FEUD: CRAWFORD Did Porn! Says “MAYBE I DID IT FOR A LITTLE EXTRA PUBLICITY.”

Memo to John Waters Dearest: I Could’ve Been Divine
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Illustration credit: Gyspy Star Productions

JOAN CRAWFORD from the Novel Mommie Smearest Disses FEUD ep.6: Part 7 of a Parody Series

So now FARCE FEUD thinks it’s g·dd·mned investigative FAKE NEWS 60 Minutes outing me as a porn star who later buys up her negatives. This is old fake news, and the only long, hard thing Joan Crawford’s velvety lips were ever wrapped around on any film that FEUD can find, was a Pepsi bottle. Sex sells.

Mommie Smearest, book review, L LeSueur

Available on Amazon

I did thank Christ that TaB was a Coke product. I don’t care how much gag-reflex you Kinkster fellas brag about not having, TaB will gag you.

To prove its “when-Crawford’s-broke-she-does-porn-or-slasher-movies” theme and make me look poor, FEUD still sends me rattling around 1964 Hollywood in that g·dd·mned ’59 Coupe de Dinosaur long after tail fins were extinct. The beast smokes more than Davis, so I keep an extra quart of lube—I mean oil—behind the seat.

If FEUD was smart—not just hapless Get Smart—it would’ve uncovered my TV-Petticoat Junction audition with my skinny-dipping-in-the-water-tank drunken seduction scene with the hunky boyfriend of my character’s daughter.

I bought up that raw film on the set the day it was shot. I had the money from Strait-Jacket which included my drunken seduction scene with the hunky boyfriend of my character’s daughter. Another recurring theme. Whatever.

Plus I had windfall savings due to my brother helpfully dying instead of blackmailing billing me for that other actual alleged f·ck film, the one FEUD thinks it knows about.

In Petticoat, you can’t tell it’s me, because all you see is me a movie star holding her cigarette above the waterline with the rest of the movie star busy below deck while the hunk’s eyes roll back in his head which is resting against a pair of pink-silk JC-monogrammed panties hanging on the tank next to his overalls.

FEUD’s porn storyline is a weak attempt to question both my morality and my finances. I think they’re just dissing my boyfriend, the Christian-rap-thug-porn-star R.E.L.E.N.†.L.E.S.S.B.B.C. from my fake autobiography Mommie Smearest: See Joan Crawford In Bitch Selfie Ain’t Make You No Movie Star.

Or maybe FEUD is trying to distract from the show being too lazy or too broke itself to update our rides: Bette’s still rolling her ’58 Impala ashtray convertible, and Bob Aldrich is (was) still hauling Harriet to dinner in the same goddamned ’55 Chevy Nomad.

Cars are proxy for sex: No wonder Bob went soft and Harriet left him—riding the same salt-peter station wagon for nine years would drain the sex from any couple. Baby Jane was wildly successful but FEUD doesn’t think any of us made enough to buy a goddamned flashy Buick Wildcat to help keep marriages intact.

Let’s turn from FEUD’s sexless cars to its limp performances. Jessica. Jessica Lange Dearest: WHY CAN’T YOU GIVE ME THE RESPECT THAT I’M ENTITLED TO AND STOP PORTRAYING ME AS A FRAGILE CAVED-IN HAS-BEEN? Faye Dunaway brought more jagged edge to my bedroom rehearsals for Mildred Pierce than you did to my on-screen axe-murderess in Strait-Jacket with a full cast and crew at your disposal.

Memo to screen-legend John Waters Dearest: FEUD cast you as screen-legend William Castle introducing screen-legend Joan Crawford—so please hear my pitch, because my big regret is that I died too early to become one of your Hollywood retreads. Like one of your Tab Hunters or your Kathleen Turners or your Suzanne Somerses.

My good friend Divine here in Hollywood Heaven says you would’ve cast me with her in Female Trouble (sort of a post-modern The Women) if you’d thought you could afford me. (What do you mean, “How did Divine get into Heaven!?” The same f·cking way I got here: by keeping her teeth out of the way with the guard at the gate, that’s how.)

Here’s my plea, John: I know you only film your own stuff, but I want you to film Mommie Smearest. I’ll take it away from Disney, who’s been BEGGING—BEGGING ME…FOR A GOOD SCRIPT. And I want you to cast Mink Stole as me. I wanted Mink to play Jennifer Aniston, but Mink’s good and can do both—that second role is not demanding. She could do Julia Roberts at the same time.

Back to FEUD. Mamacita is the toughest of us all. She brooks no bullsh·t or flying objects from me or anybody else. When Hedda Hopper called, Mamacita hard-blocked her with me packing for my trip to Albuquerque, but slippery Hedda ran an end-play (“Is she crossing the desert on foot?”) up the stairs to accuse me of wrapping my lips around something hard for money on film. Which is true.

I’M REFERRING AGAIN TO A PEPSI BOTTLE, A··HOLE.

One hot afternoon somewhere in the Arizona desert after I’d christened a Pepsi bottling plant, Mamacita was driving me back to Los Angeles for a Strait-Jacket promo, and she stopped at a remote gas station called Luis’s Sinclair so I could use the ladies’ room to wriggle into my slimming latex bodysuit and get the axe out of the trunk.

That afternoon’s panties were left stuffed into the Sinclair bathroom wastebasket, because Luis’s oily handprints were never coming out of that pink silk. Mamacita wasn’t new to working for me, and she knew to keep the Cadillac running and stay in it until I came out front and ran-jumped-skipped barefoot across the hot asphalt yelling “F·CK! F·CK! F·CK!” trying to not burn my feet since I was carrying my heels and dress and drink and cigarette.

I was wearing Luis’s shirt which, having never seen a flesh-toned bodysuit before, he gallantly handed to me as a cover-up as I stood making my selection from his Coke machine (it’s not a typo—nobody was watching that day in the desert) when he brought my underpants out after finding them on the bathroom floor.

My early years of being poor taught me that one should be flexible, cooperative, and agreeable, when opportunity presents itself—like the chance for one to wash up (or something) in a Sinclair bathroom.

Or the chance for one to make films with independent production companies when asked, knowing one could buy up copies later from one’s brother after one became a big movie star with discretionary income.

Or that one’s brother might die and save one the hush money. If one had a rough childhood where sex and money were considered just different forms of currency, one might be tough enough to play those odds.

We weren’t all born Katharine F·cking Hepburn into a supportive wealthy family with the option from birth to pick and choose our roles in life with Hollywood film-making a part-time hobby yielding FOUR Oscars—Davis.

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BACKSTORY on Kinkster MAG Contributor JOAN CRAWFORD’s FEUD Reviews

In keeping with Kinkster MAG’s objective of reinventing intellect and culture with thoughtful and unapologetic articles and original celebrity interviews for gay men with an edge, we asked Joan Crawford to review FEUD: Bette and Joan. Our Joan is from the searing novel lampooning reality-culture Mommie Smearest: See Joan Crawford In Bitch Selfie Ain’t Make You No Movie Star, with the outrageous-parody voice of Miss Crawford from the cult film Mommie Dearest. Read all of Joan’s FEUD parodies here. Read Kinkster MAG’s review of Mommie Smearest here.

 

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Style of Living

The author of the top-selling book, ‘Mommie Smearest’ isn’t happy Joan was not asked for approval to develop the FX Series FEUD: Bette & Joan. Mommie is back to dish about the series and give us the “alternative-facts.”

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