Oscars for All Women Who've Made Terrible Life Decisions!

It appears as though there is no end in sight to the fallout from the cultural apocalypse that was Diablo Cody's Oscar win. According to the New York Post, strippers are, heartbreakingly, viewing their former colleague's achievement as an achievement for all of them. A plaque has been hung in Rick's Cabaret in New York that reads, "Dedicated to Diablo Cody, who has taken our calling to new levels."

No, strippers. No, no, no. Diablo hasn't raised stripping to a higher level; she's lowered screenwriting to stripping's already established one.

Don't believe me? Perhaps my friend George Washington will convince you.

"America Can, Should, Must and Will Blow Up the Moon."

First they were shooting rockets at satellites; now they're literally just smashing spacecrafts into the moon.

Apparently, NASA has been overrun by socially maladjusted nine-year-olds.

Super Deluxe Suicide Prevention

Although this is far from the funniest parody video in the world (or even of the last three days), it does help to ease the pain of Sunday night's unforgivable affront to humanity.



Thanks to Jesse for the tip.

You Don't Have To Be Very Funny to Dominate a Fake Fight

...As proven by Jimmy Kimmel.

The 80th Annual Academy Awards Honor 'The Sopranos'

When ABC cut to black just as Harrison Ford was about to announce the winner of Best Original Screenplay during Sunday night's telecast of the Academy Awards, I was surprised how long it took me to realize that it was not a technical glitch, but a deliberate (albeit somewhat dated) homage to the 'Sopranos' series finale.

It was strange enough that I suddenly found myself in the back of an ambulance, but the situation has grown even weirder: every time I ask someone to tell me who won for Best Original Screenplay, time seems to jump forward and I find myself in another location--all within Cedars-Sinai Hospital, at the time of this writing. I still haven't found out, and it's starting to get annoying. (Not nearly as annoying as that poorly-written movie Juno, naturally, but annoying nonetheless.)

So, seriously...who won?

The Boston Red Sox' Food Budget Just Tripled

I couldn't figure out why the Red Sox gave up so easily in their offseason bid for Johan Santana...but now it all makes sense:

They were worried that Bartolo Colon would eat him.

I Don't Want to Miss a Thing

50 years after the inception of NASA, the United States is finally involved in a space war...by which I mean a war against space.

You're goin' down, space!

The Case of Roger Clemens' Buttocks

I've been watching the Congressional hearing on Roger Clemens' "alleged" steroid use for a little over half an hour, taking a drink every time a person mentions his posterior...and I am hammered.

Probably not a good idea to engage in drinking games before nine o'clock in the morning. On a Wednesday.

Now Will You Rent 'Sorcerer'?

Roy Scheider, best known as Police Chief Martin Brody in Jaws, passed away on Sunday at the age of 75.

He is perhaps least known for his role in Sorcerer, which you should rent.

Don't think it will fit in your Netflix (or Blockbuster Online) queue?

You're gonna need a bigger queue.

Honest to Blog, Our Standards Are Low

Its merciless public relations onslaught aside, Juno is not a horrendous film. Off the top of my head, I can think of a dozen movies released in 2007 to which it is considerably superior.

Nonetheless, it is an extremely unlikable film, for both the well-documented, fingernails-on-a-chalkboard faux-hipster dialogue that permeates it and, concurrently, the slobbering praise it has been receiving since even before its release. Public Enemy Number One on both counts is ex-stripper Diablo Cody, as skilled at self-promotion as she is overrated as a screenwriter. With the help of her hardworking publicist, she has positioned herself as the cool-kid commodity du jour in Hollywood (at least for the next 14 minutes or so)--and one need look no further for evidence that she is more image than substance than her ridiculous self-applied moniker. "Brook Busey" apparently didn't ring false enough for our lady's tastes, so she became "Diablo Cody"--a name so obnoxiously stupid for a human being that it might as well be "Crunchwrap Supreme".

On Saturday, Crunchwrap disappointingly won the WGA Award for original screenplay, proving that even writers have not remained immune to Juno's ubiquitous PR snowblower.

