Monthly Archives: January 2022


The sovereignty of American states is of little concern to Our Leaders. Let’s keep on sneaking in hundreds of thousands of illegal aliens. In the middle of the night. And send them to your city. Because, why not?

On the other hand, it’s very nice that Our Leaders are concerned about the sovereignty of our good pals in Ukraine. Let’s go to war for the Ukrainians. Even if they don’t want us to.




Celebrity Boobs (bad version): Aging ’60s Rock Stars


Oh, my. We’re not sure how Spotify will ever survive without these musical giants. In 2022, they are more popular than ever.




Seems like a win-win for everybody.




Celebrity Boobs (good version): Jewel Shepard



Rip has been discussing good TV shows with Jewel Shepard. Jewel Who, you say?

You probably know her. Depends on what you like. Also, might depend on how old you are.

If you are a fan of cult movies, you might have seen her in the comic-horror flick The Return of the Living Dead (below).



Perhaps you watched Cinemax After Dark in the 1990s, in which case you might have seen her in Christina (below).



If you are a fan of obscure porn from the 1980s, you might have seen her in the poses and screen caps below. Here is a link to the (grainy) movie.

By the way, we’re not very good about warning visitors concerning content that is Not Safe for Work. So here you go: The content below is Not Safe for Work. (It’s the weekend. What the hell are you doing at work?)



Sadly, that is not Rip in the porn flick with Jewel. But she does have good taste in TV shows.


© 2010-2024 (text only)



He’s been on the side of the bad guys for years, and he often allows his hatred of Donald Trump to cloud his judgment, but Bill Maher is one of the few voices on the left who speaks out against progressive craziness.


Maher this week:

“I keep saying this to the Democratic Party. The reason why you’re so toxic is because you’ve become the party of no common sense. And people see this. It’s a constant drip, drip, drip of ‘Oh, these people are nuts.’”


And this:

“If my kid comes home from school and tells me, ‘They’re telling me I’m a racist. What does that word mean, Mommy?’ Is a kid, a young kid, old enough to process that? Or, you know, comes home and says, ‘I think I’m a girl now’ and the school says that — I think in California now, you have to go by that. If a child wants to change his name to a girl’s name, that stuff is right in your home. That’s at your kitchen table.”




War With Russia


Sure, why not? Because we have no other problems to deal with, by all means let’s go to war. It will make lots of rich people richer and, if it turns into a ground war, it will eliminate a lot of those pesky Midwest farm boys who support Trump and join the military.

Another bonus: If we fight Russia, we’ll be fighting a bunch of white guys. That’s fine. Better than fighting, say, China, where we would be fighting guys who aren’t white. Can’t do that. That would be racist.

Another bonus: If we fight Russia, rich and powerful Americans — on the left and the right — can keep the money train coming from, well, China.

Win, win, win for (almost) everybody!


© 2010-2024 (text only)


If you enjoy short stories with a twist of the bizarre, check out Tales From The Grouch.  Here’s a list with links (in green):



 . Rusty  “Rusty” — Happy times in suburbia.


. revelation   “Revelation” — Unhappy times in suburbia.


. homebodies   “Homebodies” — The people next door.


. ass   “The Porthole” — Be careful what you wish for.


. the ufo   “The UFO” — Stand by me … and a UFO.


. Tales From Grouch   “Carol Comes Home” — The spirit of Norman Bates.


. thwup   “Thwup!” — The case for eating more (or less) beans.


. Wisdom   “Wisdom” — Cabin in the woods.


.        “Row, Row, Row Your Boat”  Thelma helps a guest.


. Americans    “The Americans”  — Kevin goes for the gold.


.        “Margaret” — The greatest love story of all time?



© 2010-2024 (text only)




by J.D.H.



The servants of Mumsford House, composed of the cook, the maid, and the butler, were respectively atwitter, aflutter, and aghast.

News had arrived that morning that the master of the house, Lord Arvid Mumsford, was on his way home. He was expected to arrive at Mumsford House that very evening.

“Mercy me,” declared Lily Evans (atwitter), the portly cook, speaking to herself in the kitchen. “I’ll have to prepare something special. This is a fine occasion, and the master deserves no less.”




“Harrumph!” barked the butler (aghast), Seymour Evans (no relation to Lily), to the timid maid, a girl named Marcie Pootz. “The man is certifiably insane.” He glared at the girl, daring her to object. She simply stared at the floor.

