Stumble It!
Well hi-dee-ho-dee-dippity-do!! Here I sit, luxuriously ensconced in my nutmeg-and-crimson House Beautiful chaise with magic fingers (stuck lasciviously on "fondle"), with a pitcher of Singapore slings and a bowl of bugles.
Tonight, I shall share my Jesus-inspired insight with regard to that annual Jewish homosexual liberal bachanal that is the Academy Awards.
Shush dears. The show's beginning.
First, who are those darling kids who seem to be running the show? Did they have a foursome with the Weinsteins?
Oh, FYI...I found myself annoyed by that Mr. Tim Gunn during the preshow. I suspect he's a fairy. His eyeballs sodomized that sissy Keith Urban, who had the bad taste to attend the festivities with a transvestite.
And a note to Ms. Jennifer Hudson: while we suspect negress show biz types are pleasanter when they're fat (hi Oprah!), I support your new trim frame far more than that sinful gown supports your chocolate mammaries. Sandra Bullock's the best dressed whore of the bunch.
Quite a casting coups, convincing the grim reaper to present an award. Who knew he was such a bore?
I'm glad they gave the award to the foul-mouthed bimbo (whom I recognize as the waitress at the Greater Headcheese Oklahoma Paradise Bowling Lanes and Bar & Grill), instead of that sweet little girl in her enchanted princess bat mitzvah outfit. We're off to quite a start.
They're giving awards for things no one cares about now. Aunt Betsy's headed to the powder room to drop some change in the wishing well. BRB.
An illegal alien just gave the award for best adapted screenplay. A gentleman named Aaron Sorkin insists on boring Aunt Betsy to tears. Cue the orchestra!! Goodness, dear. It wasn't the Nobel.
And all this time I thought "The King's Speech" was about Elvis and his infamous 1974 address to the Pharmacist convention in Cleveland.
Why on earth do we give awards to movies that aren't in American? Is no one thinking about the deficit?
They gave a statue to a man named Christian who looks like Jesus. Things are looking up. Of course, if the real Jesus went to the Oscars, flames would shoot from his fingertips and lightning bolts would zap from his eyeballs and he'd get all sodom-and-gomorrah on their patooties.
The Social Network: near as I can tell it's about the legendary spread of herpes and crabs and FoxNews.
We've reached the part of the show where we're clapping for people nobody knows, and my head starts to ache. I feel like Gabby Giffords after a supermarket speech.
Achievement in make-up really should have gone to Kirk Douglas. He looked almost life-like!
Pssst! Award show producers? Next year install a trap door. Much more effective than an orchestra cue.
A drunk is pounding on a piano and caterwauling. Are you there, Singapore Sling? It's me, Aunt Betsy.
Had to step away for a bit. Lance and Bruce, the homosexuals next door, are throwing their annual catered Oscar Orgy. They started getting a little loud, arguing over whether Gwynneth could kick Hathaway's ass if they were thrown into a pit with a razorblade in their teeth (hands-down, Gwynneth would emerge victorious). In a spasm of neighborly concern, I yard-a-pulted 70 pounds of termite larvae in the general vicinity of their fussily restored victorian.
One immediately suspects the sort of person who would make a documentary short subject would be an Obama-loving pedophile communist.
My kitty-cat Mr. Silly-pants knocked over my bowl of bugles, so I had to give him the standard five-minutes-in-the-dishwasher punishment. He always emerges so cross, but I swear I can almost see myself in his squeaky-clean fur. Did I miss anything? Didn't think so.
I see dead people. It's the tedious "In Memorium" montage. It reminds me of my Jewish who neighbors held a bizarre funeral ceremony last week for their deceased parakeet they named Streisand. Someone (oops!) let it out of its cage whereupon it got into the Manischewitz and flew into a ceiling fan.
The best director is Tom Hooper. He made that movie about Elvis. My pitcher of is empty.
Why does Gwynneth Paltrow hate my ability to hear?
Is it tomorrow yet?
That Natalie Portman woman looks awfully fat in the tummy. They gave her a statue so she wouldn't feel bad about it.
Why that Colin Firth fellow doesn't look a thing like Elvis!
Dear me, I dozed off! Did something happen? I'm feeling pretty drowsy. It's getting much harder to . ;a-= type;kj . A little ;;lajk c tipsy!;jd ;kl i should 'igd go to ;kal bed...;k0[q9taio;lfjkfj)*&^& )(@#$ LJK:NFG kfjkf jkf jkfjkfjkfjkfjkfj kfjkfjkfjk bed;klj;.......
Hahaha! The tears of joy are just streaming down my face. Me oh my, Aunt Betsy, you are one bitter old biddy. Have you considered therapy? Oh, that's right. This was your therapy, silly me!
Posted by: Static | March 10, 2011 at 08:08 PM
ear me, I dozed off! Did something happen? I'm feeling pretty drowsy. It's getting much harder to . ;a-= type;kj . A little ;;lajk c tipsy!;jd ;kl i should 'igd go to ;kal bed...;k0[q9taio;lfjkfj)*&^& )(@#$ LJK:NFG kfjkf jkf jkfjkfjkfjkfjkfj kfjkfjkfjk bed;klj;.......
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Is it tomorrow yet?
That Natalie Portman woman looks awfully fat in the tummy. They gave her a statue so she wouldn't feel bad about it.
Why that Colin Firth fellow doesn't look a thing like Elvis!
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The best director is Tom Hooper. He made that movie about Elvis. My pitcher of is empty.
Why does Gwynneth Paltrow hate my ability to hear?
Is it tomorrow yet?
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One immediately suspects the sort of person who would make a documentary short subject would be an Obama-loving pedophile communist.
My kitty-cat Mr. Silly-pants knocked over my bowl of bugles, so I had to give him the standard five-minutes-in-the-dishwasher punishment. He always emerges so cross, but I swear I can almost see myself in his squeaky-clean fur. Did I miss anything? Didn't think so.
I see dead people. It's the tedious "In Memorium" montage. It reminds me of my Jewish who neighbors held a bizarre funeral ceremony last week for their deceased parakeet they named Streisand. Someone (oops!) let it out of its cage whereupon it got into the Manischewitz and flew into a ceiling fan.
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they were thrown into a pit with a razorblade in their teeth (hands-down, Gwynneth would emerge victorious). In a spasm of neighborly concern, I yard-a-pulted 70 pounds of termite larvae in the general vicinity of their fussily restored victorian.
One immediately suspects the sort of person who would make a documentary short subject would be an Obama-loving pedophile communist.
My kitty-cat Mr. Silly-pants knocked over my bowl of bugles, so I had to give him the standard five-minutes-in-the-dishwasher punishment. He always emerges so cross, but I swear I can almost see myself in his squeaky-clean fur. Did I miss anything? Didn't think so.
I see dead people. It's the tedious "In Memorium" montage. It reminds me of my Jewish who neighbors held a bizarre funeral ceremony last week for their deceased parakeet they named Streisand. Someone (oops!) let it out of its cage whereupon it got into the Manischewitz and flew into a ceiling fan.
The best director is Tom Hooper. He made that movie about Elvis. My pitcher of is empty.
Why does Gwynneth Paltrow hate my ability to hear?
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