This Year No One Wins The Oscar

Some links before getting started today. Yesterday having had been a Friday, Parsnip had a Square Dog Friday post. The other day, Eve posted remarks she made at a presentation and book signing. Krisztina had a cake recipe. And Mark wrote about winter.

Now then, tomorrow happens to be the Oscars. I won't be watching them, but I've messed around with the concept annually, including last year's predictions. This year I thought I would do the same, with some off the wall predictions of how the night will go...

The ceremony, scheduled to start at 8:30 PM Eastern, is preceded by forty three hours of pre-coverage on various entertainment channels, with vacant looking entertainment reporters gazing at the cameras in their usual vacant way, blathering on and on about who's nominated, who's likely to throw a tantrum, and most important of all, who's wearing who.

Across the world, people actually tuning in early will ask themselves, "what does that mean, who's wearing who?"

Pat Robertson will issue an angry statement on The 700 Club, from his home in the heart of Mount Doom, blasting Hollywood for its liberal world view, ranting and roaring about having a lesbian host the ceremony last year and a gay man this year. "Friends," he'll say in that smarmy creepy old man way of his. "The only way we can stop them is if you mortgage your home and send the money to me so I can do the good work of filling my bank account. Wait, did I say that last part out loud?"

Melissa Rivers, taking up the slack what with her mother being dead, will be camped out in a deli five miles from the ceremony filing reports for a podcast. She'll be passive aggressively remarking on how if the Oscar committee had any respect for her mother, they would have named her as the host this year in her mother's stead. The cameraman will try to stifle the instinct to tell Melissa that Joan burned every bridge she ever had in Hollywood.

Leonardo DiCaprio will be stopped on the red carpet, and asked by a vacant looking entertainment reporter about this week's model on his arm and how he feels about never winning an Oscar. Leo will stifle his need to break down into tears.

The ceremony will get underway merely thirty seven minutes late this time. 

Neil Patrick Harris will come out on stage to open the show in a grand, festive showstopping musical number that will garner half raves and half Billy Crystal would have done better reactions on Twitter within seconds.

Jack Nicholson's corpse will be propped up in the front row, tuxedo on and sunglasses in place. After last year's events in which Jack died during the ceremony, it has been revealed that Jack was embalmed, with his final will and testament insisting that he be in attendance each year at the Oscars.

No one will be sitting anywhere near the corpse of Jack Nicholson.

At a hospital in South Dakota, a patient who's been in a coma since 1992 will wake up suddenly, and ask the nurses why Doogie Howser is hosting the Oscars.

Harris will remark in a cheerful way on the oddity of how so many straight women he meets, knowing he's gay, still say they'd love to have sex with him.

Hearing that remark while watching the Oscars at home, Rush Limbaugh will suffer a bad end when his head explodes.

John Travolta will show up on stage to list off some nominees, but not before apologizing once again for flubbing the name of "um... I can't remember her name now. Was it Adele Dazeem?"

Idina Menzel will unleash her minions of Frozen fans to rake John Travolta over the coals for getting her name wrong yet again.

Jennifer Lawrence will trip on the stage while presenting an Oscar with Hugh Jackman.

Sylvester Stallone will turn up at some point, and will remark on how he's been nominated for Oscars, reminding the Academy they can nominate his upcoming Rambo sequel.

Martin Scorsese will wonder if he should stop casting Leonardo DiCaprio in his movies.

Samuel L. Jackson will turn up on stage, take a look at the embalmed corpse of Jack Nicholson, and ask why the Academy felt they had to abide by Jack's final will. He will bellow, "I have had it with this mother****in' corpse in this mother****in' hall!"

Network censors will be horrified.

Barbra Streisand will storm the stage at some point, angrily demanding why the Academy didn't nominate her for Best Actress for The Guilt Trip two years ago. "I am a show business legend, damn you, and no one ignores me!" She will be finally be removed from the stage by an entire precinct of policemen, all while screeching The Way We Were at the top of her lungs. 

Neil Patrick Harris will be wondering if he made a huge mistake by agreeing to host this.

At some point, Leonardo DiCaprio will walk up on stage and launch into a tirade of rage at the Academy for  repeatedly refusing to give him an Oscar. In between the death threats, paranoid ranting, and gasps of exhaustion, Leo will wail, "It's just not fair! What did I ever do to deserve this? I mean, seriously, if Marisa Tomei can win an Oscar, why can't I?"

The rant will end when Marisa Tomei will come up on stage, sucker punching Leo, and breaking his nose.

