Yes, Februrarrry is over, friends. And, frankly, I’m glad. This isn’t simply because I have no idea how to spell Feburrie or whatever. Nor is it because I have any animosity towards the celebration of African-American history (except nobody ever talks about Jimmy Hendrix and that’s totally tragic), St. Valentine’s Day (except the men always have to pay for everything but supposedly it’s about both partners in the couple but we all know you women-folk just want diamonds), the Superbowl (even though it’s pretty much the most embarrassing moment of American popular culture and a celebration of consumerism more than a sporting event), or the various presidents whose birthdays we celebrate (Taft and Grant – duh). In fact, there’s only one reason why I truly thinkFebburblabby is the worst month of the year:
I know what you are thinking. You are about to tell me how it’s (like - totally!) the most important awards show and a good excuse for a party. And to this, I will counter that you:
Never need an excuse for a party.
Are, frankly, a moronic simpleton if you enjoy watching awards shows. You probably also like American Idol and all those similar programs wherein humans warble tragically in front of B-list celebrities desperately seeking their approval so that they may move on to the next round, hopefully win the whole thing, make a shitty movie and/or an album nobody buys, and then die of a heroin overdose next to a transsexual, dwarf prostitute.
The Academy Awards are probably the most offensive and pointless celebrity circle-jerk on television. For weeks in advance Americans are hyped-up by the very same media who serves to profit from the event in an effort to have us view the four-hour long program so that we can watch some talented people win awards for categories nobody cares about, and then watch some dildo or bimbo cry because we thought their English accent was “pretty good” in that movie where he or she played a princess who was molested by her father or a tortured artist with Parkinson’s and there was love and somebody got killed and the critics all ejaculated onto the seat-backs in front of them.
And that’s not even the worst part. The worst part is that some funny person is always tasked to host the program and attempt to make (what is basically a four-hour Tony Robbins presentation with musical numbers and an impatient orchestra) it watchable. Said funny person is always palpably uncomfortable at times, has to sing, talks about how attractive George Clooney is, says some controversial things, and is summarily lambasted for said controversial things. Because apparently the millionaires in the audience are incapable of laughing at themselves.
Case in point, I bring you Seth McFarlane’s song from the last Academy Awards, one which has cause quite a stir, “We Saw Your Boobs”. For those that haven’t watched the song on the internet like I did, you probably have read about how Mr. McFarlane was making fun of women being raped and should be drawn and quartered publically. And all humorous intent aside, the subtext to these criticisms is that we are simply supposed to ignore the fact that attractive women show their boobs in movies despite the undeniable truth that it is an obvious ploy to attract a male audience to otherwise probably unattractive-to-straight-males films.
And no doubt these bare-breasted starlets would counter that it’s art done for art’s sake and the titties were necessary to lend gravity to the scenes, totally unlike some exploitive, fucktardedfilm concocted by Eli Roth – who I would quite literally like to see struck by a sedan. But, let’s face it, when we think of classic American dramas, we probably all tend to think of movies in black and white or Technicolor and not Jennifer Connelly utilizing a double-dildo in front of a throng of evil-eyed businessmen. Or Halle Berry getting railed from behind. Gonna think about that for a while.