consumer protection, and industry competitiveness, is far more sophisticated than she knows.

I cannot say how much her potions line contributes to her Goop bottom line (or her other product categories, for that matter) — we haven’t met yet this year so I can conduct my annual review of her income statement — but profit contribution is immaterial.  The particular product line of concoctions is liability suicide.

Gwynnie is so extremely dedicated to being new and different that she has never considered that fundamental health care advice is of any value.  Any clearinghouse function of overlooked or forgotten, yet well-trusted medical info, never appears on the pages of Goop.  Goop started as an intimate blog, now it is just an outlet for nutritional extortion of those desperate.

Gwyneth, if you’re out there, be a hipster and trend-setter in fashion, but forget claiming you’re at the vanguard of people’s health and physical well-being, because Goop isn’t a medical facility, and Goop is not The New England Journal of Medicine.

You’re putting profits before people, and marketing before medical science.  Why do you feel you have any competence in the field of medicine?  You certainly try to pass yourself off as being competent in the field.  Are your customers just suckers you can soak with specious and vacuous claims?...

Gwynnie is coming out with yet another combination, cookbook and spiritual guide.  She writes about four a year now, and she’s beginning to have difficulty coming up with titles for them.

So I thought — because she already titled one, It’s All Good — then why not: It’s All About Me, or, I’m the Greatest, or, Who’s Number One Here?  I Am... or, Don’t You Wish You Were Me?, or, Remember, I’m The Special One In This Relationship...

I emailed her publicist with this treasure trove of book titles, but as of yet, I haven’t heard a response.  That would be their loss, because I see each climbing to the top of the New York Times Bestseller List just on the basis of their title (and the author), which is how they get on there in the first place...

Gwynnie carries around a tote bag with her name emblazoned, “GWYNNIE” in a huge, foot-high typeface.  Either it’s her famous tongue-in-cheek humor making fun of typical starlet insecurity, or it’s a by-product of all starlets’ infamous insecurities, and they’re need for constant attention and validation, everywhere and anytime.

Gwynnie gave a tote to her husband, Chadley, and instead of his name on it, in deference to the one Oscar-winner of the couple, it still reads, “GWYNNIE”...

Gwynnie now features a vibrator on a chain at her Goop store — you can’t make this stuff up.  That’s right, girls, have your vibrator always at the ready, in this necklace pendant.  Use it at work, while waiting in traffic, before dessert at Le Bistro or during the intermezzo at the Rialto Multiplex.  Now, anytime is the right time for, well, you know, self-pleasuring.  Aren’t there laws in the books regarding public lewdness — do we care?...

Gwynnie, in what is likely her final appearance on the large or small screen, plays Consuela, the Hispanic maid on the Jeffersons, the Movie, reboot.  Gwynnie confided with Other Letter: “I’m not getting cast as a leading lady anymore, I was lucky to get this part as a domestic.  I mean, I loved playing Consuela, but the casting made me wonder why I’m still in this industry.  Other, I’m not Hispanic!  So, like Redford at 85, I’m quitting acting at 46...”

Because of obvious legal liability I cannot link to this Youtube, but if you search long enough, you can find it.  In it, Gwynnie is berating her husbands, well, her ex, and Chadley, for their apparent lack of skill in putting up Christmas lights.

Halfway through, at 6:37, bottle of vino in hand, with her daughter, Apple, in tow rolling the camera, GP begins her lengthy tirade: “What the eff is wrong with you ninnies?  Hmm?  Answer that please.  I could do this in ten seconds, but you boys think you got it all going on, don’t you?  Hmm?  Why did I marry such a pair of losers?  Hmm?  That’s what I’d like to know?  Why?”

At this point, Gwynnie’s husbands storm off out of camera.  Apple is in tears, and Gwynnie just keeps screaming: “Hey, I’m talking to you.  Husband A and B, where the eff do you think you’re going?  Hmm?”  This is the most candid, revealing celebrity Youtube you will ever see.  See what’s going on behind the fortress of a world-class Oscar-winning actress.  Don’t miss it.

Speaking of a fortress, Gwynnie owns half of Malibu, so her manse is fortified by Navy SEALS in machine gun nests.  Trespassers are regularly gunned down by the SEALS in their gun turrets.  Because courts have ruled that Gwynnie has legal say over the mortality of those who enter her land, she, or the commandoes she directs, are perfectly within the law to kill anyone scaling her Leavenworth-regulation, electrified fence.

And kill she does, annually filling dozens of body bags with souvenir hunters and selfie-seekers alike, who are picked up by hearses several times a month.  To avoid negative publicity, they are burned in secret funeral pyres to remove the malefactors from the public record...

Gwyneth recounted this true story to the Wall Street Journal: “I’ve told this Gwynnie slice-of-life over and over again, but here goes: People Magazine rated me ‘the world’s most beautiful woman,’ and The Star rated me, ‘the most hated woman,’ all in the same week.  Come on, people, choose one or the other, Column A or Column B.  It’s like Wong’s Unlimited Chinese Buffet.  It’s Column A, the Beef Surprise, or Column B, Fish for Days.  No one gets both, it has to be A or B...”

Gwynnie and Chadley have to live under one roof to perform their marital duties, so one half of the new brood had to transfer to a new school district.  My guess is that it wasn’t Gwynnie’s half.  There’s something in the State of Denmark that isn’t Kosher.

(By the way, am I the only one who thinks Gwynnie actually married the Italian model, Fabio, and they’re keeping it a big secret because he’s not from show business?  Check his birth certificate when you apply for the marriage license, Gwynnie.  I’m pretty sure you actually married Fabio.)

Actually, this is the real story: The kids go to boarding school, and in the summer they go to sleep away camp.  Parental contact is kept to a minimum, so her and Chad’s moppets learn independence at an early age.  There’s no disruptive changing of schools caused by Gwynnie’s new and blessed union with Chad, or any interruption of the newlyweds’ routines...

Gwynnie is searching for a junior executive program for her moppets.  Gwynnie, tell your kids that when they’re interviewed they are “seasoned change agents.”  That’ll open any door, especially when they’re under fifteen years of age, as yours are.  Then IBM will say: “What have you changed?”  To which her fourteen-year-old Apple replies: “Anything and everything, I exist for change, and I’m just as goal driven, and metrics-based.”

Wait, this is the fashion industry right?  So coach Apple to say: “Bennett tailoring says so much to so many.  You know, cross stitching at the placket.  That kinda leadership.”  No one will have any idea what she’s talking about, but that’s the point.  Any age is a good age for a kid to learn how to obfuscate the truth.  Trump’s known this his entire life, and look how far he’s gotten.

That job at Valentino is hers, Gwynnie.  Forget high school, that Apple is going places.  Apple should say: “I made a loom out of household trash and with it I hand-sewed my Mom’s gown for the Oscars.”  It doesn’t matter that she’s lying.  This is the Trump era.  The truth no longer matters...

Gwynnie landed the Iron Man franchise, the most visible and profitable, super hero movies ever made.  Any other actress in Hollywood would have absolutely killed for the role of Gwynnie’s Pepper Potts.

Nicole Kidman read for the role, but couldn’t scrub the Aussie accent.  Nicole and Gwynnie have not spoken since.  Ashley Judd turned down the role because it didn’t address the existence of God, and, well, Baby Jesus.  She cries every night because of this tragic professional mistake.

Heather was turned away because, given her larger boobs, hers would jiggle too much in action scenes, distracting from the narrative.  Charli didn’t audition as she was already slated for a half of a dozen other action movies, so her and her management team feared dilution of her Hollywood presence.

I’ve seen bits and pieces of Iron Man, and I’m pretty sure its about foreign espionage, and how it causes things to get blown to smithereens.  Plus, there’s enduring themes about super hero love, and super hero redemption, and super hero redemption of love — it really runs the gamut of super hero existence.

Gwynnie knows she is a marked woman, because on Oscars night she has a phalanx of bodyguards following her — even into the ladies room.  If you notice her dress, it is always a micro-mini, but why?  Well, actresses can trample other actresses’ dress trails, can’t they?

Gwynnie has had her dress straps pulled off her shoulders, only to be pulled back up by her assistants before the cameras caught her topless.  You’ll also notice that she will never sit in the audience, she’s always onstage.

The reason is that no one wants to sit by her.  She’s the pariah of super hero eye candy, the leading man’s sidekick, the wing girl.  You might say, how is all this hatred possible?  Iron Man box office gross exceeds one billion dollars, that’s how it’s possible.

Actresses work for love or for money, or both.  By choosing the latter often enough, Gwynnie is a villain who portrays a hero in a super hero movie...

Gwynnie is on Youtube with a new series of videos entitled, Let’s Goop.  Here, she offers her thoughts on her marriage with her “new betrothed,” Chadley, as well as how to celebrate Christmas the Goop way:

“Okay, I know, I know.  You’re wondering why I’m calling my latest, greatest, Let’s Goop.  See, Chadley came up with the idea, and well, hubby rules the roost in this house.  He’s the writer, and I’m, well, what am I now, the domestic engineer?  I enjoy having a man managing my life, I never need to think anymore...

“Okay, this is how to sear the brisket for holiday party presentation.  First, do I have time?...  I have time?  Good.  I get my brisket at the butcher.

“In Santa Barbara, that can only mean one place — the Santa Barbara Beefmonger.  What is so special about Santa Barbara Beefmonger, is that they grow their own cows, which you can name, and even feed.

“Then, when the time comes, they take care of slaughtering it for me.  When the big day arrives, my family and I can even watch the slaughter festivities.  My cow is named Chad, and while he makes a great pet, I look forward to the day I can place him on the family’s dinner plate.  Out of time?  Well, bon appetit!  Kids, dinner’s served!...”

Gwynnie can bring her ex and her kids to Thanksgiving, but Chadley, her current husband, can’t bring his ex, and his kids?  Isn’t Chadley dumping his kids, and on a major holiday, just for Gwynnie’s benefit?  Gwynnie must be very accustomed to getting her way, but still.  Recent photos of the two around Thanksgiving in the Hamptons show Chadley is not too happy about something or other.  Maybe, it was just because the wine pairing at dessert lacked nuance, which is always a deal-breaker for me...

Gwynnie’s parents taught her self-sufficiency at an early age.  As a teen in Malibu Heights, she was the only one in town who had a newspaper route.  While in New England, a paper route was deemed prosecutable child abuse, in SoCal it would have been fun, fun, fun, except Gwynnie didn’t like the hours (pre-dawn), the pay (peanuts), or her customer base (not bitchin’ other teens, but bitchy, elderly, and demanding Hollywood producers — Harvey Weinstein was her first customer to sign onto the route).

So to smooth things over, Daddy came to the rescue by giving her a brand-new Rolls-Royce.  Once Gwynnie had her first car, she graduated to being a greeter/hostess at the Beef Barn, where they slaughtered their own steaks up on the hill, behind the parking lot.  A major job responsibility of Gwynnie was to sooth the startled customers who heard the doings up on the hill.  This led to Gwynnie firmly siding with the vegan camp.

Gwynnie was absolutely fed up with the jobs her Daddy got her, and with him as well, so Daddy made a few phone calls to her goddaddy, Steven Spielberg, who gave her starring roles in his movie productions.

Here we have Gwynnie, the early years, as I’ve always heard it told...

Gwynnie’s daughter, Apple, will be driving soon, so in anticipation the two of them are already shopping for a Lexus (a pink one to be exact).  Because a Rolls Royce is “pricey” for a teenage girl to own, the Rolls will be a gift to Apple on her eighteenth birthday, with the 2019 Lexus making a fitting trade-in, and the 2020 Rolls, an appropriate trade-up.

Beware Malibu High as Apple tools up the one-oh-one and pulls into the campus to hand the keys to her assigned valet (hand-picked from the South Central projects for cuteness).  He then pulls up to her Hollywood Royalty-privileged parking spot, one closest to her homeroom class.  Apple will even get parking priority over the principle of the entire educational institution, one dedicated to catering to the every whim of these scions of the ultra-wealthy.

The Board of Ed has already named a wing at the school for the Paltrow clan as she has donated millions in anticipation for her absolutely lovely angel joining the ranks of the Malibu High Magnolias, but don’t think for a second that this will allow Apple to breeze through her studies.

No, her mother won’t have the school giving the Apple of her eye any special preference.  That will never happen under Gwynnie’s watch, because she didn’t fund the building wing to curry favor, or get her darling Apple into Harvard.  She just built the wing so Apple might be proud of her Mom, and her Mom’s revered place in the cutthroat world of retail commerce, and sexual paraphernalia...

Other Letter has at last isolated why some women have petite bosoms.  In a new study appearing in An Other Journal of Medicine, crash dieting hinders female development especially in determining boob size.  Also, a diet without any dairy products, and their milk fat, does the same to minimize boobage.  (Dairy farm stocks soar in early trading next week.)

This breakthrough reportage is not offensive, it represents ground-breaking, and cutting-edge coverage of society’s and science’s most pressing issue today, and that is manipulating bust size.

Then what about breast cancer?  Two of Gwynnie’s co-stars had double mastectomies done — Angelina Jolie and Christina Applegate.  And now we know the reason why: On the set, Gwynnie pushes her Goop potions on unsuspecting starlets, and they keel over from cancer and some such.  Gwynnie is a walking cancer cluster, her Dad died of oral cancer as well.  See?...

Gwynnie posted a few photos of her with Rob Lowe in her marriage to Chadley Wonder-Bred.  Now, you might call me naive, but shouldn’t the photos of the newlyweds dancing together actually include the newlyweds?  Did Rob Lowe cut into the groom’s last dance?  Lowe and Gwynnie only appeared in two movies together, but as they say in Hollywood: “One day on the set together is a marriage ‘til death do us part...”

I see these photos of her latest catch, Rob Lowe, and I think: “Damn, is this a broadside against the institution of marriage?  Then by extension, isn’t Gwynnie taking down the Heartland of America?  Ripping our guts out, at the core of our being, Gwynnie is laughing, in her deep cackle, her hysterical laugh, take that Middle America — deal!

“Then I watch Gwynnie and Chadley Wonder-Bred drive off into the sunset, and you know that America, our America, has been thoroughly hoodwinked.  She’s two-timing her betrothed, her ever-loving Chadley Wonder-Bred, and the East and West Coast of this fair land can only hold back tears — why, Gwynnie, why?!!!

“You have humiliated your fan base once again, you have destroyed American values, Gwynnie.  You, that’s right, you have, Gwynnie, and you won’t stop clawing away at all that makes America great!!!!!!!  We’re all chanting in a circle closing around you: ‘Make America great again, witch,’ and you just throw back your head, scream your Banshee scream, then you go and pull a day-one adultery...”

Any Gwynnie Paltrow fan worth their salt, knows that her godfather is Steven Spielberg.  How was this arrangement made?  I don’t know of any movie that Gwynnie’s producer/director dad, Bruce, had made with Steve (Bruce has passed from oral cancer, put our hat on our chest).

Given that Steve runs Hollywood (perhaps with an iron fist, industry insiders may know the full story), how did Blythe Danner, Gwynnie’s mom, nab Steve to be her daughter’s godfather?

Did she need to go around her community having petitions signed?  Did she wait outside Dreamworks at workday’s end with her proposition for Steve?  Did money change hands, because having a god daddy of Spielberg’s stature is worth tens of millions of dollars.

In other words did Bruce and Blythe make payments to get Steve on board, and add to the provenance of their baby Gwynnie?  Was there a conspiracy involved, besides just bribery, but extortion and blackmail?

Was Spielberg wined and dined in the Hamptons, on Martha’s Vineyard, in Paris, or Moscow?  That Blythe woman seems especially dutiful towards her daughter, would she stop at anything to boost her baby girl’s profile, not just among Hollywood, but among world wide elites?

There is something very wrong with this picture, and I hope to one day know the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me god...

It’s no secret to any friend or follower of Gwyneth Paltrow that she likes to drink red wine (she may just be vying for street cred, but we doubt it).  Her now-husband mentioned it, and at a recent interview for Goop they drank.  I am getting far, far out of my league here, but I’ve seen photos of her where she’s more than hormonal, I’d say her health wasn’t good.  She smokes cigarettes as well, but not as much as she likes to drink.

Being a CEO has overwhelmed her, everyone knows this.  She’s near-dying while taking walks, short of breath, on the acres of manufacturing floors at Goop HQ, yelling out production targets with a coughing hack.  Just wait, soon enough, our Gwynnie will be carting an oxygen tank in a little red wagon, to interviews, and stockholders’ annual meetings.  A home health aide will be assisting her everywhere.  This is Gwynnie’s future.  Yet today, her doctors have all given her failing bills of health, which has Wall Street stockholders freaking out.

In her strategic, five year plan, she has already signed over operations to her two moppets, Apple and Moses.  Her kids are already competent money managers (having turned their allowances into ocean-front Malibu estates, yes, plural), but being fourteen and twelve years of age, respectively, can they profitably run a $250 million corporation while their Mom’s absent in hospice care?  Gwynnie has raised two thoroughbreds, and every day she rides them to death, but has Mom Paltrow set her moppets up for abject failure?

As she is no longer on the market, we can say all we like about her without fear of Goopy reprisals (we can, can’t we?)  Then you say: “How does alcohol make you sickly and ugly?”

Here is the scientific evidence: Alcohol is a stimulant and a depressant, but more often it is the latter, it slows you down.  The brochure for booze would say it gives you life in manageable portions.  It also slackens your face, drinkers have jowls earlier, they can fit their fingers inside their ever-widening pores, it weakens their constitutions, and they often have to smile beneath layers of skin when they can even muster the strength to smile.  I tell all the Pantheon girls, if you want out of this fine organization, start drinking regularly.

Despite a few reports of alcohol being an aphrodisiac, it actually causes the opposite because the habitual drinker is a woof-woof, most suited for experimental research.  Look at the recent Marie Claire UK cover, and see for yourself.  I’m glad I exited the Gwynnie romance market in time.  To think, we had picked out a ring, and I had to cancel the jeweler’s order after I saw her return from an Other bachelorette party...

Get ready for a shock, folks, Gwynnie got married, and get ready for an even bigger shock, not to me.  She went out and married some TV gag writer.  His show was for gay and lesbian teens, and their drama club.  What was it called? — Glop, no, Glee, it was called.  I’m not knocking the broadcast format, but honestly, we have entered the final age of television, where anything on the boob tube is absolute garbage, and Gwynnie’s paramour leads the charge.

Yet, we wish Gwynnie all the happiness in the world for her, and her gag writer boyfriend, as she wends her way in a marriage centered around a guy who has not one cinema screenplay to his credit, and guess who has eight on his resumé?  That’s right, you’re looking at him, well, if you could see the modern T.S. Eliot behind what’s written on Other Letter.

Her gag writer boyfriend, now her gag writer husband, is more conservative than her ex, Chris Martin, founder of the Southern rock band, Coldplay.  To make the gag writer feel welcome to her existing family, and have him accept their blended family’s newly-founded conservatism, Gwynnie will be renaming her two moppets.

Apple becomes Jane, and Moses becomes Howard.  The kids have yet to complain, and they have started preparing stationery to give to their friends to introduce the name change.  Here is a typical one from Apple: “Dear Sunshine, I am no longer Apple, I am now, Jane.  Thank you for understanding, your renamed friend, Jane.”

We’ll run down the wedding invite list, shall we?  Robert Downey, Jr., has had a drug habit.  Rob Lowe made a sex tape with a sixteen-year-old.  While this was legal in Georgia, where it occurred and where the age of consent was fourteen (now it’s sixteen).  To make a sex tape there you had to be eighteen — so if he had waited two years, by an odd twist of mathematics, his career wouldn’t have been put in the crapper for twenty years.

Effectively, Georgia had no age of consent laws, which makes sense because this is the Southern United States, and to be taken advantage of for being Black or a girl, is just what Southerners have gotten well used to enduring.

Jerry Seinfeld also decided to make a cameo, and in lieu of a wedding gift, he did five minutes of his stand-up routine:

“You’re all here for the Paltrow wedding, the Paltrow wedding?  A-H-Y-4-6-7-1, you parked in a fire lane.  You better hustle, they’re towing your car to Brooklyn.  Hi, as if you didn’t know, yes, I am Jerry Seinfeld.  No applause?  How much drugs do you people do?  Gwynnie, stop spinning your brassiere over your head.  Chadley, get your bride something to drink, something very big and potent to drink.  This reminds me of the feud we had in my family over my Aunt Sousa’s chicken matzoh-ball soup.  I liked her soup, I honestly did, but my family hated, and I mean hated, her soup.  I’ll tell you why, how many people here at this wedding like horseradish?  I do, but my family can’t stand it — you know what I’m saying?...  When I started out, I wouldn’t do abrasive, I wouldn’t do political, and I wouldn’t do blue, and would you look at me now.  And look at you!  Ah!  How many here tonight are Lenny Bruce fans?  None, right?  None.  I thought so...  You’re really hot, what’s your name, babe?...   I’m getting the shepherd’s hook?  You’ve been a great audience, enjoy the knishes...  I didn’t get your name, babe...”

Steven Spielberg popped in briefly to Gwynnie’s wedding for a few photo ops.  Spielberg, if you remember, is best known for directing action movies for the teenage market.  (Quick, think date movie, do you think: Jurassic Park and its nine sequels, including, Look, Here Comes Dino — Run for the Hills; Jaws; or Close Encounters?  Or do you think all-time squirmer, Schindler’s List?)  He hasn’t wrote a screenplay since 2001, with his biggest writing accomplishment being Close Encounters of the Third Kind.  Steven is fiercely loyal to Israel, even though, in 2014, Israelis murdered 2,100 Gazans with no resistance.

Another guest had tattoos on his neck and shaved head.  I am not condemning them for any eccentricities, but I was expecting more wholesome in body, mind, and soul, and that her wedding guests would be untainted by all that is wrong in the world.

They did exchange their vows.  Here they are verbatim, and in full: “We’ll live together for a few years, so the kids have at least a little stability in their lives, and so I can have sex more often.  If we move on, so be it...  I do.”

Again, I am not trying to condemn, I am only trying to indicate that these were not A-listers, at least in the conventional sense.  Remember, this is not meant as sour grapes, or any last ditch attempt to get Gwynnie out of her private jet for her honeymoon and drive thirty exits up the LIE where I patiently await her warm embrace.  Meanwhile, Vegas odds-makers are giving 10 to 1 odds that this marriage even lasts five years...

Gwynnie is in the class of über-wealthy consumers that do not need to, or even want to, shop for value.  There are no coupons in the Gwynnie household, everything is bought at full price, and price is equated with quality so they actively seek the most expensive items.

75% of what the Paltrows buy each week is in the trash the following week, and then onto the landfill.  Gwynnie spoils the kids with designer duds for teens like Sergio x Bieber, and Jordache for the Mod Rocker to make sure they look the sharpest at school, so they get the best treatment, and thus, the best grades.

So Cal with its robust, homeless, garbage pickers find that one of the best stops on the entire Malibu circuit is Gwynnie’s front yard on trash collection day, very often including teen active wear.  Gwynnie turbo buying is of course ramped up during the holidays as the well-to-do hope and pray to out spend one another for capitalistic dominance rights...

Gwynnie had yet another run in with the law, this time to the tune of a $145,000 fine (the time before, it was a bar brawl at the Chatêau Marmont, where she claimed she was only defending her turf — with numchuks in front of startled dinner guests).  The reason for the latest run in was because her vaginal eggs don’t do all the label claims that they do.  For one, they are supposed to make the user more feminine which is as distant of a prospect as finding the fountain of youth in a McDonalds garbage can.

You’re thinking, isn’t it time I invited Gwynnie to my expansive manse to talk shop, catch up, along with downing roasted marshmallows and sipping herbal tea?  Yes, it is, and that’s exactly what I did.  I began by telling her to only sell goods that her Mom would buy, excluding sex toys.

All those homeopathic remedies, all that Chinese medicine, once you live outside the friendly confines of the California border, you are no longer selling miracle goo, you are selling snake oil.  Potions are only known to have value anecdotally.  They are not given rigorous double-blind testing (one placebo group, one dosed-up group, clipboards, men in white coats, the whole nine yards).

I told Gwynnie that she’s marketing her best stuff, and has the least legal issues, when she is a fashion retailer.  This dovetails with her glamorous Hollywood image.  If she sells frog’s wort, she will be known as a witch.  Finally, I asked her who her business adviser was, and she said, “a what?”

Then I told her that she could have me as an adviser on retainer, but she needs to model her lingerie collection for me weekly.  She fell in love with this idea.  Appropriately chastised, Gwynnie shook my hand, and left my oak-paneled office walking backwards, nodding her head.  To her, and to most of the rest of Hollywood, I am God...

I was given an offer to work at Goop’s Chilean subsidiary.  While I had to decline the offer citing relocation dislocation (my Spanish was rusty, and I was unfamiliar with Santiago), I was given the Goop orientation packet.  What I found most interesting was what needed to be memorized to prepare for incidental Press inquiries about the Goop organization.  The passage reads:

“In social gatherings like parties, outside the Goop Campus, or on the street, if a member of the Press Corps asks how you like working at Goop, recite this:

‘I absolutely love working here at Goop.  Gwyneth is even more charming in person than she is on television, if that’s somehow possible.  I have found her to be fascinating, delightful, and excellent at advanced card games such as bridge.

‘I was having a rough time with all the Trump news, but she brightened every day.  Everyone loves her at Goop, and I can tell she’s loved wherever she goes, even far outside the Goop Campus.  Her vibe is that strong.  And she smells great, too.  I use every Goop potion for anything that ails me, from gout, to rheumatic fever.

‘Did you have any more questions about Goop and Gwyneth?  Because I could answer them all day.  I love, I mean love that woman, so effing much.  Thank you for your time.  My name is [give your name], my position is [give your position], [and if you’ve been working at Goop for over a year say how long], and I’ve been at Goop for [tenure in years, rounded up to the nearest fifth year].

‘I do love it here, honest, I do so much.  Bless you [and then say the name of the reporter prefaced with title: Mr./Ms./Master/Miss, followed by a firm handshake].  Have a fantastic day -- and here’s a Goop catalog for your shopping pleasure [open your briefcase and proffer the current Goop catalog].

‘I will leave you with this: Her naysayers are wrong.  There’s not one iota of truth that Goop is some kind of fanatical cult.  I am speaking of my own free will [hurry away]...’”

Gwynnie asked a few up and coming entrepreneurs to help her with her lines of apparel.  Sales have been below Wall Street expectations, so she wanted someone to, and I quote, “turn this muthafck*r around.”  She knew well of my business acumen, and how I intimidate the business world, so she had me as the keynote speaker.

The following is a partial transcript of the main event, with Other Letter espousing his genius on the fashion world:

Gwynnie, ladies, welcome to the future of apparel: Asian-inspired, Fancy Girl from GoopFancy Girl is much like Hello Kitty, but with much less pink.  Yet this is where a huge chunk of future Goop revenue shall be found, glomming off of the Hello Kitty market.

Gwynnie, ladies, you know how you offer two or three sizes.  With Fancy Girl you offer six or seven sizes, size zero to size six.  Gwynnie, isn’t it time you accommodated the fat chick?  They have money, Gwynnie, plenty of it.  Put out full-page print ads of fat people mud wrestling while skinny people goad them on while throwing money at them, just like at a cock fight.

People will be scratching their heads.  What exactly is Gwynnie saying?  Well, all fashion photography makes no sense.  It means everything and nothing at all.  Does it say capitalism makes us all fat?  You ain’t telling, you’re letting your readership decide.  You’re too busy counting the wads of dough as people lose all hold of their senses, and break the Internet buying Fancy Girl by Goop.

Call the couture line for chubbies: Hey, Piggly-wiggly by Fancy Girl x Goop.  You’ll snare the plus-sizes and the Asians.  Just make sure you have enough couture in pink to satisfy the Asians who can’t get enough Hello Kitty, and don’t make over-size for Asians, just pink.  Asian asses don’t come in double-wide.  Don’t ask me why, they just don’t, okay?  Gwynnie, those are two markets prime for the picking, the super-hefties and the American Asians.  Hey, I’m not done yet...

Gwynnie knows the cost of worldwide fame, and that’s take downs by imbeciles.  To protect herself and her family from these low lives, Gwynnie is a trained, triple Black Belt (search long enough and you’ll find her karate exploits on YouTube — just keep searching).  She knows her moppets also need to learn the same valuable lessons of self defense, so they are currently Blue Belts, with Black Belt aspirations (both teen moppets expect to be Black Belts by their eighteenth birthday at the latest).

Yet Gwynnie expects more from them, she has hopes that both will become cage fighters, or as she fondly calls them, human cock fighters.  While her Apple has demonstrated the killer instinct, and likely will be seen on the cage fighting Junior Division circuit very soon, her other moppet, Moses, has less killer in him.  Gwynnie is prodding him to take his mixed martial arts fighting to the next level, and join his older sister in the cage, but he is hesitant, fearing, not for his life, but that he’s not a heavyweight, more of a bantamweight.