“Nevertheless, he is the source of our income, and we are duty-bound to adhere to our contract. As such, you must see to the condition of the entire house, and in particular the parlor. Oh, yes, especially the parlor.”

Marcie Pootz (aflutter) was intimidated by Mr. Evans, whom she considered the true master of Mumsford House. This, because in her short tenure as the newest employee, she had yet to meet the mysterious Lord Mumsford. He was always abroad and visited rarely.

As for the lady of the house, well, although she resided just upstairs in the main bedroom, that is where she remained all day, every day, being an invalid. Marcie was responsible for the upkeep and cleaning of every room in the house – save Lady Mumsford’s room, which she had yet to behold. Mr. Evans himself saw to the maintenance of that room.

Marcie had never set eyes on poor Lady Mumsford. As far as the girl was concerned, the inhabitants of Mumsford House numbered just three: herself, Mr. Evans, and Mrs. Evans.

“Yes, sir,” said Marcie to Mr. Evans, avoiding all eye contact with the imperious man. “But if I may ask, sir, when is the master expected?”

“This evening. Now off with you. There is much to be done. Lay emphasis on the parlor.”




Meanwhile, a hundred miles away in London …


Stanley Swinepool, heir to a fortune and man about town, studied the silver-haired man seated among a cluster of elderly gents in the center of the Devon Club’s lounge. Stanley turned to his constant companion, Sven “Sniveling” Snodgress, and pronounced judgment:

“So that’s the world-famous Lord Mumsford, is it? Back from his tour of the globe, is he?”

Sniveling Snodgress said nothing in reply.

“Doesn’t exactly cut an imposing figure, does he?” Stanley took a drag off his cigarette and left it dangling from a sneering lip. “I don’t see why he bothers to come back, after all. His reputation far outweighs his countenance in the flesh. If I were him, I’d stay in hiding rather than come out and disappoint everyone.”

“He comes back every year about this time. Wants to see his wife,” said Sniveling Snodgress.

Stanley considered this, never allowing his gaze to leave the huddle of men in the center of the lounge. “I read something about that. Some sort of tragedy, wasn’t it? Or was it a scandal of some sort?”

Sniveling Snodgress said nothing.




Lord Mumsford took in the ongoing conversation among his distinguished companions in the Devon Club lounge. Nothing but idle gossip, really. One of the club’s long-time members had recently dissolved his long-time marriage because, apparently, he’d grown repulsed by his wife’s appearance.

“Too fat for his taste,” said one man.

“Hogwash. Her teeth had fallen out,” chipped in another.

“Regardless, the husband said she was more suited to the stable than the bedroom,” quipped a third.

Amid the subsequent burst of laughter, Lord Mumsford cleared his throat. The chortling ceased.

“He sounds like a very foolish husband,” said Mumsford. “Let me explain. Margaret and I have been husband and wife for many, many years now. Physically, you might say the bloom is off the rose. Oh, yes. Certainly that.

“But there are more important things in a marriage. Things like common interests, similar values and, above all, shared memories.”

“All well and good,” snorted a gentleman. “But memories will only take you so far in the bedchamber.”

More laughter.

“As for that,” continued the lord. “A little imagination will work wonders. If a woman’s face no longer arouses a man’s passion, there are other means to attain the desired effect. For example, she can always lend you a hand. If you get my meaning.”




The preparations at Mumsford House had reached peak frenzy. The master had arrived for his annual visit and was expected at the house at any moment.

Marcie Pootz was startled by the change in Mr. Evans and Mrs. Evans (no relation) as the arrival of Lord Mumsford grew imminent. Marcie discovered Mrs. Evans frantically polishing house silver and simultaneously keeping an eye on the special meal cooking on the stove.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Evans. I can’t seem to find Mr. Evans and I knows he wanted me to do one more thing but it’s slipped my mind and –”

“Mr. Evans is upstairs, giving the lady of the house a manicure. After that, he’ll need to carry her down to the parlor. Have you cleaned the parlor as we instructed?”

“Oh, yes ma’am. Everything is clean and everything is tidy, just as you said. I don’t –”

“And especially the table by the master’s chair?”

“Yes ma’am. Especially that. I hope I’m not out of place, but Mrs. Evans I have to say I’m quite excited by this visit. I’ve been here some time now, and yet I’ve only seen the lord the one time, as he was leaving the house. And I have yet to see Lady Margaret.”

