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Killer comedy tour
Ricky Gervais is going on the road. His Mortality tour happening now in the UK, into 2025, and through wherever you can spell. Celebs already have their bookers on speed dial.
Of the tour name he says: “We’re all going to die, may as well have a laugh about it.” Whatever’s funny about that, not sure.
No dying onstage he hopes. He’s working clubs now to polish punchlines.
Politics play wrong notes
“The Ghost of John McCain” producers want a do-over. Better they need a slam over.
The slop’s co-conceived with the late Grant Woods, McCain’s onetime chief of staff.
They say: “Our comedy reflects McCain’s love of satire. He’d be amused — though it gets outrageous.
“Woods eulogized McCain. Never to besmirch. Only to honor him. Meghan McCain’s comments on our new musical leave us wondering, how do you evaluate a show without seeing it first?
“Comedy bridges divides, fosters understanding, changes hearts and minds. Our absurd uproarious exploration of power, rivalry, and the human condition point to leadership and democracy. What we need during this election cycle from hell.
“Opening’s Tuesday, Sept. 24, Soho Playhouse. We welcome your feedback. This art form’s a wonderful way to celebrate a life well-lived and political system at an extraordinary point.”
Jason Rose and Lynn Londen don’t yet know garbage needs not to be seen. Just smelled.
Facial felonies
If a female’s in the can — say, Ghislaine Maxwell, who’s rooming there — it’s minus hairdressers, electrologists, podiatrists, dentists, maids, facialists, trainers, manicurists, lovers, boob lifts, ass lifts, Spanx, treatments, no rouge, masseuse, things that help make an aging female look like a perennial 42.
Wardrobe? Not Chanel. Mass-produced. Magnifying mirror. Uh-uh. Fie on a tweezer. Circuses once advertised bearded women. Now I know why.
How much can you hack off a chin by squeezing a bobby pin together. It’s either braid your lower lip or do your 5 to 10 looking like Santa. Forget eyelashes. Last pedicure was at age 11.
No assistant? Driver? High thread-count sheets? Evian? Scented soap? Please. I mean, how’s a Ghislaine survive?
Party crasher
1948. “Dixiecrats” nominated South Carolina Sen. Strom Thurmond for president. Liberals, Henry A. Wallace. Incumbent Truman’s approval plummeted to 32% — lowest of any president ever. Previous election, Dems had lost House and Senate.
Senate leader Alben Barkley, congressman 40 years, first to charter a plane for 250 speeches, became Truman’s veep.
Years later, back in Kentucky, Barkley won against GOP Sen. John Sherman Cooper.
As a not-new-but-freshman senator, he chose a back row seat, telling a crowd at Washington and Lee University — alma mater of New York’s onetime Chief Judge Sol Wachtler — he’d “rather be a servant in the House of the Lord than to sit in the seat of the mighty.”
That was April 30, 1956, and the veep died at the podium.
But, listen, the good news is: RFK, now endorsing Trump, can always contribute the funds he collected — to Donald. At worst, even to a dead bear.
So this p.r.-crazed lady who’s only big in newspaper photos was asked about her new p.r. person. “Great,” she said. “Already my house caught fire, I’ve been robbed twice, had an auto accident, three suicide notes from prospective husbands and now I’m threatened by robbers. He’s great!”
Only in LA, kids, only in LA.