A Sad Week

Greetings Pets!

Well, it has been a sad week for me, as I have lost three dear friends. Actor Dudley Moore, Television Pioneer Milton Berle and Director Extrodinaire Billy Wilder. Let me say a few brief words about each of them.

The last time I saw Dudley was at the premiere party for Arthur 2. Arthur, as you might imagine, was one of my favorite movies for many reasons. Among them:

Of course, among heavy drinkers, we have a joke. Best comedy about drinking? Arthur. Worst comedy about drinking? Arthur 2: On the Rocks. Not that Dudley wasn't charming, but lord, he wasn't drunk.

Anyhow, I saw him at the premiere party, which may as well have also been the closing party. He was smashed. I was so inspired that I drank myslf into oblivion and woke up in the bed of Arthur 2 co-star Kathy Bates. I still don't remember what happened, thank God!

I only met Billy Wilder once, at the 1945 premiere of The Lost Weekend. I had been invited there to be Jane Wyman's body double. There deal was that if any producer hit on her, she would get him completely wasted and I would "do her duty," as they say. By the time the producer sobered up, I would have been long gone, having left a brief "You were great and SO big, love Jane," written in lipstick on their bathroom mirror. Jane was not the only Hollywood starlet who kept protected her virtue in this way, but she was the only one who paid me in oral sex.

I digress. Billy, or William as he liked to be called, was holding court at Mann's Chinese Theater as the movie ended. I approached him and stammered, "Mr. Wilder, a pleasure."

He replied, "Ah, Lady Potamus, your reputation proceeds you and is, no doubt, well deserved."

I blushed a hot purple shade, and he laughed with that husky Eastern European laugh of his. He offered to take me away from my life of endless parties, drinking, sex, and money. "I'll make an honest woman of you, Lady P," he said.

Alas, I knew in my heart it could never be. I offered, instead, to be his pen pal. Wistfully, he accepted. William and I exchanged erotic postcards with each other for 35 years. I've kept everyone in my attic. As a matter of fact, they are the only thing in my attic, in 45 separate storage crates. Someday, I am going to open the "Billy Wilder Erotic Postcard" museum, just you wait and see.

Finally, it is with special sadness that I bid adieu to Milton Berle.

Uncle Milty was, as many of you may have already heard, the best equiped man in showbiz. Oh, sure, there have been other television stars with big dicks, but his was a thing to behold. Easily as large as $200 in silver dollars. Maybe $250. Flaccid.

I can't recall very much about my encounters with Milt. Mostly, I remember pain mixed with pleasure, mixed with a little more pain. I called that man the name of every diety this plante has ever worshiped, and even invented names of some new ones.

"Oh sweet Borfloppa, god of over mittens!"

"Hakasama, goddess who watches over light rains!"

"Give it to me, Markoniboni, he who makes pickles turn to rice."

You get the idea. I can say with some certainty that he was still using that weapon of mass destruction as recently as the early 1990's. Dear lord, if he wasn't, he was using a baseball bat. I'm not kidding.

Anyhow, my heart breaks at their passing, and I wish them all the best in their next lives. Well, actually, I suspect Milton has achieved Nirvana. He certainly can't evolve anymore than he already did for my money. The man was blessed.

Ah, mourning makes me thirsty. I shall get drunk on sacramental wine.

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