Even though Moses is a twelve-year-old — Apple is fourteen, and is poised to join the pro ranks — he already knows that the money is not at the bantamweight level, but at the heavyweight level, so he questions all the training of becoming a world class cage fighter, when there’s little money at the end of the tunnel.  Gwynnie tries to assure him that mixed martial arts is not about money, it is about pride, it is defending your turf, and it is about soundly kicking the butts of the underclass.

Apple’s Sweet Sixteen party is already in the works with invites being embossed for her besties.  Gwynnie will be making this super special, with a kick-boxing, full-contact, no protective gear, extravaganza.  For demonstration purposes, and to show the younguns how it is done, Gwyneth will invite some of her former mortal enemies to the party, from back when she ruled the cage.

Gwynnie was main event opposite a much younger, Martha Stewart (this was no under card insignificance).  Martha has still never forgiven Gwynnie for the drubbing she was subjected to that night — Martha’s ears still ring from the second, wildly-promoted, “Thrilla in Manila.”  This was Gwynnie’s first fight where the upstart drew blood, and did she ever.

Martha had ring-side stitches sown into her forehead, thirty-seven to be exact.  Here forward, Martha Stewart was known — almost like Frankenstein — as “ol’ zipperhead diva.”  Just like they mop up sweat with towels in professional basketball, here they were mopping up Martha’s blood off the canvas.  Reports surfaced for years that Martha was left permanently punch drunk from that fight, and lab tests proved independently and conclusively that she was.

Stunned, ring-side announcers could only make this call: “You have just witnessed unstoppable, textbook Gwyneth Paltrow.  Ladies and gentlemen, the mixed-martial arts, cage-fighting world has a new queen, and her name is Gwynnie Paltrow.  All hail Queen Gwyneth, the Malibu Mauler.”

After Apple’s cake, there will be hour upon hour of sparring matches.  Apple has already told her Mommy: “Don’t you dare throw me a slumber party, I want to kick-box all-night!”  Causing the proud Mommy to fight back tears, look to the Heavens up to her Lord, and shake her finger skyward, just like Tom Brady did after winning Super Bowls XL, XLV, XLVII, and XLVIII for the New England Patriots.

Apple is so lucky to have a Mom who cares this much for not only her, but for her professional prospects — Gwynnie will be inviting mixed-martial arts promoters to the party so they can see Apple in action before she goes super-nova professional.

Both moppets already have agents, and tutors as well, because they no longer attend school — there’s no need to, they have decided that fighting is their lives (Moses reluctantly understands that his life is in the cage).  To promote them, Mick Jagger is working on a version of Street Fightin’ Man entitled Street Fightin’ Moppets.  Expect an Xmas release of the single for It’s a Rolling Stones Christmas, after all.

Gwynnie tells Moses and Apple that they represent the upper socioeconomic classes in the cage fighting circuit, especially in the Junior Division.  Mostly, Gwynnie inculcates, mixed martial arts is about taking down those beneath you in life.  Even more than that, it is about learning to fight dirty, like throwing punches while the ref is breaking up a clench (usually this amounts to a disqualification, but the Paltrow gang have gotten them under the radar).  It is about showing the world the dominance of your birthright, which is being fabulously wealthy, because everyone thinks Hollywood royalty is wimpy.

This leaves it up to Apple and Moses, more than anyone else on this planet, to prove to the world that the wealthy can be natural born killers, and that they can rise above class prejudice directed at them.  In a cue from Trump, the sweetest revenge can be exacted by sheer force of will and creating fear in others.  This is the last bastion of having money, using your power to level those beneath you in socioeconomic status.  The best place to play this all out is in the cage (or in Washington).

This is the essence of the upper crust, to do damage.  Gwynnie understands that causing harm is her function on Earth, and she is passing this wisdom down to her moppets...

The Pantheon suffer from Snow Avalanche on the Ski Chalet Syndrome.  Their situation boils down to this: When the ski chalet is engulfed with an avalanche of snow, everyone else looks mighty attractive.  They are so cloistered, and sheltered, they form incestuous relationships, especially if any are not doing well.  Plus, the Pantheon and the Big Four are all gorgeous, and their kids are from almost exactly the same, genetic stock.

Metaphorically, the snow avalanche is the onslaught of paparazzi, and of the general public at large.  They cannot step outside their home without fear for their lives.  Everything is brought to their house by Fedex trucks.  The door is answered by either Jeeves, or Hobbs, who may or may not be packing heat.  The Fedex people are always frisked before they can even ask for package signatures.

Their kids rarely see the sunlight, so they get Vitamin D injections weekly to compensate for living in the dark.  Every Pantheon moppet has a regulation, enclosed and underground, multi-purpose, basketball-soccer-football-baseball arena.  The moppets friends are always part-time hires, who are only there to play the part of real friends.

These libertines have all been well-trained to say nothing about their lovemaking activities.  The Pope would personally retaliate on behalf of his Baby Jesus the Christ by strafing machine gun bullets from the Vatican’s military, F-16 Fighting Falcons.  At OL though, we do respect their right to share their joy with whomever they choose.  I’ll say this though: SoCal is another planet in the love department compared to anywhere else...

You’re saying that this is even below Other Letter’s standards of journalism.  In my defense, look at the photo on the wedding “invitation” above, there are a more than a few similar ones online.  Next, she has said her kids are welcome to enter the bathroom while she bathes in the tub naked.  Plus, she calls her son, “lover.”  You’ll say this means absolutely nothing.  But where is the story in that?...

Everyone who follows Hollywood actresses knows that Gwynnie is the most ambitious of them all.  Recently she put in a bid with NASA and the Trump Administration to mine lunar soil for aluminum.  She intends on including designer-fashioned, tin foil caps in her Fall clothing line, ones entirely lunar-sourced.  Yves Saint Laurent, Ralph Lauren, and Valentino, are all clamoring to get on board as Gwynnie turns lunar aluminum into gold.

Already there are back orders that will go unfulfilled for the next thirty years.  Gwynnie will be having a lottery so her lunar-sourced tin foil hats will be distributed equitably.  What can you say about Ms. Paltrow, except that she has moxie, drive, and a vision of the future?  Don’t be surprised if you see a fashionable, lunar, tin foil cap sported by a super-model on your next trip downtown...

Gwynnie, now engaged, has already taken a new lover, the Swedish super model and polo champion, Sven Loganberry.  Chadley and Gwynnie are dedicated to the concept of open marriage so the celebrity press will be seeing Gwynnie with a parade of new lovers all the time — Christening yachts, ringing the closing bell on Wall Street, skydiving...

Regarding her banning of Other Letter from her Instagram feed for being ironic, Gwynnie had this to say: “I am so much better than him, and everyone else, t.s., t.s., I just can’t stand it.  I am too perfect, do you understand me?  I’m ready for my close up, Mister Spielberg...”

After being deleted from Gwynnie’s Instagram for an ironic comment, I did hours of soul-searching.  What went wrong between us?  I sent a dozen emails to Goop HQ’s Press Department, ostensibly to get infotainment for future Other Letter reportage, but also to hammer things out with Gwynnie and myself.  This effort was ultimately capped when I offered this olive branch:

Will there be a Goop cruise anytime soon?
My readers would like to know if there will be an ocean cruise with Gwynnie as social director.  Then in lieu of refunds for bad weather, could we just push Gwynnie overboard?  In certain circles, that would make for the perfect vacation experience.  Or maybe we wouldn’t even need an excuse like bad weather to push her overboard.  Just drag her out of her cabin like Mutiny on the Bounty, and throw her over the railing.  Walking the plank is just a bit of silly Captain Hook silliness, we’d just toss her into the North Atlantic.  Will there be a Goop cruise anytime soon?  Thank you.

The reason Gwynnie is waiting three-plus years to get married, is because once she does, no one adores or adulates her anymore.  She is off the market, she’s like a bag of potato chips a full year past “Best By” date.

Gwynnie becomes stale, and unappetizing, and well, soggy, and truth be told, will be a bit gross and undesirable.  Gwynnie will look back on today, and think, “Damn, I was a fresh snack welcomed at parties back then, one impossible to resist, and what am I now, but a shriveled up prune.”  This is why Gwynnie is still not married...

Chadley Wonder-bred, Gwynnie’s fiancé, is or once was, a Republican.  Gwynnie is a true blue Democrat.  After three years of dating, no wonder they haven’t been married, they’re not compatible.  Plus, she’s Oscar territory, he’s Emmy.

Chadley is also dyslexic, more proof he is unfit for marriage.  Gwynnie won’t ask him what he likes on the menu at a restaurant, she knows that he cannot even read.  He requires an omnipresent reading assistant, which is now you, Gwynnie.

It is just like you had a Siamese twin who was blind, and who couldn’t deal with the modern world in any sense.  So Gwynnie, you will take this route, effectively having an inoperable Siamese twin by your side at all times, and assume your Mother Teresa role for the rest of your days on planet earth.

I don’t need to tell you how far you have fallen, Gwynnie, you know, we all do.  You live this abject horror every day.  You live for the tiniest gestures of appreciation, such as a pat on the back for a fresh drool cup (dyslexia is absolutely debilitating).

Chadley has essentially run out of script ideas in his forté, the gay and lesbian genre (as in Pose, and Glee).  This only leaves him with copy writing for commercials, which is pretty much the lowest rung in professional writing.  Next, Chadley will be writing how Tidal makes clothing smell clean and fresh.  Agent-repped bloggers sit at the table beside Oscar-winning scribes — personally, I’m William Morris Endeavor, Blogging Subsidiary.

Gwynnie falls deeper and deeper into this abyss of career and romantic crisis.  No one wants to buy her sex toys from Goop anymore, her food recipes there taste like pricey cow manure run through a food processor.  It’s just sad.  I’d pity Gwynnie for being deficient in both character and integrity, but I only want to: take the high road here; avoid sounding like sour grapes; and not come off like I’m trying to make inroads with her...

Gwynnie needed something to occupy her moppets, until she came up with this genius: Have them cultivate cannabis in the family pot plot.  The enterprising kids really took to the idea, and with the legalization of recreational weed in Cali, the Paltrows are now the largest reefer suppliers in SoCal.

The outfit, called Paltrow means Pot People, has been shaking down established growers mostly because the Paltrow moppets till the high yielding ganja fields from sunrise ’til sunset.  After work, they invariably sample the day’s harvest, followed by Gwynnie carting them home via ATV.

Down at Goop HQ, Mom’s marketing muscle gives the kids’ strains of ultra-high potency product the extra visibility it needs.  For the moppets’ part, they know that leadership is their birthright so they always toke responsibly, no driving tractors under the influence — Mom’s rule.

In fact, the family has appeared on the cover of High Times a la American Gothic, with all four (including the latest Paltrow, pure bred, Rascal) holding up the largest bud of sinsemilla ever cultivated, including Hawaiian cannabis, where every resident there is both grass-skirted, and a wake and baker.  It is over a full kilogram of mind short-circuiting, giggle weed, and mom is so, so proud.  Keep up the great work, kids!...

Gwynnie and her betrothed will soon be living a life of lolllygagging leisure together.  Every day, they will wonder, should it be the gym, vineyard, or the cannabis dispensary, for today’s enjoyment of their gorgeous, privileged existence.  After they take their inebriates it’s onto the bedroom for strenuous sex play, where they will burn off still more calories in their endless quest to be perfect physical specimens so they can make the cover of Couples Vogue.

Then Gwynnie memorizes two lines of dialog, and her other half writes two lines, and they swing by their manager for the multi-million dollar royalties for their latest blockbuster: Did anyone see Betty?  It made half a billion dollars domestic, and mostly featured chimpanzees jumping up and down, but when you’re a household name, you own the market.  Next it’s their philanthropic roles, so each writes a check for five dollars to The Society against the Terrible and the Miserable (both are self-congratulatory because this is up 66% from last year’s three dollars).

When they come down from their respective buzzes it is time to reintroduce themselves to their moppets.  If only the kids names came quicker to the tongue, then maybe, just maybe, their wee ones wouldn’t have had full body tattoos, including facial ink, by age ten.  The boy has taken a profound interest in cage-fighting, while the girl wears so much charcoal eye shadow, she is often mistaken for a humanoid raccoon...

Looks like Gwynnie will be heading down the aisle any day now.  Is this just me, or is she settling for lesser lights?  She went from megastars: Brad Pitt, to Ben Affleck, to Chris Martin; to a TV scribe?

Have you ever seen how far apart these Hollywood “lovers in love” sit when they demonstrate their affection in public?  Or notice how they never look at the same part of their visual frame?  In Gwynnie I’ve seen this, as well as in Reese and Nicole.  It’s like anti-PDA.

They may as well bring bullhorns to communicate with their paramour — they really keep their distance.  Is this a preppy affectation, or are their relationships really on the rocks?  Don’t they look just about ready to bolt for the nearest hot specimen of lust?

Getting back to Gwynnie’s prospects.  True, past forty she has the same appeal as any other woman you know who is also forty-plus, meaning she’s far, far over the hill, so her suitors have been reduced to writers about high school drama clubs, or Roseanne Barr yuck-yuck comedy.

Those, or the cute guy who waits her table at Santa Monica hotspot, The Ivy at the Shore, the one who always brings her the bottle of catsup unrequested (Gwynnie will never order a meal there without steak fries).

Oh, well, what can those locked out of the Gwynnie-space do?  Apply to work the wait staff, lunch shift at the Ivy?  “Ms. Paltrow, I’m your new waiter, Other.  Your former waiter took ill.  Here’s your catsup and unlimited, unsalted butter pats.  I’ll be refilling your glass with Pellegrino unprompted.”  There has to be a better way.

The life of the hoi polloi goes on, with or without Gwynnie as a free agent.  She’s chosen to spend the rest of her life with the Glee club impresario.  I don’t sound jealous, do I?  That’s good, because I wouldn’t want to give the wrong impression that my high praise of her here was instead somehow snarky, or sour grapes...

How is Gwynnie doing?  Well, she’s marrying a writer of a “hit” teen comedy about the high school drama club.  So friends and family are doing back flips over that news.  Her kids seem to be holding up under the strain of being super star kids.  They’re not addicted to heroin, so they are well on the path to becoming the next movie mogul like, say, Harvey Weinstein.  Okay, more back flips.

Gwynnie is a harried CEO who yells at her underlings all day (and they yell back at her), who faces insane pressures from investors, and who has spent entire days in therapy — the guru, cleansing, and crystals kind of therapy (with séances thrown in to keep it interesting).  All day therapy is often in anticipation of stockholder meetings where laptops have been tossed at her in her constituents’ unwavering demand for her to meet profit targets.

To keep up appearances, her pix on the Internet have been age-enhanced by her squad of graphic retouchers to make her look twenty-five years younger than she actually is.  So, how is Gwynnie doing?  Considering her station in life, all is well...

Gwynnie has houses in: the Pacific Palisades, Beverly Hills, Malibu, Santa Barbara, and Santa Monica, as well as Brentwood and West Hollywood.  Where does she spend the most time?  Well, she spends it with the rest of the mother hens at the Brentwood Country Mart where the topic of the day is always: “Who’s sleeping with whom?”  The guys need to know the latest scuttlebutt on who’s looking to get ahead by giving it, and they find that out at the Country Mart.

If Gwynnie and the rest of Hollywood could shack up at the “Mart” night and day, they would.  It is integral to the fabric of Tinseltown sociology.  Just as the rest of the world must know of the gossip concerning them, the “Mart” is ground zero for knowing the gossip about one another.

Their iPhones are the perfect devices for assembling material for their next script, or else if they just have a bent for blackmailing starlets they’ve always hated, this is Exhibit A in the take down.  Documenting adulterous coupling is favorite fodder for cattiness run amok, a secret elation and pasttime.

Paparazzi are desperate for the next Kidman-Witherspoon photo where they growl and bare incisors at one another, because that photo would be worth millions, and within the month would inevitably grace the cover of the New York Times Sunday Magazine.  Paps are always poised at the ready in intense anticipation whenever the celebs leave their Rolls or Bentleys to shop for ground beef at the “Mart.”

As for Miss Gwynnie, she tries to take the high road, but just don’t be surprised to see her trip up a younger starlet carrying a dozen, carefully selected, “organic-beauty,” beefsteak tomatoes at the “Mart.”  “Oops!  Hey, that one didn’t break open...”

I am deeply saddened at Gwynnie’s fiancé choice, she would be so much better choosing, say, a blogger.  So I poked fun at this choice on her social media, just mildly, and a front line so-called Gwynnie fan ripped into me.  I asked Gwynnie at Sacramento’s Chez Mauritz (her favorite for all Italian-Swiss-French fusion) if this is Goop canon, is this Goop by the book?

She said, and I quote: “No, hardly, some take the Goop banner, and run the wrong way with it.  They hide behind the cloth of Goop.  I am repulsed by their rants and vitriol, but there is little I can do in my current capacity to rectify those mis-Gooping.  They think I am their best friend, and I must be defended, but meanwhile they make my followers seem like nasty trolls, and many, if not most, aren’t.”

I thanked Gwynnie, I knew I was on to something good, and not crack cocaine like the yes-women, suggested about yours truly.  I offered this while we finished the superlative crème brûlée, Sacramento edition: “There are losers posing as Goop, looking for Goop favor in a Goop world that will obviously, obviously offer them none.  For one, they have no manners, they are female barbarians, and they live as pathetic piglets do, wallowing in filth.  I’ve seen them, Gwynnie, they are out there.  They fail to understand, that in a Goop-geared-up world, we all live in harmony.”

Gwynnie and I chatted at length about these Goop posers, she told me flat out that Goop posers are myriad, they pop up in social media, they are only looking to damage the do-Goopers in us all.  Amen, Ms. Gwynnie, amen.  That woman only speaks the righteous, God-honest truth...

Are the Pantheon women actually crashing bores?  Well, as part of my Spring blogging campaign to keep Other Letter afloat, I sat down with Gwyneth Paltrow at her favorite haunt, Chez Mauritz in the French Quarter of Sacramento (surprisingly, this is her favorite city, not the city of lights, Paris, but the city of government).

Gwynnie ordered for the both of us.  We began with an arugula salad adorned with tempé (to the uninitiated, tempé is fried dough dipped in a traditional, marinara-octopus sauce).  Thankfully, there was unlimited breadsticks but nothing to put on them as Gwynnie warned the waiter that condiments are diet-breakers.  The conversation quickly shifted away from saving the Other Letter from Wall Street predators, to what she wanted to discuss.

And this was often-told tales about: hair and makeup gone awry, and who would be paying dearly for this negligence.  She loved discussing her collection of clothing made of the finest silver and gold.  While it looked devastatingly gorgeous, due to its heft, she had to lean against a wall every twenty steps to regain her balance.

Then it was on to her dieting and fitness regimen.  Gwynnie ate a few leaves of lettuce and was stuffed to the gills, holding her hands on the sides of her stomach, and beginning to pine for a three hour Stairmaster workout.

When I asked about how she deals with stress she embarked on a hour-and-a-half talk on spirituality and meditation.  She said it was de rigueur to clear her head of the quote-unquote nasty bits she often encounters.  This involves an hour of primal screaming when the kids come back from school to show she means business this time.

Then she said it was time for her to get a copter flight back to her backyard in Malibu, and this was all the time we had.  I offered to pay the tab, and she readily accepted my offer.  About my question, are they bores?  No, they keep it interesting, if unusually off-beat...

Time to face facts, if you are interested in Gwyneth, that ship has sailed.  She was seen smooching Chadley at Ellen DeGeneres’ sixtieth birthday party.  Also there, was Kim K and Kenya.  So you see, if you run with that crowd, you’re stuck dealing with people you detest.

Why am I hard on the KKK?  Because they released a doctored video reedited to sound like Taylor Swift fully endorsed Kenya’s very sick public relations stunt, in the form of a rap rant.  The line Taylor seemingly approved was, “I made that bitch [Taylor] famous [when he stormed the awards podium in 2009, because Kenya didn’t like that Taylor won, nearly causing her to collapse on stage].”

So it all comes out in the wash, Gwynnie gets her safe, tepid romance with Chadley, and no one else gets stuck going to parties where Kenya balances Dixie cups of vino on Kim K’s ass.  If they ever apologized they wouldn’t be the butt of so many jokes — literally...

Gwynnie’s engagement ring gemstone doesn’t reflect light, her rock absorbs it like a black hole.  Which naturally begs the question: Is Gwynnie herself a shape shifter, or at least does she regularly shape shift?  The jury is still out on this vital topic — until right now.

Over the years many amateur sleuths have culled her performances frame by frame for any evidence of bold-faced, shape-shifting.  As it turns out in her Oscar winner, Shakespeare in Love, she morphs into a thirty foot, greenish-brown reptile for a split second.

Very few have freeze-framed this anomaly, but it is there for all to see with a DVD player paused at the right second (3:49:31 for those playing our home game).  This is the scene where she announces she’s not a boy, much to the consternation of Queen Elizabeth I.

Well, guess what Hollywood, most of the time, she’s not a girl either, Gwynnie’s a reptile, she shape shifts in a big, bad way (as if you could in a good way).  You can’t ask for more proof than this.  I’m glad I was the one to finally reveal her awful secret.

Then what is the lesson here?  Never to shape-shift?  Perhaps, but tell this to Gwyneth Paltrow, and see what she says.  Like always, she’ll tell it like it is and say: “What do you care if I shape shift or not, what’s it to you anyway?  You’re not live and let live?”

Yet I may one day get smacked in the face for telling the entire truth about a shape-shifting Gwynnie.  Isn’t it my duty as a law-abiding citizen to report a shape-shifter anyway, especially one whose intrinsic character it is to shape shift?  To release the darkness in Gwynnie’s soul (like in her dark engagement ring), ratting her out is a risk I am willing to take...

Hollywood is much more permissive in raising their kids (or at least they have a much different perspective about nudity) than anywhere else.  Just read this quote from Gwyneth Paltrow about her daily bath regimen:

“My kids [who are ages 11 and 13] are welcome to come in and chat with me if they need to — it’s not like I’m in a meditation or something...”

I’m almost certain she bathes au naturel, she’s not wearing a bathing suit.  In my family, the only time this could ever possibly happen was if someone slipped my dear Mom a tab of microdot, or horse tranquilizer.  Otherwise, this is never happening where I lived...

Gwynnie and her fiancé have joined the latest craze sweeping tony Palisades Heights, and that is inversion sex.  This involves putting a bar, like a pull up bar, over a door, climbing a foot stool, and fastening boots similar to those used for skiing.  Then they get it on.  There is much swinging to inversion sex, and not just in partner swapping.

As a reporter for the Other Letter I was intrigued, so I found a link to the Goop Criterion Prestige Collection that shows Gwynnie having sex upside down with her fiancé.  It was a web cam, and if I stayed on for more than five minutes, it would have cost me $20 every minute.  I was a little surprised at the blatant sexual nature on display, but not so much.

I lost interest when I heard Gwynnie scream, “Get me the eff down from here, Chadley, the blood is rushing to my brain.  I can’t think, Chadley.  I can’t get down...” Then I lost the feed, it went into white noise mode.  It’s interesting to see how the one percent lives, they hang upside down to get screwed.  Who knew?...

Chadley went all out and bought her Gwynivere a ring, although it’s not a diamond.  It’s colored differently, it’s gray.  Whoever heard of a gray diamond?  It must be obsidian, which is a derivative of charcoal.  It’s not even a precious stone, it’s costume jewelery.

Well, that’s sweet, at least he thought to buy her something to indicate that they’re still together, and likely will be for at least a few more months.  Girls like engagement rings, even when they’re only made of chintzy obsidian.  Well, all of us at Other Letter wish them all the best as they make their way into the abyss.  Okay, that’s rude: into the crevasse.

The Riddler riddles you this: When is an engagment ring, not an engagement ring?  When it’s a PR stunt?  Honestly, who’s ever heard of a dark gray diamond? That doesn’t mean eternity, that means return — to the jeweler.  (Where else will you find this quality of Pulitzer Prize-quality journalism, but in the Other Letter)...

Okay, it is time for Other Letter and all of us to face harsh, cold reality, Gwynnie is walking down the aisle with another man.  I know what you’re all thinking, God damn it, why can’t the man she’s walking down the aisle with be you?  Well, fate has dealt a harsh blow, so we just lick our wounds and move on — to Ashley Judd, for instance.

As for Gwynnie, I am sure she will do fine.  Her Chadley does have more hair than guys like me, and she said they were meant for each other.  Chadley does have at least some prospects.  He is writing a script for television about the intersection of the super-wealthy and downtown ball culture.  While we will reserve judgment and not say that this premise sounds completely hideous, we wonder how long Gwynnie gives this marriage to last (this one being her second, and remembering Liz Taylor had seven by age seventy).

Odds makers in Vegas handling long term betting have their take on this match up, with the marriage-embracing MGM Grand willing to pay out thirty-to-one if it doesn’t last over ten years, and Luxor paying ten-to-one odds if Gwynnie cannot keep the Oscar versus Emmy winner standoff together until she is 65.  Time to call your bookie, because with those rich odds, we are in the money.  Las Vegas says they are together forever, but I say not a snowball’s chance in Hell...

Ms. Paltrow, the lifestyle guru, has a web site called Goop, but this is different than I remember it.  The Goop home page had her communicate her frame of mind on, well, anything.  Her famous (or infamous, if directness makes you upset), off the cuff remarks may have hurt business, so now there is no Sermon on the Goop anymore.

These days, Goop is mostly about the travel destinations billionaires frequent, and the food billionaires like to eat.  Wait, wasn’t this always for the well-heeled, and I just wasn’t paying close enough attention?

Or maybe, given my bloggers’ salary range, it was all economically priced, except I couldn’t afford any of it?  Gwynnie just launched her legal eagle, libel team into action, and then she pulled their leashes back when she saw the last sentence where I admit all guilt...

This Instagram from Gwyneth’s fiancé, aka Chadley Dixworth, was publicly posted, so is there any harm in reposting it?

“This is the most beautiful woman of all time and today is her birthday. We are all so lucky that she came into the world (but no one is luckier than me). Happy Birthday, Love.
PS - this is pretty much the most #Gwyneth pic I could find - it has pizza, red wine, her phone and that fucking perfect smile.”

Gwyneth’s Response:

“Thank you, love.”

Ms. Paltrow wants to spend the rest of her life with the one who wrote this?  “...The most #Gwyneth pic I could find [has]: pizza [surprisingly for a domestic diva, she doesn’t have that discerning of a palette?], red wine [is she into the sauce?], and her phone [does she often feel the need to break away from the present conversation, or to be alone?]”

The secondary interpretation in brackets, may actually be the primary one as far as what was intended.  In other words, did this relationship completely tank, and was this dark, biting, cruel irony on Chadley’s part?

The “fucking perfect smile,” would appear to imply: ‘damn you, you siren, you snared me into your life unwittingly, and against my better judgment, and your smile is the only physical attribute of yours I can appreciate.’  This Instagram exchange must have occurred during a huge blowout between the two.  How else might this be interpreted?  Hmm?

“Thank you, love,” implies British hip jargon, which her beau, as the driving force behind teen classic Glee, would not have much of an understanding.

Could Hollywood romance get any more tepid, or more lacking of any emotion (on whose part?)  It’s hard to believe that these two are heading down the aisle within the next few months.  Or are both of them blissfully unaware air heads, incapable of understanding the more profound implications of their chit-chat?  Anyhow, best of luck to the newlyweds-to-be...

At any given Oscars in the modern age, Gwynnie has gone out with every guy in the audience, excepting Kevin Spacey and Harvey Weinstein (whom she famously put in his place).  She is the only openly polyandrous Academy member.

On any given day, Gwynnie is dating between a half dozen and a dozen buff, Hollywood, pink-bedecked, late model, super men, who all drive late model Maseratis that they will inevitably wrap around trees.  Each of the lot vie for her approval.  This is approval which she rarely, if ever, gives because it would go against character and type.

This is not to say that she is easy, in fact, it says the opposite.  Gwynnie has become so unattainable that she has become solid gold for the aspiring skirt-chaser, and those looking for conquests.  To these cads, she has become Everest, and the beaches of Normandy, all wrapped up into one unusually cute package...

Oh no, is our Gwynnie getting hitched?  Us Weekly (known for New York Times caliber journalistic integrity) reports she will be.  Now this is being reported by every other news outlet, including gossip stalwarts, People.  There is no mention of when, and neither her, nor her boyfriend, Chadley, have confirmed reports in any shape or form.  When there is not any news to report, do tabloids make up stories?

