Howdy-dowdy-diddle-deedle-dum! Heavens! Every year, the sodomites of Hollywood double-dare Jesus to send another calamity their way (earthquake, wildfire, mudslide, Miley Cyrus) by gathering to worship at the feet of a golden calf named Oscar. And so here we are, huddled in the glow of my Zenith Color television set, cozily ensconced in my glorious mauve and teal House-Beautiful barcalouncer. My impish kitty-cat Mr. Sillypants is purring blissfully at my bosom, a pitcher of Singapore Slings within reach, watching the sinful spectacle of that annual Jewish-homosexual communist love-in known as the Academy Awards.
As you know, Aunt Betsy rides atop the crest of all things technological. I've got gizmos and doodads galore. And tonight, I shall fire up this new-fangled Blackberry thing-a-ma-bob to twitter my gorgeous Oscar thoughts across the dark ether of the inter-whatzit.
8:15 PM: Dear Barbara Walters: The Jonas Brothers are appalled by your drunken flirtations and obscene insinuations. Keep it in your pants, dear.
8:35 PM: For God's sake! Tim Gunn was handsy-er with Mr. Pitt than Philip Seymour Hoffman was with the little negro boy in that horrific movie about Cathy-licks.
8:45 PM: Huge Actman, whoever he is, is alarmingly effeminate. Or European. Tomayto-tomahto.
9:02 PM: This Penelope Cruz person talks with a suspicious accent. Have we checked her papers? Here we have yet another Dominizuelorican who's slithered into this country to take our awards.
9:13 PM: If one chooses to pen a screenplay about a dairy product, be sure to fill it with homos. You'll win an Oscar and appease Beelzebub.
9:30 PM: A golden phallus was just bestowed on "Wall-e," a cartoon that extols the joys of robot-on-robot hippity-dippity. It's a love letter to Lucifer masquerading as a kiddie flick, hell-bent on destroying the sanctity of non-robot marriage.
9:45 PM: Huge Actman is prancing about caterwauling about movie musicals. It's making Aunt Betsy feel a tad giddy. I think I may have to spit up. BRB.
10:03 PM: A dead Australian who played a homosexual cowboy was just awarded for his portrayal of a demon clown in a movie about a Satan worshiper who flits about in tights. ARMAGEDDON!!
10:08 PM: They're starting to hand out statuettes for things like special effects and sound editing. Aunt Betsy's off to take a bath. Back in a half hour! xox
10:45 PM: Yours truly just made the nauseating discovery that the neighboring Ass-sex Republic (the faux-Tudor bungalow salaciously abutting our very own Aunt-Betsy-stan), is hosting an Oscar party (read: homosexual orgy). I shall miss the interminable "Folks That Croaked" montage whilst I place a ten-gallon tub of pork lard on my backyard catapult and send it sailing through their plate glass window. BRB.
11:00 PM: A man who makes movies about zombies and spaceships just won a statue for directing a film about poor people getting rich. Perhaps it's time he branched out, as Aunt Betsy disapproves of horror movies and science fiction.
11:20 PM: Aunt Betsy has no idea who Kate Winslet is. She comes across as British (read: uppity and snotty). I don't like her.
11:30 PM: Sean Penn won an award for pretending to be a homosexual. I rather think we should award homosexuals who pretend to be straight. Oh, that's right, we already do, with a senate seat or the priesthood!
11:40 PM: "Slumdog Millionaire" just won the biggie. It's a movie about skinny people with suspicious complexions who win contests and everyone pretends to be happy about it. That's right, it's about our negro President.
11:50 PM: Aunt Betsy has brushed her teeth and placed Mr. Sillypants in the dishwasher, and is therefore ready to withdraw to her master suite. I'm off to dream that I'm advising Jesus how to smite Hollywood in epic retaliation for tonight's heretical display of hedonism. Sleep tight!
Mickey Rourke sez: "I went to the Oscars and all I got was this lousy subscription to the COWA feed."
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Aunt Betsy Twittered me with an astute observation. She noticed that during the Academy Awards telecast, most of the 7-Eleven's in this country had to shut down because there were no people available to work. She assumed that the workers were all on stage at the Kodak Center.
On a side note, Congress is investigating the rumor that the voting members of the Academy were bribed with gift certificates for Beef Jerkeys and Slurpees to vote for Slumdog Millionaire. It seems that Joaquin Phoenix's recent antics were a tip off. Rumor has it that his recent "questionable" actions were brought about by a sugar rush combined with a brain freeze from his addiction of unnaturally blue Shurpees. When found passed out inside the Viper Room, a stash of 7-Eleven gift certificates were found inside his jacket with a note that read, "Only Homos would vote for MILK".
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We appreciate the kind of gal whose hair pie doubles as an ice box. Moreover, it's the only way you could conceivably compel us to reach betwixt your thighs. However, while we always like our brew with a nice healthy head, that's hardly what we had in mind. And although we shudder to contemplate where you might have stored the pretzels, we'd be much more impressed if you did the same trick with a keg.
At any rate, thanks for the suds. You can pull your dress down now. By the way, do you have a bottle-opener? Oh. We see.
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hink about. So who better to write a charming book called "A Prayer Book for Spouses," which includes a Catholic sex prayer that opposite-married heterosexuals can say together before getting down to the unpleasant business of spousal coitus. Just prior to part where the wife does her duty by bending to her husband's will and allowing his spitting sin-serpent to spelunk in that place "down there" where Cathy-lick babies shoot out with alarming frequency, the couple gets down on their knees for a Jesus-approved orally-delivered prologue.
This is a sticky wicket, natch, as The Bible gives little reason to believe that God wants to listen to us praying about S-E-C-K-S. So as one might imagine, the priests who wrote the prayer went through many drafts before getting it just right. Thanks to our underground cadre of ninja operatives posing as sensitive altar boys, we were able to get our hands on an early version. You're welcome.
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This is a sticky wicket, natch, as The Bible gives little reason to believe that God wants to listen to us praying about S-E-C-K-S. So as one might imagine, the priests who wrote the prayer went through many drafts before getting it just right. Thanks to our underground cadre of ninja operatives posing as sensitive altar boys, we were able to get our hands on an early version. You're welcome.
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heterosexuals can say together before getting down to the unpleasant business of spousal coitus. Just prior to part where the wife does her duty by bending to her husband's will and allowing his spitting sin-serpent to spelunk in that place "down there" where Cathy-lick babies shoot out with alarming frequency, the couple gets down on their knees for a Jesus-approved orally-delivered prologue.
This is a sticky wicket, natch, as The Bible gives little reason to believe that God wants to listen to us praying about S-E-C-K-S. So as one might imagine, the priests who wrote the prayer went through many drafts before getting it just right. Thanks to our underground cadre of ninja operatives posing as sensitive altar boys, we were able to get our hands on an early version. You're welcome.
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As we all know, Cathy-lick priests are experts on everything sexual. Of course they're all celibate (wink-wink), so hippity-dippity is pretty much all they ever think about. So who better to write a charming book called "A Prayer Book for Spouses," which includes a Catholic sex prayer that opposite-married heterosexuals can say together before getting down to the unpleasant business of spousal coitus. Just prior to part where the wife does her duty by bending to her husband's will and allowing his spitting sin-serpent to spelunk in that place "down there" where Cathy-lick babies shoot out with alarming frequency, the couple gets down on their knees for a Jesus-approved orally-delivered prologue.
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