Everyone involved with Juno--especially those on the marketing side (and I include Crunchwrap in that group)--wants us to believe that it's an "outsider" movie that defiantly bucks tradition with an unlit pipe clenched in its teeth and a jug of Sunny D hanging loosely from its fingertips. But the truth is that simply eschewing explosions and Sandra Bullock in favor of the Moldy Peaches and hamburger phones does not classify unconventional storytelling. Beneath its surface, Juno is just as much of an assembly-line product as a piece of crap like Transformers is, only it came off a line of a different sort: the realm of cookie-cutter quirk (much like its equally overpraised predecessor, Little Miss Sunshine). I did not find a single moment in Juno to be unexpected (except for, perhaps, the discovery that I had it in me to want to slap a fictional 16-year-old pregnant girl for talking like a fictional 29-year-old screenwriter), right down to the red-alert copout of turning Jason Bateman's otherwise likable character into a lecherous would-be pederast for the sole reason that Crunchwrap couldn't figure out what to do with him. You'd think most voting members of the Writers Guild of America would have least keyed in on that--alas, they did not, and the phony-baloney Crunchwrap Supreme train rolls on toward the Academy Awards with a full head of steam.

Crunchwrap winning a WGA Award is equivalent to Mira Sorvino winning an Oscar. Should Crunchwrap win an Oscar, it will be equivalent to Milli Vanilli winning a Grammy. And just like the Recording Academy did with Rob and Fab, one's only hope in such a scenario will be that the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences will later realize that they were had and revoke Crunchwrap's undeserved prize.

In the meantime, let's just sit on a stoop and expeditiously commence an acoustic duet. 'Cause that's real, homeskillet. That shit's real.

Australians Sure Know How To Celebrate a Life

Smiles, swimming, and shirtlessness: According to this picture, some mourners had more fun at Heath Ledger's wake on Saturday than one usually does at a wedding.

The Patriots Are 19-0! (As Envisioned By Reebok)

I knew Sunday's debacle was just a bad dream.

(Courtesy of Deadspin via Larry Brown Sports)

California Democrats Pick Nice White Lady Over Scary Black Man

And that white lady salutes you, racism.

(Okay, maybe racism isn't entirely responsible. Maybe I'm just angry because I--as a "decline-to-state" voter in Los Angeles--have learned that my vote probably didn't count because I managed to skip right over the bonus party bubble, which is a lot less fun than its name would indicate.)

Hillary Clinton of Arkansas by Way of Illinois Sucks Up To Football Team From New Jersey in Attempt to Please New York, Lose Massachusetts

"Clinton grinned and said, 'Hm, I wonder why,' referring to Obama’s support of [the] New England [Patriots]."

That legendary wit of Senator Clinton was unleashed to point out the likelihood that Barack Obama's decision was motivated by the fact that he has been endorsed by Ted Kennedy and a number of other prominent Massachusetts figures.

Way to stick it to him, Hill! You've no doubt been a Giants fan fo' life!

Thanks to Dave for the tip.

'Twas a Big Weekend for the Overrated Spawn of Failures

If Miley Cyrus is to Billy Ray Cyrus what Peyton Manning is to Archie Manning, Hannah Montana's surprising success during a weekend shared by an absolutely incomprehensible victory on the part of the least Manning leads a person to wonder if there isn't a half-formed goblin child currently chained to a radiator pipe in the basement of the Cyrus home who at this time next year will be starring in the #1 movie in the country.

Super Bowl XLII Replaced With Faulty Tecmo Bowl Cartridge

The more times Tom Brady got sacked yesterday--courtesy of an offensive line that appeared to be made of ectoplasm--or threw passes that vanished into thin air, the more suspicious I became.

But it wasn't until the fourth quarter, when flailing nincompoop Eli Manning closed his eyes and hurled his umpteenth hopeless prayer of the game and the ball ended up magically stuck to the side of David Tyree's helmet, did I know for certain that the world was witnessing a complete work of fiction.

It was a bold choice on the part of the NFL, and it certainly paid off for Fox in television ratings. However, since the Patriots had worked so hard to stay undefeated through the season, it might have been nice if the league had given them a chance to play in the Super Bowl instead of replacing them with digitally-rendered suckbots.

A Super Bowl Olive Branch

So much has already been said in anticipation of today's historic contest that I am uncharacteristically compelled to refrain from throwing my own thoughts on the pile.

Instead, I will take the high road, and hope only that the Patriots will make Eli Manning violently suffer for his brother's staggeringly undeserved Super Bowl victory last year, regardless of the facts that (1) he had nothing to do with that outcome and (2) he's functionally retarded.

May the best team* win!


[*As long as it isn't the New York Giants, because they're not good.]