Note to Oscar or whoever runs the show:

Dear Oscar,

You and I have a less-than-storied history – usually every year I skip your pomp and ceremony, electing instead to catch up on activities such as sharpening the kitchen knives, pulling hair out of the bathtub drain, and sorting black and white porno classics in to wankategories since there’s absolutely nothing else on TV that evening.

This year was different, Sir Oscar, I sat through your entire show (interrupted only by forays to the the apartment building’s laundry room to steal old ladies’ lingerie wash my clothes for the week).  I learned many things this year during the Oscars – for example, I had no idea Jeff Bridges really is The Dude.

If anyone now asked of me, “Who in Hollywood would you most like to sit around, smoke a bong, and discuss the changing tide of East Asian economics with?” I would now wholeheartedly conclude ‘Sandra Bullock’.  Hah, I bet you thought I’d say Jeff Bridges, hey?  I could go either way, it depends on the pot, I suppose – if it was the make-you-talky kind I’d go with Bridges because I’d imagine he would work really well with some feedback that I would provide, but if it was the make-you-shutty-uppy kind I’d probably sit quietly and let Bullock talk endlessly about bowhunting or football or Keanu Reeves or dragon-themed motorcycles or whatever she does when she’s not making bad movies.

(Just kidding, I haven’t smoked pot in like 70 years.  I’m hardcore Christian or Muslim or conservative or something now.)

Yes dearest Oscar, I hung in there through your 16 hour marathon show last night.  What’s that?  It was only three hours?  Oh, well then, it sure seemed like 16 hours, no doubt due in part to the endless montage to dead movie-type-people halfway through the show.  Did you know Ron Silver died this year?  I know, neither did I!  I thought that he was actually Andy Garcia until just now, and last night when I realized Andy Garcia died (same guy, right?), I cried a little on the inside thinking “Who on earth is going to bang Julia Roberts now?”, not knowing at that moment that Andy Garcia only PRETEND-boned Julia Roberts and that was only once in Ocean’s Eleven like a decade ago.  So I was wrong on a whole trainload of items there, and probably no one at all is banging Julia Roberts these days, I guess.

I digress, dear Oscar ____ .  (What the hell is your last name anyways?  De La Rental?  De La Hoyota?)  The whole thing that was most important for me to bring up this morning is that for the sake of the last people on stage in the evening -the best picture winners, unquestionably the most important award of the evening unless you are James Cameron and today is not the day after yesterday – you need to cut it out with the interpretive dance shit in the show.  The time wasted on watching a bunch of twats do a floor-sweeping interpretive dance about Avatar is another five whole minutes Katherine Bigelow coulda stood on the stage at the end, looking as fantastic as she did, and rubbing James Cameron’s face in the whole ex-on-top-of-the-world thing.  Man that made my night.

Can you imagine James Cameron going home early this morning and smashing shit in anger?  Maybe expending the hatred in the wee hours this morning by writing an angry screenplay about dolphins fucking with robotic dildos or submerged alien vibrator artifacts or something stupid like that?

I can.  I revel in it.

Because I’m evil.

Regards,

Me