A retrospect on greatness

Greatness. It is not a word that is used lightly in our culture. It is, above all, held in the highest of esteem, perched above the teeming masses, waiting for a recipient worthy of its definition. For the term greatness is reserved for just that: those who cannot be duplicated, feats of human endurance and bravery that cannot be matched, discoveries throughout the universe that have changed the way mankind understands and approaches this world and the next and now, finally, thanks to the incredible burden of one horrifically attractive woman, the term greatness has arrived at the feet of the art of cinematic clairvoyance.

Some men are lucky enough to bask in the shadow of greatness. And after my interview yesterday, I can proudly announce to you, to the world, that I am now one of these lucky, basking men, having only one woman to thank for my fortune, the deliciously gorgeous Madame Beignet de la Mort.

Her story is one of legend. Born to a father with an unnatural love of French pastries and to a mother who sold broken radio transistors to Turkish immigrants at the flea market on Sundays, little Beignet dreamed of greatness from underneath the cellophane halo of her small village’s cinema until her dreams became too big for that one small village to hold.

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After a stint as Miss Belgium, the first runner-up in the Miss Universe pageant, Mademoiselle Beignet de la Mort followed her first dream, which had been wedged in her determined mind since the tender age of seven: to become the most attractive and competent cinematic clairvoyant this side of Moscow. And yet, even her own fledgling sense of greatness has surpassed her wildest dreams, for there is no more competent or beautiful movie psychic in Moscow, Leningrad, or Siberia for that matter; no one can rival her utter talent or physical perfection.

Though she has been predicting the ends of Hollywood movies since the mid 40’s, she doesn’t look a day over a toned 35, concealing an ass you could bounce a quarter off of underneath her modest Gypsy drape. Only one can guess how she maintains such beauty, for she will not discuss her age, her weight or her net worth. I learned this firsthand when arriving for my interview and she cooed from her balcony, “Stay the hell out of my villa!”

So we met the next day at an undisclosed fish hatchery on the northern most inlet of the Rein River to both bask in her glory.

As many know, the holiday season is once again upon us and, this year, in her benevolent wisdom and earth-shattering beauty, the world’s foremost cinematic clairvoyant has decided to give us all a special gift: the gift of her own greatest holiday movie predictions.


“The holidays have always given me an itch,” Madame de la Mort offered up through a cloud of pungent cigarette smoke, “so with the exception of 1982, I usually take a lover before I make my holiday movie predictions to – how do you say? – let off some steam.”

She gestured with her cigarette over to the corner where two young men, each not a day older than 26, sat patiently in the corner next to the open pools of roe, each with the bored expression of an underwear model etched into their chiseled faces. She lowered her dark sunglasses, exposing her dreamy eyes, before saying, “I have had many lovers, eight husbands, and each of their twin brothers,” nodding again towards the seated models.

“Although this year’s holiday fare seems a bit stale,” she continued, “It didn’t seem like any reason to break up the party. Which reminds me of that time in 1946, when I was living in a chateau in Tahiti with three native boys and a grumpy Marlon Brando. We had been up for three days drinking champagne in the sun, when suddenly I had an awesome vision of the Jimmy Stewart classic, although at that time it was considered far from classic, but I had a vision of “It’s a Wonderful Life.”

“It was like the cosmos opened up and I heard a little girl, um, saying something about “angels,” “wings,” and “her teacher,” so I had Brando take dictation, and I knew, je suis absolument, that it would become a hit. A family man proving that his little existence was worth something. Nothing like my existence of course, but Americans eat that merde up with a spoon, no? Oohh, Norman Rockwell, tr퀌�s chic!

At first, people claimed that I was wrong because the film was a gigantic flop, but I held to my guns and all that I knew was beautiful and right: namely, me. And here we are almost 60 years later, and tell me that Americans still don’t eat that merde up with a spoon! In short, I am totally psychic and gorgeous.”

“It was the same old thing again the next year in ’47 with ‘Miracle on 34th St.'” Oh please, an old man claiming to be Santa Claus gets put into an institution for being crazy, le loon. Um, yes, I am sure this film is going to end with the nice old Santa Claus with the tubby belly getting electroshock therapy.

I will tell you a little secret, though. For this one, I didn’t even have to consult the cosmos. Oui. Eat your heart out, Jeanne Dixon. I just looked into my bedroom mirror, bit my bountiful lip, and assumed that of course they would let Santa Claus out to spread the Christmas spirit and that.

A funny story, though, is that my husband at the time, (my third), we had been married three months earlier. Fifteen years later, after an earlier glandular problem had developed when I had left him, he had claimed to be St. Nicholaus and actually was committed to a mental hospital in upstate New York, where electroshock therapy was all the rage, as they say. If that is not a testament to my overall greatness than I don’t know – no, that is a testament to my greatness; we’ll just leave it at that, no?”

It was at that point that the interview had obviously taken a great toll on the beautiful Madame de la Mort, for she proclaimed, “I have a headache now. Leave me!”

The next day, we reconvened in a small caf퀌�, where Madame Beignet was accompanied by the other set of the interchangeable twins. After they were seated, she ordered the boys some salads, adding, “None of my boys are allowed to eat carbohydrates.”

“Oh, ‘A Christmas Story’ that was yet another milestone on my private highway to the greatest greatness of all time,” she began. “I think that totally accurate and competent prediction actually made me more physically beautiful as well, and if it didn’t, the packages and packages of face cream that I received from my true believers certainly helped. Thank you all, I love you out there.”

We were interrupted momentarily when one of the twins tried to sneak a piece of bread off of the table and had to be disciplined by that gorgeous incarnation of pure beauty.

“It was 1983, and I had just come out of a period of celibacy that I used to hone my psychic powers to the universe. I guess I could explain it in layman’s terms as a – how do you say? – a psychic tune-up, no? You Americans and your cars … Anyway, after the all of the group sex during the seventies (and what a fun time that was) what America really needed was a ‘Tribute to the Original, Traditional, One-Hundred-Percent, Red-Blooded, Two-Fisted, All-American Christmas,'” something that was good fun for the whole family, something that revolved around a gun. And ‘A Christmas Story’ was just that.”

“Also at that time in American history, a certain unspeakable attractive movie psychic was still making the greatest predictions to ever grace the art of cinematic clairvoyance, and yet becoming more beautiful and in tune with the cosmos every day. My accurate prediction of the ending of ‘A Christmas Story’ is only another perfect example of my undeniable greatness that has never been and will never be matched! He will not shoot his eye out! It will be nothing but a little nick and cut! Great! I am great! The greatest! Ever! Most attractive! Totally and undeniable accurate!”

And it was at this point that my tape recorder turned off. What brilliance she was going to speak to us next will never be known, for true greatness cannot be captured on a 90-minute Maxell cassette tape. As a journalist, it was my pleasure – no, my greatest honor – to be able to spend but a speck in time with lovely Madame Beignet de la Mort. It was truly something that I will never forget.

Madame Beignet de la Mort: the physical embodiment of pure greatness.