With months of quixotic hope that the writers strike would spare us the annual ritual of narcissistic hogwash that is the Academy Awards summarily crushed, the moment is all the more painful to a self-hating iconoclast (like me).
Thankfully, the TV is clear across the room, and it’s a rather large room, so Jon Stewart’s I’m-so-dangerous-but-no-I’m-really-one-of-you performance has little power to inflame my already dissolute-unabomber-on-cheap-white-wine sensibilities.
All I can think is: Stephen Colbert will never host the Oscars. Sure, he’d accept, but he’ll never get the invitation. Fucker’s got that sublime White House correspondent’s dinner speech on his résumé. He’s persona non grata to the self-congratulatory, pseudo-left-wing mafia that is the Hollywood power elite.
God bless him for that.
As for predictions, I’ll take the Celtics over the Lakers in seven.
As for the Oscars, I’ve been too lazy to get to any movie house in the past year, though Juno and Into the Wild already hold spots of honor in my esteemed Netflix queue. And ever since I found out that some people called Three 6 Mafia won an Academy Award for something called “It’s Hard Out Here for a Pimp,” well, I just have trouble giving a shit.
I’m sure the song was everything I can’t imagine it ever could be, but I know a group of newspaper copy editors once had great fun at an awards banquet with a parody called “It’s Hard Out Here on the Rim.” If those pint-sized hacks knew enough to spoof the song, how could I ever take it seriously, should I ever give it a fair hearing? Thankfully, fair hearings are anathema to the blogger culture.
(By the way, the “rim” is the abstract land copy editors inhabit when they’re at work. I’m not sure about the derivation, perhaps Ruth Etters could elucidate, but when copy editors “edit” a story and give it a headline, they don’t “edit” the story, they “rim” it. Don’t ask me. It sounds vaguely perverse.)
God, this post is worse than the fucking Academy Awards.