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So, Elizabeth Taylor’s dead, you might’ve heard! They planted her yesterday. Thank God that’s over.

There are a lot of tributes out there, praising her to the skies. What a fabulous broad, the Last Great Star, and all that guff. It takes a tremendous amount of willful forgetting to consider Elizabeth Taylor “fabulous” any time after 1966. Forty-odd years of aging Liz Taylor looking as purple and swollen as an overripe plum, with a face ever meaner and more imperious, doing terrible films, then terrible TV, wearing hideous bedazzled clothing, hung with rocklike jewels, dating George Hamilton, befriending Michael Jackson, carting around an unhousebroken Maltese dog named Sugar that reportedly shat everywhere, granting endless interviews with slavish interlocutors who’d ask her variations on the question, “What is it that makes you so eternally wonderful?”

She was always happy to answer that one in detail.


March 25th, 2011 | Comments (32)