I wish the Oscars had a little wiener, 'cause that is what I'd truly like to see.

So last night was the Oscars, Hollywood's Boringest Night(tm), live on ABC. I was dreading the ceremony for the most part, so I was glad that Beth and Melissa came over with Las Palmas goodness so at least I could be in a glorious cheese dip coma for most of the wretched event. Beth and Mel am-scrayed after about an hour and a half and left me to my own devices. I realize that I could have turned it off and read one of the many books that I needed to read and therefore make myself smarter for it OR I could blog about the Awards That Time Forgot and therefore amuse myself without having to actually work at it. Below is my summary of the 80th Annual Egofest.

PRE-SHOW
Apparently ABC feels the need to show us some red carpet stuff because I guess the coverage on CNN, E!, TV Guide, MSNBC and probably some digital cable channels that I don't have wasn't enough. Slow news day. Regis Philbin, The Oldest/Loudest Man in America, interviews some old lady with saggy boobs that has been sitting on the bleachers for like 80 years. I don't know. I zoned out until Beth mentioned that she was "feeling herself up." I correct Beth saying that she was feeling too high on her chest to be doing that and that she was probably restarting her pacemaker. Cut to some random chick in an ill-fitting green dress interviewing Jennifer Garner, who is all kinds of cute. I don't want to sleep with her or anything. I just want to play touch football or make lemonade with her…or maybe have a lively conversation about tort reform. She seems smart like that. Jennifer Garner seems quite poised for someone who was just attacked and groped by Gary Busey. Speaking of big teeth, here is that handsome actor Hillary Swank. As I am noticing the nice tuck job he did to get into that dress, Cory texts me to say that the tranny actually looks decent. I agree and spend the rest of his interview getting sucked into the vortex of his massive mandibles (not "man nipples"). This leads us to Cameron Diaz who I would like to see get chomped to death by Hillary Swank and Gary Busey. It's funny because the interviewer doesn't have anything to talk about but that nutjob Daniel Day Lewis. Regis is back with a couple of nobodys who won a contest to sit in the bleachers. I don't know their names, but one of them is a pretty brunette and the other one is a flaming homosexual. He looks like he just got off his shift at Aeropostale. Regis hates his life right now. And…Daniel Day Lewis! He has the best lesbian haircut I have ever seen…and it doesn't move. That's a good lesbian. His life partner has the dress that she made from materials purchased at JoAnn Fabrics and a giant crystal-looking dangly thing in the breasticle area that I guess dropped off the chandelier and Liberace's house. Other famous people not worth mentioning. Then when I thought all was lost…Ellen Page! She is so cute. She answers the "Why does everyone love 'Juno'?" question for the 1,000th time because red carpet hosts can't think for themselves. She just turned 21 and suddenly I feel less weird about totally crushing on her. Ahh. Regis. Interviewing Bill Conti, who just might be older than Reege and also a bit crazy, the conductor of the orchestra. Too bad they don't have to accompany "It's Hard Out There for a Pimp" this year. Sigh. Ok, I think it is showtime. I already feel like I have aged 10 years.

OPENING SEQUENCE
I want to know how much this shit cost. Because I could have farted out a better opening than this. I am pretty sure that an intern did this…in Microsoft Paint. This is going to be a long night.

THE SHOW STARTS
Jon Stewart comes out of a giant tube that looks like a penis pump. I can just see the producers sitting around discussing how Jon should make his entrance. "Maybe he could dance? Walk out on his hands? Eat a burrito while singing the theme song from 'Shaft?' I got it! Picture this: GIANT. PENIS." His first couple of jokes bomb, but then he says something about "Thank god for teen pregnancy," and I go giddy because they cut to Ellen Page. Then they cut to Jack Nicholson, The Oscar Crazy Man, who has undoubtedly already hit on Ellen Page and asked her to come back to his room to get freaky. Century old joke about how to come up with your stripper name, which I think is also the way to come up with your drag name. Just ask Hillary Swank. The painful monologue comes to a close and Jack just got a woman pregnant, so that means time for the first award!

