My Bologna Has a First Name . . . It’s Oscar!

Okay, I jived for the catchy title. Got me! It was catchy, wasn’t it? Or was it just a tad more age specific than CBS? As in, the only people who understood my come-on know that New Coke has absolutely nothing to do with a Scarface reboot. They consider Pong to be one of the best video games ever. They are the folks who pine for the days of pay phones, Foghat, table-top Jukeboxes, water fountains they can take for granted, redeemable bottles that didn’t exist under the purview of an online merchandising program borne of third world product (2K Coke reference),  and last but certainly not least, Uma Thurman’s original face.

Whew! That was Holy Shit in a hand basket, huh? Those voices in my head, they’re hard to wrangle sometimes. Anyways, if you’re one of those peeps whose drivers license photograph no longer contains a smug countenance (Hint: You’re not telling the mirror to go fuck itself just yet ), then please read on. If you’re younger than all that hilarity, this post becomes an “at your own risk” proposition. Which us forty somethings like to call, waking up.

Back in the day, the Academy Awards had the feel of a ritzy after hours joint. It was a Vegas handshake, a mysterious amalgam of impossibly glamorous chain smoking celebrities whose personal lives were, well, personal. Nowadays it’s a pedantic enterprise whose results are forecast with more precision than a Presidential election.

Of course, I’d be lying bigger than Benny Hinn if I told you I won’t be watching, cause I will be (excepting for my weekly dose of The Walking Dead). I do the Oscars the way I do basically everything else, with verve and a great deal of wing and prayer. So rather than bore you with serious projections, I’ll give you my top five Bests. The fact they have absolutely nothing in common with tonight’s ceremony doesn’t mean they are not worthy of acclaim.

As for Ellen, I’m happy she’s in the drivers seat for this year’s show. She exhibits the class that McFarlane wouldn’t and the beauty that Crystal couldn’t. Not to mention, she prevents Jay Leno from latching onto another twenty two year gig.

Best Picture- Sharknado. Sharks swirling around inside a tornado in downtown LA is the most genius idea since the Spielbergs decided to make whoopee sixty seven years ago.

Best Actor- Mark Consuelos. He plays happy husband inside of misery like nobody’s business. He IS acting, right? Gotta be.

Best Actress- Vera Farmiga. Thanks to a certain loyal reader(John Howell), I feel compelled to place a Vera reference in as many posts as possible. Which makes John a bigger genius than Spielberg’s parents. So there’s that.

Best Director- Shia LaBeouf’s publicist. It’s the celebrity equivalent of combat pay, so whatever his publicist is making . . ain’t nearly enough.

Best Song- If I ever write an Oscar winning screenplay, well then . . Gladys Knight’s Midnight Train, which just so happens to be one of my favorite songs of all time, is gonna have to kick me off the stage. Unless Halle Berry is willing to smooch me outta front and center.

And no, Adrien Brody as Halle’s understudy ain’t gonna cut it.