Spacey and Oscar: Together Forever

he Motion Picture Academy of Arts and Sciences announced today that they are creating a special category of Oscar, beginning with this year's ceremony, that will be reserved exclusively for actor Kevin Spacey.

"We just really, really like the guy, you know?" said an Academy spokesperson. "That's why we've created the Kevin Spacey Perpetual Award, to be given to Kevin Spacey every single year from now on. We just think he's a great practitioner of his craft, and a delight to have around."

Speaking under condition of anonymity, at a location that may or may not have been the Viper Room, the spokesperson, wearing a Groucho mask and holding a handkerchief in front of his mouth to disguise his voice, went on to add that "This doesn't mean he won't still be eligible for Oscars in other categories, like Best Actor or whatever. It just means that we're assured of having him up on stage and thanking the Academy at least once every year."

"The great thing is, he's not some fat, bloated lunatic with his best years long behind him who walks around the set without his pants on and sends Native American women to pick up his awards and talk politics all night, like Brando. And he's not a young, talented firebrand like Sean Penn, who ignores our annual get-together and calls us all bad names. He's just a real nice guy in real life. Or so I've heard."

Casting a wary glance from side to side to make sure no one was eavesdropping, the spokesperson went to say, in a very low voice, "There is also a significant faction among the Academy members who still think he might actually be Keyser Soze, and I can tell you in confidence that that belief may have played a small part in this decision. Of course," he said, chuckling slightly and leaning back in his chair, "he could also really be the alien Prot, and disappear from this Earth in a beam of light at any time, heh. That's the beautiful thing about Kev is that you just never know, you know what I mean?"

When asked if there were plans to set up a special Perpetual Award for anyone else, the spokesperson replied, "Well, we tossed around Julia Roberts' name for a while, because most of us like her a lot, but the consensus was that we would hold off with her until she decides to get naked onscreen. Because really, how are you supposed to judge if a broad's got talent or not when she keeps her clothes on in every single movie she makes? I mean, what's up with that?"

British Nearly Affected by London Terror Attacks

Jackson Prosecution Produces Bloody Glove

Heather Graham’s Career Found Dead in Apartment

Polish Roof Falls in Following “Drinks Are on the House” Debacle

These days, it seems like you can't rifle through a newspaper looking for the comics or pretend to read a magazine on the subway while staring down a young lady's blouse without hearing something about the latest business scandal. If somebody isn't having a rubber-gloved finger probed up their asshole for shredding confidential documents, then they're facing the Spanish Inquisition for making a personal fortune by overvaluing their company's stock at the expense of the bottom line. And through it all, I've only got one question on my mind: since when did the entire business world turn into a bunch of crybabies?

Back in my day, you didn't hear people pissing and moaning about insider information or cooking the books and it's not fair, boo-hoo. Back then we only had one rule in business: no kicking in the nuts. And that one was sometimes optional.

Those were the glory days of bold men doing what it took to get head, not bald men doing what it took to get ahead. We had priorities, and big cars. Anybody who wanted to ask too many questions didn't get to ride in the big cars, they could schlep it back to the Hilton in their miserable little Yugos if they wanted to play around with any of that Woodward and Bernstein bullshit.

Heady times, indeed. And the corporate takeovers were the best of the best. I remember I was working for Schleinhauser Nut & Bolt Co. when they bought out Winslow Fasteners. Good god was that sweet! The spoils! We took many of their top executives as man-slaves and the most comely of their female execs and secretaries as our concubines. And I don't recall anyone complaining then, except of course for the man-slaves and concubines.

Forget about trying to live that large these days, you'd be lucky to pull off a subsidized loan to buy company stock in the current "goody two-shoes" national climate. The law of the land used to be that if you didn't have balls big enough to hang with the big boys, then you could cart your shriveled little nuggets on over to the unemployment line, bub. Get in line behind all of the other suckers who take a court order not to shred documents seriously. Hell, in my day I shredded stacks of court orders not to shred documents, that's just the way things worked. It was always better not to leave a paper trail, especially not concerning the sticky finer points of business like profits and expenses and other such voodoo.

Back then people understood that it was all about survival of the fittest, meaning the most cunning and feared, not to mention flinty. These days, people wouldn't know flint if it started their ass on fire in a movie theater. Nowadays it's survival of the least offensive, and may the bland guy win. At least it will be until some real slick bastard comes along and reminds us what it's all about, like some kind of big business Jesus Christ. I personally can't wait; this infantile obsession with "fair play" is really starting to chap my ass.

Jesus, did anyone see the tits on that girl waiting in line over there? I mean, she could lose a few pounds around the middle before she'd be a bona-fide knockout, but still, good lord! A man could get lost in that cleavage. And I hope it's me. I wonder how she feels about 50 year-old married men? Maybe she's got some kind of corporate take-over fantasy rolling around in that pretty little cock-teasing head of hers.

I think I'm going to ask her to join my staff.

º Last Column: I Know You Love Me
º more columns

What's shakin', Kevin Bacon?

Things are okay here. I'm still adjusting to living in New York and especially working at the commune. It's a perplexing place. I’ve been here a few weeks already and so far the only person who's spoken to me is Omar Bricks. I nodded to him in the hall and he convulsed like he's just stepped on a power line and said:

"-bzzzzrrt- Ah, sorry about that. Freakin' security robots! They don't understand anything short of a pizza wheel to the neck."

After that I'm not sure if I'm upset about not hearing from the rest of the staff. Not that a little common concern wouldn't be nice, you know? So, how was your bus ride? Four wheels? Eight? Did you get a mid-ride meal or just peanuts? Here's to hoping your ears popped okay. The standard stuff.

One thing I do know for sure, the commune employee directory is hopelessly obsolete. Apparently they change employees like a whale inhaling plankton, and I think the employee list includes everyone who walks in the doors or is spotted within 100 yards of the building by the guy up on the roof with the binoculars. I'm not kidding, Employee #7710 is listed as "Suspicious Man with Jeri Curl". It's nuts.

And Christ in a cameo, the commune sends us emails about everything! Any time someone retires or transfers or quits or contemplates taking a break to use the bathroom, I get an email about it. I get all excited thinking it's an email from someone nice and instead it's a notice that Bramblethorpe Titdonkey has been promoted to Salad Bar Manager. Do I look like I give a shit? Should I wear a different shirt?

Ah, alas, I must persevere.

Mainly I'm just working on settling in. I just talked to my new auto insurance guy, and he kept saying he would drop my rates considerably if I drove a Hummer. Or something like that. Something about a hummer.

What else? Didn't have time to make a lunch today, so I stole a can of honey-roasted peanuts from the bank to snack on. I just made a really bizarre sound dislodging one from my throat and suddenly some crazy bastard was in here in a duck-hunting hat. I need to hurry up and eat the rest of this can before I choke to death or get shot.

Speaking of the bank, one thing I've discovered recently: If anyone gives you any shit while you're there, just start bleeding everywhere and they'll give you anything you want just to get you out of there. Nobody wants any freaky hemophiliacs running amok in their bank. It's like an unwritten rule or something.

I guess I'd better get back to this paper airplane prototype I've been working on, since this column is going nowhere fast. I've got some flaps torn into the wings so I think it's going to fly pretty sharp. Should put somebody's eye out for sure. Sounds like a... hey, why is a "Barrel of Monkeys" supposed to be so much fun? Who's word are we taking on that? More so than say, a Bathtub of Lizards or a Closet of Weasels... or a Trunk of Pigs? I really wonder.

Can you believe masturbate.com isn't in my spellchecker? What is this, the stone age?

º Last Column: I Know You Love Me
º more columns