Watching the Oscars with the Plague

by Cookie

Oh Dear.  I have a severe case of the Mondays.  Actually, what I think I have is a case of the plague.  Being sick when you’re pregnant is the worst.  You’re already tired and fat and sluggish and then the plague zaps your energy.  There is really nothing you can take except tea and lemon and cinnamon and honey.  Oh.  And loads of raw garlic.  Yum.

So you suck it up, Buttercup, buy a whole bunch of spicy food to break up the congestion and settle in with your Bestie to watch the Oscars.

A Bestie who brings cheesecake lollipops on a stick.  But we’ll get to those later.

The Oscars are like the Superbowl, but for women.  An excuse to sit around in your sweats, pigging out and armchair quarterbacking every choice of every stylist out there.

Instead of individually berating some of the actresses, because really, Joan Rivers will take care of that for me later today, I have a few questions/comments.  Who am I kidding?  Let the berating begin!

First of all, why the hell do big girls always insist on wearing either a pastel, or a an ill fitting dress? Unless you’re Queen Latifah.  That bitch rocks anything she puts on.  Seriously.  If you are a big girl, and try to dress in little girl clothes, AKA anything pink, yellow, lavender or beige in a pastel variation, do you know what you look like?  Some weird version of cotton candy.  Fire your stylist immediately.

Why is Anne Hathaway allowed to exist?  Thankfully, they didn’t ask her to host again, but she just fucking irritates me.  And now you gave her an Oscar for a 5 minute song, so she will keep coming back.  Why, Hollywood, why?

I want to make out with Robert Downey Jr.  Do you think he’s down?

Channing Tatum had his clothes on for the entire show.  I thought this was all about ratings?

Kristen Stewart has to be the most awkward human being on the planet.  Why don’t we take her and Anne and lock them up somewhere far away where she can bite her lip and fidget and stutter, and Anne can open that horse mouth wide and sing for nobody, ever, for the rest of their lives.  For the record, Anne, your dress is not “business in the front”   and “party in the back”.  It’s off the rack from Buffy’s closet in 1999 when the backless thing was going on at every bar in North America.  I hate you.

I also want to thank Jennifer Hudson for singing the absolute shit out of that song.  For reals.  You’re skinny now, you don’t have to try so fucking hard.  Hollywood loves you Mrs. Weight Watchers, so relax.

Norah Jones, never, ever, come out from behind your piano again.  That was awkward and stupid.  Please don’t make me hate you that much ever again.

Barbra Streisand is the ultimate class act. All other singers please take note of her poise and ease on the stage.  She has nothing to prove, and was flawless.  I heart you.

I also wanted to thank you to the dude who accepted the Best Picture award for Argo.  For, you know, mentioning the word Canada in his speech.  Since the Canadians were kinda involved in freeing those Americans and all, but it didn’t seem worthy of mentioning in the film.  It’s funny that a film so horribly historically inaccurate won the best film of the year.  I guess that’s why it’s adapted screenplay.

I’m sorta sad that award season is now over.  I will have to look long and hard in the news for idiotic things that movie stars do now, rather than it all being condensed in one night.

Oh.  And the cheesecake lollipops?  They are frozen cheesecake balls on a stick covered in chocolate and salted toffee.  I ate 3.  Destroyer ate 2.  Then gagged herself with the stick and puked all over me, all over herself, and all over the new carpet downstairs.  It was a super end to the evening.

It’s not a party until someone throws up, right?