I may be going way out on a limb, but if this engagement story is a fiction, isn’t that libelous?  I mean they put Gwynnie and Chadley in a tight spot, they suddenly have to defend a relationship that may have tanked months earlier.  They can hardly say, “You know, I cannot stand them anymore, we hate one another now.”  They have to let the other back into their life to clear up matters, when they have zero interest in doing so.  Their ship has sailed.  This could even prompt a shaky rapprochement that should have never happened.

Then the most injurious of this entire misrepresentation, is that it will imperil any future relationships Gwynnie is contemplating, because Tom Cruise et al will think that she’s been married away, when she hasn’t.  Suitors may lose interest quickly if they suspect she is polyandrous.

Let’s blame Gwynnie for her own libel, because she wasn’t open about the details of her relationship in the first place.  Were we expected to guess what the status of those two were?  There can be no secrets in Tinseltown.  So Us Weekly connected a few dots that weren’t there, we all got a thrill, and isn’t that what matters most, that the public gets a thrill?  Gwynnie has tons of money, come on, do her feelings really count?  Didn’t Gwynnie set herself up long ago as the whipping girl, because of her Hollywood royalty birthright?

People Magazine is remiss if it doesn’t show a few choice pix of the most recent Hollywood orgy.  This is part and parcel of being famous.  A celebrity’s romantic life must be offered up to the public to read about and devoured for its juicy gossip.  Thank God for Us Weekly giving us factoids which may not be real, but they did feel real, and today the news that’s most important and matters most, is the “news” that feels right, and agrees with our constitution, and our prejudices...

With the Los Angeles Dodgers making it to the World Series, Gwynnie and her family get complimentary box seat tickets behind home plate.  The owners of Major League Baseball have said Hollywood people are good for the game, and who doesn’t love the Paltrow clan?

As an extension of Commissioner Bud Selig’s initiative, celebrity moppets are given free rein of the stadium, even during the World Series, and yes, even on the field of play.

Her kids, Apple and Moses, get to visit the locker room, run the bases, chat up the Major-Leaguers on strategy, and even take swings in the “batting cage” during batting practice.

If the manager gives the say-so, the kids are allowed to suit up and play right field during the game (where they will be fielding fewer balls because most aren’t hit the other way than at, say, shortstop).  The Paltrow kids will “get in the game” not only if it looks like a blowout, but if it’s late innings and Dodger pitching looks strong.

Purists might get upset, but in a concession to the die-hards, the Paltrows will not appear in the box scores, even if they get at-bats (and Dodger manager, Dave Roberts, said he does want them to play at least a few innings during the home stand).

Regardless of the disdain of the hardcore baseball fanatic who openly embraces the traditional and the conventional, the Paltrow kids, along with doting mommy, Gwynnie, have won over the hearts of the entire city of Los Angeles.  Now, if the L.A. Dodger batting coach could only get Gwynnie to switch hit for power...

Mega-stars like Gwyneth Paltrow, an Oscar-winner at an early age, would love to have the near-unanimous good will on social media (SM) of those with less celebrity, or those with a less well known political agenda.  If you look at Gwynnie’s SM, or Ashley Judd’s, haters are ready to pounce on their every move.  Then go to where the trolls don’t go as much, or Heather Graham’s neck of the woods.

Because with greater fame, comes even greater jealousy of fame, and misogyny.  Then with Trump in Presidential office, the far right is emboldened, with a fury reminiscent after Hitler burned down the Reichstag.

Gwynnie has reached lightning rod status to haters, as has Ashley.  Recently, Gwynnie has to deal with quotes she made in 2001, and a nickname — “the First Lady of Miramax” — revived simply out of hate and misogyny that tries to link Gwyneth inextricably to Weinstein’s crimes.  This is perpetuated globally by the Old Gray Lady at the New York Times, Maureen Dowd, the acid-tongued, take down expert.

For the Old Gray Lady’s part, this is victim shaming.  Why not attack Quentin Tarantino on his record via Weinstein?  Tarantino knew well of this, he had the Hollywood political capital to speak up without retribution, yet he did nothing.  The Old Gray Lady has no interest in Tarantino, because as a blood and gore, revenge, exploitation filmmaker (remember the eye cut out in Kill Bill?) he has earned the respect of carnage-lovers everywhere, which the Old Gray Lady must count herself as an admirer, because if she wasn’t, she would be all over him like a fly on sh*t...

The New York Times, courtesy aspiring humor writer, Maureen Dowd, is trying to pull off a Gwynnie takedown.  Her Mom, Blythe Danner, is even come to the Oscar-winners defense with an op-ed article against Dowd, the “Old Gray Lady” at the Times.  Not to be outdone, her Fan Club President of Greater Long Island, that would be me, is also going to bat for the home team.

The Dowd offensive was based on a 2001, Gwynnie quote, as well as another quote whose source is not given (yet given as a direct quotation in the Times piece): “Gwyneth is the first lady of [Weinstein’s] Miramax.”  The Times greatly favors Mayim Bialik, who is an orthodox Jew, and who just did an op-ed piece claiming homeliness is next to Godliness.  So the Old Gray Lady was just looking for a little ugly girl fun at Gwyneth’s expense?

I sent this to , feel free to offer similar sentiments: “Back in 2001, could Ms. Paltrow have foreseen the magnitude of Weinstein’s issues?  There are far bigger fish to fry than Gwyneth Paltrow.  Why not attack Quentin Tarantino?  He had similar power to Weinstein, he couldn’t be played by Weinstein because he was male, and he didn’t have to worry about his career because he had unequaled political capital in Hollywood.”

I will be honest, this is partly done in the hopes that Gwyneth will pencil us in for a meet-and-greet at the Gwyneth Paltrow Greater Long Island Fan Club.  We’ve been up and running out of my basement for over 25 years now, and we’re hoping this will finally be the year she visits the troops at the front lines.  We’ve already had Jane Fonda, Meryl Streep, and Ashley Judd as substitute speakers, but the Club is craving the real deal.  I don’t have the cash to hand out refunds of membership dues again this year.

We’ll let her choose any speaking topic: How did it feel nabbing that Oscar?  Is it too much having two super, mega stars in the family?  Are you just like us, or vastly different in ways we could never fully — or even partially — understand?

For instance, do you take your trash can to the curb, or is that for the help to do?  Do you know how to drive cars, or that’s always been for your chauffeurs to do?  Do you ever cook your own meals?  Do you hire food tasters to eat your food before you do, so you know it hasn’t been poisoned?  Have any of your food tasters actually been poisoned?  Do you tip staff when they do the dishes, or clean the bathrooms?

At our meet-and-greets, we offer naturally-flavored seltzer to our speakers, as well as salted potato chips (meaning salted as they come out of the bag, this is not to mean resalted, they’re ready to eat from the potato chip bag).  We’re sorry, but cake is extra, and not included, because it’s kinda pricey at the grocers...

In the schools, Gwynnie is all for teaching the power of crystals, and predicting the future with astrology.  Where she draws the line is with gangs who enforce “mellow.”  Being mellow is the religion in So Cal, but there are many pockets of “human refuse” (quoting Gwynnie) who take mellow too far to the exclusion of ambition.

This is why, Gwynnie, in conjunction with the U.S. Department of Education, will begin an initiative tentatively entitled, “Gwynnie worked hard to get to Malibu, but you can get there, just like her.”

She already has Stella McCartney, Paul’s daughter — and Gwynnie’s bestie (one of several dozen) — on board as events coordinator, which means former mega-star Beatle, knighted Sir Paul, will be sure to put on a few Wings shows.  Paul will even have a number to sing in honor of the occasion: “We don’t need you being so mellow, kids, put some tension in the mix, get a stronger groove going, put your hands together now, and clap like you mean it...”  And so on.

Over the next few weeks, Gwynnie will be hammering out the message with Trump Administration officials.  To get the campaign rock ’n’ rolling, there will be a twenty-four-hour telethon hosted by Gwynnie with her ex, Coldplay front man, Chris Martin as conductor of a “kickin’” (quoting Gwynnie), three-piece orchestra.  They are hoping to get this “mother” (quoting Gwynnie) off the ground and have national, even international, coverage and support, but so far they only have passing interest from KABC, the local, ABC affiliate in Los Angeles...

A quick note to those visiting Gwynnie’s hometown of Southern California: The water restrictions have mostly lifted.  Water fountains are no longer labeled: “For Emergency Use Only.”  Days when it rains are have been designated regional holidays, which given the floods recently, gives Goopsters and the rest of So Cal having nothing left to do but smile, smile, smile...

In honor of Goop’s fiftieth year, Gwynnie will be having a few special double issues.  (Gwynnie took the reins from her Mom, Blythe, in 1998, and Blythe first Gooped-out when she was 24, in 1967.)  The Anal Sex Issue was so popular this year, she will be putting out a Golden Shower Issue.  A quick excerpt: “Use a kitty litter box where your subject will be sitting, looking at you eagerly begging...”

Then there’s the Domestics and Repairmen Issue where Gwynnie compares her servants to lower life forms such as sponges and shrubbery.  In this valued keepsake edition, she will offer lessons in Spanish; and additionally, the relative effectiveness of dog obedience commands on humans will be examined, such as “Sit!” and ”Fetch!”  She will also answer the question: When is the best time you should hit your servants?  In front of dinner guests to prove your dominance?

Then we have the annual Eat like a Pig Gourmet Issue where recipes weigh in at over 40 ingredients.  The reason is to generate dining room snob appeal, as in, “What, you haven’t made a recipe with 55 ingredients, Martha?”  As an added feature, Gwynnie’s web site will have a video app where you chase her nemesis, Martha Stewart, around with a dart gun, earning bonus points for hitting her on the ass, subduing her, taking her in, and locking her up in jail (there is Goop legend surrounding how much they despise each other’s guts)...

Another advantage of Long Island over Los Angeles, is the fact that Long Island water is refreshing and abundant, and in winter, it is very refreshingly cold.  In LA, the water is all brought by semi truck from out-of-State into tanks, mostly tanks alongside the one-oh-one.  The super-wealthy like Steve Spielberg and Gwynnie have their own tanks guarded by teams of hungry Dobermans, yet everyone still wants their water supply.  Every month, their Doberman teams maul yet another water stealer.

The press has learned to keep the maulings all hush-hush, because Hollywood is a company town, and these two are Hollywood royalty.  Plebeian water tastes like warm car exhaust might, but Steve and Gwynnie’s is suspected to be much more palatable, hence the intense criminal interest.  If you saw Mad Max: Fury Road, with Charlize Theron, it is not much different, the common folk are all ready to kill for free-flowing, fresh-tasting water — except this is current day, LA reality; not a future, Aussie dystopia...

Because Other Letter is a full service news wire, we investigate any newsworthy item sent our way.  If there is a human interest story out there (or even an inhuman one), we have a bead on it.  This includes the reason for celebrity divorce, specifically Gwynnie and her ex.  So in search of the next, Pulitzer-prize-winning exposé, we surveyed marital psychologists, both tri-State, and national, as well as a few European ones.

Down to a shrink, they all agreed that Gwynnie and her ex tore up their marriage certificate because of age differences.  Gwynnie is five years Chris’ senior.  Guys need to have at least a slight competitive edge, or they get weepy and wimpy.  This feeling of male superiority is usually established via maturity (thus via age) and this could not be established here in the Paltrow-Martin affair.

In fact, Gwynnie’s swami told her, and we quote: “This is what keeps the marriage contract of man and wife bondage intact, the complete subordination of the girl to the husband.  If you don’t like it, marry a woman.”

Even with the great modern feminist thinkers, especially Gloria Steinem, the woman is favorably seen as the always-giving subordinate slave to her great master, taskmaster, and slave driver, an arrangement Gwynnie would have been absolutely comfortable with — after all, she is a woman of today respecting male primacy — except for those five extra birthdays that she had, that he didn’t.  This is just the way the chips had to fall.

Airing out the dirty laundry is vital to a thriving mass media outlet such as Other Letter, and we have just elevated our entire profession again.  We have raised the bar far beyond what even the New York Times can hope to aspire.  This is what you get with true professionals behind the journalistic wheel, where each new and novel sentence is an adventure in comprehension.  Just like the communication pros situated in the White House, right?...

I noticed Gwynnie is not on the Pirelli calendar.  You have to be assertive to land jobs, Gwynnie, so this is what you say: “I would like to be in your calendar, Pirelli, I love your tires and I know we’d make a great match.  I buy tires.”  See, you just need to assert yourself.  Be honest though: “I don’t personally own any of your tires, but I have admired them from a distance — and, well, WOW!!!  What can I say?!  Have you ever got tires!”...

Back in the Nineties, our Gwyneth was engaged to Brad Pitt, who has recently been accused of abusing the children that he had with Angelina Jolie.  Not many know this, but Brad, if seen in unfavorable lighting, looks like a troll, or the hideously deformed guy in The Mask.  Next time you see a Brad Pitt movie, notice where the camera is, it is always on his left side.  Was the camera positioned on his right, he would have no career whatsoever.

Depending on what side you look at him, you will see what Gwynnie first saw, a decent-looking guy, or you will see The Mask guy, even sans makeup.  He has turned down various troll and monster roles, because he felt negative fan perception would cut into all the money he was making when the camera was on his left.

One night at dinner together, Gwynnie swung around on to his right side, the side he was protecting from view, and it was all over.  She politely excused herself from the table, and got sick in the ladies room.  Gwynnie returned to the table, and then had Brad direct all future communications sent from him go to her publicist, Nachos Grandé, and then gave him a fictitious address, to match the fictitious publicist....

Another little tidbit about our Bradley Pitts, is that he is into guns.  He was firing practice rounds over his and Angie’s moppets’ heads before the divorce.  Angie was used to these little pranks, but after plugging one of the favorites of their twenty-three kids (now twenty-two), enough was enough.  This is why Angelina has sole custody, and why the rest of the family wears flak jackets when Bradley comes a callin’.  He is not much of a shot either...

This is the mystery of the ages: How can a couple such as Gwynnie and Chadley Dickworth Wonder-Bread be dating, yet in public avoid each other at every turn?  Do they meet initially, set up a dating appointment calendar, vacay together, and thus fulfill the need to make PR headlines?  When they start to detest each other, do they still honor the schedule?  That’s very likely, because when a celebrity isn’t booked on social calendars, they are an unpopular celebrity, and by popular definition, that person is no longer a celebrity — and in Hollywood only established name brands make the real money.

Everyone in Hollywood becomes a friend of convenience.  They satisfy a purpose, they advance their popularity agenda, and that agenda means membership in coveted high society, yet this same policy can result in having no interest in the company sitting beside them at dinner.  As I see this, an Oscar-winner like our Gwynnie makes for a rough mix with a TV exec.  A well-stratified hierarchy does seem well-observed in Hollywood, and fine cinema does trump typical, pedestrian television fare.  Gwynnie and Chadley were likely doomed from the starting gate.

Gwynnie is from a family with whom the biggest hipster, Blythe, couldn’t smoke weed without bad headaches (as a product of the kamikaze Sixties, I’d have told her to have a few beers first — you’d be flying so high, that hopefully you’d come down).  Hmm, the plot thickens...  They are an established family very aware of the tragedy of causing any scandals, or even hinting at them.  Sleeping around, or horrors, then getting pregnant unwed, is hardly an option.  Faux sex, for public relations purposes, is welcome though.

That’s our carefully considered explanation to these very distant relationships, ones extended in duration for PR purposes.  I cannot say for certain that this is the way they operate, by making their love lives (and yes, even their marriages) be of the same genuineness as their fictional screen performances, but there are some things a columnist of all things celebrity can just feel in their bones...

If there are wedding bells, they are expected this year, so we will soon know if Gwynnie decides to bite the bullet and shack up forever with Chadley Dickworth Wonder-Bread.  One does get the feeling though that Chadley Dickworth is everything she wants in a man — he looks like a guy, he is famous (to Fox network personnel at least), he drives a late-model, ethanol-fueled Cadillac (except he’s always being towed because he can’t find the right type of gas station in time), and he has designs on buying a Harley although he hardly knows what a clutch does.

Okay, I shouldn’t be so hard on the guy.  If Gwynnie thinks he has everything listed above, then who are we to provide outside counsel on her decision-making process?  Although I bet people will go straight from her wedding to the ER with alcohol or opioid poisoning.  Best, best wishes, Gwynnie and Chadley Dickworth Wonder-Bread, may you go on to do whatever it is the super-wealthy like to do — and that’s mainly to make fun of other people.  See, at least when jealous, it’s universal...

Handicappers in Vegas are saying that the World’s Most Eligible Bachelorette will be a married woman once again by the end of this year.  These odds makers say she will be shacking up with Chadley Dickworth Wonder-Bread, a producer at that hotbed to TV talent known as Fox Broadcasting Corp, which every week pumps out Mary Tyler Moore-caliber hits.  While this sarcasm might seem like a bit of jealousy on my part, stemming from a couple that has everything life can legally provide (the staff may serve up illegalities as well), pettiness is the furthest thing from the truth, it is, honest it is.

By the way, there is another wrinkle in the entire Chadley-Gwynnie saga, and that is that they are only seen together twice a year.  There are entire corporation conglomerates of photogs with dispatchers, helicopters, satellite communication equipment, drones, and water craft, devoted to capturing anything Gwynnie on film stock, yet this pair is absolutely invisible to the paparazzi.  Enquiring minds such as mine need to know, and one day, damn it, I sure as Hell will...

Julie Klausner, head of Difficult People, or more appropriately Difficult Showrunners, pulled off a takedown on our Gwynnie.  Without offering any reason why, Klausner called Ms. Paltrow a “back-stabber.”  Yet Klausner offers no facts to back her claim.  Even given my abbreviated knowledge of the law, I know that you can parody, or truthfully criticize a celebrity or figure, because otherwise they are entitled to their well-deserved, good reputation.

Yet Klausner’s open hostility is neither type of public redress, so if Gwynnie felt up to it, she can sue Klausner for slander.  Why not go for it, Ms. Paltrow?  Set some precedent.  At least have your attorney on retainer file a cease and desist order with Klausner, give your staff a little something extra to do...

Gwyneth Paltrow had some rather unusual experiences in her “progressive” grammar school days.  If we read the literature from the elementary school where she is currently sending her kids, we find a novel approach to grading systems:

“Here at the San Lisidro Academy we pride ourselves in our noncompetitive grading system.  Known as the CVT, it’s based on the core principles of equality, brotherhood, and sisterhood, for everyone.  CVT stands for chair-vase-table, and for every communal project your moppet works on during the semester, they are evaluated as either a chair, a vase, or a table.  A chair grade implies your moppet had a support function and was very sturdy.  Others in the class can often rest on them for comfort.  A chair can just as likely be a girl as it can be a boy.  A vase grade suggests he or she contained the work and kept it from spilling out of bounds, thus avoiding time and resource overages.  Vases tend to be girls.  Lastly the grade of table means your moppet provided a reliable surface upon which the group could work.  Most but not all of our tables are boys.  Every dedicated teacher at the San Lisidro Academy has weeks of coursework mastering the CVT which guarantees the careful application of grades in the CVT paradigm.  So whether your moppet is a chair, a vase, or a table, we welcome you to the SLA.”

We wish Gwynnie’s moppets the greatest academic success possible.

Gwynnie’s new, high-end (read: perhaps intentionally, this is unapproachably high-end) smoothie recipe that she now features on Goop contains, and I quote: “maca, ashwagandha, ho shou wu, cordyceps, Moon Dust of choice, and Himalayan sea salt.”  Mine at Other Letter contains: cow’s milk, maple syrup, and one of four kinds of berries.  How many health food stores, mooncalf delivery services, and food trucks contain any of Gwynnie’s ingredients?  This has to be a Californian recipe, because if you live anywhere else, such as on Long Island, it would be impossible to find any of these ingredients.  Cheers, Gwynnie...

The following quote has been verifiably attributed to Gwyneth Paltrow: “I still tan without sunscreen, which is totally messed up [she used a variant on messed up which is more suitable for porn sites].”  I must step to the fore.  Gwynnie, you’re playing Russian Roulette with your derma.

One day, probably in the not too distant future, you’ll wake up and poof, you’ll find yourself looking like a grossly over-sized prune, burnt to a crisp, in an inner-city ICU (the only place the hardened EMTs and ER docs could get admittance privileges based on your scary physical appearance).  It will be just like the end of Wizard of Oz, but much less happy.  Your family will all be huddled around you giving you your favorite treats: dried, unflavored kale chips; tepid radish broth; barley burgers; and plenty of charcoal-filtered tap water to wash it down.

Grandma Blythe will be holding back tears in front of her grand kids.  She will be staring at the ceiling, hands clasped in prayer — to help summon for you the recuperative spirits of whatever God you believe in this week.  Your ex, Chris, will be pacing the floor, wondering how your moppets will be adequately raised without their Mum rallying her troops into battle.

Gwyneth, you need to ask yourself, is this a fitting end to your illustrious career, and your glorious life?  Cars are honking outside; you’re laying down on a lumpy mattress, in a hospital room that is visibly unclean, and smells like a men’s room on the New York State Thruway above Albany when the custodians couldn’t get to work because of a five-foot-deep blizzard.  With your family rehearsing their eulogies (even your kids want to throw in a few words about the pet rabbit you let them keep); and all of this with you now looking like an African American centenarian.  Think long and hard, Gwyneth, think sunscreen, SPF 30 or better...

It is the New Year, so it is time for Gwynnie to admonish us to stick to our Resolutions for healthier eating.  For those in Goop-land, this means detoxify via detoxing.  Our Gwyneth claims that this does not mean starvation, yet go no further than Day 1 of her broth-inspired diet: Chickpea & Kale Curry with Brown Rice.  WWII soldiers on the Bataan Death March ate better.  Dinner at Day 3 and Day 4: Detox Hot & Sour Soup; is there a half pound of ground sirloin with my Hot & Sour Soup?  If not, send it back to the kitchen, because otherwise I don’t want any.

Okay, I actually did research before writing this, and what did I find?  Depriving one’s body of nutrients does not cleanse it of toxins.  Now Gwynnie will kill me for this: Detoxes could well do more harm than good and prevent real treatment.  Toxins a detox removes have never been identified.  Plus, I know from experience that by promoting detoxes you are promoting starvation-induced delirium.  Or maybe the Gwynnie detox is so high-end, fewer people die from it, the mortality risk has been scientifically reduced so a Goop email subscription is not the expected death sentence.

Typical scenario: Becky has cancer, and ignores her doctors advice to eat a diet designed for people, and not for mice.  Instead she follows Gwynnie, the pied piper of Californian well-being (no snickering please), to her doom.  Everyone will be like, “where’s Becky?”  The slow, sad, and heartfelt reply: “Gwynnie killed her so she can sell more Goop.”

I know Ms. Paltrow’s rebuttal, you missed the point, it’s not starving.  Then what the Hell is it?  This back and forth between Gwynnie and I has to stop.  This is an open invitation for her to defend her diet regimen against mine, one-on-one, no holds barred, last diner standing.  I will cut Gwynnie some slack though: Maybe this is more designed for women (or only designed for women), who are much more accustomed to eating like birds...

Despite what people who do not know Ms. Paltrow say about her, anyone hearing reports from reputable sources can see that she is the type that will never let a friend down, and be forever on their side.  These sources also say she makes friends very easily, and in fact, you can find photos of her on the Internet with every A-lister on the planet — from Bono, to Meryl Streep, to the Clintons and the Obamas.

Gwyneth Paltrow’s online, lifestyle news weekly, Goop, has just landed a huge account.  She will now be working with volume discount, price-leader Costco.  Yes, Gwyn has done it once more — proving once and for all that she is a woman of and for the people.  We look at her shaking free from the pack and we think, damn, that girl’s good.  We can’t catch you Gwyn, this race is all yours, we should have stayed in bed today.  We’ll try to finally meet up with you at the Clubhouse.  Otherwise, we’ll just catch a cab home.  Whew!  That woman is really something else — unstoppable, pure poetry in motion, can she ever go the distance.

This free-spirited, free-thinking, progressive leader does not age, it must be because she knows how to take care of herself.  Gwyneth Paltrow looks better now than she did in her 1995 movie, Se7en.  It wasn’t until three years after this, at the age of 26 — when she starred in Shakespeare in Love and Sliding Doors — did she become a household name, one even better known now with the cookbooks she has authored, and her many business ventures.

Considering her celebrity today, and how far she has gotten, and given the plethora of Hollywood childhood stars groomed ever-younger for success, her comparatively later arrival to super-stardom spared her much of the Hollywood excess, and she remains very sane.

As undeniable proof of her accomplishments, her enterprise remains vibrant, and is catching up to Oprah, who seems a bit out of breath.  Gwyn believes in maintaining good corporate citizenship, so she devotes much Goop browser real estate to educating the general public about nutrition, either through healthy recipes, via cookbook clubs, or with articles about the benefits of wholesome eating.

Her only scripted television role has been on Glee, playing appropriately-named Holly Holiday — appropriately-named because Holly reminds one of breezy holidays, and even perhaps, Audrey Hepburn’s Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffanys.  Ms. Paltrow reprised her Holly character here, as everyone’s favorite substitute teacher here.

To all the men hopefully courting her favor, Ms. Paltrow represents, fully unwittingly, the ideal of feminine perfection.  Perhaps not practically, but to millions of hopeful guys at least, she is the Most Eligible Bachelorette on Earth.  She is not just a California dream girl, she is the American Beauty.  She was not only blessed with Playboy looks, she was blessed with Vogue, Glamour, and Mademoiselle ones as well.  I wonder if she is as much a joy in person as she is when seen on television, or is she as meticulous, nagging, and controlling as one might expect a CEO to be.

When big budget, international movies like Contagion or Iron Man are made, and investors need box office guarantees, they call on bankable stars such as Ms. Paltrow because she meets every performance expectation.  There is never any hint she is acting, and her script interpretation is flawless.  Ms. Paltrow impresses in every movie she is in, even in the rare instances when she is given very little with which to work.  Most of the work given Ms. Paltrow is high-concept, meaning her films are sophisticated works of art.

Ms. Paltrow starred in Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow, which was given four-stars by Roger Ebert although hardly anyone ever saw it.  Gwyn, with tremendous conviction, plays reporter Polly Perkins (not to be confused with Pepper Potts, whom she later portrays in Iron Man), hot on the trail of the most astonishing story ever, death-dealing robots invading Earth from outer space.

As you can likely tell from the Sky Captain clip, Gwyneth was in real life a Varsity letterwoman, and even though she much prefers the realism of doing her own stunts, she often finds herself battling the motion picture insurance underwriters for her right to artistic self-expression.

Ms. Paltrow is my absolute favorite for the title role in my new dramedy, Geneviève Marseille knows the Score.  Geneviève is an Oscar-winning actress renowned the World over as the charming beauty from France who is never afraid to speak her mind.  When she finally met her match, no one ever thought she would meet him trying to fix the flat on her Rolls.

Gwyneth’s manager has advised her of the buttons her detractors can push, so now she begins every premeditated observation with, “I can only speak for myself, yada, yada, yada...” or “I may not be the right person to ask, but I will say that nuclear fission gets too complicated for my pat answer...”  She will now resist offering any comparisons of any kind, even when the question begins with, “How would you compare... ?”

Charlize Theron faced censure similar to Gwyn’s for comparing continuous media intrusion on her family’s life to being raped.  Through her publicist, Ms. Theron later admitted she may have been exaggerating just the tiniest, tiniest bit; although she knows today that by being emphatic, or sensationalizing her message, her point gets well-considered, as it is now.

Ms. Paltrow speaks both conversational French and fluent Spanish.  Oh yes, lest we forget, Gwyneth won an Academy Award for Best Leading Performance by an Actress for her portrayal of Viola De Lesseps in Shakespeare in Love.  (Blythe Danner is her Mom, and an accomplished, Tony Award-winning actress herself, so it is not too difficult to see that great looks, talent, and intellect run in Gwynnie’s family.)

While Gwynnie has a summer home on the East End of Long Island, her heart belongs to So Cal, having grown up there.  In L.A., working past 3PM qualifies as burning the midnight oil, as the dinner dishes are usually in the kitchen sink by 5PM, and lights are all out by 8PM, or 9PM if you’ve been raving.  Most, including the elderly, and oft times even the infirm, are up before dawn surfing, shining the headlights of their Woodys on the waves.

When the surf goes back out, it is time to unify body and mind with California’s statewide, pre-workday, loosely enforced obligation (like every other ironclad mandate there, you don’t bother if you don’t feel up to it).  In other words, it’s time for yoga and meditation.  Every city, town, and hamlet has a wide and impressive variety of yoga centers, one catering to every level of expertise — from the lowly, rank beginner, or the shunned; all the way up to the exalted Swami (you will readily recognize Swamis in the street, they all wear long flowing, white robes, and their foot servants throw rose petals before their steps).  To prepare you for your visit among these people, when they ask you, “How was your Yoga today?” you say, “I reached Kaivalya consciousness.”  They will look at you with admiration, and you will hurry right along not causing any suspicion.  Whatever you do, don’t ever say, “I don’t like yoga,” because then they will utter the six nastiest words known to Californians: “You must be from New York.”