Mrs. Evans paused in her work, considering something. “You know, Marcie, the master and his wife, in my opinion, are one of the greatest love stories of all time. I daresay you might not think so; you might find their relationship a bit odd. But then you are a young lass, and you haven’t suffered as they have.

“It was a horrible accident, it was,” continued the cook, wiping away a tear. “I think of it every time I set foot on a train.”

Mrs. Evans composed herself and shot a stern look at the girl. “So it’s best you keep your mouth closed and learn from them. No matter what you might think.”

“Oh, Mrs. Evans, I do so adore a good love story!”




Marcie could not help herself. She knew what she was doing was wrong, but the temptation was simply too great.

The door to the parlor was not completely closed; Marcie had nudged it ajar, and now stood quietly in the hall, straining to hear the words of Lord and Lady Mumsford.

But it was a frustrating exercise for Marcie. Aside from soft murmurings and the occasional coo from Lord Mumsford — “my darling” … “love of my life” — she could make out very little.

She glanced back at the main entrance. Earlier, Lord Mumsford had greeting Mr. Evans and Mrs. Evans and had nodded curtly at Marcie, but that was it. He had handed his coat and hat to the butler and gone straight into the parlor.

She looked at the staircase. Mr. and Mrs. Evans were far away, occupied in the kitchen. The lady’s bedroom would be vacant. This might be Marcie’s only opportunity ….




Meanwhile, a hundred miles away in London ….


Snodgress and Swinepool sat in a seedy bar, having tired of the stifling atmosphere of the Devon Club. Smoke and working-class shouts filled The Black Dog, and a bored waitress stood patiently between the two men-about-town.

Swinepool sized up the waitress: a tallish, red-haired girl wearing spectacles. Not unattractive, he judged, but rather dead in the eyes. He reached behind her and raised her skirt to the waist, then squeezed a buttock.

“What’s the name, darlin’?”

“Kit, sir.” She remained expressionless.

Snodgress leaned over and squeezed her other buttock. “Kit what?”

“Mancini,” said the girl. “Would you gentlemen like another?”

“Certainly,” said Swinepool, as Kit leaned forward to wipe detritus from their table. “But before you go,” he tugged at the girl’s blouse, baring her breast, “let’s have a look at your top.”




As the girl sauntered off with their order, Swinepool turned to his companion. “Now, about Mumsford.”

Snodgress frowned.

“Nasty business, that was,” he said. “I remember it well. Mumsford and his wife had just returned from a trip somewhere or the other. At the train station here in London. The lady got off the train, but she oughtn’t. Bad timing.”

“Hmmm,” said Swinepool, who was distracted by Kit Mancini’s swaying backside as it crossed the dingy room.

“One of those parallel tracks, where one set is just a spit away from the other. Of course, just then a second train came along. Mumsford reached out for the wife’s hand, caught it, held fast … but too late. But he never let go.”

Sniveling Snodgress shook his head. “They say the old fellow never recovered.”




Marcie stood in Lady Mumsford’s bedroom and surveyed her surroundings. It was a lavish room, large and well-kept by Mr. Evans. Her gaze kept returning to the bed. It was so small, like a child’s resting place. Beside the bed, Mr. Evans had carelessly left tissue and nail polish, the remnants of his earlier manicure of the lady.




In the parlor, Lord Mumsford was kissing his wife’s hand. As he did so, he caressed a wedding ring attached to a finger of her left hand.

He raised his head, squeezing Margaret’s hand as he did so. Something putrid and vile dripped down the lord’s chin.

“Damn that man, Evans,” he muttered. He used his handkerchief to wipe the preservative from his lips.

“No one cares for you, Margaret, as I do. You know that. My love for you is undying.”

Mumsford took one last, loving look at what remained of his wife, then carefully lifted the pale-green, stiff appendage — cleanly severed beneath the shoulder — and placed it gently back into the large jar of formaldehyde on the table.

Margaret’s arm floated in its liquid preservative for a moment, then began to sink to the bottom of the jar.

“Evans!” Lord Mumsford cried. “I am done in here!”

Evans was aghast. Mrs. Evans, in tears, was atwitter. Marcie, as always, was aflutter.





Click here for the index of short stories.

