Archive for August, 2014


Monday, August 18th, 2014

Dear Russell Brand,

I know.  You think I am dead.  There was a big controversy about my “alleged” anti-Semitism a few years ago but, when I died earlier last year, the media, kind of sort of “forgot” how, for decades, I kind of sort of forgot I was actually Lebanese and hid that fact by selecting the very American and vanilla surname, “Thomas,” which I concealed for the more than the six decades I worked as a reporter covering the White House.  I chose “Thomas” because another very famous Lebanese person also chose the surname, (Danny Thomas)


and I figured why not ride his coat-tails?  No one seemed upset by Danny Thomas.  Oh darn – that’s right – he started St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital, was a very funny comedian and a kind, charitable man.  That’s probably why.  Not fair!  Also not fair that, just because I yelled, “Let the Jews go back to Germany,” the Hearst Corporation forced me to resign.  Why is it that bad things happen to good people like me?

But enough about me – I’m dead.  What’s that?  Applause from Tel Aviv?  It’s hard to hear under all this dirt.  When I was alive, I was the woman who sat in the first row at White House press conferences because I’m petite.  Okay 0– the size of a Gummy Bear.

In fact, the press corps voted me “In Case of Re-Make-of-Wizard-of-Oz-Most-Likely-to-Be-Cast-as-Entire-Lollipop-Guild,” the reporter from NPR called me “Dweeble” and one of the Fox News cameramen said I resembled the innermost of those Russian-dolls-within-a-doll-within-doll – you get the picture.  People can be so cruel.  Even dead people like me.  Rusell, you look like the love child of a filthy, matted-hair, anorexic evil pirate who mated with Tiny Tim.


But, I digress…

I’m writing to applaud you for your recent call to BDS (Boycott, Divest, Sanction)  Israel.   I always thought it stood for “Burn, Dissect and Sautee.”  But I guess the “moderates” like you are taken more seriously.  I know there are more celebrities out there who feel just like us, like that mensch, Mel Gibson. But most of them keep quiet.  I did hear that Selena Gomez is on board with us, but she’s just a former Disney starlet who’s dated Justin Beiber, so she doesn’t really count.  Speaking of Justin Beiber, I heard that after he toured the house in Amsterdam where Anne Frank and her family supposedly hid during that supposed Holocaust that we both know never happened, he wrote in the guestbook, “Anne Frank would have been a Belieber.”  That gives us both some indication that, if Selena Gomez had half a brain, she’d  still be missing the other half, so being on our side isn’t exactly a plus for you and me.


And then there’s that freakish, hideous Roger Waters of that band Pink Floyd, whose brain was probably host to more drugs than the Merck Pharmaceutical Company.

He’s one of us.   Though I cannot say with certainty that he dabbled in psychadelic drugs in the sixties and seventies, he seems to suffer from severe delusions.  Though he continues to stress that he is not “anti-Jewish,”  he claims that he is “not anti-Semitic and has also said, “or pro-Nazi.” “The Star of David represents Israel and its policies and is legitimately subject to any and all forms of non violent protest.” But, you and I know he wasn’t referring to Israel or the Jews.  We know there were no Nazis and no Holocaust, which is why, for the life of me, I don’t understand why those Jews don’t just move back to Germany, which they should never have left in the first place, right, Russell?

And yet, Mr. Brand,  unfunny comedian, hack writer, skinnier-than-a-pipe-cleaner, wonky wanker that you are, I’m not too confident that, now that I’m as dead as the Dead Sea, you’re quite the one to take my place as “Jew Hater Extraordinaire.”  As I lie here, literally, I think about how you managed to forever destroy everyone’s memory of the 1981 film “Arthur,” because now when we hear that title, instead of thinking of the late and brilliant Dudley Moore, we think of you and, truth be told you did to that script what the Allies did to Dresden during World War II.  Those poor alleged Nazis – all they were trying to do was cleanse the world of Jews.  I guess no good deed goes unpunished…


It is also rumored that you dabbled in drugs to the degree that Picasso dabbled in oil paints, and this does worry me.  But then there are things you’ve done that are quite encouraging.  For example, the fact that you came to work dressed as Osama bin Laden the day after September 11, 2001, gives me hope.

And mentioning clothing designer Hugo Boss, responsible for all of those lovely Nazi uniforms, including those adorable Hitler Youth boys, during a magazine awards show last year – priceless, just priceless!   Kudos on your divorce from that Katy Perry girl – clearly she was not your soul mate.  There are so many other fish in the sea.  I believe Yassar Arafat’s widow is still single and looking and that Hanan Ashrawi could always be looking for something on the side – who knows?


But do you think you can a responsible anti-Zionist, ( secret code for “anti-Semite” we must use because otherwise even the Upper West Side liberal Jews get insulted and stop funding our causes), when you continue to smoke weed and shoot smack into those skinny little veins of yours?  I saw that portrait of you where you try to look like Che Guevera.