Hasheesh is freely available at CVS, or any established local druggist; and your kid’s school nurse will also have a ready supply in handy, dime-sized bags.

In California, the high school bands play Grateful Dead jams at halftime.  Most outside of So Cal and No Cal have missed that rare treat of hearing a tuba play the melody line of Casey Jones.  Once they start tripping on Dark Star, it’s time for the football captain to leave the field and Captain Trips to take his place.

He then cracks open their tomes of higher learning by Ken Kesey, Jack Kerouac, and Carlos Castaneda, as the game is called off on account of hallucinations.  Skiing, and other snow sports, are just a 21-hour drive up the West Coast to Vancouver — or a short, 8-hour hop to Lake Tahoe.

L.A. is essentially a desert.  Locals will claim the desert climate you experience during your stay is only the product of a persistent drought.  What they will neglect to mention is that the drought has persisted from the time Velociraptors roamed the La Brea Tar Pits.

Because of the parched landscape, most fresh, local produce reaches your plate via vigorous, seasonal cactus harvesting.  Migrant day laborers shipped direct from South America are often seen hopping on the back of pick-up trucks near Sunset Boulevard for the trip into the San Bernardino Valley where the harvesting takes place.  Wearing thick leather gloves to avoid puncture wounds from the thorns, and each with their own time-hewed, professional-grade machete, workers of all ages — younger children as well as grand folk — can be seen in transit heading up the one-oh-one, heatedly debating reaping technique.  During daylight, they are out in the fields, and get paid piecemeal without complaint, while happily singing songs about the Southland.

The Goop team has found ingenious ways to boil, fry, flambé, char-broil, and sauté the succulent cacti.  At a typical So Cal grocer, you will also find a coconut aisle next to the aisle exclusively offering cactus products.  Coconuts are cleaved apart with a few pendulous, well-placed strikes of a long-handled ax, the meats are removed with an ice cream scooper, and then puréed in a food processor; while its milk can be offered to your cat.  Goopers recommend taking this coconut paste, and spooning it over endive salads, or adding it as a rémoulade to fish, such as haddock or striped bass (imported by train from the East End of Long Island).

Despite living in Paradise, a little rain must fall, but not enough to put out brush fires.  Each and every morning in the windy season of Spring, Summer, and Autumn, the So Cal homeowner climbs up on their roof, then hoses down their entire house, top to bottom, often employing a trellis system part and parcel of these advanced, architecture-precepts-aligned estates, ones that neighbors affectionately call, ‘tinder boxes.’  Unfortunately, So Cal has less control over earthquakes, although everyone there knows the safety drill — if the Earth starts quaking and shaking, go under a table or load-bearing doorway.  Another means of survival is to fly along those 12-lane freeways, paved 12-lanes wide because of absolute necessity, and an absolute necessity even when an entire city is not fleeing for its life.  Keep in mind that L.A. has no mass transit system to speak of, and everyone will be hightailing it out of town at once, just as you are.  In the event of a riot, most Angelenos are well-prepared, and keep an arsenal of automatic weaponry in their basement, or under their bed.  A tsunami has never hit Los Angeles, although it is within striking distance of North Korean ICBMs.

Surprisingly enough, there is no possibility that Gwyneth’s Long Island would ever be befallen by any of these potential disasters, man-made or natural.  In fact, while I was finishing up compiling this listing of all that makes being an Angeleno so great, much to my surprise it registered with me that perhaps Long Island, my hometown, is the better place to live.  Then it dawned on me, that maybe Gwyneth really belongs out here year round, where she can feel entirely welcome, safe, and comfortable — fifty miles from my digs.  Hmm, I wonder...

...Ms. Paltrow, as spokeswoman for the American Carpet and Rug Association, would like to remind you that: “every month is dust mite month, and every rug owner should vacuum their prized Persian, Oriental, etc., not monthly, but biweekly, or even weekly, just as I do.  Not only will this leave your cherished pile looking and smelling its best, it will relieve all the tension in your life, get you behind a machine that will do exactly as you tell it to do, and put your focus right back where it belongs, in rug care, and even more importantly, in homemaking.”

To avoid a libel lawsuit, I should add that the previous paragraph was satirical in nature and is of a common Gwyneth typecast.  Gwyneth is not as domestic as she would appear, and in fact, does most if not all of the engine work on her Rolls, and even built an extension to her Pacific Palisades home using just a hammer, a staple gun, and a saw.  Way to be, Gwynnie.

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Cameron Diaz

(The Mask,
the How may I help you, Ma’am? bank scene)

Cameron Diaz

Cameron Diaz began her career as a fashion model for Levi’s and Calvin Klein at the age of 17.  Four years later, Ms. Diaz was called to audition for the leading lady in The Mask, even though she had no previous acting experience.  Her performance made it one of the top-ten grossing films from 1994, and firmly launched her career as a very sexy, approachable, genuinely sincere, and now clean-living actress.

Looking for more professionally fulfilling roles, Cameron worked the indie circuit having major roles in four films, including The Last Supper.  This edgy, niche movie was about five lefty, graduate school students who, in a misguided effort to make the world a better place, murder right-wing extremists.  Then we rooted for her as Rose Summers in Pretty in Pink.

Ms. Diaz’s next major role was in There’s Something About Mary.  Her hilarious portrayal of the title character put her work in 27th place on the American Film Institute’s, 100 Years, 100 Laughs: America’s Funniest Movies.  She also won a Golden Globe Award for the category of Best Actress – Musical or Comedy.

In the very critically acclaimed, Being John Malkovich Cameron looked significantly different than she had in any of her other films.  Ms. Diaz’s work there earned her Best Supporting Actress nominations at the Golden Globe, BAFTA, and SAG Awards.

Cameron was also in a few other major box office smashes, doing Princess Fiona voiceovers in the Shrek series, and portraying Natalie Cook in Charlie’s Angels.  Cameron Diaz’s movies’ gate receipts puts her 13th on the all-time list for actors, and in first place, one ahead of Julia Roberts, for actresses.

Besides all this, she just wrote a book on exercise and nutrition, The Body Book, taking kitchen cues from a very good friend, who herself has written two wellness cookbooks (they bonded grieving over their fathers’ passings).  Word is out that this friendship helped green-light Cameron straight through the Pantheon nominating committee, giving her application top priority.  What is most unusual is that her friend’s standing with a certain well-known blogger may have even cinched the deal on Cami’s final approval.

Here are a few photographs of Cameron looking more fabulous than ever.  They were taken a few days after she celebrated her 42nd birthday out in the Hamptons on Long Island (no, these were not hacked out of her iCloud account; and yes, there was an invitation mix-up so Cameron overlooked inviting me to her shindig — your profuse apologies graciously accepted, Cami).

Cameron just got married to Benji Madden, the drummer for Sweet Charlotte.  Her husband is seven years her junior, yet they are in love so we wish them all the best.  Yes, it is always sad, and a bit of a disruption, when a girl leaves the Pantheon.  The packing, the newly shared cohabitation, the tearful sendoff from the rest of the Pantheon.  “Bye-bye, Cami.”  “So long, Cameron.”  “Where’s the rent?”

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Kate Hudson

(Katie Kiehn)

Kate Hudson

Dream girl Kate Hudson was absolutely perfect in Almost Famous, yet she only received an Academy Award nom, not the Oscar (Marcia Gay Harden won in 2000 for Pollock).  The role of super-groupie-hipster Penny Lane fit Kate to a Tee, in part because of her Rock ’n Roll lifestyle, great looks, and kind nature.  In many of her movies since though, critics had little to say except that even her beautiful, warming sunshine was not enough to brighten these screenplays’ darkness.

Ms. Hudson carries herself as someone older might, yet she is only a youthful-looking 36 years old.  She is a gal pal of Gwyneth Paltrow.

In fact, Kate Hudson hangs with a gang of the most hardcore, passionate, resolute, and unflinching femmes in all of Santa Monica.  More formerly known as the Goopsters, they are: Gwyneth Paltrow, their good-humored, always vivacious leader, who’s always there when any might need to call on her; Cameron Diaz, their fun, good-times, sunshine Angel donning double-secret-agent disguise; Stella McCartney, bringing daughter-of-royalty cachet with a daring and bold Continental mien; and Sarah Jessica Parker, who checks the haul, and pulls the band back together, after a long, intense day in town of non-stop shoe-shopping up and down Rodeo Drive.  In a ‘Males-only’ World, these Super-Sweeties rule the roost supreme, holding court over this hardscrabble, ragtag burgh, this Pacific Ocean end of Route 66, this SaMo, Populus felix in urbe felice.

Kate has appeared on Glee as Cassandra July, famed dance instructor at the celebrated New York Academy of the Dramatic Arts.

Ms. Hudson is a devout Buddhist, as is her Mom, Rowan and Martin’s Laugh-in alumna Goldie Hawn — and just like her Mom, she is much smarter than she appears to be.

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Sofía Vergara

(Peter | © 2012 American Broadcasting Companies, Inc.)

Sofía Vergara

I am shopping this premise for a Modern Family episode and I’m looking to run this by Sofia Vergara.  Modern Family is the top rated show on cable, hence the weeks preparing this beauty.  I’m boarding the Vergara gravy train — you wait and see.  This is the type of cutting edge, visionary television I spit out every day.

So Sofia, we know you’re out there, ask me about my series of Modern Family scripts.  Most don’t involve sky-diving as this one does, but don’t worry about jumping out of a plane, this is what green screen does for you.  Sit back, grab a cold one (not your husband), and enjoy television as it was meant to be.

Sofia’s character, we’ll make up something — okay, her name is Linda.  She has a husband we’ll call Carl, who has his car in the shop, so Carl must sky dive into the most important sales meeting.

Hilarity ensues when Sofia demands to come along on the sky dive, because Carl and her don’t spend enough time together.  Now this is key, on the way down, Sofia’s harness unfortunately breaks (because of her chest size).  Carl’s parachute, meanwhile, won’t open because he’s not mechanically inclined.

Sofia, or Linda, has to fit into Carl’s harness, and he has to make it down from the clouds with her parachute.  Sofia is now face-to-face with Carl, for the first time in their blessed marriage.  All the while, they have to beat the clock and gravity (just like the jiggle and bounce of Sofia’s boobs), else the couple will be dead meat.  Cue Tom Petty’s Freefallin’.

The End.  Thank you.  Thank you very much.  That’s an Elvis line by the way, if you’re wondering.  Elvis, meaning Elvis Presley...

Sofía Vergara had planned on a career in dentistry, and was two semesters shy from completing her undergraduate degree, when a photog noticed her on a beach in her native Columbia.  This led to modeling work, and then to co-hosting Fuera de serie (or Out of the Ordinary), a travel series where Sofia reported back from exotic locales all around the globe.  This show, and her beautiful, effervescent personality, made her a huge hit in the Univisión Latin American television market.

Because of turmoil in her homeland, she hoped for a better life in America, so she moved to Miami.  (Her older brother was murdered during a kidnap attempt in 1998; and in 2011, her younger brother was deported back to Columbia.)

Ms. Vergara has appeared in several movies and television shows — both English and Spanish-language — but the vehicle that really moved her show business career into high gear was Modern Family.  In this situation comedy, acknowledged as a take off of I Love Lucy, Sofia plays Gloria Delgado-Pritchett, a housewife of a man 25 years her senior.  Gloria knows how to handle a rifle with such accuracy, that she tells her 12-year-old son she could unbutton his shirt by firing off a few, well-targeted rounds.  In the series, Ms. Vergara’s character later explains that she was raised in a neighborhood of prostitutes, and everyone on their street would say that, “Love is just around the corner.”

For her Modern Family role alone, Ms. Vergara earned four Golden Globes, four Primetime Emmys, and seven Screen Actors Guild Awards.  The financial periodical Forbes ranks Sofia as the highest earning actor on United States television.  She makes so much in fact, our sources tell us she was recently seen house-shopping with a real estate agent in tow, nearby Bill Gates digs in suburban Seattle.

Sofia will be appearing with Reese Witherspoon in Don’t Mess with Texas aka Hot Pursuit, about a prisoner and a police officer on the run.  Truth be told, Ms. Vergara is actually a blond, and is generally asked to become a brunette to appear more Latina.  Sofia has great, sexy dance moves you would never see North of the border.

Sofia’s Columbian World Cup team made it out of their group, sweeping all three of their games in fact.  On Saturday, they enter the Knockout Stage’s, Round of 16 against Uruguay.  Very understandably, Ms. Vergara’s keeping mum on what her team has planned for us.  Stay tuned ... Well, Ms. Vergara called this one, with the rest of her Columbian national team soundly defeating a less disciplined Uruguayan squad — their star forward was removed because he bit another player — on a two-goal effort by James Rodriguez, both goals off heading passes.  Sofia and her national team will be moving on to the quarterfinals against a tough Brazilian contingent.  Regardless of how that team looks on paper, this match may already be wrapped up.  Way to be, Sofia ... At least we know Columbia is one of the top eight futbol nations in the world.  Soon, we expect Ms. Vergara to congratulate the Brazilian side, and thank her Columbian club for a tournament well-played ...

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Jessica Alba

(Hispanic Lifestyle)

Jessica Alba

Jessica Alba is the cutie-pie with the absolutely adorable, megawatt smile.  Considering Jessica has been in 50 movies in her 33 years, she may well be one of the hardest working women in all of show business.  Ms. Alba picks the most unusual parts to play.  She has been in Machete, and its sequel Machete Kills.  She appeared in It Has Begun: Bananapocalypse, and had a leading role in more mainstream films like Little Fockers.

Ms. Alba recently wrapped up a sequel to Sin City entitled Sin City: A Dame to Kill For.  With the redux, Jessica reprised her role as Nancy, but unlike the very well-received original, the next edition met with lukewarm reviews.  The reason it was even made is because Hollywood would much rather bank on remaking a successful, known quantity, than take risks on anything new yet unproven.  One got the sense that the director behind the second installment of the franchise, one ten years in the making, spent much more time on visual design than spent time rewriting the script — assuming the premise had any more life in it, and it may not have.

While Jessica’s biggest money-makers are in the sci-fi, action-thriller genres, including Fantastic Four, and Fantastic 4: Rise of the Silver Surfer, one readily gets the sense that she possesses the intellect to do much better than appear in those simple fantasy roles, or crime-thriller ones like Awake or The Killer Inside Me.  In fact, Ms. Alba studied acting with William H. Macy and his wife, Felicity Huffman, at the Atlantic Theater Company, one developed by Macy and David Mamet, the Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright.

An avid swimmer and PADI-certified scuba-diver, Jessica was well-suited for the part of Maya on the television series Flipper.  Sky Angel, as IMDB Pro lists her aka, elevated her game a notch or two playing Max Guevera in the TV series Dark Angel, a role which won her the Golden Globe.

Ms. Alba co-founded The Honest Company, a distributor of 100% natural home and baby products.  The company fulfilled an unmet need in Jessica as she has two young girls, and she found it difficult to find products to care for them that were non-toxic.  The company is floating an initial public offering expected to raise $1 billion in capital for Jessica, and the two other co-founders, as well as an investment consortium.

Albz — she definitely has interesting sobriquets — identified with feminism at the age of five.  While her family is very conservative, she was always the opposite.  Ms. Alba broke ranks from the Church after she was hit on continually, and the youth pastor said it was because she was dressing provocatively when she wasn’t.  He said that the unwelcome advances were her fault, that she was coming on to these leches, and that she had to redeem herself for her past.  Jessica saw the weak roles women played in the Bible, and this further alienated her from that faith.

Ms. Alba is regularly included on listings of the most desirable, hottest, and sexiest women of People, FHM, GQ, Empire, and Maxim magazines.  Directors want her to be nude in their films, but she has a no-nudity clause inserted in all of her contracts.  Unlike many of her peers, Jessica has also made it very clear she will never sleep with anyone to advance her career.  She has said she goes for older men because they seem to know so much (a few actually do, Jessica).

On top of all this, Jessica gives as much of her time and energy as she can to Habitat for Humanity, environmental causes, AIDS prevention, and women’s and gay rights promotion and recognition.

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Maggie Gyllenhaal

(Still from The Dark Knight
DC Comics, Warner Bros. Entertainment Inc. © 2008
Seen here and elsewhere, Maggie
possesses an irresistible and charming glow.)

Maggie Gyllenhaal

Maggie, if you read this, please get in touch with Ashley Judd.  She is doing her damnedest to end the world’s oldest profession, and I am sure she could use your input on eradicating prostitution.  Given you play a hooker cum porn entrepreneur, perhaps you could give a better sense of the value sex workers have in this world, if any.  Ashley thinks their only value is in Walmart 9 to 5s, but you may have another opinion...

Maggie looks as though she is the latest Hollywood actress to succumb to the Invasion of the Booby Snatcher.  Would you believe?  Breast reduction has overtaken all of our fair city.  Heather, Halle, Maggie, is this possible?  Have our eyes been deceived?  Please, dear Lord, make this stop!...

Sadly, Maggie Gyllenhaal is not getting all the parts she very richly deserves.  While obviously a looker herself, Ms. Gyllenhaal is so much more than just the eye candy seen of every other starlet.  As a rule, Hollywood people don’t have degrees.  Maggie possesses such brilliance, she is an Ivy League diplomate from Columbia University.  It is a given, that an actress will not be nominated for an Academy Award as Ms. Gyllenhaal was for Crazy Heart, and nominated for Golden Globe awards, as she was for Sherrybaby and Secretary.

To many, she is best known for her scorching-hot portrayal of submissive Lee Holloway in Secretary.  Much to her credit, Maggie does not strike one as the kind who spends any time worrying what other people might be thinking about her.

Most recently, in Won’t Back Down, despite stellar, exceptionally charismatic performances from both Maggie, and her co-star, Viola Davis, the script given them was without real substance.  It offered them very little with which to work, so even their talents could not fully carry it.  Maggie put much more enthusiasm into her performance than the movie deserved.  This movie had so much product placement, one expected Maggie to break the Fourth Wall, and start plugging household essentials directly to the movie-goer.

The story is unexpectedly anti-Union, specifically targeting Teachers’ Unions.  Given Ms. Gyllenhaal’s very progressive record of political activism, it is more than a little surprising she chose this role.  Perhaps the role-reversal of an erudite, White Collar, Africa American opposite a colorful, White barmaid drew her to the script.  Nonetheless, isn’t there any more Batman movies for her, or any other super-hero ones?  The kind to help give her new visibility, and to attract really juicy parts her way again, ones that showcase her very special brand of theatrical fireworks.

One of Maggie’s favorite turns in her career, is playing the lead in her latest project, a significant, noteworthy dramatic mini-series from the British Broadcasting Corporation (the BBC) entitled, The Honourable Woman.  Here Ms. Gyllenhaal portrays Nessa Stein, daughter of an Israeli arms dealer who ultimately turns the destructive family business into one supporting communication infrastructure between the Arabs and the Israelis... This just in, Ms. Gyllenhaal won the Golden Globe for her tour de force, bravura performance as Nessa.  That was her first Golden Globe win, and we just know this will open still more doors for Maggie.

Maggie is one, very busy actress.  She will be appearing in what is said to be Sir Tom Stoppard’s best stage work, The Real Thing.  In this regularly produced play, one which first premiered in 1982, Maggie plays Annie, an actress who has an affair with a playwright.  On stage they fight, yet off stage they romance, in this sophisticated play within a play.  By the way, Sir Stoppard also wrote Shakespeare in Love, the screenplay that helped make Gwyneth Paltrow a household name.

Surprisingly, the New York Times review for The Real Thing was mixed.  The chemistry on-stage between Maggie’s turn and the male lead was apparently lacking.  Having never tread the boards (and at this rate, likely never will), does the acting displayed on-stage mean the off-stage chemistry is not there yet as well?  Does the cast ever socialize together?  Or does stiffness result from both leads having never before appeared on Broadway?  Given this lack of experience, are they petrified of having to wait for audience cell phone calls to be completed before they can resume the play?

Just an aside, Maggie has a soft, honey-sweet, and beautiful speaking voice.  If I was Ms. Gyllenhaal’s agent, I would be lining up narration parts for her.  Disney always needs fairy godmothers.  Or go more adult, her soothing and sultry timber would make a perfect voiceover for airline or high-end automobile commercials — and she can do a flawlessly convincing, British accent.  These suggestions may sound frivolous, or beneath her, but just listen to the way she talks, and then you decide.

When, not if, my screen play of a dramedy, I like our Chances, gets made into a movie, she’s Emily Femmedieu, the demure, leading lady unexpectedly finding the man she had only hoped existed, and without whom, she will never know true happiness.

With remarkable candor, Ms. Gyllenhaal discusses being a new mother on the Chelsea Lately show.

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Kirsten Dunst

(Still from Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind,
Kirsten as a mistress,
and Lacuna Corp. memory-erasing employee.)

Kirsten Dunst

Kirsten is officially off-limits because she is getting married.  But still, as part of the consent agreement she signed with Other Letter (you have this, Kirsten, look around for it), I can still make snarky comments about your life and your love interests.

For instance, Kirsten was seen crying on the Red Carpet at the Cannes Film Festival.  I know what you’re thinking, she’s crying over her fiancé.  No, her love life is in tip-top shape, her contact lenses were bothering her.  Who is her fiancé?  An actor, why can’t these starlets fall for bloggers?  What is it with them anyhow?

Kirsten has lived with a guy before, actually two, but who’s counting?  Let me finish.  Girls where there was a divorce, like Kirsten’s family, have many boyfriends.  (Ashley Judd quickly comes to mind, if you know her you know she’s dated the entire Kentucky University men’s basketball team, often going on group dates under the guise of glee club booster captain).  Daughters whose father died, on the other hand, hardly date anyone.

This is scientific fact gleaned from my developmental psych text, there are no exceptions, these are life’s rules, live with them, okay?  So all I am saying is that Kirsten really enjoys the stability of serious relationships.  She even needs them when the kind she wants most are not readily available.  Hence the contact lense issue at Cannes...

I miss Kirsten: All the fun around the Pantheon campfire, the sing-alongs, building the new wing and the new atrium, the ice skating by the lake, tending the Pantheon grounds, milking the cows (her over-sized bosom didn’t hurt one bit, either).  She’s getting married to some guy.  Was his name, Mack?  Some guy named Mack we think.  As in, “Hey, Mack, you suck.”

Kirsten was at Coachella, except she spent some time at Churchella.  That’s some goofiness her manager pulled on her, we’re pretty sure: “Go to Churchella, Kirsten, improve your movie demographics with people who spend all day praying for forgiveness.  You’re not getting the roles you deserve, Kirsten, spend Sundays at Mass chatting up the congregation.  Work your fan base.”

Managers pull that PR nonsense, unless there’s a new Kirsten, one who loves Jesus the Christ.  It’s just too sad to consider.  I’d be her manager, and straighten her right out, but I’m booked solid, and plus, she’s married...

Kirsten is getting married, what can you do?  Way to be, Dunst.  We’re done.  You’re attached and off the trading block, we’ll try not to let our disappointment in you show.  We are sure you will be so incredibly happy together with whomever it is you’re shacking up with this month, and then have your fifteen kids named after your movie characters.  At least if you’re not serially dating, you won’t end up with canker sores.  So we’ll respect that much of your new mode of living.

We checked Pantheon rules, and marriage alone cannot have you pulled from here, but be very careful, Kirsten, we are onto you.  We just pulled Nicole Kidman for bad behavior and conduct unbecoming, do you want to be next — hmm?  You had unbelievable potential in the Pantheon, Dunst, but suit yourself.  Sniff, sniff, tissue...

Like everyone else, you must be wondering what Kirsten has been up to recently, so here is the capsule news flash.  Ms. Dunst is directing a feature-length movie, the film adaptation of Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar; she received a Fargo Emmy nom; and she broke her leg in a cheerleading accident.  Yes, that’s right.  Apparently she was practically buried alive demonstrating a human pyramid to the new squad for the Bring it On sequel, Bring It On ’Til You Drop.

Then in other news, as we might already know, Kirsten is a very attractive, full-figured woman, although she earns demerits because she’s a smoker.  We can just see it now: Academy Awards, 2020, “And the Oscar for Directing the sweeping epic, Bring it On and On and On, goes to Kirsten Dunst...  Where is she?...  She’s out having a drag?  Then the Oscar goes to Quentin Tarantino for his sequel, To Kill a Mockingbird, and Then Some”...

To much acclaim, dreamboat Kirsten Dunst played Peter Parker’s wholesome, glamorous, and gorgeous girlfriend, Mary Jane Watson, in the first three of the billion-dollar-grossing, Spider-Man movies.  Having been a clean-living cheerleader herself, Kirsten legitimized them with her first-hand, knowing performance of a grand champion in Bring it On (we recently caught her dragging on a cancer stick, but we won’t tell, not on our watch).

By no means though, does Ms. Dunst only limit her work to projects designed for universal appeal, or for a younger demographic.  In Melancholia, she plays a sister deeply troubled by the course of her life, then more deeply troubled by what might be the end of life on Earth from a planetary collision.  More recently, Kiki — as friends call never-haughty Kirsten — won over hearts again with her warm portrayal of Alison Olsen in the sleeper, Losing Friends and Alienating People.

Set on location in Istanbul, Athens, and Crete, Kirsten’s most recent work is on the thriller, The Two Faces of January.  Ms. Dunst plays the wife of a con man who finds herself on the lam running through Greece and into Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar after he accidentally kills an Athenian police officer who is investigating him.

The very ambitious movie script for The Two Faces, is an adaptation of a Patricia Highsmith novel of the same name.  This prolific novelist wrote crime fiction, and another of her works, Strangers on a Train, was produced by Alfred Hitchcock, among others.  Rotten Tomatoes, the cinema review site, gave it a very good, 82% rating, calling it, “classy, if not classic.”

Given the iCloud nudity scandal, if you still need the prurient along side Kirsten’s acting talents, you can see her tastefully naked (or at least I thought so) in Melancholia.

Most recently, Ms. Dunst got the lead role as Peggy Blomquist in the television adaptation of the cinema classic, Fargo.  Kirsten might feel disappointed, and that she is just biding her time, because TV could be seen as beneath her, but she has already done a few dozen cameos on that medium from South Park to Star Trek: The Next Generation.  Regardless, television is guaranteed national exposure without the viewer ever having to leave their home, so we will all have the opportunity to catch her doing another well-prepared, thought-out, professional, and superlative acting job.

Many would say that she looks just like a modern-day, voluptuous, pin-up girl.  Because her physical appearance is so striking, paradoxically it may make her a little self-conscious, concerned that people don’t realize just how attractive she is as a person, and what a sweetheart she is.

After seeing a good deal of these paparazzi photos, one gets a sense of a particular celebrity’s tolerance for being photographed without permission.  On a scale from zero to ten, most celebrities will probably rate their ability to withstand the paps, a three or a four.  I would have to say Kirsten has close to zero tolerance.  Which is perfectly understandable, but the way I would try to remain sane if they descended on me, would be to try to remember that they might be helping my career by keeping me in the spotlight.  Then the question becomes: Do I want to have a sour expression on my face when the shutters click, or do I want to look happy for my fans?  When the paparazzi no longer have an interest in your visit to Vegan Veggie Village, your career is over and done.

You may say this is the most bull you’ve ever read, yet look at how Taylor Swift handles the paparazzi.  She probably handles them better than anyone else does, she practically beams when they are near; or look at Reese Witherspoon who garners a close second to Taylor.  Both seem to actually enjoy the presence of the paparazzi, and the attention they lavish.  One day, Ms. Dunst, they might not be vying as much for your photograph.  I would say, enjoy the flashbulbs while ye may, even if you’ve been dealing with their glare almost all your life, as Kirsten has...

Kirsten has said that she is “obviously a feminist,” one with character, who wisely, and steadfastly, sides with those speaking out on the left side of the aisle.  Her favorite musician, growing up and today, has always been Joni Mitchell, so that should dismiss any questions concerning perceived lack of progressive resolve.

To top of Pantheon



Amanda Seyfried

(© Nine Lives, LLC.
Nine Lives still)

Amanda Seyfried

Amanda is going the way of Kirsten Dunst, she is off the singles market, and she is getting married.  Both of them know that by the age of thirty-five, they look like decrepit old ladies to Hollywood, so they latch onto any guy for financial support — usually it’s the producer of their final movie.  Let’s grudgingly wish that they have a wonderful life, and that they get at least one more role, maybe in a revival of Oklahoma! or South Pacific at a senior center.

