Men in Love, Agave, and Salty Snacks! The Academy Awards show was entertaining enough. Certainly more so than renting a stupid movie. Jon Stewart did an okay job and will keep his career despite the media hoohah surrounding the hosting gig. Will Jon suck? Will Jon be funny like Oscar host god, Billy Crystal? Will Jon join his dad, Rod, for the show finale, and will it be a rousing Hot Legs or a moldy fig from one of his horrible recent albums?
Flip a coin, we forgot already.
I sat on the couch with the wife, slammed shots of Tres Generaciones tequila, leafed through stupid magazines, ate pistachios, and cracked wise at the TV screen. I could have went to the show this year because of the movie, Giddyup Vagina, that Steve Martin and I are readying to shoot but because of the conflama--conflict + drama--and ego that rears its ugly head at these things, I decided to stay home.
You’ll recall, the last time I went to the Oscar gig, there was the well publicized incident when I punched out Vin Diesel in the alley behind the theatre. Funny--I can’t even remember why I popped that fucker, but he deserved it. That I remember.
At home on TV, it worked for me. Nice and easy does it. I put on leather chaps and a cowboy hat.
Sad—but not that sad--to say Christine and I didn’t see any of the movies nominated except the "Best Picture of the Year," David Cronenberg’s Crash. Creepy. We also enjoyed Phillip Hoffman’s acceptance speech, and the Reese chick was on the money, but we loved the tequila most, of course.
We were tres generaciones to the wind and roared when Norm Macdonald ran onstage in red polka dotted boxers, and simulated anal sex with Jon Stewart. Yeeeeeeha--a Brokeback Mountain reference, we reckon.
Unless, of course, Norm & Jon are in love.
A.) Ha, ha, ha, fucking Norm. Leave it to that bastard to steal the show. B.) Good tequila makes awards shows entertaining. C.) There’s nothing like golden globes on parade.
They Say No to Fettuccine Alfredo! The mysterious and ever present “they” say that Mexican will soon surpass Italian and Chinese as America’s number one favorite food. O yay como va, mi amigos. In fact, salsa apparently outsells ketchup already though we’re not sure if that includes catsup.
Shame on us—grown, mature adults and we still don’t know the difference between ketchup and catsup.
A.) I think you mean catnip; it’s a recreational drug for cats. B.) I’m allergic to tomatoes—fuck ketchup, fuck catsup. C.) I’m allergic to blogs.
Leaving His Brother's Behind! In a book pitch to publishers a few years ago, Jermaine Jackson claims his brother Michael loves pills and young boys.
A.) Hey, who doesn’t? B.) Gone but not forgotten: Bubbles the Monkey. C.) Billy Jean is not my lover.
Musty on the Roads! I’m on a side street off 8 Mile Road, west of Livernois. I ran out of gas, fuck. Tokugawa is on the way with a gallon. Not the best way to start a fucking week, that’s for sure. Traffic is running pretty smoothly though. Fuck, here comes a bum looking for change. Motherfuck. Everybody has their goddamned hand out.
This is Musty Scribblins for Lady Bomb Escorts with Musty on the Roads.
A.) Give the guy a quarter, cheap fuck. B.) Yes, keeping an eye on the gas gauge is quite complicated, retard. C.) We should call 8 Mile road Eminem Ave instead. Looking for writers?