Ms. Fonda Is Not Happy

(CBS) Jane Fonda is siding with the studio executive who blasted Lindsay Lohan for partying too much, acting like a spoiled child and showing up late for work while filming "Georgia Rules."

We can't say that we're surprised. Lindsay "Lips" Lohan and Jane Fonda were a combustible combination from the get-go. Not since Kim Basinger and Alec Baldwin teamed up for....what was the name of that movie again?...have we been this sure that someone would get bitch-slapped before the director yelled "Cut! And cover your cooch!"

We simply commend Ms. Fonda for her strong defense of the inherently honorable thespian profession. Also laying waste to Lohan's behavior: Nick Nolte, Mel Gibson, Paula Poundstone, Colin Farrell, PeeWee Herman, and various rappers. You know you've gone too far when people who WANT to see your pussy think you're skanky for showing it. Oh...and for not showing up to work on time.

We did not break our No Pussy Moratorium lightly here at SMTS. We thought long and limp about whether it was a necessary part of the story or if it simply appealed to the most base instincts. Concluding that base instincts are the fun ones, we went with the pussy picture.

"But you're GAY!" We know, we know. It's not like we touched it or anything. In fact, we edited this post while wearing gloves. We also delayed our morning bagel until the offending orifice was safely out of the viewing window. As a matter of policy, we are pro-vagina for the purposes of perpetuation of the race. We simply choose not to participate. We abdicate, in simpler terms. We defer to others more qualified. And more inclined.

To those who accuse us of Gratuitous Pussy, we say "Go ask Jane." We could not find a picture of Lindsay showing up late to work or flubbing her lines. So we went for the easy shot. Our options were "Pussy" or "Martini". And let's face it....Pussy Sells.

Kudos to Fonda for joining Donald Trump as leaders of the brand new and utterly unlikely Wholly Holy On Responsibility, Ethics & Seriousness (WHORES) For The Media. What's this world coming to when B-listers show up late, party 'til dawn and eschew thongs for the commando media grab? We have been to rehab any number of times (visiting friends, naturally) and can tell you that the paper undies they make you wear do not encourage good skivvy habits. So don't expect a change on that note from Ms. Lohan.

On the topic of Stars Behaving Badly, we feel led to add a novel note to the Alec Baldwin saga. If our mother had left the kind of phone message Mr. Baldwin left on his daughter's answering machine, "Rude....pig....rude....pig....pig....pig", we'd assume Mom was in a very good mood and we were probably going to Pizza Hut. When our parents were pissed, "rude little pig" would have sounded like the title of a fairy tale compared to what we really heard. So we're left to wonder: What's The Big Deal? Did anybody grow up in a house where "rude little pig" was a shocking reprimand from a parent?

Alec: Stop using the telephone. Lindsay: Put your clothes on. You're already running late. It can only help. Jane: Don't criticize half-naked, drunken children. It's beneath you. Donald: Go away. Kim: Take a Valium and learn what real curse words sound like.

Note to all, to quote the woman who used to look like Joan Rivers: ...Grow up.

The Undead

Well, glory hallelujah. This is the weekend I iron each year. If Jesus can get up out of the grave, I can dig the iron out of storage, put a towel on the cabinet, and reacquaint myself with the can of spray starch I purchased as part of my Going To College kit in 1982. It's also the weekend I wear The Suit. I don't take it to the dry cleaners anymore. I've finally figured out that by this time next year, whatever smells jumped on it will have faded.

I have to skip the Big Family Get Together this year. Too many command performances, too little Tom to go around. So I'll spend Easter relatively alone (meaning without relatives) and rest easy in May knowing there are no rotting, undiscovered though colorful eggs somewhere in my backyard. Besides, I found out last year that they aren't even doing the real Family Easter Egg Hunt anymore. They're doing a Plastic Egg Hunt. It's the Fake Christmas Tree of Easter. And it's a shonda.

Last year, I busted my hump hiding plastic eggs so well that even I couldn't find them again. They were filled. Some had candy, and a LOT of them had money. It was like Easter Gelt. Somewhere, Jesus was having a religious crisis. We never had money in our Easter Eggs. We had egg in our eggs. Back in the olden days, if you opened your egg, you were committed to eating it or finding someone who would. And I don't care for eggs. I just liked the pretty colors. Kind of like the retarded kid at the city-wide Easter Egg Hunt. Eat one? No thanks. But can we go shopping for shoes to match?

Easter makes me think of things that never die: Judy Garland music, Meatloaf's two songs, Sinatra, Hepburn...the classics. Then we have the new class of immortals: Joan Rivers, Anna Nicole, Cher.... The new class is immortal not due to greatness, but because they are no longer biodegradable. They will live forever because there's not much left of them that can decay.

I'm not thrilled about the notion of death, but I accept its inevitability....grudgingly. In a recent discussion about DNR orders, I made it clear that I most certainly want to be resuscitated. I don't want to die from a temporary corporeal glitch that a little paddling might fix. And I'm convinced that the day they pull my plug, CNN will break the news that they found my cure. So I have tattooed my chest with the words: Paddles Go Here. More specifically, I have asked to be plugged in and electrified just shy of electrocution, if they think it will help. Use me as a generator, if you want. Put a plant in my mouth and consider me decor. I don't care.

It's not that I'm afraid to meet my maker. I'd just like to be the last one to do so, thank you very much.

So R, by all means, friggin' R! If I'm in a permanent vegetative state where I have no feeling, no thoughts, no pain, etc., then I promise I won't mind. Just keep me well-drugged and know that I'm silently enjoying my high. If and when I open my eyes, consider that a sign that I'm ready to cope again. And send me to one of the better rehabs. The ones where you can fill an autograph book. If I have to detox, I'd like something I can sell on eBay in return.

I believe, with the Christian masses, (because I am nothing if not Christian), that the dead will rise some day to spend eternity knitting and playing euchre in very nice digs in heaven. How nice.

Like Mr. Beatty said - more or less - "I can wait."