While social media gives anyone a slight (okay, infinitesimal) chance at a super starlet romance, those Pantheon starlet’s ranks are thinning away, hence our bitterness.

Now that we’re being super rude, Amanda was taking anti-depressants, and she is currently pregnant.  How is she swinging that combo, and stopping the meds, without getting very, very moody?...

Amanda had quite a health scare at the age of nineteen.  She was absolutely certain she had a brain tumor, and that it was going to kill her.  She was diagnosed with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder and depression, and was prescribed Lexapro.  Her manager decided it was either tumor meds, or a permanent stay at Mattapan in neighboring Dorchester, Massachusetts.

I understand that antidepressants can speed one up a bit, and when we did intake at the Pantheon, and then read her latest interview in Allure, she did seem to provide more info than the situation required.  Given that her condition seemed situationally-based, her cerebral self-diagnosis may have triggered a major, Steinbergian overload in her cognitive space.

Because this was not a function of any known family predisposition, we pulled Amanda aside in the Pantheon and asked what was going on in her teens.  She related that she lost her pooch, Muffin, a rare, Saint Bernard-miniature poodle mix, down a well.  Amanda heard it yelping for days from within the well, but could do nothing, and it absolutely broke her heart into many, many pieces.  When the dog finally was retrieved, it no longer remembered Amanda, or even its own name.  Fetching sticks proved to be impossible for both — Muffin did not know where to bring the stick, and Amanda lost all of the necessary patience.  This was no shaggy dog story.

Getting back to the tumor floating behind her eye sockets.  While we understand all the horror in misdiagnosing your own tumor, we feel that with age comes a better understanding of physiology.  So before we released her back to her fiancé, we recommended a thorough reading of Grey’s Anatomy, the primer on the human body, and that she stop taking stimulants.  We also mentioned to Amanda that Lexapro has been around for twenty years, and that after many trials, the Pantheon Treatment Team™ did not care so much for its reaction profile.  Don’t worry, readers, I was almost pre-med, I can design treatment plans...

It looks as though Amanda Seyfried is moving on to greener pastures.  That’s right, she’s getting married.  We’ll miss her at our Pantheon’s potluck, Sunday suppers.  She had such a way with preparing beef, her favorite.

Amanda loved her animal flesh so much that she requested and received a personal accommodation waiver of our dairy farm’s, no-cow-slaughtering policy.  This put her in solid defiance of the Pantheon’s preference for poultry and seafood (or just kale and dandelion stems for Gwynnie).  With less cows, we had less milk and cheese — which put a damper on Friday pizza night — but Amanda has plans to open her very own butcher’s shop, so we figured we’d make her happy.  A core underpinning of the Pantheon philosophy, is that every girl reach her God-given potential, and for Amanda that meant letting her slaughter animals.

Amanda would spend much of her time here chasing down and butchering the livestock for her meals, and was studying for her butcher’s hobbyist license before matrimony called.  Amanda would regale us with stories about how, even when she was young, her greatest hope for this World was that everyone ate more bacon.  In fact, she hoped everyone enjoyed its smokey deliciousness on a daily basis (and not just at breakfast), and that no hog went unslaughtered.  All of your friends at the Pantheon wish you the best of luck, Amanda...

The so remarkably talented, buoyant, and unique Amanda Michelle Seyfried first gained fame in Mean Girls co-starring alongside Lindsay Lohan (Tina Fey wrote the screenplay for this broadly-appealing comedy).  The mean girls were better known as the Plastics, the most popular clique in all of North Shore High School.  Ms. Seyfried played the charmingly daffy Karen Smith.

Eight years later, in 2012’s Gone, she played a woman trying to save her sister from a deranged killer amidst having all her cries for help completely ignored.

Until the age of seventeen, Amanda took classical singing lessons.  This prepared her for the role of Cosette in the 2012 film adaptation of Les Misérables.  Ms. Seyfried sure knows how to carry a tune, just listen to how she sings and plays guitar on the Sixties classic, Little Red Riding Hood.  Amanda is also very well known for her Bette Davis Eyes.

This year, she may have risked her reputation as a mainstream box office draw, in favor of challenging her abilities carrying an even weightier part.  That challenge would be when she took on the title role in Lovelace, the autobiography of Linda Lovelace.

Amanda lives life on her own terms, and possesses quite the intellect.  She studied meteorology for a spell, even hoping to make it as a career before her acting talents became so apparent.  Ms. Seyfried is also fascinated with taxidermy, and she has several museum-quality specimens — yes, taxidermy.  Although she hastens to add that her beloved pooch, Finn, will never find a permanent, stationary home on her living room floor as she is a devoted animal lover.

Amanda is starring on off-Broadway in The Way We Get By, which has just been extended a week due to ticket demand.  In the New York Times review of the play, they said Ms. Seyfried definitely has all the acting chops, although because this was her first appearance on the stage, she wasn’t projecting her voice sufficiently.

Ms. Seyfried would be my first and only choice for the role of Karen Wilson in my new sci-fi thriller, entitled Their End of Days.  Our heroine is a feisty graduate astronomy student from the year 2117, who will make an astounding discovery that will change both the course of civilization, and the destiny of Mankind.

Amanda is currently in Japan promoting Shiseido’s Cle de Peau Beaute.  I have no idea what this is, if it’s fashion related, food related, or her management just sent her on some mysterious junket that no American quite knows what it is about, including Amanda.  She may just need to curtsy intermittently before various dignitaries, ones whose wives don’t know where they are, to ultimately satisfy her contractual obligations.  Looking at the celebrity pages, Amanda appears to be giving a speech at one point there, which I don’t understand, and neither would they, because as far as I know Amanda does not speak any Mandarin.  She’s probably just mumbling something, anything, again just to satisfy her contractual obligation.

To top of Pantheon



Katy Perry

(Eva Rinaldi)
Does Snow White have to be a blond?

Katy Perry

Katy Perry is always so happy and serene.  She is also so very feminine, and is without a mean bone in her body.  Katy has been known to out-sweet the rest of the field.  Ms. Perry is from rather humble roots, and her family could only scrape by when she was young.

Because of her writing and performing interests, many would be surprised to learn that her parents are both Pentecostal ministers.  Katy began her career singing California Gospel and initially had limited exposure to secular, non-religious music.  The next genre in her musical evolution was with country compositions.  Again, a far cry from what she sings now.

Ms. Perry will be performing at the Super Bowl in 2015.  While there may have been a pang of regret as to which Super Bowl she is performing — the one following all the player sexual assault scandals — there is no way she can turn down appearing before the biggest audience in all of entertainment.

Some of her best songs include: Wide Awake, Waking Up in Vegas, Roar, Firework, Last Friday Night (T.G.I.F.), California Gurls, and I Kissed a Girl.  Unlike many of her peers, she has done significant charity work, specifically relief efforts in poverty-stricken Madagascar with UNICEF.

Living in the shadow of the Taylor juggernaut, Katy sure has difficult competition.  She must wake up in the middle of every night crying and in a cold sweat, shaking her fists up at God: “Why, why, am I in the same generation as that pop confection?  Why did I have to tour the same time that she’s touring?  We are both musicians, why does she have to always steal my spotlight?”

To top of Pantheon



Taylor Swift

God understood that if all women looked like this, there would be trouble — plenty of it.  And was she ever right.  If Taylor could just bottle just some of her happiness, what a world this would be.)

(Facebook account of Taylor Swift
All Rights Reserved, © 2019, Taylor Swift)

Taylor Swift

If you want to know why Taylor Swift is a zillionaire, this is why: She has cornered the market on being attractive, and the patent on unsullied innocence is hers as well.

Taylor doesn’t aim for worldwide, pop-music domination, she’s real yet idiosyncratic.  She has a reputation for being quirky and unpredictable.  For instance, she has full musician chops, but she doesn’t have much of a reputation as a dancer.

Which brings us to her cats: Meredith and Olivia.  Taylor is the original cat lady.  Both her cats have a place at her dinner table, and they will all eat off of the same plate.  If either cat appears temperamental, she takes them to the cat shrink for group therapy to iron out their differences.

She can readily lower her guard, yet possess the fortitude to never succumb to the dark forces.  Yet, all the while, she remains unusually likable with a beautiful spirit...

Taylor Swift is being sued for trademark infringement.  Taylor is being sued because her SwiftLife app, has the same name as the SwiftLife computer service, operated by someone named Benot.  What does the name “SwiftLife” have to do with PCs?  Unfortunately for Benot, it has nothing at all to do with PCs.

(Gwyneth Paltrow was also recently sued, for three-million-dollars for reckless skiing when she somehow leveled a guy on the slopes.  Anyhow, this is a cottage industry, suing celebrities of great wealth for all they are worth, or at least giving them heart attacks.)

Was the owner of the PC company squatting on Taylor’s name to eventually profit off of any eventual naming oversight that she might make?  It sure seems that way.  Regardless, the courts will decide if he has any legal claim, however frivolous.  He took the Swift name because of its painfully obvious connotations to PC hardware and software, and the Benot family name.

Because he did claim the trademark first, and even though it doesn’t have any meaning to him personally, there is a possibility he gets a settlement, probably of 1¢.

The adjudicated amount of the claim is equal to the business he lost because Taylor’s SwiftLife app had the same name as his operation does.

How many customers did Taylor steal from Benot because her app is the name of his company?  None, she did not steal any business from him.  How many customers did he get taking the Swift name?  This number might be substantial.

He is being counter-sued for lifting the Swift name in the first place.  His name is Benot, not Swift.  Do trademark squatters deserve full legal rights?  The Supreme Court under Justice Kavanaugh will be taking this one next.  Incoming missile, Taylor!...

Here’s news you will only find on The Other Letter: Taylor Swift just had her entire body covered head-to-toe in tattoos of her cats, ones inked in day-glo colors.  She has also renamed these cats.  Olivia is now named Fangs, and Meredith now goes by Butch.  In a nod to her record label’s demands for conventionality and decorum, she still calls her Mom, Mom...

Taylor Swift may be leaving the Pantheon.  Ten million Swiftys and just as many Other Letter Men and Women start bawling uncontrollably.  Here’s why Taylor gets her pink slip: She’s showing up to accept an I Heart Radio award for her Reputation tour, legitimizing their evil ops.

The only reason she’s there is because the Grammys doesn’t have an award for music tours.  Still, they deserve a Taylor Swift-size dis, like if she didn’t show up at all.

Given I Heartless Radio deserves a special place in Hell, I may be pulling the plug on my platonic love affair with Taylor Swift.

Taylor, if you’re out there: We’re done, unless you reject the award on live TV by throwing it into the audience, or by dropping it and walking away from it as if it were toxic waste.  Taylor, it’s time to pull a real rock and roller.  Welcome to Rebellion 101, shut down your oppressor.  The old Taylor is dead?  We’d like proof.

When you’re walking up to the podium to accept the statuette repeat this: “this trinket’s going straight into the trash for Monday’s recycling.”  When you’re handed this worthless token of oppression, look at it like it was diseased, like it was some kind of sick joke, or better, like it was Trump’s head (courtesy Kathy Griffin).

Or give some really half-hearted acceptance speech: “You shouldn’t.  No, you really shouldn’t have.  I accept this on behalf of my touring company, they’ll be keeping this piece of sh*t, not me.  What effing crap!  It’s not worth the metal it was cast from.  [Standing ovation]...”

It’s been announced that Taylor Swift will be going to the I Heartless Radio Awards to accept a worthless trophy from a bunch of miscreants.  Time to let go and let everyone else do their thing.  Taylor is young, she’ll probably manage chatting up the icy deviants at I Heart Radio.  They are going to an exclusive Zeppelin format, so she’ll have to fight Heartless management tooth and nail to get more air time.

Maybe it’ll help her career, or much more likely, the celebration of her meaningless trinket will be followed with a MeToo lawsuit.  Enjoy yourself, Taylor, but the locks will be changed upon your return to the Pantheon Lodge, and your belongings will be out by the curb.  The Taylor Swift Box Set: I am Gorgeous, Über-talented, and Perfect will be scattered in the street...

Without any apology, Kim K, the moll, is “moving on” after her hit on Taylor Swift (see the following).  She’s moving on to take out hits on other targets like Amber Rose, and Blac Chyna.  The commerce of the whole lot of the Kardashia along with Kenya West is in damaging reputations.  That’s what they enjoy and do best.  To quote Kim K, “I’m not a talent less pig, okay I’m talent less, and I do have a double-wide for a behind, but I cannot resist the thrill of taking down the respectful...”

If angels really are heaven sent, we all know where one of them lives among us today in the flesh, in a town called Taylorville, U.S. of A.  That said, why did Kenya West charge the stage and traumatize her at the VMAs?  That’s one thing, but another thing is the fact that he never apologized.  Unless he does, he’s just a...  Oh, never mind...

One of the Kardashia moppets, there’s ten of them — so I cannot say for certain which one it is — is supposed to be worth a ton of money.  The latest net worth number from the Kardashia public relations department is $900 million.  Which K-word is it?  I know it begins with a K, but all ten Kardashia names begin with a K.

Is it “Kit,” “Karlson,” “Klorissa,” I’m pretty sure it’s one of those three.  For argument’s sake, lets say it’s Klorissa.  Klorissa, at age twenty, is making Michael Bloomberg, former Mayor of New York City, kinda green?

This is what she’s hawking, a line of makeup.  It’s guaranteed to not make girls look like Kim, so they’re lining up for it near and far.

I am more than just a little surprised that Klorissa is practically a billionaire.  Unless, Kardashia PR is trying to add the ohs and ahs factor to her brand, or some undeserved charisma.  We’re all supposed to look up to Klorissa, now?  Ms. Swift, you have your own private jet, do you believe Klorissa is worth twice what you are?  Klorissa, or was that Klorine?...

Just in time for Christmas, Kenya West and Kim Kardashia sing: I told you, man (I already paid your ho).  Kenya vocalizes the John with Kim as the hooker, squealing background vocals.

Taylor — we all know how deep you fell for Kenya — check for this album wherever you buy your music.  Isn’t it great how those two lighten any mood?  Black clouds just disappear.  Like when Kenya puts down his hash pipe, and he isn’t playing dirges, which is on the Twelfth...

This week, Kim Kardashia, Taylor Swift nemesis, said that she was on Ecstasy when she made her claim-to-fame porn tape.  She didn’t say if she took the Ecstasy voluntarily to make a better porn tape; or if she was slipped a mickey, and the Ecstasy made her do the tape — which is well-known as being her most credible acting role.

Her first wedding (and her second with Kenya as well?) was also either because of a mickey, or because she wanted to enhance another synthetic experience, this time of wedded bliss...

Taylor is playing the Tokyo Coliseum to finish up her tour, just as its losing steam, and almost about to grind to a halt.  The Tokyo Coliseum has wildly enthusiastic crowds, they love everything and everyone American, but still, arena size is nowhere near the largest, or even near the average, of her other tour stops.

Ms. Swift and I have spent weeks discussing the best way to approach an audience who has no clue what she’s singing.  She could have the Sino-Taylor singers, belting out Japanese language versions of her songs while Taylor lip syncs them.  An alternative is having closed captioning for the hearing impaired, but instead caption for the English illiterate.

There’s even a third approach, and that’s to make very dramatic hand gestures.  With Taylor’s arms flailing, the Japanese will think this is all very important, and they’ll go right along, flailing their arms.  Finally, and this way works best for me given the music scene in Japan, is for her to show some thigh for starters, and work her way up, like a dance of seven veils.

When she’s completely nude, the show’s over, the audience gets exactly what they came for, and that’s cheesecake.  We agreed that the fourth approach, where she strips, would work best, especially in Tokyo...

At the Annual Other Letter Round Table, the girls can talk about anything pressing regarding life in the pantheon and beyond, because it’s all fair game.  Many in attendance were wondering about Taylor’s costuming and street wear choices, these get skimpy.

Okay, some intro is in order.  To those without knowledge of the Taylor back story, she is from a family of divorce, she is from a broken home.

Taylor once lived an entire year in the back of a Ford Econovan.  Yes, that kinda broken.  She sold her body to make ends meet as well, but only to upstanding, disease-free, Southern gents with limited Klan membership.

Taylor also sold crack cocaine all throughout Nashville, because this is what girls from broken homes do.  She was a dealer for a living, for kicks, to support her own insidious habit, and because turning tricks for her older customers was too much of a workout.  Her probation officer turned her on to the guitar, and the rest is rock and roll/pop/country and western history.

Much has been written about daughters who survive the divorce of her parents.  This is the secret, they tend to be deep into boys.  They flitter around like social butterflies, flirting, and thinking: “Is this the guy I want, or is this the one?”  They are branded as teases, or even worse, as blue-ballers.  Otherwise, they sleep with the whole lot of them in a bid to get love from a father substitute.

At the other end of the spectrum is the daughters of those whose father died.  No can replace their Daddy, so they swear off men entirely instead.  Many decide a life in the nunnery is for them.

Taylor is finishing up her massive Rep Tour in Tokyo, so I really can’t blow it for her, and have her come out on stage crying, but these are the hard cold facts about her sordid past (citing prior commitments, I could not make it out to Japan).

In other words, if you see Taylor wearing an outfit that barely covers her body, don’t blame it on her record label’s public relations campaign, or her obvious promiscuity — even though she has bedded everyone in Nashville and Hollywood.  Her fans need to know that Taylor’s good girl aura is only carefully-orchestrated smokescreen.

Truth be told, blame the flaunting of her youthful figure on her parent’s divorce.  She has huge issues — she thinks she’s pretty, for instance — that she only hopes to grapple with here at the harem, err, Pantheon...

Taylor Swift is a known opioid abuser.  Or is she?  I just felt like pointing out by counterpoint that she is known as a straight-arrow.  True, everyone on her tour gets a dime bag of sinsemilla if the show went well (a dime is ten dollars worth).  No, I’m kidding, they get even more, an ounce apiece (24 dimes in an ounce, today’s teens are being taken to the cleaners).

No, Taylor keeps it clean, except her nose is bleeding all the time, but why?  There is a rumor going round that Taylor has a deviated septum, a uni-nostril, from her prodigious use of coke.

Before every show, Ms. Swift tokes a bowl off of a bong, then does ten lines of cocaine, and once she is steadied by Tour staff, she heads up the ramp to you, her adoring fans, who are probably not as blotto as Taylor is at every show.

Any time during the show that she turns her back, she’s taking hits, she’s stealth vaping her best friend, THC.  As Ms. Swift puts the vape back into her fanny pack she wears during every concert, you’ll realize she’s been toking because a Taylorette dancer runs over to Taylor to stop her from falling on her head.

To everyone in and out of the music industry, Taylor is a heavy hitter who’s drank more booze than anyone on Skid Row.  Sorry, Tay, I love to tease, and I know how it upset you were when I turned down the joint you were passing around at the Reputation Tour launch party...

I still hope to hang out with Taylor one day, even though I’m older, maybe five or six years older.  All I hear is that she’s too young for me.  Isn’t this just jealousy I’m hearing?

But we’d have plenty to talk about, like music, politics, along with her celebrity super star life.  I’d ask which is her favorite Grateful Dead show, and she’d probably name some bootleg that even the most dyed-in-the-wool Deadheads had never heard of, one not just in a new direction, but in a new dimension in another galaxy.

Then she’d say: “Would you like me to open with Scarlet Begonias in Brisbane, in the land of Oz?  Or should that open the second set?”  And I’d say: “I was thinking first set.”  Taylor: “You got it, first set it is.  It is officially penciled in.  I’ll speak to the Taylorettes, for definitive choreography.”

Another positive feature of girls’ Taylor’s age is that their bodies are made of the equivalent of neoprene rubber, and they may not have had extensive, or any, boudoir experience...

Kenya West is Taylor Swift’s arch nemesis.  He charged the stage as she accepted an award at the 2009 VMA’s, and scared her to death.  He also had a rap that went: “I made that bitch famous.”  The “bitch” he was referring to — whom he somehow made famous with his stage charge — was, incomprehensibly, Taylor Swift.  Granted, Kenya was hospitalized for mental health reasons, so he has not been well, but he remains untreated.  He will never earn any sympathy points here, though, he doesn’t even deserve pity.

This is why: Kenya doubled down by having Taylor listen to the rap where he called her a “bitch,” and he recorded the conversation, where Taylor in her characteristically courteous manner, gave thumbs up.  She never heard the part where he said that he made “that bitch famous.” So Kenya and his accomplice in matrimony, Kim K, put the edited videotape on Kim K’s Facebook feed for millions to sneer at.

Meanwhile, we had the infamous jewelry heist in Paris.  where Kim K somehow forgot to lock her hotel door in Paris from the inside, broke free of zip ties a championship bodybuilder couldn’t break apart, and where the dynamic duo collected ten million dollars in insurance money, which brings Kenya giving a speech at the White House, of all places.  In it, he said — well, I am not quite sure what he said.  It was gibberish in some alien rap language.

Trump noting the tension, and the embarrassment of keeping Kenya on as a rabid supporter, whispered to gofer, Kelly Anne Conway: “The stage accident, set it up, now!”  What was originally meant as Trump’s Campaign to get out the Negro Vote featuring the Clown-in-Chief, and well-established Oreo, Kenya, had devolved into a White House hit.

“The stage accident,” is a Presidential directive meant to take down annoying entertainers who brown nose for a living.  In this variant, Kim K will be hoisted up on a girder capable of carrying a full half-ton.  Kenya will serenade her, singing about the projects, and drug dealing (his mother was a college professor).

When a stage manager plant gives the say so, the cable holding Kim K is let go by a stage hand plant (both easily procured in a non-union shop), and she falls right on Kenya’s head, crushing him to death.  Because of Kim K’s heft, there is not any chance of resuscitation.  The newspapers, including the pointlessly even-handed, and thus deceptive, New York Times, will note Kenya’s heroism in fighting the good fight, and his ambitiousness in taking down anyone who gets in his way, including the angel Heaven sent, Taylor Swift...

Everyone knows that Taylor Swift is perfect.  This is a given.  Somehow a swirl of spiritual pixie dust from who knows where, coalesced with ancestral Swift patterns and predilections, and were brought to the fore upon her entry here, and gave us perfection.  She is unusually charismatic, especially given her age, but of course, all these talents Heaven sent into Creation’s midst has had a price.

Trump wants to cop this charisma for his sick and perverted political agenda.  Trump has a free lifetime country club membership waiting in Taylor’s name at Mar-a-Lago.

Trump provided the rest of the details to her: “All you need to do now, Taylor, is get on the phone, and seal the deal at the Wayne Manor.  When my lover Robin picks up say: ‘Yes, I’d like to speak to Bruce, err, Donald...  I will be joining you on your gay frolics to and fro Gotham...’  Then just provide your golf handicap, your birth control method, preferred sexual position — it better be giving oral — and you’ll be all set.  The First Lady will set you up with your daily, low-cut, maid’s uniform...

“Oh, and ignore the Steele Dossier about crazy things I did to Russian hookers — oops, I mean, I was said to have done to Russian hookers...”

Trump said he likes Taylor “25% less” because she’s coming out of the closet as a Democrat.  The creep in the Oval Office is really trying to spook her into thinking that America will like her 25% less, or closer to the truth, she’ll have 25% fewer fans, and concert attendees.

Taylor has more followers than President Obama and Trump combined, she has over one-hundred-million, they have numbers in the teens.  Any fans who leave Taylor for telling the truth, weren’t really fans of hers from the get go.

True, Taylor has been a closet Democrat, but just look at the tremendous success of Barbara Streisand, Bruce Springsteen, and Elton John, et al.  They’ve been extremely up front with expressing their convictions, and the world is a much better place because of their honesty.

Or take Bono, there’s only one instrument he can play, and that’s the tambourine.  He’s a billionaire who invests heavily in tax-free havens.  Yet why is he so wildly popular?  The reason is that he backs causes, any causes.

His unlimited support of Save the Flounders proves his environmentalism.  Bono’s good friends with the Pope, so he wants everyone to Save the Priests, or better, Save the Pope.  He will back anything at all that will boost his profile with the public.  Have you heard of Save Bill Gates, Bono’s favorite cause, he gives millions every year to a fellow billionaire in the realized hopes that he doesn’t lose key feature sets in the next Windows release.

By the way, Trump doesn’t know anything about her music anyway.  Once Taylor starts following the lead of the loser behind Charlottesville fascism, tax fraud, and the Kavanaugh case, we’re all doomed.

Taylor’s bond with her fans will be even stronger as she leads them out of the Republican morass.  Plus she’ll gain droves of new fans who could not possibly see her now as an inconsequential pop confection.  Fans coalesce around bravery against adversity, be it Kenya and Kim, or now, this guy in the Oval Office.

I’ll put it this way: if Taylor raises the gauntlet against evil doers, eighty years hence she’ll be venerated with statues of her in every park, cat suit clad, and guitar-clutching.  If she doesn’t step up to hit it out of the park, no one will ever remember her name, because she stood for nothing...

Instead of a Republican woman for Congress from Tennessee (who has a 100% Trump/fascist score), Taylor will be backing a Democrat.  The White House is in an uproar about this, so to stem the “evil” tide of liberty, Trump will be having an anti-Taylor Swift rally.  There will be a march through the White House at one-hundred-thousand dollars a head, finishing up in the Presidential bedroom, where to quote Trump, “It all goes down.”

Borrowing from a page of the Other Letter take down, Jesus the Christ playbook, Trump will have a piñata of Ms. Swift hanging from the Presidential bedroom.  The hierarchy of pre-apocalyptic politics will determine the order to whack at the Taylor piñata.

So Trump gets first swings, Senate Majority Clown McConnell second, and exiting Senator Clown from Maine, Susan Collins, who had the deciding vote in the nomination of Kavanaugh, getting third at bat against the Taylor piñata (we all hope Susan enjoys working at Augusta Used-cars again).  All monies collected will go to the registered charity, the End Taylor Swift’s Career Initiative...

Taylor Swift is finishing up the North American leg of her Reputation tour.  This particular tour is shorter in duration than other ones.  She has only been on the road for two-and-a-half years this time out.  Taylor has been fighting extreme drowsiness, so to liven up her repertoire, and avoid a stadium-wide yawn fest, she has been working on rewording the lyrics of signature songs, mid-chorus.

When the Taylorettes begin their pirouettes, Tay can be seen writing notes on cocktail napkins, adding key phrasing to established hits.  For instance, Blank Space was originally about a relationship filling you up, a blank slate or a blank space, with novel and exciting ideas (Taylor might debate the point, but I can see deep within her soul, I know her message better than she does herself).

Now though, Blank Space is about having blanks on a test that you’re struggling to answer.  Ms. Swift is obsessed with offering her fans age-relevant lyrics, and because her fans just get younger every tour, she currently hopes to satisfy the musical needs of tweens, those under thirteen and over the age of eight.

Because her marketing division has decided that tweens are more into not failing grammar school than having wild devil-may-care romances, a switch to scholastic-based lyrics makes perfect sense.  Hence, Taylor’s switchover to tween-friendly material.  The melodies are also moving away from electric guitars to nursery rhyme friendly musical instruments.

So if you catch Taylor’s last American show of the Rep tour in Arlington, Texas, you may (or may not) be pleasantly surprised to hear Ms. Swift accompanied by well-amplified music boxes, with hologram teddy bears falling from the ceiling as she sings her now extensive repertoire of lullabies.

This still won’t change the VIP ticket package.  For quadruple the price of a front and center, floor seat, Taylor will put on a private strip show in her dressing room.  But please, VIP tickets are going fast, and you are expected to act like a gentleman.

She wants to make sure that VIPs get their money’s worth, because these important people are her future romantic prospects.  She does have a portable, telescoping strippers’ pole in her dressing room where she has logged hundreds of thousands of topless spins (bottomless if you tip her enough, and Benjamins get complimentary lap dances).  In front of the lights, she’s Taylor Swift, but behind the stage, you’ll see her alter ego, Chastity Lexus...

Taylor is reaching the part of her stadium tour where tedium sets in, where halfway through her show she cannot recall where she is, and she no longer cares.  She only wants to be with her cats: Olivia, and Meredith.

I know because I’ve been catching every show, I have a promotional celebrity pass (just like Ashley Judd does with Bono, but we won’t go there).  Anyhow, if you’ll notice, two thirds through, and especially during her encore, she checks the locket around her neck for sustenance from her cats’ photos.

More than anything, Taylor wants out, because truth be told, her fans absolutely adore her, but she despises them.  Privately, she has confided to yours truly that she compares her fans to festering vermin.

All the philanthropy cash, seemingly set aside for her disease-stricken fans, is funded by her record label to make her look passably warm-blooded.  Most often the dying fan doesn’t see a dollar of the money.  Taylor only shows up at the hospital to get the photo op for the charity, and for her tour’s sponsors, The National Enquirer and Us Weekly.  At best, the dying Taylor fan gets a half hour extra of dialysis, before they pull the plug...