Adam Sandler will tweet his personal outrage that he's never been nominated for an Oscar.

Reese Witherspoon, nominated this year for Wild, will be making a presentation for another award. She will first look down at Jack Nicholson's corpse, and ask, "Does anyone else find that really creepy?" Then she will ask if the Academy voters got their bribes or not.

Bradley Cooper will ask if they're doing the group selfie again this year.

Tom Cruise will sullenly demand why his films aren't getting Oscars, launching into a tirade for three hours about conspiracies against Scientology, despite the attempts of the orchestra to drown him out.

Benedict Cumberbatch will turn up to present an Oscar, explaining that yes, that is his name. He will add in a wry, cheerful way, that at least he doesn't have to worry about John Travolta calling him Adele Dazeem.

John Travolta, sitting in the audience, will ask, "what did Schubaker Eddington mean by that?"

The annual March Of The Dead will highlight the dead actors, directors, writers, and various crew and production staff of the last year. Bill Cosby's career will be listed among the dead. 

This year, the Oscar orchestra will be using Another One Bites The Dust as the orchestral cue to get winners who are running overtime to leave the stage.

At least fifteen winners will shush the orchestra and demand to continue to list their personal masseuses, accountants, hair stylists, bookies, teachers from grade three, yoga gurus, and Bjork among their people to thank.

Bjork will turn heads yet again, this hear wearing a dress consisting of a welding torch, tassels in just the right places, leather straps, and a garter belt, proclaiming that she's getting into a 50 Shades phase in her life.

Speaking of which, E.L. James will crash the ceremony, getting up on stage at one point, demanding that the Academy lavish the film adaptation of her book with every single award it can get next year, including Best Documentary.

Backstage, Leonardo DiCaprio will be caught on video crying while paramedics tend to his broken, bloody nose.

Clint Eastwood will have a conversation with an empty chair. Only he will seem to think that Lee Marvin is in the chair. No one will want to bring up the uncomfortable notion that Clint might be losing his marbles.

The Lifetime Achievement Award will be stolen by Barbra Streisand, who has escaped custody with the help of a booze soaked Charlie Sheen. The police will follow her in hot pursuit.

During the confusion, Charlie Sheen will turn up uninvited in the theatre, and tell the corpse of Jack Nicholson, "Hey, Jack, looking good! How about we two tiger blooded ninjas go out after and pick up some porn stars?"

Charlie will be confused by Jack's lack of response, totally unaware that Jack is dead. He will take to the podium and announce that he's just taking the Oscar for Best Picture for that X-rated video he did with porn star Ivana Screwlots, Charlie's Coed Adventure. "All of you lesser beings just wish you could bask in a microgram of Charlie Sheen glory," he will boast.

John Travolta will ask, "what's Carruthers Mombasa talking about?"

Tommy Lee Jones will step up on stage during Charlie's rambling drunken speech and start giving Charlie Sheen the beatdown he deserved thirty years ago.

News will reach the theatre that Barbra Streisand has been brought down by biplanes while climbing the Fox Plaza tower, almost as if in a scene out of King Kong. Barbra's name will not be added to the March Of The Dead, given that her last act was stealing the Lifetime Achievement Award. Legions of Barbra Streisand fans will be outraged, and will vow a swift and bloody revenge.

Julianne Moore will finally win an Oscar. She will be entirely gracious. John Travolta will say afterwards, "Wow, so Athena Kalamazoo finally won the Oscar?"

Neil Patrick Harris will close the ceremony seven hours late, half asleep, and asking, "will Billy Crystal just come back and do this again? It's getting worse every year."

Charlie Sheen will be taken away to the nearest hospital, where he will spend the next three years eating his meals through a straw, moaning about how much pain he's in, and having nightmares about Tommy Lee Jones coming to kill him.

Requiem For A Narcissistic Twit

Links to see to before we get started. Have a look over at Norma's blog, where she posted about going to the movies for a good cause. And since I'm a cat person, three blogs for you to peruse. First off, give a happy birthday hello to Miss Lucy. And take a look at this collection of the usual suspects at Barbara's blog. Finally, on a sadder note, a blogger I follow has lost a beloved senior cat, Mr Ed.

Today I'm playing around with another funeral eulogy, something that draws itself out of this post. Having had disposed of the infernal nitwit Kanye West in a manner he has coming, why not write his funeral eulogy? But who to give the eulogy? Well, that one finally came to me. Somehow Charlie Sheen seemed entirely appropriate...