My new best friend Jennifer Garner comes out with a bad hairdo. I blame Gary Busey. The exciting award for Costume Design is up first. Yeah, that's exciting. Way to draw everyone in, Oscar producers. Do you want to do a Vaudeville number next? Maybe a Shakespeare reading? "Elizabeth: The Golden Age" wins for making Cate Blanchett look like Michael Jackson. The woman who won looks like she is wearing upholstery from my grandmother's couch. "Leave it to the costume designer," Beth comments. Indeed.

Clooney comes out and makes a joke about how long the show always is. Et tu, George? The funny thing is that everyone always makes fun of how long the show is, but nobody ever does anything about it. It's like when you were in school and you wore your brand new New Kids on the Block t-shirt to school and you thought you were so rad and then a shit-faced little boy made fun of you for wearing it and you went home and put it in a drawer and never pulled it out again until you needed a dust rag? Yeah, Academy? Put it in the drawer. Oh. Uh. Is it? Yep. First montage of the night. Does this montage have a theme? I think it is "Remember when this show used to be good?" Oh god. Celine singing that Titanic shit song. My heart won't go one because it just stopped because I stabbed myself.

Steve Carell, one of my favorite people, and Anne Hathaway, the only woman whiter than I am, present Animated Feature. I think the French film is going to win because Academy voters love shit they don't understand. Plus, "Surf's Up?" I watched that on a plane and asked the flight attendant to replenish the air bag supply. That Rat-tat-tat-fooey movie wins and I say "meh."

That woman on that show that I don't watch and starred in that movie I don't like comes out and says how nervous she is. Dude, you didn't win anything, you are just presenting a category that includes a nomination for "Norbit." Chill. Best Makeup goes to…Loreal Paris…um, I mean, some French film. Blah blah blah boring.

Amy Adams sings a stupid song from that "Enchanted" movie and I feel sorry for her because it is just her and obviously this song has some sort of context in the movie, but those of us who haven't seen it are left to imagine stuff. I imagine what it would be like to be a little person in a house full of high shelves.

Dear Catherina Zeta-Jones and Michael Douglas Zeta-Jones,

Shut up.
Love,
Amanda

The Rock comes out wearing a nice suit that I can only assume he picked out at Anne Taylor Loft. It's nicely fitted for that feminine look. Anyway, Visual Effects goes to some kind of Compass movie with polar bears and shit. Moving on. Art Direction for "Sweeney Todd." Congrats to Tim Burton who will never win for anything because they don't give Oscars for being crazy. Jack Nicholson is an exception.

Finally, an award that matters! It only took an hour. Supporting actor. Jennifer Hudson's boobs look uncomfortable, like they are about to receive a mammogram. They show Hal Holbrook, who was heart-breakingly awesome in "Into the Wild" and is married to Julia Sugarbaker. "I thought she was dead," Melissa remarks. The jury is still out. If Javier Bardem doesn't win this there is no justice in the…OK, he won. He is ten kinds of cute and I think for a moment that maybe he has replaced Dennis Quaid as my man crush. He speaks Spanish to his mama and every woman in America faints.

Making fun of montages. I force a fake laugh. Ugh. Again…the drawer. You just wasted two minutes of my life.

Keri Russell has armpit cleavage and I am so happy because it is proof that skinny girls can have pit cleavage too. She introduces a song from "Augush Rush," a film which put me into a diabetic coma because it was so syrupy sweet. They song kick ass though and that little girl can wail.

Owen Wilson makes an appearance to remind everyone that he is still alive an (possibly) not suicidal at this moment. Another short film of some sort wins whatevers. That stupid fucking bee from that stupid fucking "Bee Movie" presents Animated Short. I hate this segment of the program every year because you know the producers are so proud of themselves for thinking this up: "Let's, wait for it…have an animated character present an animated award. It's brilliant!!" Dumb.