Taylor seems to think her latest tour to support her Reputation CD is a failure.  She was near tears that her wardrobe is not being decided by a squad of dedicated costume designers.  But there is more at play here, and Taylor knows it: The tour is being under funded, outside of a drummer and a bassist, there’s no backup musicians.  The famous dancing Taylorettes on this tour can’t keep a beat, and look arthritic.

The piano is out of tune (who ever heard of New Jersey’s own, “Mike Smith” brand piano?); her guitar is missing a string, and there’s no money left in petty cash to replace it.  The tour is about to fold, no one has any interest, including Taylor.

It’s been called an “interminable snooze fest” by the New York Times, and this is charitable compared to what Time, the Washington Post, and the true arbiter of culture, the National Enquirer, are saying.

Ambulances wait outside for those who fell on their noggin dozing off during the finale.  Even Taylor, the full bore champion of her brand, has been caught snoozing during guest appearances, and in fact, has fell asleep during slower passages of her hits that she wrote when she was a twelve year old.

Her label’s Artist & Repertoire (A & R) man has even suggested getting Angus Young from AC/DC to spice things up, but Taylor, ever the perfectionist, has claimed it would cross too many genres.  I would so hate to anger her, but ballads don’t cut it with today’s sophisticated musical consumer.

More than ever, we need full speed, high octane, heavy metal.  Taylor, work on a version of Shake it Off with a ten minute guitar solo, followed by a ten minute drum solo, followed by a ten minute a capella sing along of AC/DC’s Hell’s Bells.  You’re paid to be creative, go for the gold.  But today, the entire Taylor Swift machine lives in a delusional dream world.

Yet what would spring them all back to reality would be to sex it up with a topless number.  Half of Taylor’s audience is there in a vain attempt to see cheesecake.  These are her core fans, if she doesn’t satisfy their carnal desires, they go home sorely disappointed, and start cultivating an interest in Led Zepppelin.  I’m not saying bottomless, no, just topless.

Although why not have a lottery during the concert to see her fully nude backstage in her dressing room?  This is how you firm up your fan base.  This is how you get those loyal fans to plunk down $200 for the Taylor Parties on the Fourth by the Breakers Naked DVD.  And to all you feminists out there, isn’t this how you take down the patriarchy, with soft core porn?

Unless Taylor is willing to deliver, and electrify her entire set, then to paraphrase Billy Joel: “Her songs will be put in the back in the discount rack, like another can of beans.”  You’re welcome, Taylor, I’m glad I could be of service to you and your tour, however anemic in its present form...

Taylor, the difference in our ages is outside what “society” deems acceptable for us to be hanging out without fear of being attacked in public by rabid, puritanical Christians.  Yet, if you have an interest, I know of places where those whackos will never find us.  Ms. Swift, when your Rep, record-breaking tour lets up a bit, call my agent, and we’ll set something up.  You will have a real swell time, I can guarantee you — I’m one of your biggest fans.

(My agent is in the Yellow Pages under Automotive Repair, my life must be kept from prying eyes.  Get ready for a shock, Taylor, my given name is not Other Letter, this is an alias, although I did have it legally changed to Other Letter in 1993, as I was one of the first web sites on the Internet...)

Taylor’s Reputation Tour is under way, so here’s a few notes to consider:

  1. Taylor must think: “Hey, I’m a musician, I’m not in this business to be cheesecake.”  But can’t a performer be sexy, or even expressive sexually?  Isn’t that a form of liberation?  Doesn’t this add to the enjoyment of the show, one that people are paying hundreds, or even thousands, of dollars to see?  Taylor has matured into one of the most attractive entertainers today.  She shouldn’t feel any guilt about the non-musical aspects of her show.  The audience is there to see and hear the complete Taylor experience.  Why can’t she embrace her sexuality?...
  2. Taylor seems to talk at a fast clip when making announcements: bup bup bup bup bup...  Is this because she really doesn’t care for some of the promotional blather they put in front of her to read?  (After I posted this, Taylor sounds like she just took three Quaaludes.  Speed it back up, Taylor, but wait, not so fast like before.  Between Quaaludes and bup, bup, bup — the middle ground.  This post has gone horribly wrong.)
  3. Taylor only books the biggest venues.  To honor this, Other Letter will be giving away front row seats to her first show in Tempe, Arizona, on the Twelfth.  Due to her record label’s restrictions, this exclusive contest is open only to young women.  All you need to do is email me a selfie of yourself in the skimpiest of attire.  Please, let’s keep this legal and not go topless and bottomless.  Please, not both, the feds may take an interest (as if they haven’t here already)...

Our Taylor, our sweet Mary Sunshine, is being stalked.  That’s right, they have nabbed four miscreants on her property in the last three weeks.  Many feel the latest rash of intrusion results from all the recent hubbub regarding her latest stadium tour.  She is fast approaching Beatles stature, so everyone wants to get in good with super-lovable Taylor, even those not well.

In response, Taylor Nation has held a nightly vigil in each of her 17 residences.  If Taylor is in the house, she regales them with a song or two from her latest and greatest CD, Reputation.  At midnight, Taylor or a loyal minion, signals the all clear, and everyone returns to wherever it is they hail — be it Indiana, Montana, Moscow, or Tokyo.

Today, as an internationally known blogger, I have the most demanding security needs.  On a regular basis, I come home to several nubile girls in my mountaintop lair, with a fire blazing in the fireplace, ones who just broke in through some new security vulnerability that I quickly document.

My advice to Taylor: You need to put that metallic tape all around your windows, like they have at mechanics’ garages.  Yes, Taylor, even that thirty foot wide window overlooking Central Park South — it must, must have glass break tape.

Also, have video cameras everywhere, including the bathroom where you shower.  Then mail me the taped feed for analysis.  These methods are the only way to home security, Taylor.  Hookup all your intrusion detection to a monitoring station, either to forward alarm calls to the police, or why not go whole-hog, and send a feed to nuclear silo sites in Colorado for dispatching military units.  Your security is of international concern, Taylor, don’t settle.

You need to hire a bodyguard, Taylor.  My rates are reasonable, and I have a Tae Kwon Do Black Belt, so already the bad guys fear me, and are at a huge disadvantage.  A live-in bodyguard is the tried and true solution, so you’ll need me to sleep with you for your added protection.  Rest assured, my STD blood work is fairly clean.  Have you ever lived with a blogger before, Taylor?  You’re thinking: “A blogger? — this is my ultimate fantasy!”  Well, dreams do come true, Taylor.  As long as you’re safe and sound beside me at night, we both can get a good night’s rest.

Of course, what this all boils down to is that Taylor has tons of sex appeal, an inordinate amount, which really needs to be kept under wraps.  Unwashed hair must be up in a bun, or for variety, don a butch, military crewcut.  Regulation Taylor-wear becomes: Coke-bottle-bottom glasses, a plain brown frock with an ankle hemline, and no makeup.

Taylor, you’re aiming for “21st Century nun,” ready to be shipped out to the convent.  You really need to become androgynous from here on in.  Only on stage, or when you’re back at home with me, do we loosen up the reins a little, and let you wear a dress with a knee-length hemline, and washed but unstyled hair...

I wonder how many years Taylor has left in her career.  She’ll get married to a Wall Street exec, and they’ll just scream at each other over her cooking.  She’d be stuck with their eight or nine kids all day.  As a diversion, she’d start up a cat shelter in their basement.  This would take a lot out of her.  She’d stop touring — or she’d put out a really poorly received concept album like: Gotta Love your Cats!  I mean I hope Taylor tours until she’s a 100 years old, but I just don’t think that this is in the cards...

Taylor’s stadium tour supporting her Reputation album is about to get under way.  This means she needs me to go over her scales with her, you know, her “do-re-mi.”  I try not to push her too hard, but her vocal chords need to really be humming before she sets a foot on stage.  We go over her marks.  To those not steeped in theater tradition like Taylor and myself, this is where she stands after she hears certain parts of her repertoire.

We also do yoga meditation to focus out distractions such as concessionaires yelling, “Hot dogs, hot dogs, here...”  Trooper that she is, Taylor has never, ever stopped a concert half way through to tell anyone to shut their effing trap.  She subscribes to the code of ethics that heckling the audience is hardly professional, and we thank her for this grace note...

More impossible standards they hold Taylor Swift against: There is a YouTube video comparing her voice auto-tuned versus her voice in rehearsals.  Auto-tune corrects for pitch.  I would have to think Taylor can sing in key.  What she cannot do is sing like the finished master record because that is harmonized.  Harmonized means multiple vocal tracks by one singer are overdubbed.

So no surprise, the final product and the rehearsals sound very different.  The point of the video, apparently, is to say Taylor has next to no talent.  How else did they expect Taylor would fare?  The YouTube just came across as a hack job...

Taylor Swift is criticized for being, well, too White.  Pundits will say that her music reflects an isolated demographic of White girls.  The only problem with this hypothesis is that this isolated demographic is the biggest seller in the record industry today.

Seemingly in response to being accused of Anglo centrism, she has introduced rap rhymes into a few of her mixes.  Yet when you look at the incredibly rich heritage of African American music, the rap form is only glorified poetry ignorant of music theory.  It is a bastardization of music composition.

The biggest talents of all time — Black and White — were composing melodies, never rap rhymes.  Rap music is a way for people without any musical talent to sell CDs.  I hope Taylor eventually abandons the rap route in bids to stay vital and relevant in the music industry...

I walk the Pantheon, starlet beat.  When a super star girl gets arrested, I’m the one speaking to the police getting the story.  Starlets know I’m the one to trust arranging attorneys, bailing them out for kicking their exes in the nuts.  I know when their lives start going South, they depend on me for life support.

Taylor Swift though, I don’t see you listed on my police blotter.  Because you keep it clean, I know we have nothing to worry about.  I haven’t interviewed you for an Other Letter in-depth profile recently, Taylor, but I know you read my Pantheon religiously, so it’s time to call me on the Other Phone, and set up an Other Q and A.

These are the pressing issues my fans have been demanding I cover: Are you moving into rap territory?  Because in End Game, you’re rapping.  Does this mean you’re following the lead of your “main man,” Kenya?

How do you explain the fact that you’ve only gotten prettier — much prettier — over time?  Why won’t you get uglier as you age like everyone else?  This is why the Kim Ks and the Kenyas of the world hate you so much, you’re too damn good looking.  Plus, their kind sees a sweetie-pie with plenty of talents, and they mount an offensive.

More probing questions: You do a great job looking out for your younger fans.  Do you ever expect this to change?  When you’re thirty, will dark, brooding, and menacing become your new act, like it has been for Kim K and Kenya?

Then we could discuss your musical composition techniques.  Do you like the piano?  Are there keys on the piano you prefer over the others?  I always had trouble with the sharps and flats, the ebony ones.  The ivory keys are easier to press, I don’t have to move my hand.  I’m a C Major kind of guy.  Plus, I don’t like the keys at the ends either, they’re too far from the middle.  How about the drums?  Or how about my fave, soloing on the tambourine?  How much do you love Led Zeppelin?  Would it damage your vocal chords if you shrieked like Robert Plant does?

I understand that for all this publicity, you’ll be offering your body to me.  I really have no issue, once I run blood work on you.  I could use a rubber, but I feel much safer with a lab report in front of me.  But wait, there’s more.  I need you to vouch for the sexual history of anyone else you’ve shtupped over the last ten years.  You need to document with me (through videos or written depositions) that every sexual partner is disease free.  I may or may not waive this requirement upon my approval of your blood work.  Deal?...

Taylor Swift reminds me of Joni Mitchell, both are unusually talented and good looking.  I would give Joni the edge right now in terms of musical ability though.  Ms. Swift has a big marketing machine (in fact, it’s called Big Machine Records) which, to me, detracts from my appreciation of her as an artist.  Joni has never wore a body suit in a music video, or trashed a sports car, as Taylor has.  Maybe that’s just how it’s done these days, deluge the market with any tantalizing promotional bits the marketers can find.

For Ms. Mitchell’s part, she has only gotten by on her chops as a musician, Joni never had a marketing behemoth pulling strings.  Joni even produced every one of her albums.  I would imagine Taylor’s musical work is done, at least in part, by committee, there is so much at stake with the success of her enterprises.

I remember reading that a younger Taylor cried upon listening to Court and Spark, an album acknowledged as Joni’s masterpiece.  As much as I respect Taylor’s talents, I wonder if Tay was crying over the fact that she may never do work quite of Joni’s caliber.  If Taylor toes the line, and keeps her nose clean (the music industry is notorious for spawning druggies) the virtuosity of her music can be expected to mature.

Joni’s life was anything but charmed.  Joni had to hustle for a living, busking in Toronto subway stations before she received wide notice.  While Taylor is from a broken home, she was never eating hand-to-mouth like Joni, never even close.  Joni also had to put up her baby, renamed Kilauren Gibb, for adoption, she simply didn’t have the money to support her (and wrote a song entitled Little Green in response to her grief)...

We’re still waiting for the first, Taylor Swift, prog rock track, one clocking in at over ten minutes.  It would feature Taylor on Moog synthesizer, swinging back and forth on a wrecking ball, bra less in a see-through blouse.  Trust me, if fans demand this, it will happen.  Taylor knows that this is what rock ’n’roll is all about — and that’s keeping her fans happy...

Taylor has just completed her eleventh album of Holiday songs.  This inspired collection is entitled: Save Me Shotgun on your Sleigh, Santa.  Just the other day, Ms. Swift confided in me all the juicy details of her songwriting process, especially when she’s writing to meet holiday song demand — and meet it on deadline.

She knows all the good lyrics and melodies have already been taken (and copyrighted) by Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole, so she tries to put a new spin on, as she puts it, “a tired old subject like Christmas.”

Besides the title track, there is another chart-climber on this CD, and it’s called Blessed are the Virgin Madonnas like You.  This was written with her teenage girl, sales demographic in mind, and besides being wholesome, good fun, it serves as a family-planning, Public Service Announcement as well.

For those more mature, there is also: Stripping for Santa, whose stage version is sure to be a concert tour highlight.  For this one, Taylor is hoping to line up Katy Perry to duet as a guest.  Concert-goers should not be surprised if both of them don pasties in this piece.

Taylor said she likes to pull in as wide of a demographic as is possible given the 23 song, CD capacity format, and as a big time cat lover, she even has a song for cat-owners called Cats are the Air that I Breathe.  While technically not a song for the holidays, it is a feline devotional.

Taylor went on to say that: “the songwriting output gets rather tedious to listen to past track 16, the collaborators and myself get lazy, but I know all my biggest fans will enjoy the slog...”

I sat down recently with Taylor Swift to discuss the obvious parallels between her latest, Look at What You Made Me Do on her Reputation album, and the incredibly similar work of Nineteenth-Century, Danish philosopher, Søren Kierkegaard.

“Taylor what is the suggested interpretation of LAWYMMD?  Man is beyond saving, even with available religious resources?  That’s it, isn’t it?  Man must exist in a finite existence, when everywhere he looks he sees infinity?

“Especially that man must find his fun among competing actors and separate arenas?  You’re nodding, I must be getting warmer — or you’re falling asleep.

“That his fate has always been grappling with the impossible unaided by people he has grown to trust?  That mankind’s ultimate role, the one he is most comfortable with, is to just tend to his flock regardless of societal, economic, or governmental constraints, or overbearing pressures?

“That’s my interpretation.  Nailed it, didn’t I?  Did you realize that you much more than likely plagiarized Kierkegaard?  Taylor?  Taylor?  Isn’t that the suggested interpretation?  Taylor?...”

There has been recent talk on Taylor’s social media that she has sold out.  Regarding selling out to her original genre, Country and Western music, the Country format generally skews older.  Can you imagine Taylor on stage with her team of a score of Taylorettes singing a cover of Dolly Parton’s 9 to 5, or Tammy Wynette’s Stand by your Man?  Somehow, this doesn’t seem to work.

Next month, she makes her debut on SNL.  While I won’t be forgiving Lorne Michaels anytime soon for guest hosting Trump twice before the election, the young, SNL audience mirrors Taylor’s target demographic (just like Trump’s did).

As for Coca-Cola, Taylor will soon be shilling Jack Daniel’s and Budweiser, so this works as a ramp up to the harder stuff, for both her and her marketing division, and her fans who are eager for more and more of the real thing (whatever that might actually be).

There is also word, this time mostly rumors, that Ms. Swift will be performing concerts for the Trump Administration at State dinners.  I am sure she’ll have European Heads of State out on the dance floor, shaking it up to Shake it Up.  That would be the ultimate sell-out, so we’re hoping these West Wing Swift Shows won’t come to pass.

There’s even more to this story.  If Taylor doesn’t sell out now, in ten years, it’ll be too late to sell out.  By then, she’ll be a lounge act in Vegas opening for aging veteran from 2027, Britney Spears.  They’ll both need Teleprompters to remember the lyrics to their songs...

I’m beginning to get the hand of this Hollywood popularity game.  I’m only as popular as the friends I have.  My new friend, then, is Taylor Swift.  I’m not sure if what we have together is known as dating, or something far more profound.

She played the Garden, and she picked me out of the audience to get on stage.  Just like Springsteen did with Courtney Cox in the Dancing in the Dark video.  We danced the rest of the set together up there in front of 20,000 screaming fans, and she shouted to me, “Meet me in my dressing room, Other.  You’re a great dancer by the way.  Would you like to be a backup dancer?  It’s only union scale, but I promote from within.  There’s employment applications on my dressing room table.”

Before I had a chance to answer, a bouncer ushered me to her dressing room, and I waited patiently for her show to finish.  After her fifth encore, she came bounding into her dressing room, somehow full of energy — she is known for her high-energy shows.  We chatted for a few hours, then she had to leave for her next show in Cleveland.

I said, “Goodnight, will you be back in New York soon?”  Her reply, “I live in the Village, silly.  We need to chat much more.  You are quite the conversationalist, Other.”  I told her, “Yes, I guess I am.”  Well, she’s now finishing up the West Coast leg of her Reputation previews tour in intimate cafés, so we’re set to meet after that.  I cannot wait, I was that impressed with her.

She holds her own with every topic of conversation — World Series, Super Bowl picks (along with accurate stats going back twenty years, then her home town, Philly, PA Eagles, going back forty years), Hindu theology (while not a confirmed Buddhist, she is completely versed in the Contemplative Pillars of Freedom), haute cuisine, haute couture, and in fact, haute anything.  (What do you have in haute?  She’s versed in it.)

Taylor is also an avid Deadhead, having seen them as a preteen many, many times.  As it turns out, she followed them around the country with her Ma and Pa.  Her parents were known then as Momma and Poppa Trips, and sold windowpane acid out of the back of their VW Microbus.  They were about to turn on Taylor when an angel appeared out of the sky saying, “We’ve got big plans for this one, don’t bother.”  The Swift parents decided against it at that point, and the rest is Country and Western, then Rock ’n’ Roll, history.

My point being I am approaching super stardom at meteoric speed, and why?  Well, in large measure it’s because Taylor knows me, and well, I know her (not necessarily in the Biblical sense, but you get the idea)...

Taylor Swift is the new face of Budweiser beer.  That’s right.  Her management team decided to take her to the next level; being a spokeswoman for Coca-Cola is one thing, but the big money is in shilling alcohol.  Expect catchy pitches as she tweaks Shake it off, to become Shake it off with Bud.  Then switch a few words of her Out of the Woods, so it becomes an anti-cannabis, pro-suds anthem, Lost in the Woods.

Taylor will be sipping Bud and offering toasts between every song on her next tour, Reputation, which will be sponsored by Anheuser-Busch.  The concert highlight will be when the Budweiser Clydesdales stampede onto the stage, and the Swifty dancers whisk Taylor to safety, while she never misses a beat, and goes right on with the show...

In Taylor Swift’s latest, Look What You Made Me Do (alternative title: Stewing in One’s Juices & not Moving On), she is angry at someone, even traumatized by them, although she won’t say who this is by name.  Kim Kardashian and Kanye West have tried to leapfrog over Taylor’s reputation (the name of her new album) to buttress their own.

They did this by editing an Instagram video that made Taylor sound like she approved of this Kanye line: “I made that bitch famous.”  Famous, he claims, because at 2009’s MTV Video Music Awards, he jumped on the stage to steal the limelight out of her hands, after she had just won Best Female Video.

If this is supposed to be referring to Kim and Kanye, she may have dropped the ball.  Why not just name them then?  “I hope Neil Young will remember, Southern man don’t need him around anyhow.”  Lynyrd Skynyrd and Neil Young went at it, they name dropped.  If you want to go after Kimye, this is being so coy about it.

Outside secret meanings, and on to its musical merits: Taylor’s latest definitely is catchy, but it is also as dark and black as night.  Ms. Swift might need to get out into the sunshine more often.  At the rate these singles are being dropped, by next year her Reputation Tour will be opened by Marilyn Manson and Black Sabbath.  It’ll be Ironman followed by Shake it Off.

If the next singles off the album are similar, Country Taylor has now gone Goth Taylor.  I had always hoped Ms. Swift would go in Joni Mitchell’s direction of being entirely true to one’s artistic vision and never sell out, but now Taylor is selling snake jewelry on her web site (in honor of the theme of her Reputation CD, and her rebranding as an artist, and apparently, her rebranding as a person).  I guess her integrity as a songwriter will now be the subject of much debate.

Leaving the show, concert-goers can pick up multi-colored, plastic, witchcraft pentagrams for $39.99, and $59.99 gets you a witches’ recipe cookbook where you can cast spells on the unnamed just like your heroine does.  As tour sponsors, Visa and Mastercard are heartily welcomed and gratefully accepted.

Taylor’s self-indulgent message, given the competitiveness in the music industry, may be one also derived from focus-group consensus.  The theme has become (after the first single, at least): if you’ve been burned enough, do just like the rest of America has, and live for unending thoughts of revenge — instead of understanding your enemies shortcomings and motivations.  Taylor is firmly in Quentin Tarantino’s camp now, and his themes of never ending retaliation.  To think, she used to sing heartfelt ballads for tween and teen girls.

Katy Perry wins this round with the crowd-pleasing, Swish Swish, although her demographic may be older, and, I would have to say, less well-off.  Taylor is at a crossroads between being a figurehead for a conglomerate, or a singer/songwriter with which to be reckoned.

As for Kimye, the male recently entered a hospital for psychological reasons, and the female is the astrology type on a tired, old, reality TV show.  Given all their animosity towards Taylor, it would almost seem as though they both had drug habits.  For me at least, Taylor does seem like she is beating two dead horses, reprehensible, hateful, shameful ones, but two dead horses just the same...

Well, the Groping Trial of the Century has concluded in Ms. Swift’s favor.  Way to be, Taylor!  Although, she only asked for a $1, if she wanted it to stick it to him, and exact revenge, I would have sought $1,000.  For a sleazy, low-level operator, that would have stuck it to him where it hurt the most, in his wallet.  As usual, Taylor handled herself like the class act that she is, and has always been.

The real question here is why anyone would think Taylor would fabricate that story, and why anyone would want to grope Taylor.  If you’re a guy, you just don’t go there, ass-grabbing a stranger, even if she is gorgeous like Taylor is.  This is so incredibly disrespectful and uncouth.  Was this guy loaded at the time?...

With the sexual assault trial over, do we all feel a female empowerment anthem coming on from Taylor?  “I’d like to sing to you track 17 off my new album [tweens shriek uncontrollably], Time for Vengence, and it’s called Peter the Predator [tweens get very quiet, many head to girls’ bathroom at the L.A. Staples Center].

“Gimme a one, a two, a three.  Stop right there, Pete.  You done me wrong, you sure did, and now you’ll pay, you’ll pay big, Pete, Peter the Predator, oh, yeah, will you ever, Predator Pete the Snake.  You tried to make me damaged goods, put me under your spell, shut me down, but who gets the last laugh?  That’s right, I do [arena turns bright white as if hit by lightning, tweens remaining run for the exits]...”

Sad news today out of Nashville: Taylor Swift has decided to quit the music business, and devote the rest of her life, full-time, to taking care of her cats, Olivia Benson and Meredith Grey.  Taylor offered her usual poignant, and to the point, reasoning: “My cats need me, and I, them.  Please forward all matters to my wing girl, Lorde...”

The real reason Taylor didn’t have her famous Fourth of July celebration was not because she was busy in the studio churning out hits.  No, it was because her just as famous water slide was condemned by the Rhode Island Division of Amusement Park Conveyances.  It not only failed inspection, it caused the death of an unnamed guest last year.

Try to figure out which one it was.  Hint: it was one of the least popular members of her squad, essentially a hanger on, an “expendable” in Swifty parlance.  This led to much speculation that she was knocked off because she did not contribute enough to the PR effort, and thus, was a drag on record sales.  The deceased wasn’t Cara Delevigne nor was this Karlie Kloss, they pull their weight, and they’re still alive anyhow.

Taylor makes every guest sign a waiver limiting the damages for her rides of death to providing a wheelchair (which must be returned) and cab fare to the Newport Railroad Station, where Taylor’s send off to the now disabled is that they are too weak and feeble to be on her squad anyway, so they should skedaddle.  Ms. Swift seriously considered fitting her guests with red armbands as party favors, but her parents told her that this would be in relatively poor taste given the one Jew, and the one African, present for ethnic balance in photo ops.  The liability release also absolves her of notifying anyone beside the coroner if they don’t survive Taylor’s little endurance outing, Le Tour de Swift.

This is all in keeping with Taylor’s guiding principle, that any “social” activity with her can never have a downside; unless it involves “Bad Blood” Katy Perry — then claws are bared, it’s a cat fight, hiss!!!...

Taylor and Katy Perry are at it again.  In more important news, Taylor may have found a new guy.  He is not very well known, I cannot recall his name.  I think he is involved in entertainment, or maybe it was accounting, one of those two.  Either way, he will soon be the subject of a Taylor break-up song, that is guaranteed.

Taylor is nothing if not discriminating with who she, well, I will say this delicately, who she holds hands with, whose varsity ring she wears on her necklace, or who she chooses as her steady.

Any prospective beau must be vetted by: her girl squad; her parents, including criminal background check; her management, so target demographic goals are reached; and her fans who now have a Facebook poll to vote in or out the next, petrified yet still hopeful, lamb for slaughter in the Taylor sweepstakes...

I was chatting with Taylor Swift’s publicist the other day, wondering where she disappeared.  Not one paparazzi has spotted her anywhere in such a long time — not on the Breakers in Rhode Island; not on the streets of Manhattan walking her many, many cats; nor giving impromptu concerts in Central Park.

Taylor can easily double as Batgirl, so I am sure she will find her way out of that jam.  See what you discover when you’re hooked up to the well-connected such as Other Letter...

Another ribbon-cutting ceremony puts Taylor Swift back on the front page.  On her dime, she just opened a 20,000 bed hospital in Nashville, Tennessee, for cancer survivors entitled Home Sweet Taylor.  It has immediately become the primary care facility for smokers, ex-smokers, tobacco chewers, snuff snuffers, and those keeling over from second hand smoke.  Why so much personal interest in caring for tobacco casualties?

As it turns out, she had a chain smoking bestie in high school that is now in an iron lung.  Another junior high friend carts around an oxygen tank on her back — they nicknamed her, “the Astronaut.”  This is a girl that was a triple letter woman in basketball, softball, and darts (it’s different in the South, they don’t qualify for federal aid).

What’s more, she was originally one of three Swiftys, but now she’s only one of two.  Her third brother, named Buck, Buck Swift, coughed up a lung, and now he’s no more.  Taylor even wrote a song about him, but it was so painful to both perform and listen to, it was never released on music CD.  There were even hopes of a spoken version on audio cassette tape which never materialized.  It was called, O’ Brother, Where Smoke Thou!!! and chronicled Buck’s attempt to get a smoke all hours of the day and night, even during chemo.

Taylor has plenty more stories to relate having spent much of her life out in the country honing her sound.  Out there, they all smoke, or chew tobacco, and even the women chewers carry spittoons (to keep it feminine).  The walls of many Southern saloons and nightclubs are stained brown from the spitting of tobacco juice.  Oral hygiene is much less important South of the Mason-Dixon Line.

She had to drop an entire troupe of backup singers, the Spitting Six-shooters, when their jaws were all surgically removed.  Management felt they looked too grotesque to tour with Ms. Swift at this point, and they just mumbled anyway, so Taylor had no choice but to agree.

Marlboro wanted to get in on the ground floor, and set up a cigarette vending machine on every ward of Home Sweet Taylor, but Taylor told them, “That would be counter-productive, now wouldn’t it?”  With that, Taylor handed off all management responsibilities to the competent hands of hand-picked careerists, leaving her smelling like a rose...

