Tag Archives: Krupp Diamond

You Got Me Dickmatized

I got 99 problems but a dick ain’t one.

I’m going to be solving some of YOUR problems further down this post but first bear with me, I want to talk about “Liz and Dick” which I watched on Sunday with ardent interest. I simultaneously read the tsunami of barf on Twitter but I really don’t think it was all that bad, so sue me, and I will argue that Lindsay Lohan was the perfect choice to play Elizabeth Taylor.  Liz was as hot a mess as La Lohan back in her heyday, so it was like a film within a film, wrapped in crazy. Real Liz stole husbands and turned into a fat, sloppy caftan wearing drunk coaster.  As an actress, she wasn’t really all that by today’s standards.  She was either breathy or shrill and over-acted like she was in a high school play.  She wasn’t even that hot, she wore a fuckton of makeup and for Godsake, people, her eyes were not violet, they were blue with flecks of brown. It’s a trick, I tell you.

I don’t know why I had always been under a rock when it came to anything to do with Liz Taylor, I guess I was too cool at the time to be interested in her “iconic” movies like National Velvet. I hate horses, I’m not afraid to rub my own vagina. Her kind of glamour was tacky to me. Diamonds and all that shit make my eyes glaze over in boredom, even to this day. By the time I was old enough to care about all things Hollywood, she was getting married to that mullet dude, Larry Fortensky,which was a supposed scandal because he way younger than her and Cougar Movement hadn’t really been invented yet.  I guess she should win my respect because she was a pioneer for the likes of moi, giving old bitches hope for fresh bone. She was also an awesome fag hag, and a truly great humanitarian that will become a whole other biopic, starring Madonna, duh.

It’s not just Liz, it’s Dick who I am really grooving to. My only knowledge of their story together was basic: They met making “Cleopatra,” they got married, divorced, and then remarried.  How romantic.  Oh, and he bought her lots of jewelry, including this honking ring bling:

That was her “everyday” ring, the Krupps diamond, that she wore to glue on her false eyelashes and toss back the cocktails.  The Taylor-Burton diamond was a pear shaped Cartier diamond that she wore as a necklace that cost him over a million dollars. Jelly?  Don’t be. Red flag.

Never trust a dude who buys you a million dollar diamond.  Think about it.  Do you think a normal guy cares about accessories?  Aside from an engagement ring that he supposedly spent 3 months salary on but didn’t really because he got it at Costco and the same Marquise cut (yuck) diamond would cost five as much at Tiffany’s so be happy, bitch, he might buy you a present now and again. Perhaps a pair of opal studs for your birthday, a charm for your bracelet on your anniversary, or if he is away on a European business trip, he might pick up a pearl necklace at the airport duty-free because he feels slightly guilty that he went to that massage “spa” in the hotel lobby and paid the extra 20 euros for the cabeza.  All these are good reasons for giving you jewelry but he if, out of the blue, feels the need to buy you the biggest motherfucking diamond in the world, then it’s not about you, it’s about him and the headlines it’s going to make. Classic narcissist.

Narcissists are very charming, good-looking, charismatic, and when they set their sights on their prey, they will do anything to get it.  That was Dick when he was starring with Liz in “Cleopatra.”  And she dumped Eddie Fisher (seriously, Liz, what the fuck marrying him in the first place?) and he dumped his long-suffering wife who was the mother to his daughters, so that they could bask in the glory and beauty of their love, blah blah blah, drunkity ever after.  Insults, jealous rage, blow ups, and hot make up sex. Good times.  Oh, and they lived on a yacht for some reason.  Taxes or something, make a note of that, maybe the taxman can’t swim.

They both got bloated, somebody fell and got paralyzed, I’m not sure who because I was reading the Twitter feed, but I think it was Dick’s brother (who was his father figure and Voice of Reason) and they divorced and remarried.  That’s the thing about narcissists, they get under your skin like ticks.  So Liz took him back, even though he was a big embarrassing baby about losing two Oscars, but he gave good jewelry which must have made her feel important. It’s sad really.

But at the end of all that mess, I thought if I were to get a diamond ring, I would like one that didn’t rip pantyhose or get mangled in a toilet paper wipe down, maybe something kind of Asscher cut in a deco setting…anyway, just saying.  On to your problems.

Thank you for writing to me and giving some blog fodder!  Remember, I am not a therapist, marriage counselor, or child-rearing expert, so take my advice with a grain of salt and a shot of tequila:

My wife and I are both in our early 40’s and have been married for 7 years, our son is 5, and I the last time we had sex was 4 years ago. He was born in 2005, and I think we had sex maybe 3 or 4 times afterward. It was short and quick each time where as before the baby we would make love everywhere and all the time. It just stopped one day, she said she had a yeast infection on our anniversary when we got her parents to babysit our son for the weekend when we went to Niagra Falls.   A week turned into a month, and now the months have been turning into years, four years!  What should I do? I am at the end of my rope.