OK, another important award, Supporting Actress. Ruby Dee is so amazed by her performance that she is slack-jawed. Sorry, Rubes, I don't think you will win. You were in "American Gangster" for like two seconds and you had like five lines. If that was the only criteria you needed to win an Oscar, Shannon Elizabeth would have a mantel full. And the Award goes to…Eric Stoltz! Oh wait, that's Tilda Swinton with no makeup, no eyebrows and no tits. Hmmmm. She thanks George Clooney's nipples and we are out.


OK, now I am going with the Cliffs Notes version:

Hannah Montana is at the Oscars, which makes the average demo for this show go from age 75 to 74.

The Coen Brothers win Adapted Screenplay for being sick fucks.

Another "Enchanted" performance, this time with that squeaky-voiced blonde and an over-stereotyped black guy in bad lighting.

Sound Editing and Sound Mixing sound like the same thing, but sound doesn't sound like the same sound in sound. One of the Bourne movies wins both and I can't remember my name anymore.

Best Actress goes to Frenchie McFrench who ees jus so appy to be eere!!!!

They drag Colin Farrell out of his gutter to present an award but don't bother to give him a comb and a shave. Cheap bastards.

A song from a movie I have never heard of wins for Original Song, but all I can think of is what a douchebag John Travola is with his sprayed on hair and stupid dancing.

MONTAGE!! All of the Best Picture winners of the last 80 years. I never realized until now how much the Academy rewards shittiness in all its forms. I mean "Gladiator?"

Nothing about Renee Zellweger is real.

Nicole Kidman doesn't even look pregnant. Or maybe I was just blinded by the hunk of jewels around her neck.

Some old dude gets up there and starts talking and I turn to the Weather Channel.

He is still talking. Let's see what's on TLC…

DEAD PEOPLE! Alphabetical order. Until… The L's go by without a Ledger and I think, "Wha?" Then they stick him at the end because his death transcends the alphabet.

Diablo Cody wins for Screenplay and she is so not weird. What a disappointment.

The Daniel Day Lewis Award goes to…that guy!

Best Director is the Coens and I guess they should change that category to Best Director(s) just in case.

DENZEL! I want to lick that man's bald head.

Best Picture goes to…Psycho Killer Movie (No Country For Old Men).

Some not-so-old men talk about some shit and I cry a single solitary tear because I just wasted four years of my life that I will never get back. Then I fall asleep dreaming about what I would do if I ran into Ellen Page and Jennifer Garner at an after-Oscar party.

Zzzzzzzzz.

Buckle up!

Earlier today I was talking to my good friend Betsy and we were recapping our weekends for each other when I mentioned that I had gone to this store Buckle and bought some jeans. After conversing for a few more minutes, we come to find out that we each had eerily similar experiences in the store. That got me thinking that maybe I should write a blog about it to warn others of their practices before the poor shlubs set foot in the store.

First of all let me say that whoever came up with the retail marketing plan for Buckle is a friggin' genius and I hope they get/got paid an obscene amount of money for their services. You will find out why in the proceeding paragraphs.

With my tax refund in hand, I decided to take a little trip to Cool Springs Mall and buy myself a little happy. It has always seemed to me that saving money is for losers. I would rather have cute jeans or download 50 songs from iTunes than be a responsible adult. Actually, I am an 80% responsible adult, because I had a conversation with myself beforehand where I said, "Listen, fuckface (my pet name for myself), you only get to spend 20% of this money on frivolous stuff. The rest goes to charity -- ha ha! Just kidding. Charity, smarity." My inner voice is a selfish bitch.