Taylor and I haven’t spoken much recently.  Time and outside commitments just pull people right apart.  I know she’s performing at the Super Bowl, or a basketball game, same difference.  I tell her about her act: “just keep your mind on the lyrics, the rest will follow.  Also try to memorize the melody, that might help, too.  But remember, it’s chin up, shake your booty like you mean it, and keep ’em smiling.  Even though you’re not cute, you do a great job of faking it.”

Yet Taylor is a very confident young woman, she just needs to recognize that her career won’t last forever.  I continue imparting my sage advice: “Make as much loot as you can while nothing is saggy.  Wink, wink.  Minimize donut intake, because you are more a sexual act than a musical one.  You’re welcome, Taylor.”

Are you out there, Taylor, desperate for the help of a real pro?  Everyone can see how lost you look on stage when you notice someone’s not standing on their seat during your Shake it Off encore, as if your cats just knocked dinner off the counter.

You need to join Scientology, find some purpose, anything you can find to fill that vacuum you call your life.  It will work for you, as it has for many, many other performers.  You need it.  CLEAR!!!

And drugs will get you ready for the show.  Remember Bennie and the Jets?  Well, take a few bennies before you climb on to the stage.  You’ll be backflipping over the stage lights.  That’s how you give an energetic show.  Start singing in double time — god knows your shows put the crowd right to sleep.  SNORE!!!  Don’t take it personal though, you don’t have all the experience in this field that I do, so you’re excused.

This is the deal, Taylor, you’ve been mismanaged.  We all see this, we feel this, but you’re the one that has to live with this every day of your sad existence.  I will be your manager.  50% off the top, off the gate, you won’t do better.  It’s that simple.  These pearls of wisdom are just the tip of the iceberg.  I don’t have many, many clients like those overworked managers, so I can devote my attentions just on you, and on your career.

How’s them apples, Taylor?  I can tell you’re interested.  You’re not a dumb girl, but smart girls know they have to sign away their business interests when they’ve lost all control of their future.  In other words, you have to .  I can’t call you, I lost your number.  Email me, Taylor, it’s the only way you’ll get your career out of the pits, where it is now...

Taylor recently played a concert for a Missouri, 105-year-old, WWI doughboy, that she mistook for a Civil War veteran.  Turns out ol’ Zeke follows her from town-to-town catching every show with Americans with Disabilities Act access as he is blind and in a wheelchair.  Zeke is also kind of deaf, so she had to lean over and scream into his ear so he could hear anything at all.  Having earned his wings in the Sixties, Zeke still said that after the Grateful Dead, Taylor is his favorite act.

Halfway through Ms. Swift’s performance, Zeke had heart palpitations — which is fairly common considering she brings arena amps to play for the elderly — and Zeke needed to be Med-Evac-ed from the front lawn of Zeke’s family gathering, to the nearest town with an ER, or Chicago.  Taylor did not skip a beat and moved onto Des Moines in her own private hospitality jet, Air Tay Good-times, to reach a geriatric center this time, where she is known, less than affectionately, as Taylor the Terminator, the Grim Reaper culling the weak from the herd...

How do I say this without offending or embarrassing anyone, especially Taylor?  Her boobs got much bigger — someone had to say it, why not the World leader in investigative journalism, The Other Letter?  I seriously doubt it was due to work being done, I mean she wasn’t small for starters.  I think she just started eating people food, and not kale, moss, and bark every day.  She was once seriously thin, I’ve posted paparazzi links from then, but now I kinda hide them from prying eyes.

I only post this as a public service to too thin, young, kale-eating women who want to get ahead in the world and don’t see how.  Ms. too-petite, Jane Smith are you out there?  It is only a matter of eating better, not being overwhelmed or out of your mind with stress, and getting your life back under control a la Taylor Swift.  Here is a recent picture of voluptuous Taylor — who knew she had it in her?  By the way, this is not sexist or misogynistic, it’s not.

And please, whatever you do, ladies, don’t do the opposite, and go the Jennifer Connelly route, and have them reduced.  You may think of them as floor dusters or navel grazers, but boys won’t, and that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?  It’s about getting boys to buy you stuff like chocolates, and beach front property.

Yeah, Jennifer and I go way back, we have our pizza and beer, every Friday night.  I won’t let her drive home, she has to sleep over.  My point is, that we argue over the work she had done, work being the boobs reduction.  I keep telling her, see if they can be put back in what they took out, you’d be getting more roles, of women with real sway over men.  She appreciates my concern, and even though to her I am a saint whose opinions she values more than her Lord herself, she is the girl who, as she says, “Is stuck carrying the bocce balls everywhere on my chest.”  So I let it go at that...

No, you haven’t heard it all, until you’ve heard this: Taylor Swift is a clone of a satanic priestess of the 80s.  How could I ever fail to connect the dots that The Sun tabloid does so clearly here?  Doesn’t this explain everything?  Her refusal to indict, or even dislike, Kenya and Kim K, for instance.  Why is it?  Because all three are from the other side, that’s why.

Now, I can understand.  She draws all the young women and girls into her evil, diabolical — I’ll say it — her cult.  She doesn’t work for RCA Records, she only works for Lucifer.  Satan stamps her timecard.  The devil writes up her performance reviews.  I’m verklempt, I’m saddened beyond words, overcome with emotion.  Oh, the humanity...

Have you noticed that Taylor seems to be using less hair conditioner lately?  It seems more wavy, or are we just seeing split ends?  We would hate to use the word frizzy, but it just has less body somehow.  It’s as though she was getting a perm done, and she walked out half way through very disappointed, or she had to be somewhere.  We tried contacting her publicity agents, but they had nothing to say on the matter.  We will keep you posted with any developments to this vital, breaking news story.  Remember, you heard it here first...

Are you ready for this?  Taylor Nation is now dealing with yet another debacle.  Round the wagons everyone, because Karlie Kloss, Taylor’s BFF, had something nice to say about Kim K.  We know what you’re thinking, “WTF?!”  Well, the real reason Karlie appeared to break ranks and snuggle up beside the enemy is simple.  Karlie is incapable of being mean, the word revenge is not in her vocabulary.  She is not like older, jaded people who can turn on you with the drop of a hat — like Kenya, and yes, even Kim K.

At the blog, we’ve been mulling over the Karlie remark for most of the week.  She had to have been cornered by the British press.  Their reporters could have asked her whom she liked better, Mussolini or Hitler, and she’d say, “Let me get back to you on that” — and not because she is too young to know European history, but simply because she is loathe to defame a nation’s former premiers in interviews.

Ms. Kloss does not do several interviews a day like Taylor does, but that’s only because Karlie is moving into computer programming, and I know from personal experience that a programmer’s public relations media schedule is a bit lighter than Taylor Swift’s is.  Karlie should take heart.  I am sure the fallout from this tactical blunder will be minimal.  It is the greater prize of Taylor peace that we all seek, and this will not deter us.

The sleepless nights, the substance abuse, the general irritability, I’m sure the fact that Karlie Kloss and Taylor Swift are not seeing that much of each other anymore hurts you as much as it does me (or them).  Wasn’t it just yesterday they had marathon cookie baking sessions?  Or they were raving in Central Park with their boom box until dawn?  Or scuba dived in the Maldives, cats in tow with life preservers?

True, Karlie is leaving the circus life for the programming high road at NYU, and Taylor will be churning out the hits, the first billionaire in her twenties who spends most of her disposable income on her cats, but for the sake of a splintered nation can’t they consider spending more time together?  If not for each other, then for us, their weeping fans who need to see them happy together again...

Thank Creation, we have been delivered from our torment!  Taylor and Karlie celebrated the latter’s birthday together.  This reminds me of the Biblical verse: “Ask and it shall be given.”  Well, we asked for Taylor and Karlie to get back on track, and what do you know?  Now, this brings still more inspirational quotations.  How about John F. Kennedy?  To paraphrase our great ex-President: “Ask not what Karlie can do for you, Tay, ask what you can do for Karlie.”

And this is exactly what Taylor did.  She asked herself what she could do for her main bud, Karlie; she stepped back; and she did not get selfish thinking thoughts like: “Hmm, what can Karlie do for me?”  Once again, Taylor proves why we know she’s a super God from a galaxy distant.  Tissue, wipe away the tears...

Now Justin Bieber has to bust chops with Taylor.  I’d expect more from a Canadian, but what can you do?  The problem is that Kenya, Kum, and Justine are all kiddy acts that have to gear all their thinking towards the infantile, teenage demographic.  Taylor has gone far beyond that, into the adult mainstream.

This just in from our ultra-reliable network of sources: We now have the scoop why Taylor left her ex, Calvin.  She caught him fraternizing with the wrong element — non-virgins.  He had to leave Tay’s party in search of one, but he did find one along Ocean Avenue on the Breakers who needed a lift down to Marblehead.  Which leads us to our next question: How does one get invited to a Swift Bash?...

Not that anyone is keeping count, but Tay-Hiddle is traveling the globe right from the starting gun.  Nashville, London, Rome, L.A., and today Australia, in a five-weeks-old relationship, now that has to be a record.  Is that August wedding bells we hear off in the distance?  I wonder what she will name her moppets, her mini-Tays?  What is the rush here anyway?  Did she enter a contest of some kind with her girlfriends?...

Outside their hotel in Australia’s Gold Coast, Mr. Fiddleheads was hounded by reporters, but our Tay was nowhere to be seen.  Sources tell us she was whisked away by a copter off the hotel’s roof at 3AM to parts unknown just to avoid the paparazzi and the reporters desperate for a Swift story.

Per her modus operandi, Taylor is here, there, and everywhere.  She is the incognito girl on the go.  Could her whirlybird touch down on your street?  That’s as likely a possibility as any to this jet setter who is always a step ahead of you, me, and anyone else.  She is always on the lookout to surprise shut ins with open arms in back wards of hospitals; or anyone, anywhere deserving of hugs.  We’re living in Taylor’s World now, yet she is living La Dolce Vita...

Okay, this is the deal.  Taylor, via the usual, unnamed fictitious source, said that traveling with Fiddleshead, “makes her feel safe.”  Then why doesn’t Taylor just buy a Doberman, and when she is globetrotting, stow him aboard her private jet with the luggage?  The pooch only needs a tablet of Valium, and he is good to go, he won’t hurt anyone, unless directed to do so (she should check with her veterinarian for exact dosages).  If Fiddleshead is mostly there for safety, go with Dobermans, or Rottweilers perhaps, take her pick.  This way, Taylor won’t have to deal with twice the paparazzi she’d get with a celebrity human companion, and plus, the Doberman is likely better company — certainly more spirited at least...

I really don’t like the way Taylor dumps one guy and starts up with another without any rest, like this new model of guy, Tom Fiddelheads.  I don’t want to get too personal, because for one, it would hardly be my place, but is our Taylor a virgin, or was she one, as of last week?  Has our Taylor already signed the womanhood contract on Satan’s parchment with pretty much a stranger?  Unbeknownst to her public, has Ms. Swift eaten the forbidden apple?  How would that ever happen?  Is Vegas running a book on this?  Have office pools been set up in workplaces for this eventuality?  How will winning wagers be independently verified?

Tom goes in deep for hand-holding, he is a hardcore hand holder, so I am more than just a little concerned for our Tay.  She is jumping in head first with someone who is always clutching, clutching, clutching — stop the clutching, God damn you, Tom!

A break up is a time to reflect, read a few blog pages written by a well-established blogger perhaps.  Get a new feel for the bachelorette terrain.  Find out what someone outside the crazy Hollywood movie/Nashville music scene is up to, maybe get that cute Other guy’s email address.

Who knows?  Maybe he’ll take you in, and take you right over the top (or over his knee, depending) to that next level of womanhood.  Why, what do you know, .  See what he is up to, find out what it really means to go with a well-established blogger, especially one with industry certification from the Blogging Council of America...

Taylor fans, are you ready for this?  Her boyfriend is now her ex-boyfriend.  Cue Barbara Streisand with her memories of The Way They Were.  Taylor, admit it, you need me, and you need me more than I want you, but hey, you’re a sentimental female.  So this is what you need to do, to take our relationship, well, out of the shadows.  I’ll also help get your music act to the next level (I was all-County tuba, I’ll play Ol’ Man River for you sometime).

, and we can get our little party started.  Do not worry about me adapting to the press, because hey, I’m a blogger, I was born press kit ready.  Just like you, I spend every day in the glare of the spotlight, and the public eye.  I am working on our compelling story right now: “World famous blogger, Other Letter, hitches up with area singer, Taylor Swift, causing her to swoon.”

Whatever you do, don’t feel threatened by my eminence, because one day, you too, might have my level of celebrity.  You’re much closer to this now than you even know.  One day, too, you might become a household name such as myself, and with it comes all the perks conferred me: preferred seating at White Castle (past midnight you almost have the place to yourself), faster checkout in supermarkets (investigate self-serve lines), the list is never-ending.

We will first need to run through a few principles my dates need to follow: deference to those senior (well, I’m senior); obedience to those higher up the chain of command (you guessed it, me again); but don’t worry they are easy to master if you follow your master (I know what you’re thinking, you’re not ready for the next step, bondage, but I’ll take it slow, I’ll have you in fifty shades of Tay in no time)...

Taylor, I have seen the way you dance.  While you are a credible dancer, I feel that together we can improve your dancing skills.  Stop by when you are ready to get to the next level (I’ll forward directions to where I live), and I will show you dance moves that will absolutely stun the competition.

First, you need to get loose, and the way we do that is with a fifth of Jack Daniels.  Now, I know what you’re thinking, that could get you drunk.  That is not my intent, I only want to get you good and loose, or better, seriously, really, good and loose.

Then we sit on the couch and I show you some videos of professionals who are expert in their field.  Some are pole dancers, but several have graduated to greater artistry.  Once you have a command of the material, we will perform the dance.

Also, I have prepared a little piece of paper I need you to sign for damages as a result of our strenuous exercises.  This transfers power-of-attorney for your music catalog to me, and it is standard issue for dancers and their instructors...

The latest Vogue cover has Taylor as a sleazy and cheap, platinum-bleached blonde.  To Taylor purists, of which I may be readily counted as one, this is misapplied heroin chic.  This is whacked out, Taylor Biker Chick.  Taylor is not Stevie Nicks, nor at last check, is this the Seventies.  There is no moon calf Taylor.  I am phoning Editor-in-Chief Anna Wintour at home, at dinnertime, and I’m having her personally cancel my Vogue subscription while I impatiently tap my pencil on my burled walnut desk, all the while making inferences about her supposed breeding, and throwing darts at past Vogue covers including Christie Brinckley’s, which never involved street getups for God’s sakes...

Ms. Swift was seen at the wedding of a friend from grade school.  This is harsh, but it was much like Mick Jagger’s depiction of “a dismal, dull affair,” in the Rolling StonesNineteenth Nervous Breakdown.  Taylor gave multiple toasts as no one apparently had anything to say about the newly-minted couple, this financially-optimized pairing.  We just hope that when our Tay gets hitched, that her celebration of vows is a real jubilee, and not just a huge guest list tiredly going through the motions, as bride and groom take one for the home team, their parents...

Taylor Swift’s chief competitor is Adele.  While British Adele is known for her operatic voice, her material is, how do I say, well, like watching paint dry, at least compared to our American, Taylor.  Meanwhile, Taylor’s always good, clean, sexy fun — Adele only makes everyone cry.  I provide this market analysis for my good friend Taylor because of our intricate business relationship, one which is about ready for the next level.

I took note that Taylor’s been giving her moolah away like hot cakes.  $1,989 to a high school charity for footballs and pompoms, or some such.  Then the biggie, a quarter mill to a rapper named Kesha who has become a cause celebre because she claims she was raped by Doctor Luke (once the litigant has a name like Dr. Luke, everyone is already in hot water).

Other Letter is also deserving and in need of a new ride.  I’m thinking Rolls but if Tay wants to go chintzy with a Lexus, I can’t stop her. See, I’ve written about ten prime pages of published professional marketing text in her honor right here, so it’s time to pay the piper.  As soon as she contacts me, I’ll give her the spec on the Rolls or the Lexus (She’ll have to speak with Tokyo about tricking out my Lexus to get it above 500 horsepower, the Rolls is pretty much there already).  Considering what she’s given Kesha, she might want to go upscale with the Rolls so I won’t feel left out, but need be I’ll settle on the Lexus, given she’s given away most of her money to just about everyone else.  I just hope she doesn’t economize on expressing what I mean to her.  She’s flush after her 1989 tour so I’m sure she’ll be extra generous with me.

I wouldn’t put it past her to set me up next door to her mansion on the Breakers in Rhode Island.  She’s never been known to be cheap.  We’ll see, I’ve learned to trust her judgment.  Taylor also needs to consider showing up Kanye after the hard time he’s been giving her.  She needs to show him what she’s made of.  That’s why I’m suggesting the Plan A of the Taylor Swift — Other Letter Giving Schedule, and not the Plan C, or even the Plan B.  The Plan A, the Breakers Estate, has the most bang for the buck, is also very reasonable, even though the payments go out a bit longer.

Taylor Swift — Other Letter Giving Schedule
Plan A — BreakersPlan B — RollsPlan C — Lexus
Term30 year mortgage5 months5 months
Payment @$50,000 per month @$40,000 per Month@$20,000 per month

This is not swindling.  This is philanthropy and payment for promotional services rendered.  Taylor must understand that there is a huge difference.  If she’d like to go with the Breakers option, she should just pick out something nice, waterfront is preferable.  A former Rockefeller or Kennedy compound will do just fine.  Taylor has to understand that if she wants to keep me as a friend, and keep me as someone in her primary circle, she really needs to choose Plan A.

Then it’s just a matter of keeping me informed about her progress in choosing and/or building the estate.  I’m okay if she wants to build new, but please, furnish it tastefully.  A few original paintings by a grand master like Rembrandt, or even Van Gogh — although if you really want to go all out, I’m partial to Da Vinci — does wonders for a home’s appeal.  Remember that Tay gets unlimited round the clock Other Letter press coverage here.  No dropping the ball, please.  Here’s thinking of our Taylor...

Ms. Swift was in a few paparazzi photos recently, and she did not appear entirely happy.  Was there trouble in paradise?  As an anxious blogger, I tried contacting her management to express my concern, but no dice.  I got a call through to her record label, but they said she won’t be able to return my calls just now as she’s in Saint Tropez, Mexico, recharging the old batteries, and feeling no pain.  Well, if anyone tonight can reach her tell her it’s her old friend, Other from Other Letter, her favorite family of blogs.  Hopefully, all is well with her, and she can resist attacking more fans.  Yes, our honey-sweet Taylor was booked after shooting up a restaurant à la Sopranos-style after an uninvited diner joined her at dinner.  When gawkers get a little too rambunctious, like recently when they interrupted this dinner for a session of self-indulgent selfies, our Tay has been known to spray them with pepper spray, or even worse, like she did here, wave around her Glock, spraying a few bullets in self-defense, but mostly spraying them here and there for fun.  The fan had to call the cops on Taylor, so I have a feeling that this is why she is a bit down.  This was her first line up photo and mug shot.  What she needs to understand is that rock ’n roll is not a 9 to 5, it is a badge worn proudly, and with honor, 24/7 — 24/7, or until you quit music so you can care for your cats full-time.  Rock on, Taylor, rock on...

Ms. Swift is so serious about her commitment to quality fan relationships, she will be performing for a child who will soon be turning deaf.  As a matter of fact, I have fascia earlogia and I too, will not be hearing for very much longer.  So Taylor, you’ve set a precedent, can’t you serenade me?  And please, if it’s not too much trouble, bring your super-model squad.  I offer top-shelf liquors in a mostly wholesome environment.  My blood work is clean, I test negative for all the biggies.  Come on, Taylor, what do you say, a quickie — a song or two?  And don’t worry about where you’ll stay on Long Island, I’ll let you and your girls spend the night here, at my place.  It’s a win-win...

Taylor Swift has seven Grammy Awards to her credit, as well as twelve Billboard Music Awards, eleven American Music Awards, seven Country Music Association Awards and six Academy of Country Music Awards (she can also bake a mean chocolate chip cookie).  Most recently, America’s Sweetheart won Best Female Video on MTV’s Music Video Awards for I Knew You Were Trouble.  All told, Ms. Swift has been nominated for 310 awards, and has taken home 224 of these.  In the ultra-competitive music industry, Tay has sold over 26 million albums, and 75 million digital single downloads worldwide.

Carly Simon, who recently appeared on Taylor’s Red tour in Foxboro Mass, has also written a famous song about her ex, entitled You’re so Vain, that led to decades of speculation as to whom her vanity case might be (this up-and-comer’s stage presence and dance moves being not much different from Stevie Nicks).  Taylor is unquestionably everyone’s darling, but she still has a ways to go before she becomes the legend to music fans that Carly Simon or Stevie Nicks has become.

Taylor is an exceptional woman who has it all — personality, worldly charm, dewy innocence, impeccably-strong moral compass, a warmth and a gentle, never mean-spirited heart, sylph-like looks, and talent.  Besides her obvious musicality, and her almost unsurpassed abilities in crafting lyrics, Ms. Swift has an acutely-tuned fashion sense, having become quite the photogenic, tasteful mademoiselle of Parisienne-inspired high fashion and haute couture.  With her Victoria Secret, super-model looks, she is regularly seen brightening up Manhattan donning ensembles that delight the senses.  Ms. Swift’s beauty, and her fashion designs, are so striking or daring in fact, she seems to catch people off-guard.  Taylor has begun developing her artistic sensitivities as well, having already mastered both watercolor painting, and Drake-modernized needlepoint.

I noticed in one set of paparazzi photos during her Red tour, that she looked well, I thought, too thin.  So on these pages I forwarded diet advice.  Stick to power-eating and carbo-loading spaghetti with meatballs, juicy cheeseburgers, milkshakes, raspberry yogurt (or raspberry anything), chocolate blondies, and carrot cake.  I also suggested she worry less, that she already won our hearts, now she only has to keep them.  Regarding reports, as yet unconfirmed, that Tay is so perfect, she is not even of this Earth at all, but is rather an angelic goddess sent to us from a Heaven light years distant, well, they’re likely true, but losing weight won’t help her cause.  They don’t make dresses in negative sizes.

...We are getting more than a little concerned again at OL HQ about Taylor’s weight.  Platinum Platters management is stressing out this girl so much that she no longer eats regular food, just home-baked, chocolate chip cookies with her super-model girlfriends — and that crowd is not well known for eating filling meals.  The OL HQ girls and I are getting stressed ourselves about the lack of attention paid to her physical well-being.  The entire OL Health and Nutrition Consortium is offering to stand outside her duplex in Tribeca and offer her double cheeseburgers gratis before a stiff breeze picks her up and whisks her away skyward.

Ms. Swift Instagrammed photos of herself on the Newport Coast of Rhode Island, offshore on a yacht, then indoors with her exuberantly-healthy and happy girlfriends, ones with whom she’s obviously spent many, many great times together.  The images look like they are of the Kennedy’s from down the road a ways in Hyannisport, then somehow found on a Ralph Lauren leisure-living catalog.  The reason this luxurious extravagance is not depressing to those less fortunate, is because Tay is so undeniably likeable, and apparently, perpetually cheerful.  She just comes across as — and it would be impossible to believe she wasn’t — an exceptionally warm, kind, and sweet-natured woman.

Taylor had to deal with trespassers the other day.  Did they have any clue how trying this can be for all involved?  When Other Letter gets his custom-built, Other Estate it will have several features to make it impervious to invasion or assault.  Laser beam grids tripped by non-invited entry via fence climb or gate crash will trigger large-bore cannons situated on gun turrets at each corner of the house, and facing each point on the estate’s perimeter.  Each morning Hobbsie, my lady-servant, will check the fields for overnight remnants of cars blown-up by any of my automated Howitzers.  She will smartly sweep the trespasser’s car remains up into largish recycle bins for delivery to area recycling centers.  Because Other Letter will be in such good stead with the local police department, we will have little or no need to report the human remains to local or regional authorities.  Otherwise, we will have no complaint completing the usual required form or two down at the precinct.

Besides Howitzers, another important measure Other Letter Security will be implementing, and Ms. Swift should be on board with this equipment as well as the artillery, will be a phalanx of remotely-controllable surveillance cameras feeding back to a central control ‘nerve center,’ a room in-house — although possibly off-site in a location well-positioned for troop deployment — whose number of video displays you might see at Houston’s Mission Control, the facility overseeing lunar exploration craft takeoff and re-entry.  There will be cameras over every doorway, every gable, every window, and perhaps to the chagrin of a few modest guests, within every room and guest cottage.  Every second of every day of every guest at Rancho Other will be stored digitally on video, then handed over to the authorities should the need ever arise (this sophisticated set up would also make it easy to track down Taylor’s many cats).  The cameras will be Internet Protocol, IP-ready and viewable not just in the bunker, but anywhere on Earth with a wi-fi, or cellular broadband, web connection...

One might think Taylor could have written a ballad about spring break and called it a career.  Then to keep the cash flowing, she would only need to do a few gigs as a spokeswoman for a burger joint chain, or a frozen yogurt treat franchise.  Tay could spend the rest of her days on a mega-yacht reaching Mediterranean ports of call with her on-board masseur, bartender, and cat groomer.  Why?  Why not?  She’s earned it.  Yet the life of a one-hit-wonder is hardly a life for Ms. Swift.  Taylor doesn’t belong on the sidelines, she needs to be a part of the action.  She intends on making her name bigger than it already is.  So when she writes her next love song that will send her right over the top, who will it be about — an important, devastatingly-handsome, well-known blogger perhaps?

Tay just did a winning yet sincere promo for her new album, 1989, on ABC/Yahoo!  Even her harshest critics would say (if she had any, and she doesn’t) that she has a very comfortable and undeniably commanding stage presence.  The album’s title, 1989, is the year she was born, and reflects all her generational sensibilities.  Even within the constraints of pop music, she has an important, widely appealing message for her adoring fans, and that’s one of inclusion, and the dismissal of all those cold and heartless — just shake ’em off.

Tay truly goes out of her way for her fans.  She has even taken the unheard of step of meeting with hundreds of them in person at her home as part of the now famous Secret Sessions.  These events were so secretive, the participants had to sign gag orders disavowing any knowledge of what transpired, if anything did in fact transpire.  Seeing the exit interviews though, Taylor Nation was ecstatic, and their words for what they witnessed were oftentimes bordering on hysterics, it was absolute pandemonium.  Like Beatlemania before, a new generation chooses Taylormania.

Taylor’s hard work is paying off, and paying off big time.  She has the number one selling album of the year.  In fact, she has the number one seller going back to Eminem’s The Eminem Show in 2002.  She is currently in Tokyo promoting the Asian market, Japanese version of 1989.  The dubbing was tricky because Japanese is not Tay’s first language, nor even her second or third — it’s her fourth.  Those waiting outside in the rain for hours so she would bless them were nonetheless most impressed with the finished result.  Through interpreters, the fans said she sounded as though Nihongo was her native tongue, and her lyric translation was also impeccable, yet for the fluent, the word choice was occasionally and lightheartedly, even humorously, unexpected (when her Swifties from Tokyo said this, they covered their mouth with their fingers).

T. Swift International just sent Other Letter HQ an autographed, promotional CD of 1989, hoping that their Editor in Chief, yours truly, would have a few kind words to share with Taylor regarding its content (just an aside, Other Letter’s extensive, promotional bibliothèque is the size of most municipal library installations, rivaling the New York Public Library’s Media Study, in fact).  Well, this is one exceptionally polished, professionally conceived and executed package of very catchy music, from the first track to the last (all of which were at least co-written by Ms. Swift, and she was co-executive producer).  The reason why this music is selling so well is because it deserves to be.  That said, I am of an older generation yet it did not diminish my appreciation of the work; although there is a certain softness to her country compositions that seemed to be a little missing here.  Besides that very minor generational bias, this is a very tightly crafted and truly enjoyable musical work.  To paraphrase a New York Times review, Taylor is not trying to keep up with the latest trends of other musicians, she somehow manages to stay above the fray, and create trends all of her own.  Ms. Swift’s strongest suit of all may be how she can work a crowd into a frenzy, and rock the planet.  [Editor’s note: we received a lot of push back regarding this paragraph, because it states Taylor co-wrote her songs, they are not all hers.  Yet Paul McCartney co-wrote every Beatles song with John Lennon.  ’Nuff said.]

During live performances, Taylor finds pleasing notes to improvise within a melody where there doesn’t appear to be any.  Typically, her responsibilities are multi-fold during any of her shows.  Ms. Swift sings, dances, leads the charge as emcee and front woman, as well as plays the guitar and the piano.  Given these roles, along with lyrics, melodies, and whatever improvisation she has left to muster; she also has a great deal to remember and perform, with as much precision as can be hoped during a live show, especially considering there are tightly choreographed numbers.