"Thank you, Reverend... nice of you to introduce me without rolling your eyes or asking me to behave myself while I'm up here. Don't worry, I promise I'll behave myself. No porn stars by my side while I see old Kanye off to his final rest. No, they're not here... though they are down there in the congregation. Hello, Bambi, hi there, Tiffani... don't worry, this won't take long. Maybe we can have a threesome in the hearse afterwards. I mean, the funeral procession takes forever to reach the cemetery...

Anyway, Reverend Henderson is looking really annoyed with me, so without further ado, let's get this whole eulogy thing underway. How do we bid goodbye to Kanye? Do we talk about his music? Or do we talk about his ego? Because Kanye liked to elevate himself above the little people. Maybe that's part of being famous. Maybe we're all condemned to go crazy at one point or another because we're famous. I know I did, with my tiger blood and my winning attitude. So I lost my mind. It happens. It's been a fun trip though, snorting coke off a hooker's thigh one night, downing shots of tequila five minutes later with a pack of cheerleaders from UCLA... 

Where was I? Oh, right, talking about Kanye. You know, this was a guy who loved life, and loved his place in life. He'd talk your head off about himself. It was his favourite subject. When Kanye wasn't talking about Kanye, he expected whoever he was speaking with to fall all over themselves in adoring him. Maybe some people found that annoying. Maybe people think that what happened is what he had coming to him. You know, that's petty. I mean, no one deserves to get smashed into a pulpy mess by a meteor from outer space while he's standing out in the street.

Oh, sorry, Kim, I know it must upset you to think of the way he died. At least feel comforted by the fact that it happened too fast for him to really feel pain. It was over quickly for him. At least that's what the doctors think. Maybe he felt a horrendous amount of pain for a brief microsecond as that space rock pancaked him into the pavement.

Is that a bad visual? Well, you know, given the way he died, we can't avoid thinking of it and going into detail. It's not as if there was much left of Kanye to put in his coffin, as gold and platinum plated as it is. They had to scoop up what was left of him with spatulas and dust busters. But enough of the particulars of his death. Let's talk about his life.

Kanye and I both knew how to party. We knew all the best clubs where you could find the best booze, the best drugs, and the best women eager to get in your pants. Which explains why there are so many little Kanyes scattered all over the place. There might be more little Charlies around too, but that's a bit of a haze to me, too many nights of getting lucky while under the influence of something smashing. I can't remember if I've used protection or not. Come to think of it, it's probably a good idea if I get myself tested for STDs

Where was I? Oh, yes, talking about Kanye. You know, this was a guy with an attitude. He showed it when he said George Bush hates black people. And he showed it again when he upstaged Taylor Swift. And he showed it anytime he lost an award he was nominated for. You know what? I get that. When you think of yourself as God walking the earth, it does bother you when the little people don't fall over themselves to worship you.

People don't understand greatness. Or they resent it. I know they don't understand me. They resent me. They see the guy with tiger blood, and they resent that. So Kanye and I understood each other. Because he had tiger blood just like I did. He'd **** anything in a skirt just like I do. Oh... sorry, Reverend, I shouldn't curse in church, should I?

Well, Kanye is gone now. There'll never be another one like him. All we can do as a society is raise up a statue in his memory. He'd appreciate that. A statue befitting his ego. It'd have to be a couple thousand feet high. Aside from that, we can nurture his little daughter North West... you know, that's a really stupid name... Kim, why didn't you just name the baby Charlotte? We could have called her Charlie for short. Anyway, that's beside the point. We can nurture North West and feed her ego, and twenty years from now she'll be just as self absorbed as her daddy was.

I see Reverend Henderson is trying to get me to shut up. Don't worry, Rev, I'm almost done. Kim, look, I know you're distraught right now with the way he bought the farm... but you've got the whole Kardashian family behind you. So what's the worst that can possibly happen? And you've got John Mayer there right beside you... is it too early to date someone on your fiance's funeral day? Listen, by the way, if things don't work out with John... and seriously, I doubt it will, because Mayer's a player. Oh, don't look at me like that, John, you know it's true. When it all goes south on you, why don't you and I get together? Charlie Sheen and Kim Kardashian would be a relationship for the ages.

As long as you don't mind sharing me with the porn stars. Speaking of which... ladies, how about we get things started in the hearse?

Apocalypse Charlie: Tiger Blood, Adonis DNA, And Insanity

While the not so talented Mr. Sheen continues his path of self destruction, which seems to be inevitably heading towards killing himself live on television (it'll happen), he's become a punchline of jokes and fodder for editorial cartoonists. Today, an image blog of a not so talented actor who's burnt every bridge he can think of during his meltdown.