Grandma's Celebrity Gossip

Our California columnist shares post-election thoughts and an analysis of TV game show hosts. 

Grandma

About the election I’m not going to say a word. Except that Cher said if Donald Trump won, she was going to leave the planet. Well, Trump won, and she’s still here. Maybe she’s packing for the long trip. It’s going to take weeks to get her sequined schlock-house costume shmattes loaded onto her spaceship. 

Between you and me, she left the planet years ago when she told her first husband -- Sonny Bono, the short hairy mazik with the furry vest who was mayor of Palm Springs -- that Mount Rushmore was a natural phenomenon. With sense she’s loaded.

Trump I never liked, going back to his TV show, The Apprentice, where he fired has-beens off the island -- like Gary Busey, Geraldo Rivera, Amarosa, and Bethenny Frankel, the Real Housewife of New York who invented the skinny cocktail (not the New Jersey jailbird, Teresa Giudice.) Joan Rivers he never fired, and now it’s all over the place she cavorted with Bob Dylan, Tony Bennett, John F. Kennedy and Johnny Carson. 

Me? If I were to vote for a game show host for president it would be Alex Trebek. Not only is he smart like a mavin, but he has good hair -- not like Donald Trump, who looks like a krechtzing Mister Pumpkin Head topped with a swirl of whipped butter. 

My grandson Todd told me that Alex Trebek can’t be president; he’s Canadian. Maybe that’s why all these celebrities want to move there. Also because he’s such a looker, with or without the mustache. 

Art Fleming (the original Jeopardy host) was better looking than Gene Rayburn of the Match Game, but the Rayburn fellow, a shlemiel, was a regular dreamboat compared to Jack Bailey of Queen for a Day, who, with that Errol Flynn pencil mustache, looked like a used car salesman, or Dino DiNucci, a draykopf bookie who ran a numbers racket from our basement apartment years ago.

As for Hillary Clinton, enough already with the burtching. Fine she’ll do. She has enough of that Arab money to live like the Queen of Sheba for the rest of her life in Chappaquiddick (Chappaqua?), or wherever.

I’ve said enough already.