You must have been higher than a cable TV satellite to do that.   You, as leader of your desired revolution will be sitting on a chair, trying to stay upright as your head nods up and down and you’re conscious only long enough to hunt for a Cadbury chocolate bar.  One journalist actually called you “one who’s more idiot than savant,”  which brings to mind just one question: “Who are you going to lead, Russell Brand — The Betty Ford Clinic?”

Perhaps one has to be hideous-looking to be an anti-Semite.  Or perhaps most anti-Semites are physically unattractive.  It’s a kosher chicken-and-egg conundrum. But I think of you, me, Stephen Hawking, John Galliano, Coco Channel, (good dresser but a skinny meis kite and actual Nazi), Truman Capote, Pat Buchanan, Louis Farrakant, George Bernard Shaw, Henry Ford, John Stewart, one of those fabulous self-loathing Jews, who, like me, is the size of those Fisher-Price Little People.

I’ve also heard from sources I will protect, (because I can’t talk because I’m dead), that that silly ISIS group in Iraq is giving Christians the option of converting to Islam or moving or dying.  Three options.  That’s more than the Chinese restaurants when they offer “one from Column A, one from Column B.”  But once they off all of the annoying Jews, they’ll be coming for you and all of the other non-Muslims in the world.

I’m dead so I’m not so worried.  But you better start thinking now about how to blame the Jewish people for that.  I know they’re to blame for the sinking of the Titanic, the Bubonic Plague, Hurricanes Katrina and Sandy, (as in “Sandra” as in “Jewish”), Mount St. Helen, aspertame, chafed thighs and the possible marital troubles of Beyonce and J.Z.

So, Russell, please – keep up the good work, stay off the smack if you can and, in case you’re wondering, like most living people whether there’s a heaven or you just lie in a box until the maggots eat you when you die, I can’t really answer that.  The only thing I know for sure is that it’s hot as hell down here.



Helen (I lied about my last name and nationality for 60+ years) Thomas






Saturday, August 2nd, 2014

In the winter you have your big parkas and long wool coats to cover up whatever atrocities you might be hiding underneath.  But, alas, in the summer, each summer, on the streets of New York, my eyes must be assaulted because Vogue or Harper’s Bazaar or Selena Gomez told you what to wear.   It really doesn’t matter to me whether you are a size-six nineteen year old who’d look good in a potato sack, (um – no, you wouldn’t…), or you’re a 55-year old who hasn’t gained a pound since she was married 30 years ago and has convinced herself she can still rock a mini-skirt and Doc Martens.  You haven’t convinced me or anyone else on the street pointing at you and laughing.


So what follows is this summer’s list of mistakes you’ve already made…



Not even an iota more attractive than a Spandex Maxi Pad.  We wore maxi dresses in the late sixties/seventies.  For the most part, these dresses were 100% cotton and even if they were tie-dye atrocities, at least we were really, really high when we bought and wore them.  Today, I am visually assaulted by Spandex maxi dresses in revolting colors like bright orange and royal blue.  Orange may be the new black, but that’s at Riker’s, not Hudson River Park.  And then there are the maxis in a variety of offending striped patterns.  Even if these assaults-on-fabric don’t make you look like you’ve draped the Big Top around you and sewn in some elastic, they flatter no one.  “Oh, here comes a zebra,” is not a thought I want to have walking down Lexington Avenue.  An Escher lithograph is meant to be hung on a wall, not worn out for cocktails.  Here’s another bummer for large-breasted women– terry cloth is not a support fabric.




Along with Nazis, Limburger cheese and Lederhosen, this is a German product worth putting back the Berlin Wall back for.  Why are you wearing these?  Is it the “they’re-so-ugly-they’re-good-looking” myth?  That’s why they’re called “myths.” One word for Birkenstocks. No.  Not “comfortable.”  “Repulsive.”  “No, Mollie – you’re wrong – they’re so comfortable, it’s like I’m not wearing shoes at all.”  That’s because you’re not.  And, there’s only person concerned with your comfort. That would be you.  I’m concerned with aesthetics when I walk down the street, and seeing shoes only Fred Flintstone could have pulled off is not a pretty sight.  I’m sure shoeboxes would be equally comfortable, as would aluminum loaf pans or swimmers’ kickboards.  They’re great for hiking?  Then fill up your canteen, spray on the OFF!, and get the hell out of Manhattan.  Now.



Please tell me that the thought of the entire “L” train seeing your leopard bra under your gauzy sheer peasant blouse doesn’t make you feel “powerful.”  Where does this “need-to-wear-see-through-clothing-outside-the-bedroom” come from?  I certainly hope it’s not a “Daddy” issue.  Ewwwww. “  Your skirt is sheer but not completely see-through.  What’s that about?  “I want to expose myself but I don’t”?  I’m a little bit whore-ish and a little bit coquettish?  This is the fashion equivalent of the nectarine, (thanks Mel Brooks), – a “little bit peach, a little bit plum.”   How many Dumkinis did you throw back before you thought, “Oh, a maxi skirt that’s sheer from mid-thigh down – now there’s a good look!”   If you want to wear a mini skirt, wear a mini skirt.  Why would you wear one with a “curtain”?  Is this a show?  Are you going to pull it away and a lady will be sawed in half?  Six orphans from “Annie” going to run out singing, “It’s a Hard-Knock Life”?  Don’t tell me you’re a Libra – mini or maxi skirt.  Make a decision.  This is a schmata, not a DNR directive.