Oh, the proverbial rope! With it’s frayed edges and slippery grip. It’s so hard to hold on especially with all those itches to scratch.  All those numbers! You’re making me do math, luckily I am more Aspergery than you.  If you are in your early forties, married for 7 years, it means you got married in your mid-thirties. Hasn’t anyone ever told you about 35 year old women?  Some science journal and a Time cover has deemed it that their 35-year-old eggs are still considered reasonably farm fresh and it is a fast train to Barren City after that.  Fact. If they have baby fever, they will marry any thing with a front fly in order to reproduce.  Of course you boned like rabbits before the baby, she was trying to get pregnant.  Those 3 quickies you had after the baby was born were called mercy fucks to keep you in a holding pattern.  Good news:  Since it’s been 4 years since your last encounter, your sperm donor duties are probably not in demand.  Let go of the rope, bro!  And get ye to the nearest oyster bar!

I hope I am not being too harsh but I’ve seen it this before, time and again. People are just taking to long to procreate because they have careers and such that they need to nurture first, that’s why you are chosen over the hot bartender she used to bone in college and probably should have had his baby in the first place because his masculine badassness was probably better for evolution and the sake of humanity in the long run. Swing that desparate rope in any direction and it will inevitably land on the head of the nearest dumbass whose dick is pointing due north. And yet! still a better love story than Twilight.

I’m still obsessing over Liz and Dick. They had the sense not to procreate. Here’s a classic scene from Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolf:

Sh*t On A Wet Tar Roof


This post is segued by the sad passing of Elizabeth Taylor this morning.  She was a true Hollywood legend and humanitarian and although her heyday was when I was a tot, I do remember the first time she came into my awareness.  One day she appeared on the Mike Douglas Show which I used to love even as a child.  He was on in the morning and later, Merv Griffin would come on in the afternoon.   I thought Mike put on a wig and became Merv, then put on another wig and became Phil Donahue!  Ah, the stupidity of youth.  Anyway, Elizabeth Taylor was on the Mike Douglas Show and my mother told me who she was:  She was Cleopatra, don’t you remember seeing that in a drive in?  No (it turned out I was an infant rolling around the back of the station wagon).  She is married to Richard Burton and he gave her a giant Krupp diamond!  Who, what?  She has violet eyes!  She is wearing purple eye shadow!  Her eyes are blue!  Don’t mess with me, Mom, I have 64 Crayola crayons, I know what violet looks like!  As a youngster, I may have thought Mike, Merv, and Phil were the same man, but I was not buying into hype of Elizabeth Taylor.  It turned out, she was an acquired taste for me.  It wasn’t until I was a full-fledged adult did I start to appreciate all her shenanigans:  her tragic widowhood from Mike Todd, her husband stealing that weasel Eddie Fisher, marrying Richard Burton  twice!  That is hot.  Her movies with him were the best, especially Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf.  They say there wasn’t much of a stretch between George and Martha’s boozy volatile relationship to the real life Dick and Liz.  That film, to me, was not just hot but the ultimate in romance.  I like things high strung.

Speaking of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (ok, whatevs, it’s another iconic Elizabeth Taylor movie), I have been moaning for the past couple of weeks about my leaky third floor roof.  Unfortunately, it is a flat roof with a wooden deck on it.  The deck must come down before a roofer can even assess the situation.  Who better for the job than my buddy Bob?  Which brings me back to Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton.  Bob and I, although strictly platonic, have that kind of George/Martha relationship…to a degree of course. Since 1999, we have had some major ups and downs.  We’ve done all kinds of things, had adventures and misadventures, taken road trips, drank beers galore, cottaged (that story remains sealed in a vault) and had a few fights and falling outs where we didn’t speak for as much as a year.  Currently he has a girlfriend, the kind that keeps him on a short leash and sneakily sews in a GPS system in the seam of his briefs (which ha! ha! is why he goes commando).  Anyway yesterday Bob came over to dismantle the third floor deck and I was his helper.  It was a pretty big job, and back-breaking especially for him because he was doing most of the work.  His girlfriend texted him a few thousand annoying times and at one point when I was sweeping the sludge debris into a pile, he barked at me and said I was doing it stupidly with one hand when I should be using two and he called me by her name!  Oh how I laughed, he thinks I am his girlfriend when I am doing something boneheaded.  I ended up picking the gross sludge up with my bare hands and dumping it into 5 big plastic garbage bags.  And then I remembered the raccoon that took over that deck one summer and slept in its own fecal matter all day, barricading the door so we couldn’t open it.  Probably all that sludge was actual shit!  Panic ensued, just like the time I visited a co-worker and went into his bathroom and accidentally touched his butt plug which was sitting right there on the counter, I ended up washing my hands countless times for days(weeks)  afterwards.  Raccoon shit is poison, but another person’s butt plug residue is just unspeakably disgusting.  Oddly, I found the idea of the raccoon shit far less disturbing so I finished up, washed my hands once, and got us a bottle of wine at the liquor store and we had a pleasant and civilized after-work drink and he went on his way.  Leaving a pile of wood in the backyard.  Not quite a heap of diamonds but that’s the kind of lady I am.  And to that I say, farewell sweet Liz, may you fool the angels with your violet eyes!