You’ve obviously turned your computer on. So you’re well aware that Oscar nominations were announced this morning. I read them off to my co-workers, feeling like I was some drunk has-been presenting an award.
“Joaquin Phoenix for Walk the Line. He’s a complete loon. Seriously, you guys. He’s insane. Phillip Seymore Hoffman for Capote. He must win. I’m still not over Bill Murray being robbed. Heath Ledger for Brokeback Mountain. Ugh, the mumbling. Over it. David Strathairn for Good Night and Good Luck. I hate him because he takes himself too seriously to do red carpet interviews. And Terrance Howard for Hustle and Flow. That’s the pimp movie.”
Apparently, Terrance Howard can’t stop crying. I don’t blame him. To think that anyone from The Best Man would ever get nominated for an Oscar is absurd. Also, the fact that lovebirds Heath Ledger and Michelle Williams are nominated makes me want to stab someone. I know I will be bombarded with images of them gazing at each other, so desperately in love that we’ll all act shocked when they arrive at next year’s Oscars with other people.
Oh, what I wouldn’t give to win an Oscar. The glory. The gown. The giftbag. Not to mention the speech!
“And the winner is…Beth Spotswood for Shotgun Revenge, the Kimberly Guilfoyle Newsom Story.
Camera cuts to me, overwhelmed in my Narcisco Rodriguez gown and Harry Winston diamonds. Billions of eyes watch for my reaction.
Internally, I’m relieved and vindicated. Externally, I’m shocked and humble. I rise, making sure every inch of that dress is where it’s supposed to be, and hug my brother who attended with me. The controversial nature of my winning role meant Gavin had to stay at home and avoid the media frenzy. I make my way to the stage, ignoring the brown-nosing skanks trying to act like they know me and graciously hugging select and wildly important people with whom I wish to appear close. A tuxedoed male supermodel escorts me up the stairs, where George Clooney hands me my Oscar and slips me a mysterious personal note.
Still feigning shock and humility, I step to the microphone and scan the star-studded audience, shooting Angelina Jolie a dirty look. Composing myself, I take a deep breath and begin my prepared speech.
“Anyone who says it’s an honor just to be nominated is full of shit. It’s an honor to win, folks. And for the rest of my life, I’ll have ‘Oscar-winning’ as a pre-fix. Yes! Deal with that, bitches. Uh, there are so many people to thank. I’d like to thank Jennifer Lopez for her crappy taste, making the rest of us look better. I’d like to thank my supporting cast for staying the hell away from my trailer as I requested. I’d like to thank my agent for getting me far more money than anyone deserves. And I’d like to thank Clooney for last night…”