Hello, fans!

First, I’d like to thank you from the bottom of my heart for all the flowers, cards, and scotch that you’ve sent over in recent weeks. Things are a bit unusual on this side of town — it’s like living on the set of Boom! — but all in all, everything’s fabulous. How could it not be?

Michael says “hi” by the way. And for the record, that doctor is guilty as fuck.

But on to important matters. I know that many of you are concerned about the upcoming movie of my life and its alleged “star”. Please don’t worry, I have it all under control. FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE. BWA HA HA.

(So, so sorry, I had to try that. The studios never let me play a ghost. Type-casting.)

Anyway, as I was saying: I don’t have anything against Lindsay Lohan personally. In fact, we have a lot in common. We were both child stars, we both went through rough patches, we both got fat (just wait), we both know the pain of being kicked while we were down, and our stage names both start with the letter “L”.

Also, we both love sex. In fact, I love sex so much, I thought that was why they titled the biopic Liz and Dick. Then I remembered. Poor Dick.

But that’s where my similarities with LiLo end. Because I am more than just the sum of my parts, and Lindsay is far, far less. Pudgy, leather-faced sex-drones are a dime a dozen in Hollywood, and of all the skanky, no-account, coochie-creepers plying their wares on Melrose, Lindsay is my least favorite.

Which is why I caused that car wreck.

Just so you know, though, I wasn’t trying to hurt her. I was trying to kill her.

Why, you ask? Because when it comes to box-office bombs, I rule the roost. No one could sink a ship as fast or furiously as I sunk Cleopatra. If the made-for-TV movie of my life is zooming toward Stinkoville, I want someone truly, outlandishly terrible in the driver’s seat — a grand, double-scoop of box office poison.

What’s Nicole Kidman doing these days?

Also: does anyone think that Lindsay looks the part? Compared to me in, say, A Place in the Sun, Lindsay Lohan’s face is like a milk-carton portrait left out in the rain, run over by a semi, and gnawed by squirrels. Very sick squirrels.

So, if Lindsay’s parents want to keep their drug-addled cash cow safe and sound and pooping out McMansions, they ought to call her home. Because if anyone knows how to crash a car, it’s me. Woe to the house of Lohan, bitches.

I send love and happiness to you all and remain,

Sincerely yours,
Elizabeth Taylor xoxo

P.S. NEXT TIME, SHE WILL NOT JUST BE NAPPING.