Click here to see all of the stories.


© 2010-2024 (text only)


by Julian Sancton Madhouse


Madhouse depicts an amazing, grueling adventure of which I had never heard. Why is that? I suspect that, if ever someone decides to make a movie of this harrowing ordeal, only then will it stick to the public imagination.

In short, what happened was this: In 1897, the converted whaler Belgica set sail from Belgium to Antarctica, hoping to conduct scientific research and make history by penetrating deep into the southern continent. Early in 1898, the ship became wedged in pack-ice. There it sat, crew aboard, for nearly a year.

Sancton relies heavily on officer diaries to describe the frigid nightmare that followed, in particular the words of Frederick Cook, the colorful American who served as ship’s doctor, and the strange Norwegian Roald Amundsen, who would later become a world-famous explorer.


© 2010-2024 (text only)



Well, she’s on the right track. If she replaced the word “date” with “fuck,” she would probably have nailed it.








Two takeaways from this:

1)   As usual, the media displays absolutely no creativity or originality. One outlet comes up with a cutesy headline, and the rest of them jump on the bandwagon.

2)  I strongly disagree with conservative pundits who want to add to this headline by claiming that Joe Biden has had a no good, very bad first year, due to his “lack of achievements.”

Every day that thousands of illegal immigrants stream across the southern border, helping him achieve his goal of fundamentally changing the country, and every day that corporations continue to can workers who disobey his illegal vaccine “mandate,” Joe Biden is having a very good, wonderful day.



© 2010-2024 (text only)



I remember that, on January 6, 2021, when I first saw news reports about the mayhem in Washington, D.C, my initial reaction was: “Good for them!”

In the minds of certain people on the left, that sentiment makes me an “insurrectionist” and a traitor to the country.

But what I saw on Jan. 6 was hundreds of people who were quite the opposite of traitors; they were your aunt and uncle in sheep’s clothing, unleashing a primal scream. No black masks for them, like those worn by the cowardly punks who laid waste to big cities in 2020.

The January 6 mischief-makers were tired of years of being ignored by their elected “representatives,” who issued promises and then, once in office, joined Democrats in pursuing their primary goal: doing the bidding of rich donors.

And the Jan. 6 mob was sick to death of a media that helps the powerful — especially the powerful in Congress — ignore an ongoing invasion at our southern border. More important than illegal immigration, apparently, is that everyone learn how to use the term “Latinx.”

Heavy sigh.

It did not work out well for the insurrectionists, or rioters, or whatever you want to call them. Some of them now sit in jail.

Their problem isn’t (exclusively) the Democrats/Progressives; their problem is the Republican so-called representatives, who in a better world might have said: “We hear your frustration. We will do better. We will put regular people ahead of what the progressive agenda demands.”

The Jan. 6 folks in D.C. had the right target: Washington’s rich and powerful. The leftist rioters in the summer of 2020 had the wrong target: small-business owners. But the media prefers to ignore burned-out salons and gunned-down inner-city residents, and instead focus on something that, in its mind, is more dangerous than Pearl Harbor and the Holocaust.

I think January 6 should be celebrated, not condemned.




Happy New Year!

To celebrate, we have a new Tale From The Grouch. Check out “The Americans” by clicking here.


© 2010-2024 (text only)




The Americans

by J.D.H.



Kevin Trapp watched the large-screen TV that was affixed to a peach-colored wall in the waiting room. The on-screen images changed rapidly: a crowd of thousands cheering wildly in a cavernous arena; a female gymnast navigating a horizontal beam; an Asian sports analyst interviewing a stone-faced athlete.

When the camera cut back to the crowd, Kevin noticed a small group — likely a family unit — passing a box of something edible from member to member. This made Kevin hungry, so he reached for an open bag of Doritos on the table at hand and began stuffing chips into his mouth. Outside the spartan room in which he now sat, he could hear the periodic, muffled roar of the crowd. He wiped crumbs from his chin.

He stared at his bag of chips and began to reminisce about his schooldays. His “misbegotten youth,” as he liked to think of it. He remembered the ninth floor of the dormitory which he shared with a score of other boys. He had not been particularly popular with the other students — except for on Saturday nights. Kevin closed his eyes and smiled as he recalled the familiar refrain: “Kevin’s down!”




