……..pile of shit television awards show known to man. Are those people serious? Yes they are, because they get their pompous panties in a ruffle every time an unserious person like Seth McFarlane points out what smug, self-important fart quaffers they all are. You make fucking movies, for the sole purpose of entertaining people so they can tune out of life for 2 hours. You do not cure cancer. You do not solve world problems. You don’t broker peace deals. You don’t even deliver pizza. We’re acutely aware that the world is such that you are paid preposterous sums of money for your work and congratulations on hitting that lottery. It doesn’t make you important. It makes you visible. And for some reason it makes you interesting to most, to the point they tune in in droves to watch you collectively shit from the mouth and congratulate each other for one night each year like you all just saved the universe from AIDS, asteroids, the Dark Side, conservatives and Christians. You did no such thing–rather you made a movie about a boy and a wild tiger in a hurricane. Whoopty fucking doo. I love movies, and I especially love great movies. But I don’t give a shit about you, what dress some other pompous bitch made for you to walk across the mythical Red Carpet on, or anything you have to say about how important Steven Spielberg is to the salvation and continuance of the human race. What amazes is how bent out of shape these oblivious assholes become when someone like Seth McFarlane calls them out for their pretentious grandiosity. Everyone is suddenly stern, deadly serious, and downright offended as he sings a really funny tune which lists numerous current and attending actresses who have shown their boobs in movies. It was absolutely hilarious. Yet there they sit trying to glare Seth to death, despite the fact that you SHOWED YOUR FUCKING TITS IN A MOVIE. It happened. The director asked, you said “yes”. Your tits. Seen. By millions. Lay in the bed you made, get past your overblown sense of self-worth, and fucking laugh you twit. Take Clooney’s lead. Sure, he’s got smug covered from all angles himself, but when Seth McFarlane tosses him an airplane bottle of booze because everyone knows he parties, he doesn’t even laugh and sets straight to opening the sauce.
On and on we listen to one congratulatory speech after another from either a beautiful person who hit the lotto or an uber-creepy Jewish guy with long wispy gray hair who looks like some high school kids dressed up a vagrant in a tuxedo as some sort of prank. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Before anyone says “why didn’t you just turn the TV off then, asshole?”, they need to remember how TV viewing choices work in a household. You can watch what your wife wants to watch, or you can watch what you want to watch and be miserable. There are no other choices in the known universe when you are a man with a spouse or significant other. So you sit and watch The Fucking Oscars and you seethe in your chair and wonder about why if God is a kind, loving God, he would create a universe where drivel on this level is celebrated as though somehow regal. And even deeper, on a primal level, you want to know–no, you NEED to know–what in the mcmutherfuck has Leonardo DiCaprio done to these asshats that he is roundly rejected each and every year despite being one of the best to have ever lived at this profession. Not to mention being devilishly goddamned handsome. Why??? Have you ever seen “What’s Eating Gilbert Grape”? Let me see someone, anyone else, sell retarded better than he did. The only conclusion I can draw is that he has nailed the wife or girlfriend of every A-List member of Hollywood brass and they pull strings to keep him off the winner’s stand. A travesty. But I expect nothing less from garbage of this magnitude. Just keep farting Hollywood, you know we’ll all be inhaling deeply.