Cheaper and more honest to wear sign that says, “My upper arms are too heavy for sleeveless tops.”  You’re not fooling anyone.  Makes a bolero jacket look like a bathrobe.



Pssssssst…. It’s 2014.  You can finally get some frames you actually like because the secret’s out.  We already know you’re a hipster, (which, contrary to what your self-righteousness-in-a-beanie brain tells you, is not exactly an incentive to want to get to know you),  by the SXSW admission bracelet you still haven’t taken off.  It’s covering up your red thread Kabala bracelet, by the way.  Black plastic frames do not make you cool.  Nor do they make you smart or witty, especially the ones with no glass in the frames.  The point is to be as prolific and brilliant as Woody Allen, not to look like him.   I promise you —  If Woody Allen could both master the pithy punch line and look like George Clooney, I’m pretty sure he’d opt for that.



Really?  (beat)  Really?  Because….because Kate Hudson wore one on a red carpet?  Because some drunk one-night stand told you, “Nice shoulders, babe.”?  It’s like complimenting you on your earlobes. You look like a five-piece board puzzle with two pieces missing.  Or like you have a second pair of ears.  I promise you – when you look back at a picture of yourself wearing one of these monstrosities ten years from now, you will deny being you.



This is the dress version of a mullet.  Business in the front and party in the back?  Nice message. Hope you still have the tags and the receipt.



What are you – four?  Whatever made you think you could pull this off?  “Well, Adrianna Lima wore one on the runway during Spring 2014 Fashion Week!”   Perhaps.  But Adrianna Lima could wear a ham-and-bean can on the runway, look great in it and get paid $100,000 for doing it.  Repeat after me.  “I am not Adrianna Lima.  I am not even a hand model, let alone a super model.  I look good in certain clothes and certain colors, as long as certain of my body parts are concealed and I’m not bloated or having a bad hair day.  I am not a fashion trendsetter.  I am a fashion trend follower and often a fashion victim.”   The “Lolita” look looked good on Lolita, and that’s only if you’re a deviant middle-aged man lusting after a twelve-year-old.

If you’re on a beach, I don’t care if you’ve rolled your body in Crustacean shells and salt-water taffy.  But in the middle of Manhattan?  Where the fuck are you romping to here?   Through the crowd of stinky, arrogant Brooklynites who won’t let you get on their crowded F train at West 4th Street?  Thanks to bike riders, pedestrian malls and Halal carts, there’s barely room to walk down the street in the city, let alone romp.  It’s not 1961 – you’re not at Brighton Beach with a bucket and shovel, waiting for the knish man to pass your blanket.  Take out the pigtails.  Wash off the Mercurochrome-and-Johnson’s Baby Oil suntan lotion.  Grow up and put some clothes on.



I know – they have been considered stylish for at least five years.  They’re like the herpes sore you thought was going to lie dormant.  But not only has it erupted – it’s grown exponentially.    Now, it’s not uncommon to see women wearing gladiator sandals that come up to their knees.  This is  visually offensive, even on women with great legs.  They look like the rope wall you have to climb in basic training, wrapped around your calves.  And, of course, because fashion is a choice, and you don’t need anyone’s permission to wear anything, I’ve seen too many chunky-legged women wearing these knee-high gladiators.    If anything is poking through the strips of leather, like, I don’t’ know – calf fat – there should be an internal neon sign in your head flashing, “FLIP-FLOPS!  FLIP-FLOPS!” “You might not mind the fact that your calves look like a trussed-up rump roast, think of the rest of us.  I have to hold myself back from running up to you and trying to pop each square of fat, as though your calves were human-flesh bubblewrap.



This blouse is fine under only two conditions – either you have one arm, or it started out as a two-sleeved blouse and somehow, one sleeve caught fire. Even then, I’d like to see something else on the other side – a hook, pincers, a clarinet, something.  Have you no idea what you look like as you’re walking toward me?  Would you wear pants with one side long and the other Daisy-Duked?  “Well, that’s how much you know, Mollie.  This was one of Olivia Palermo’s “Picks” on Piperlime!”  I’m guessing you’re over 18, I’m guessing you have the right to “reject” Olivia Palermo’s “Picks”.  Did she decide where you were vacationing this year?  Is she picking your breakfast cereal?  Your dish detergent?  While we’re on the subject, who the fuck is she?  I can’t distinguish her from Olivia Munn or Olivia Wilde or Olivia the Pig, for that matter.  I’m just guessing they’re all thinner than Olivia the Pig, which makes their opinions pretty important to you…