On Saturday nights, he and the others would walk the six blocks to the town’s bar district, where they would do what young men have always done: drink heavily. Some hours and many pitchers of beer later, they would stagger back to the dorm and ride the elevators to the ninth floor. Five minutes later would come the call: “Kevin’s down!” Again. Everyone knew what that meant.

The dorm was coed, i.e., boys on odd-numbered floors, girls on even-numbered floors. Occasionally, the clarion call about Kevin would attract a few girls, but mostly it drew other boys. They would open their doors, peer into the hallway, and behold the sight of poor Kevin sprawled in the hallway, so drunk that he could move no more. The protocol then was that several of the boys, sometimes more, would be tasked with heaving him off the floor and guiding him to the safety of his room and his bed.




Kevin’s dirty little secret: After the first hallway episode, in which he was indeed quite drunk and indeed passed out, Kevin began to fake it. It was simply too much fun having the boys carry him to bed. It was now a favorite memory.




In the waiting room of the sports arena, Kevin waxed nostalgic about dorm life and munched on his bag of chips. He washed them down with a Pepsi.

He thought of the boys and girls in that long-ago dormitory. Those were hedonistic times for most of them. Kevin did not miss the wanton sex nor the drunken revelry. What he missed was the companionship, the camaraderie. The emotional closeness he shared with the guys.

Kevin did not dwell on sex. His diabetes had long since rendered him impotent. Thinking about sex was a waste of time. He munched some more chips.

His time was at hand.




Kevin looked up again at the TV screen. The Asian sports analyst was interviewing an American athlete. Kevin scowled.

Ten or 12 years ago, the American gymnasts had fallen into disrepute and brought shame to the entire United States delegation. A videotape had surfaced on the Internet. The video featured a shining star of the female gymnastics team, a pretty Hmong American girl who had already secured one gold medal and was expected to garner more.

But the video did not celebrate her gymnastic achievements. The grainy, shaky footage initially revealed the girl, 20-year-old Suni Wang from Minnesota (her popular nickname was “Butterfly”), lying naked on the floor at a raucous party. Suni was the only female at the gathering, which was punctuated by loud, drunken whoops and whistles emanating from young men. Male athletes from the men’s gymnastics team, it later came to light.




Whoever was holding the camera panned up and down the comatose girl, from head to tail. Someone in the background made a rude comment, but loud music and shouts rendered it inaudible.

The videographer zoomed in on the poor girl’s face; in her stupor, her mouth was half open.

And then the penises came into view. And then they took turns, in the infamous words of one drunken boy, “giving her something to drink.”




After the video appeared on the Internet, the men’s gymnastics team was disbanded. No one in the general public seemed to care because the team hadn’t medaled in many years.

As for the girl, her career, too, was effectively over.

Kevin, who had by that time lost interest in all things related to sex, remembered a single image from the videotape scandal: the pretty Hmong girl curled up on the floor in the fetal position, her back to the camera. Beside her lay the tattered remains of her fancy red party dress.




Kevin looked back at the TV screen and again heard a faint roar from the nearby stadium. It was a strange sensation, sitting there in a room thousands of miles from home, snacking on Doritos, sipping Pepsi, and counting the minutes until his moment on the Big Stage.

There were very few Americans participating in this year’s Olympics. After the fall of the men’s gymnastics team, the country began to lose interest in sports in general and the Olympics in particular. It didn’t help that it had been years since any athlete from the United States had medaled.

Except, that is, for Kevin and his teammates.

Kevin and his mates still brought home the gold.

America might have given up on Olympic athletics, but here in Beijing, as attested to by the thunderous crowd, the Olympics were still a very big deal.




There was a knock on the door. It was time for Kevin to go.

Half a dozen Chinese men, all of them fit and wearing matching white casual clothes, entered the waiting room and approached Kevin. One of the men glanced at the table near Kevin’s chair, but his expression betrayed nothing. The table was littered with bare plates, empty bags of chips, and numerous soda bottles, also emptied.

The men faced a daunting task, but they were rehearsed and issued no complaints. They surrounded Kevin’s oversize recliner, which was set on oversize steel wheels, and began to push.

Large folds of his morbidly obese body began to spill over the edges of the chair, impeding the progress of the men situated at the sides of Kevin’s rolling transport, but the Chinese men had done this before for the Americans, so they made good time rolling down the hallway and into the arena.