At this point in her career, one would hope Tay can hold on to what took her so much effort to earn, to do so without getting jaded or burnt out, to keep a spirit of grace, and to preserve a good measure of gratitude without ever jettisoning any of her spiritual core.  Even today, mature far beyond her 26 years, Taylor is already an icon for good, righteous living, kindness and warmth.  Yet the path to grand-scale success is littered with those who fell by the way side, either by losing their focus, interest, resolve, and purpose; or by giving up on a constructive career and lifestyle that suddenly lacks any promise for happiness, especially when compared to the kind of lives others seem to have.

When it finally comes time for Tay to cash out, and walk away from the spotlight, everyone hopes she is none worse for wear — and she gets a memoir deal in the seven to eight figure range.  There are not too many “Christmas-Tree-Farmer’s Daughter Does Good and now Owns her own Private, Corporate Jet” stories in the literary publishing pipeline, so I’d only settle for eight figures.

Taylor has a rather over-active imagination which is helpful in creating songs, yet not so helpful in getting a good night’s rest.  She often has nightmares that she will be framed for murder in retaliation for her many, many crimes against humanity.  Tay has daymares about sea urchins.  According to Ms. Swift’s sources, stepping on one is a leading cause of tourist foot amputation in the Caribbean, and pulling it off your foot again is the leading cause of hand amputation there.

Because of her bodyguards and security detail, she knows she won’t be threatened even though she is a very high-profile celebrity.  The one parallel there might be is to John Lennon, who had no bodyguards, and was in effect, a political lightning rod like John F. Kennedy or Martin Luther King.  John Lennon also seemed to have a rather confrontational nature which helped him with his causes in life, but not so much in death.  Tay seems a lot like her kitty cats, rarely if ever clawing anyone.  A second parallel might be Rebecca Schaeffer who was killed at her doorstep after a discussion with a fan, one enraged that she had lost her virtue by appearing in a nude scene (or at least enraged after appearing in one without this fan)...

The fear in much of America today is that Tay will cop out, marry the Pop Record Guru at Platinum Platters, and start popping out moppets, then have nothing better to do except pick up the moppets’ toys for the next ten years, and no longer give her cats, Olivia Benson and Meredith Grey, the kind of home they so rightly deserve, nor give us the benefit of her lilting melodies which we might justifiably feel are ours to hear.  She will look back fondly on her years atop the charts (as will we), but she will sadly realize maternity calls her, that this call must be answered in a timely fashion, and were she not to answer that call, there would be two fewer Taylorettes in the World (assuming the moppets were both female, and two in number, and given her vitality and normalcy, one might suspect they will be), and the entertainment Universe must then only hope to find a show woman who will be her equal, who will maintain our interest as did Tay, but which they will never find no matter how hard they try.  This is the fear of a nation.

Regarding recent rumors that Ms. Swift goes out with women, she has had several romances with men before these stories surfaced.  The problem she has, and she has related this to me personally on many occasions, is that she’s a lot more mature than the guys she winds up dating.  Later, and unintentionally, these romances became fodder for several of her breakup songs, and listening to them, these relationships did not have such soft landings.  Tay has impeccable ethics, and is not so desperate for material that she needs to be a man-eater for lyrics — she dated these guys because, at least initially, she liked them.  Taylor has also said she wants a break from all this drama, and just hang out with all her butch, diesel, truck driver girlfriends — ones who spend each weekend tuning old Chevys — so she can be free of any boy-girl relationship pressure on her, or on the interested guy, because the media inspects and analyzes their every move.  Maybe she could write an intrusive media bookend-pair to her smash hit, Shake ’em off, entitled, Get ’em off (my back).

Tay wowed us all once again with her laser-hot, energetic performance at Times Square New Years a Rockin’ 2015.  The problem with most of these so-called live performances is the “artist” sits in his or her on-stage Barca-lounger with a rum and Coke on the TV tray, the sound engineer presses play on the tape machine and everyone might as well go home, except for the “artist” who has to try and lip-synch the words for two hours straight.  Show’s over because if they even bothered to remember the lyrics and they haven’t, the lyrics are just too lame to commit to memory, especially when one has so few brains cells left to which they might be committed.

While there may or may not have been a little of the audio assist last night (especially considering the sub-freezing, unheated, outdoor stage temps), there definitely were parts where she was improvising on the melody.  If I ever meet Ms. Swift, that’s the first question I ask after, “How do you do, your majesty?”; is how much of a typical performance, when your voice is fully functional, do you lip-synch?

Unlike most of her competitors who sit-in while their a tape plays over either shoulder, I would expect that little or none is prerecorded (excluding her own background harmony overdubs).  Plus she’s got her dance moves on now, she really has them nailed.  She was once criticized for them, now all eyes are fixed on this engrossing dancing queen...

At the recent SNL at 40 celebration, Ms. Swift was seated beside Right-wing, arch-conservative, Alaskan, Sarah Palin.  This was an odd pairing to say the least.  That the two did not close out the evening with fisticuffs was a bit of a surprise to many pundits.  The reason they were seated side-by-side was likely in an effort to begin reforming Sarah’s intolerance issues.  Our Tay stuck it out to the end of the show, not once telling the woman from Wasilla to back off, or having to call over an usher.  This was without any punches thrown, and without Ms. Swift resorting to pepper spray if the deer hunter from way up North tried to lunge at Tay for her progressive viewpoints.  An evening well played, Taylor, the World is made a better place one redeemed soul at a time.  Ms. Swift, as further consolation for this damper on your evening, consider the seating chart this way: with that crowd, where else was Sarah going to sit, and not have someone lace into her?

There are recent reports that Ms. Swift’s gams have been insured for $40 million.  If she were to lose or misplace her legs — say, in clear cutting timber, or shopping at the mall — she would be given $40 million to purchase a replacement pair.  In other news...

Taylor Swift is back in the news again.  Ms. Swift will be building the perfect home for her two felines, Meredith and Olivia.  The facility is dubbed the “Rat Park” because of the tens of thousands of rats to be imported there in an attempt to keep her cats happy and well-occupied.  At a development cost of close to $30 million, the “Rat Park” will take rodents from area inner cities by the truckload, then give them new homes, albeit temporary ones.  Animal rights activists, child advocacy corps, and even church groups, have voiced their opposition because they fear these vermin will much less entertain Tay’s cats as they will create an infestation not seen since Biblical times, or the movie, Ben (link is not for the rat-phobic, although the pests will never leave the other side of the screen).  The opposition, claiming they smell a rat, also say it will bring back diseases like the Bubonic Plague, scourges from which her Tribeca, and the rest of Manhattan, may never fully recover.  Do Ms. Swift’s cats deserve a “Rat Park”?  what you think.  In other news...

In an elaborate scheme to knock Taylor Swift back a few pegs, the Princeton Review in its SAT preparation materials, demonstrated that a lyrical phrase of hers did not conjugate correctly.  The lyric was misquoted, and they had to apologize still claiming that the corrected lyric was mis-conjugated.  The point they were making was that John and Suzy high school student can be just like multi-trillionaire Taylor, and any one can write just as well as her, although as seen here, much fewer have her sense of ethics and class.  In other news...

Not many women have a halo, but Taylor Swift is one who does — unlike many of her generation, she is above just being a bad ass, or an obnoxious diva.  Taylor doesn’t feel the need to sport the halo everywhere, but even when she isn’t wearing it, truth be told, she is an angel Heaven sent for us to behold.  I would hate to put the pressure of sainthood on Taylor, but she is naturally a sweetheart so saying this couldn’t make her self conscious about it.  I wouldn’t mention this otherwise, but with her Mom’s illness, Tay’s life may now be more difficult than it has been, so she may as well know what everyone thinks about her.

Ms. Swift’s 1989 tour is in full gear and she is knocking them dead as per her usual.  Taylor has many guest acts come on stage that most of the audience knows and loves, but since I am from the vinyl-platter generation, I have never heard of them before now.  They are all quite competent musicians though.  Taylor wears racy garters, which means she, and her management team, are branching out to court a new demographic, besides her original, core audience of young women.  Given the conical brassieres of Madonna’s early shows though, Tay’s outfits shouldn’t cause much of a stir.  I sense she is not extremely thrilled with any contractual, in-show marketing (“Please buy 1989 as you exit tonight, you’ll be helping a very good cause, me”), but she definitely enjoys putting on a satisfying show for her fans, and connecting with them — which is really what it is all about for any premier performer.  Taylor also gives back to the community with children’s hospital visits and unusually large lump sum donations.

Taylor’s philanthropic interests include aiding natural disaster relief efforts, putting a stop to LGBT discrimination, supporting arts education, and assisting charities for sick children.  Watching Taylor work with those kids, it is amazing how instantly she establishes a rapport with these thrilled, and appreciative, tweens and teens.  But she is also a close, personal friend of Gwyneth Paltrow, so what could possibly commend her more than that?  (Even though Tay is not a California girl by birth the way Gwynnie is, she does seem to be one by virtue of her sunny, breezy, warm, and carefree, spirit.)

A discussion of Taylor, and Karlie Kloss, Tay’s bff, is in order.  They have no mean, bad girl gene among them — is this bad?  Shouldn’t they be getting into all kinds of trouble, such as drunken, brawling exits from nightclubs at 4AM?  Instead they’re taking over the music and fashion Worlds.  I mean this entire, fempire domination scene is being taken far out of proportion by these two.  Really, get with the program, wrack up a car or two, stumble naked down Madison Avenue in Manhattan while tripping on ecstasy, live a little...

Taylor is in the middle of her 283-city tour in support of her multi-platinum, master work, entitled 1989.  Her tour is expected to last over eight years, and she will be bringing up all manner of guest acts onto the stage during that interval.  By 2018, expect Charlie and his Chattering Chimps, as well as Tina and her All-Star Tuba Troupe, to take center stage as the eligible acts dwindle to those with union cards looking to make scale.  She has had to learn so much choreography for both her show and her guests,’ that she has on several occasions walked off the stage, and fell right into the orchestra pit.  Because she was born to be a trooper, she went right on with the show.  She also finished an encore with, “Good night, Cleveland!” when she really meant to say, “Good night, Cincinnati!”  As the tour grinds on, we also expect Ms. Swift to devote half the show to guest introductions, including stories about their requisite teenage anguish, about never fitting in, and living in homeless shelters for half their lives; all the while owning a Ferrari before their eighteenth birthday, and having a permanent address in the South of France, at Cannes.  What is of most concern to the medical community, is that Taylor breaks into choruses of Shake It Off during promotional interviews.  That’s just Tay, though, she’ll be fine.  So I just have this advice to offer our Taylor: give ’em what they came for, have ’em leave happier than when they came in, with a smile, with an improved outlook on their day, with the concert CD, and with an authorized 1989, The Tour T-shirt.

Ms. Swift attempts to psych out each new guest performer on her 1989 tour so they don’t steal the spotlight from her.  After all, Tay is the mighty super-star and the guest is pretty much dirt, one who is only there as a patsy to reinforce Tay’s preeminence — just like that team that played opposite the Harlem Globetrotters.  Taylor slaps the guest on their back during their solo, for instance, or sings much louder than them, even telling the sound engineer to turn up the volume on her part to “11,” while the back-up act is at about “3.”  Tay will also start talking to the guest while they’re right in the middle of their biggest hit, and is usually successful in distracting them, if not reducing them to tears.  The guests know they’re in for Hell at Taylor’s hands, but sign on anyway, so they can board the Swifty gravy train, one eventually leading nowhere.  Taylor goes away pleased that she has given the act their fifteen minutes of fame — guests Steven Tyler, Carly Simon, and Joan Baez included, as 1989 is not only her birth year, it is how far back her knowledge of music goes.

A few of the guest-venue matches have been very intriguing decisions to say the least.  For instance, who would have thought a Taylor Swift-Pink Floyd reunion would make for great duets at her Nashville concert?  Not many is right.  That Roger Waters and Tay thought she could tackle The Great Gig in the Sky was sheer showman wizardry.  Bravo, Taylor, bravo!  The opposite holds true playing in Canada.  When you showcase a Country and Western act to a nation whose national religion is Rush and ice hockey, you might come up empty...

Apparently, some low life set off the fire alarm at the Houston stop of Ms. Swift’s tour.  Another overzealous moron tried to grab Ms. Taylor during her Edmonton show.  Tay may not realize that when she performs at arena shows, part of the current job description is holding off the Barbarians, in what has become to be known as the Rock ’n Roll Circus.  These childish stunts must be incredibly unnerving, especially for a woman who doesn’t spend gym time doing bench presses (apparently she only works on her pliés, pointe work, leg turnouts, and high extensions there, per genre and show requirements).  So the show must go on, and trooper that Tay is, she was able to finish both shows with all her characteristic and innate grace and reserve.  In response to these events, Tay will now have burly, super-sized, ex-NFL middle linebackers at each corner of the stage, and she herself, at all times, will be carrying a switchblade, and an emergency preparedness kit fastened around her waist, one tailored to blend in, and look fashionable with, all her tour-required leotards.  Taylor has developed such nerves of steel dealing with all this, that her private jet was forced to land in a shopping mall parking lot once, and she asked the shaken passengers and crew if they would like her to pick up any Ben and Jerry’s while she’s out shopping.

The Rock ’n Roll Circus also includes audience trolls who heckle what Taylor is dong on stage.  I looked up the price of these seats.  The most obnoxious in the crowd are on the floor where they can be the most disruptive, they pay $223 a ticket.  Why bother dropping two bills when you’re only there to harass the star of the show, the one who is up there singing her little heart out.  Watching, hearing, kicking back, and cheering on Taylor should be the only reason you spend your hard-earned cash for a ticket there.  Trolls belong at the WWF, professional wrestling, a place where belligerence and rudeness is appreciated and encouraged, not where the biggest-selling performer in fifteen years is trying to sing (not since Eminem’s The Marshall Mathers LP in 2000 has a record sold as much as 1989)...

Tay has been called out for her dance moves, perhaps because she is a white girl, and white girls are not generally known for their soul, or feeling the music and its meaning, maybe more for their sweetness or class.  Other Letter, in another advisory capacity, will show her some key dance moves — just by having her read the next two sentences.  Move hands over head, one up, one back (double shaking the fist at the end of travel is an optional, advanced add-on); same for hands slow-sprinting by your sides, to the beat; then for full stun effect, one leg out, torso out the opposite direction, hands opening out to the sides and back.

Then for a finale, hands over head and sway to the beat.  I know this is sketchy, and I intend to create a Youtube outlining even more devastating dance moves.  Taylor’s Country background is great in crafting heartfelt ballads, but kinda weak in cutting up rugs...  And one more from the hit parade, and really ramp it up: look left, look right, to the buggedy beat, mixing it in with the other moves...

Taylor Swift was recently discussing her note-classification system for her lyrics (essentially a single, iPhone Pages document).  I felt I could tweak this and really ramp up her songs, taking them where they’ve never been before, before that is, I offered my ingenious method.  First, create documents, buckets really, containing lyrical sentiments categorized as: recent break-ups; near-forgotten break-ups; the one that should have never gotten away; the one hanging on the line; finding your man; and ditching your man once you find him.

I’d have lyric buckets about star-crossed love because of: music or food preferences (Mickey Dees v. Burger King arguments could be dual-purposed as adverts); the dog versus cat debate (Taylor is a most enthusiastic cat person, so I am sure she could weigh in heavily here, even enough for an entire album); or conflict from picking different favorite baseball teams (if a couple’s allegiances are divided between the Yankees and Red Sox, save time and get those prenup papers signed now — have Tay at the ready with a ballad chronicling this New York-Boston heartbreak, one that would be Taylor’s first foray into raucous, heavy metal territory).

Then there’s songs about breakups due to sex, specifically: sexual dysfunction that Viagra cannot cure; mismatched virility; or one partner not putting out like she should.

As one can easily see, I like to keep it all upbeat.  Tay just needs to add a few more buckets to the ones I’ve so thoughtfully provided and she will be ready to head to the studio for her much-awaited sequel to 1989, we’ll call it, 1990.  I can keep coming up with all these catchy themes, Taylor just needs to step up to the plate with the music hooks — we’ll be just like Lennon and McCartney of Beatles fame.  You’re so very welcome, Taylor.  Did you just say you had a back stage pass to give to me for all of your shows — and squad membership including sleep-overs?  You are too kind, Tay, as long as I’m not coming in through the poor door...

Taylor Swift will be taking a break from her now-extended, six-year tour.  To quote Taylor exiting stage left after her final encore: “Veni, voci, vici” — we came, we sang, we conquered.  Next, she’ll be back in the studio for two days so she can put together her annual holiday album, and bring good cheer to the hoi polloi.  To cover as many demographics as possible, the songs will include every major religion, even pseudo-religions like strong-arm Scientology.

Tay will be singing a torch song for Tom Cruise based on the Irish classic, Danny Boy, but hers will be called, Tommy Boy, and another in honor of their founder, L. Ron, How could You?  She also has a song about Zionism cued up that she calls, Happy Hanukah, now stop all your Gaza killing, okay?  And another lined up for Muslims, Would Allah appreciate the bastardization of his message of peace by his own kind?  Taylor may be shortening that title, and most of the eight Islamic songs on the album do lose a little in translation.  For Christians, Ms. Swift will serve up yuletide cheer with, If Jesus was as homophobic and misogynist as the Vatican, no one would ever give an eff about Christmas.

These are working titles, but staffers say Tay is fine with them.  Ms. Swift is also plinking away at the piano to arrive at her signature, lilting melodies; and fine tuning the lyrics so they don’t sound openly hostile towards each one of the World’s religions.  As soon as she gets sample surveys from her thousand-plus-strong focus group, she can put on the finishing touches.  We know those CDs will move like hot cakes, with the songs themselves becoming staple programming on every radio station’s holiday play list...

Ms. Swift has just recently been served with two lawsuits.  In the first, she is being sued for getting herself groped by a DJ, and reporting it, which cost him his job.  Taylor obviously fell madly in love with this DJ, so when Taylor’s advances were rebuffed, she had him fired.  Tay must have also been wearing very suggestive clothing.  That’s what these women do, they deserve rape, harassment, the whole nine yards.  By right of law, if a rapist goes after a woman in suggestive clothing he is exercising his God-given male prerogative.  That tart may then be sued under tort law for absolutely any amount of money for resisting a man who took the time to show real, strong arm aggression.  These pop stars are so ditzy, the DJ must be right when he said she couldn’t remember who groped her.

The second lawsuit is not so rightfully damning of Taylor.  This one involves a crooner named Jesse Graham who originally wanted a selfie with Taylor for her supposed plagiarization of Shake it Off from his “Haters gone hate” lyric (note that this is not, “Cause the players gonna play... And the haters gonna hate...” which is the lyric Taylor used).  Three years later, he upped the damages ante from selfie to $42 million.  Now, did his lyric add $42 million in value to Taylor’s 1989?  I cannot claim to be an expert on music copyright, but to me this sounds like an entirely frivolous lawsuit.

Then let’s hop aboard the Taylor Swift gravy train and make this three lawsuits.  You have oodles of cash, Taylor, and I want in on a piece of that action too.  I have been working overtime on the Taylor Swift section of my Pantheon page, and you have not written me one note of thanks, appreciation, nothing.  I am now suing you, Taylor Swift, for $100 million in lost wages.  Your summons has been served, Ms. Swift (in lieu of punitive damages, I will accept that selfie though)...

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Mary Tyler Moore

(Still from The Mary Tyler Moore Show
Lou Grant, her boss, was very upsetting to poor Mary Richards.)

Mary Tyler Moore

While we obviously have no proof, is there a chance that five days into a Trump Presidency, and seeing the havoc he has already reeked, soured our loveable Ms. Moore on not only her Republican Party, but on life itself, and caused her death?

In other words, did Trump turn her world off by being vile?  Did Trump make a worthwhile day and suddenly make it seem like nothing?  We’re sure now Mary knows it, with each glance, and every little movement she showed it.  Trump is all around, Mary had need to fake it, she had the town once, it’s too late to take it.  Today, she discovered he might just build that wall after all...

IMDB includes a synopsis of The Dick van Dyke Show, a show where Mary Tyler Moore was once a mainstay.  They state that Mary’s turn as Laura Petrie was as a “loopy” house wife, although if you have ever watched that show, every character is fairly loopy.

That turn led to her most famous role, the part of Mary Richards in the revered Mary Tyler Moore Show.  Here, easy one-liners were eschewed, and in their place were jokes built on the relationships of well-defined characters.  As the theme song suggests, Mary Richards was going to make it on her own, without being beholden to any man, especially when that meant being just her hubby’s wife.  This radical feminism was unheard of in American TV of the 1970’s.

I must again take exception to the IMDB biography — otherwise well-written, although perhaps penned by a non-believer — in that they claim in the opening credits, that despite her well-established vegan sentiments, she tosses “meat” into her shopping cart.  Okay, that looks like poultry to me, and besides, she is not throwing the package of animal product into her shopping cart happily.  Rather, she is doing it with obvious disdain, raising the question to all of us in TV land with half a brain: what the hell is in her processed foods, and more relevantly, what is in ours, being raised in the same American corporate farmlands?  At the time, this was a clarion call across the U.S. as people could start to see that what they were shopping for, preparing, then setting on their family’s dinner table, was inhumanely-treated crap.

Mary got the Oscar nom, but not the nod, for Ordinary People in 1981, yet the Hollywood Foreign Press Association had the common, good sense to give her three Golden Globes, and to nominate her six other times.  She has also won six Emmy awards.

Ms. Moore has Type I Diabetes and supports efforts to find a cure.  To that goal, she also supports the very progressive, oddly anti-Vatican policy of stem cell research.

Yet Mary watches a lot of Fox News, and Ed Asner, her MTM co-star, has said she has gotten much more conservative over the years.  Given she: “can turn the world on with her smile, she can make a nothing day and suddenly make it seem worthwhile.  Well, it’s you girl, and you should know it, with each glance and every little movement you show it.  Love is all around don’t need to fake it, you can have the town, why don’t you take it, you might just make it after all (this is worth memorizing just as I have, you never know when such learned esoterica will come in handy).”

You might just make it, Ms. Moore, if you disavow Fox News.  As it stands though, you are hereby relegated to Pantheon probation, which will be lifted once you tidy up your politics, and get with the program.  Cloris, Ed, and Betty will have their say on your behalf as character witnesses, if they so choose.  We run a very tight ship here, Mary, we suggest you toe the line.

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Lauren Bacall

(“You know how to whistle.  Don’t you, Steve?”
Just put your lips together ... and blow.)

Lauren Bacall

Lauren Bacall was perhaps best known for her leading roles as the ‘it girl’ opposite Humphrey Bogart in The Big Sleep, Dark Passage, and Key Largo.  Besides film noir roles, Ms. Bacall did have starring, comedic turns such as How to Marry a Millionaire with Marilyn Monroe and Designing Woman opposite Gregory Peck.

Lauren had appeared in movies with a Who’s Who of Hollywood’s royalty including: Henry Fonda, Tony Curtis, Natalie Wood, Paul Newman, Shelley Winters, Julie Harris, Robert Wagner, Janet Leigh, Ingrid Bergman, Albert Finney, Sean Connery, and Nicole Kidman.

Lauren Bacall had just two Academy Awards on her mantel, the first for a supporting role in 1996’s The Mirror Has Two Faces, and the second, an Academy Honorary Award, “in recognition of her central place in the Golden Age of motion pictures.”  Lauren was an exceptionally accomplished stage actress as well, having won Tonys for the musicals Applause, and Woman of the Year.  Lauren Bacall was ranked 20th of the top 25 actresses of all time by the American Film Institute. 

Ms. Bacall was married to Humphrey Bogart, and the couple was good friends with Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy.  After Bogart’s passing, she was involved with the Chairman of the Board, Frank Sinatra, blowing him off once she saw who a few of his friends were.

Because Lauren possessed the courage and conviction to speak out against McCarthyism, she was denied the well-earned accolades she deserved from the motion picture industry, Hollywood, and the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.  Ms. Bacall will always be an absolute giant in Hollywood who only earned her first Oscar, in just a supporting role, in 1997 at the age of 73.

Ms. Bacall had always been proud of her well-grounded, leftist political viewpoints.  Lauren was the first cousin of Shimon Peres, the current Prime Minister of Israel.

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Greta Garbo

(Edvard Munch)

Greta Garbo

Watching Greta play her Oscar-winning, title role in Camille, we see Greta’s character change her mind just with facial expressions.  She was really quite a phenomenon to watch.

At a few other points in Camille, she must have been playing for the back row of the theater, as her expressions appeared exaggerated.  A sophisticated actress, and screen legend, of her caliber wouldn’t overact though.  It must have been recognition of 1930’s projection resolution and screen size limitations.

Greta successfully transitioned from silent to talking pictures unlike Nora Desmond of Sunset Boulevard...

Bette Davis had once said, “Her instinct, her mastery over the machine, was pure witchcraft.  I cannot analyze this woman’s acting.  I only know that no one else so effectively worked in front of a camera.”  This was very great praise indeed...

Greta had interests far beyond Tinsel Town’s confines (sounds like Kim Kardashia, doesn’t it?)  She amassed an art collection worth millions.  Greta chose not to participate in the Hollywood publicity machine.  Greta retired at the age of thirty-five after appearing in twenty-eight films.  As she was famously quoted, she would rather “be alone,” perhaps with friends, than play the Hollywood game.

Ms. Garbo never married, and didn’t have any children.  She was often rumored to be a lesbian.  She did say that she “always wanted to be the boss,” and that her favorite pastimes were smoking stogies, drinking six-packs, and watching boxing matches with unshaven legs and underarms (her pastimes were not entirely confirmed at press time, they do sound much like Madonna’s).

Greta Garbo epitomized timeless, effortless, elegance and glamour.  One of the most golden from the Golden Age of Hollywood, she began her acting career in Sweden.  Ms. Garbo had a very independent spirit from an early age.  She spoke her mind, even more so when there was a just cause to sponsor.

The Academy nominated her four times in the Thirties, but only gave her an Honorary Award in 1954.  She did not show up at the ceremony to receive it.  Her Marguerite Gautier in Camille earned her the most accolades.

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Elizabeth Taylor


Elizabath Taylor

An Elizabeth Taylor performance is what actresses see when screenwriters read Shakespeare, in other words, stage perfection.  As an on-screen legend (and an off-screen one as well), she is imbued with all the spirit and vitality of Creation.  Most performances when scrutinized under a pundit’s microscope, find the slightest of flaws in lack of authenticity or genuineness.  If you try to find any in Giant, you will come up empty-handed...

Many actresses seen on the silver screen today look as though the air conditioning on the set was set too high, they just do not look comfortable.  Elizabeth Taylor looked as though she was sunning on a Hawaiian Isle.  Soft caressing ocean breezes, the field hands all eager to placate her every need.  In other words, Liz looked as though she was completely composed, in actresses’ Heaven, enjoying every moment...

Be they co-stars in her movies, or friends in her real life, Ms. Taylor could always connect with people.  Early on in her career, critics regarded her sexuality as precocious, with her exceptionally rare, violet eyes adding to her allure.  To many inside and outside the entertainment industry, she is considered to be the greatest actress to appear on the silver screen.  Gloria Steinem likewise described her as a “movie queen with no ego ... expert at what she does, uncatty in her work relationships with other actresses.”

Her charitable work is also legendary.  She won a Presidential Citizens Medal in 2001 for raising $200 million for AIDS research, and bringing awareness to the plight of those suffering.

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Marlene Dietrich

(Shanghai Express still)

Marlene Dietrich

Marlene Dietrich’s depth of character risked her very life.  As the World geared for Hitler’s vicious, madman aggression, Ms. Dietrich was offered very lucrative contracts to return to her native Germany, and become the premier film star of the Third Reich.  It was an offer she somehow found the courage to refuse, and she became an American citizen in 1937.

In the Blue Angel, arguably her most famous screen role, Marlene played a cabaret singer who brought on the downfall of a once respected University professor.

Even early in her career, she would wear a jacket and tie, or other masculine clothing, indicating her refusal to be subjugated to a male-dominated World.

Ms. Dietrich, an accomplished singer, went to Germany in 1944 with General George S. Patton to perform with the USO.  Even though she was just a few miles from the Nazi lines, she felt the need to be there “aus Anstand” — “out of decency.”

In the latter stage of her career, and backed with Burt Bacharach as her arranger, she made many cabaret performances in London and Las Vegas.  Peter Bogdanovich observed that, with the songs she sings, “she lends each an air of the aristocrat, yet she never patronizes.”

She returned to Germany in 1960, and received a mixed reception, with protesters shouting “Marlene go home!” and with non-Nazis giving her a much warmer welcome.

She succumbed to alcoholism, and a painkiller dependency, at the age of 90.

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