There Is Only So Much I Can Bear As the Weight of Oscar Gold Rests on My Weary Shoulders.

Juiceboxes, hamsters, undeserving Oscar winners. Things I love.

Seems bizarre but all will be revealed. Like a young girl being exposed to weird Uncle Sal’s genitals. Unwillingly.

Growing up eating paste, pretending to be superheroes, and pinning your tail on a donkey is something we can all relate to. Most of you do this before college, but I is late bloomer. Cut me slack. (Bitch.)

So with the memory of youthful exuberance, you understand that juiceboxes are love -- yummy, sweet, packed with vitamins. Parents let you drink it because it’s healthy. (Watch it, too much rots your teeth. It’s a deceptive world we live in.) And taking care of that hamster is love. (Also a plot by your parents to instill some voodoo hooey about responsibility, yadda yadda, eat/drink/smoke/shit/sleep/eat more/shit more/no-mom-and-dad-it-didn’t-yes-still-don’t-have-a-real-job.) Just to have it plowed to death by the lawnmower or car or your sister’s fat pimply ass. Never solved that one... But, yes, I still hold the memory of Chuckles close to my bosom.

However! Understanding the love for Oscar winners is as complex an undertaking as life’s great mysteries. God, what makes string cheese so string-like and cheesy?

Let’s start at the very beginning. A very good place to start. (Curse you, Sound of Music and your hypnotic effects on impressionable children!)

The Oscars began in 1928.

70 years later, Jack Nicholson (who is awesome) and Helen Hunt (who is Jamie Buckman from TV’s Mad About You) won awards for As Good As It Gets. Cute movie, I guess, but that’s one meek American lady against four Brits. Helena Bonham Carter and her heroin-addled veins definitely reign supreme over Jamie Buckman from TV’s Mad About You. I love me some Marla. Scream at my boredom-induced alter ego who’s cleverly situated next to a gelatinous writhing dildo any day. (Kids say the darndest things. Cosby agrees.)

Then, the Oscars, much like my adolescence, spin out of control for the next ten years, churning out scraggly, greasy products that smell vaguely of cheese i.e: Halle, Julia, Jamie, Malcolm X. (the actor), Crash, Almost Famous, Return of the King, 2 Live Crew/Three 6 Mafia.

After this explanation, you perhaps share the same distaste and are thinking one of two things: Why puberty sucks and why does this bozo still love shitty Oscar winners?

The point is that “Catwoman starring Oscar-winner Halle Berry” and “Oscar-winner Jamie Foxx in Stealth” can exist. Hearing the voiceover guy spit these words out without irony is music - pure, unadulterated love melodies dancing in my ears like Keebler elves.

Plain and simple. There is something undeniably arousing about watching critical acclaim sink to rock-bottom depths. You know you’ve been there. Watching a bunch of image-obsessed actors flounder when their careers take a nosedive just makes you want to get it on.

~Fin~

In closing, as promised, juiceboxes, hamsters, shit Oscar winners -- what do you have in common?

I want to squeeze each and every one of you and watch fluids squirt out. With love. Baby.