The crowd grew silent as Kevin steeled himself for the challenge to come. He had prepared for this his entire life, and he was ready. Looking at the six men who strove mightily to wheel him into the arena, he thought again of the boys in his old dorm. “Kevin’s down!” they had cried, staring down at his 340-pound frame on the hallway floor.

But that had been years ago, when he was comparatively light.

Today he tipped the scales (literally) at 440 pounds — which was in line with the size of his American teammates.




As he was wheeled into the stadium, Kevin briefly took in the crowd of thousands and then turned his attention to the gigantic screen suspended high above the center of the arena. The screen was where Kevin lived. It was his heart and soul.

He was the king of the only Olympic event in which Americans still excelled — “esports.” His specialty game awaited on the hovering screen, his control pad rested comfortably on his lap, and he put down his Pepsi. This was his moment.




Kevin kicked ass.

Kevin brought home the gold.





Click here for the index of short stories.

Click here to see all of the stories.


© 2010-2024 (text only)




A man and a woman, strangers to each other, awaken naked in a bed and discover they have been surgically sewn together at the abdomen. Who would do this to them, and why?

From its synopsis, I expected Spain’s Two to be cheap exploitation, inspired by the cult success of The Human Centipede. But I was mistaken; the movie is neither cheap nor exploitative. Rather than Centipede, the movie it most resembles is Brian De Palma’s Sisters, steeped in psychological horror. At a brisk 71 minutes, the film nevertheless leaves a lasting impression. Release: 2021 Grade: A-



For those of you intrigued by Two for its more prurient elements — such as naked actress Marina Gatell, 42 — check out 2009’s Little Ashes, below. From her full-frontal shots in Two to her fairly graphic backside exposure in Little Ashes, Gatell clearly places a lot of trust in her directors.


Above, Gatell braves cold weather in Two


Above and below, Gatell braves the camera’s lens in Little Ashes






Such a difficult movie to review. Technically, it’s top-notch. The acting is uniformly excellent, and the direction is flawless, at times even inspired. And yet — to this American — the film’s premise is patently absurd. Or is it?

Shenina Cinnamon plays an Indonesian girl (“Sur”) who, after attending a celebratory party with a group of artists, wakes up the following day and learns that someone took “selfies” of her during the night and posted the embarrassing pictures online.

The movie then becomes a mystery/thriller, with Sur enlisting the aid of anyone she can to find out who did this to her. Her quest makes for compelling drama.

And yet … the selfies are not nudes, nor are they particularly salacious — to my Western eyes. Apparently, in Indonesia relatively tame images are enough to ruin careers and irreparably harm reputations.

One more quibble: I thought the ending was overly artsy and pretentious. At least to my Western eyes. Release: 2021 Grade: B+





Unlike starlets from the West, whose social media posts might make Hugh Hefner blush, Indonesian actress Shenina Cinnamon’s posts are indicative of a conservative (repressive?) culture. The pictures above and below are about as provocative as you will find on Cinnamon’s Instagram page.



© 2010-2024 (text only)



I keep seeing stories about people expressing “good riddance” to 2021. I’m not sure why. As far as I can tell, 2022 will likely be awful.

I’m thinking things are going to get worse — possibly much, much worse — before they get better. We might even look back at 2021 with fondness.




All signs are pointing to a big victory for Republicans in the 2022 elections.

I am going to make just a single prediction for the coming year. There is likely one issue — and only one — that could derail the anticipated “red wave.” That’s abortion.

Should the Supreme Court turn back the clock on that issue, millions of angry women could well erect a dam against that red wave.




When you get to a certain age, New Year’s Day seems like the dumbest of holidays.




TV Updates



I watched Vigil (above) on Peacock because it takes place on a submarine and I’m a sucker for shows that have that setting.

The first few episodes were fine, but then it grew silly.



I am watching The Silent Sea (above) on Netflix because it takes place at a research station on the moon and I’m a sucker for shows that have that setting.

The first episodes were fine, but now it’s grown boring.




Betty White, John Madden, and Harry Reid all died last week.

Two of the three were very popular and will be greatly missed.

Let that be a lesson to modern-day politicians.




Speaking of Betty White, I don’t see any mention in her obituaries about her beginnings as a nude model.

Let that be a career lesson to young ladies who aspire to be America’s next “national treasure.”





(Click on thumbnails for a larger view)



© 2010-2024 (text only)