So me and my inner voice are strolling along past the stores I had no interest in and on my way to Sears to clothes shop (that's a joke) I saw this neat little store called Buckle. It wasn't as off-putting as other youth-oriented stores (e.g. Abercrombie with their half naked gay men ads, Hollister with their "unce unce" music, Aeropostale with their size 0 and below, etc.). I enter this Buckle and immediately fall in love with a cute hoodie I see hanging, haunting me with its longing gaze. After glancing at the price tag and deciding it would not be in my best interest to buy a hoodie for $75, I commenced looking at their plentiful supply of jeans. You have to understand that for me to spend over $40 on jeans ever, they have to either be able to make me lose weight or make me a vanilla soy latte with extra foam. As far as I could tell, these Buckles could not do either. I was about to leave when a girl who I can only assume will be starring in "High School Musical 3: Tramp Stamp!" accosted me. I don't recall her name, but I am guessing it was something like Princess or Sparkle or something. She started bombarding me with questions when I said I had never been there before. How tall are you? What size do you wear? Where do you usually buy your jeans? Will you sign my yearbook? She scared me. But I got even when I told her I usually buy jeans at Old Navy...her face looked like something out of "Blair Witch Project."

When Sparkle finished her interrogation, I was holding about 10 pairs of jeans that I don't remember picking up at all -- I think they just appeared. She shoved me into a dressing room next to Britney and Tiffany, who were oh ma gah-ing over some text message. I freed my arms of the 50 pounds of denim into the chair in the room. Something was wrong with this dressing room. What the hell is wrong with this dressing room? Right. There are NO MIRRORS. WTF? The mirror was outside the room. I should have turned around and run as fast as I could. But I am pretty sure Sparkle had planted a GPS tracking device on me somewhere while she distracted me with her confusing sizes and jean names ("Sinful Angel Wing Jean"? Really, Papi?).

I start to try on the jeans and I swear I don't even have one full leg in one pair and I hear Sparkle, "Hey, Amanda (they ask you your name when you come in)!!!!!!!!!! How are those working for you?" I inform her that I need a little more time. "OK, sweetie. I'll check back in with you!!!!!!!" Joy. The first three pairs are duds, mostly because of this weird thing I have where I prefer the world to not see my ass crack. I know, I'm strange. The next pair were so bad that I had to call my friends at Camel Towing to free me. At this point I realize that it is about 100 degrees in the store. Beads of sweat are rolling down my forehead. I walk out of the dressing room with a pair on to look in the mirror (did I mention that they did not have mirrors in the dressing room? I did?). In case the muffin top didn't clue me in that the jeans were too tight, Sparkle came farting by to offer, "Now remember, they will stretch!!!!!!" Thanks for making my brown eyes blue, Sparkle.

So, here I am in this dressing room sweating to death, wearing jeans that are too tight and too long that I really can't afford. I find myself plotting my escape because I know that Sparkle has probably staked out all exits and has her taser ready if I try to leave without purchasing anything. I feel beat down, manipulated, harassed, abused and misled. I think about calling my congressman or the embassy. Is Buckle a third-world country? Finally I decide that there is no way out other than to buy a $70 pair of jeans (the cheapest, by the way). I tell Sparkle to ring them up for me. Then she informs me of their awesome layaway plan, so if I wanted to pick out a couple more, I could put down some money and come back and buy them later. Huh? Someone please explain to me how a clothing store has a layaway plan. Oh right, because you could feed a family of four for a week with the money you pay for one pair of jeans.

I politely declined her layaway offer and shoved my credit card in her face, eager to leave this troubled world behind. I thought for a second that when she swiped my card that Buckle instantly new everything about me from my favorite color to the date of my last bowel movement. Sparkle handed me my solid 14K gold jeans in a a cheap silver bag when what I really wanted was a hard shell briefcase with handcuffs. I took my package and got the hell out of there. I couldn't help but marvel at how they duped me into buying something I wasn't sure of in the first place. My feelings of gullibility flooded over me and I vowed never to purchase from the evil Buckle again.

OMG! You should see this cute pair on buckle.com that I just found!! Hmmmm...they do have layaway...