Academy Fucks Up commune Oscar Pool Something Awful

roving once and for all that you don't have to be white to win a token acting award, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences kissed it's own ass Sunday by awarding the Best Actor and Best Actress Oscars to known black people Denzel Washington and Halle Berry.

A move trumpeted as ground-breaking and courageous by Academy publicists and people trying to sell newspapers nation-wide, the Academy was deftly able to both punish Russell Crowe for acting like an asshole (and for doing an action movie in 2000, making them look bad for giving him his 1999 The Insider Oscar that year), and open the door to give Tom Hanks another Oscar the next year there's an outstanding black actor in a leading role. Unless, of course, Robert DeNiro or Sean Penn get really sick and the Academy has to hurry up and give them more awards before they die.

Washington received his Best Actor Oscar for his work in Malcolm X, which inconveniently came out ten years ago, in 1992, the year they gave Al Pacino the Best Actor Oscar for his work in The Godfather Part II, which came out in 1974. In 1974 the Best Actor Oscar went to Art Carney, because he likes puppies.

But the Academy is nothing if it's not just, at least on a 20-year scale, and the rest of the deserving 1974 field would get their kudos in time. Dustin Hoffman would go on to win his 1974 Lenny Oscar in 1979, while Jack Nicholson had to wait until 1983 to win his 1974 Oscar for Chinatown.

The developments in this year's awards have changed everything for black actors, and by that I mean Denzel and Morgan Freeman, who both now have a chance to be nominated again. Reaction on the street has been unanimous, with Americans from all walks of life joining together to say: "That's cool. But Training Day? I guess, whatever."

The reaction at the commune offices was much more passionate, as no one had counted on this being the Academy's year to pat itself on the back. As a result, the commune's annual Oscars office pool was won by Lil Duncan, who hadn't seen any of the nominated films and filled out her ballot with some help from an issue of People magazine. Ivan Nacutchacokov had the most to be upset about, as he had spent weeks developing a complex algorithm to determine the winners, but had left out the variable that among the front-runners, the blandest film always wins.

When Ron Howard was announced as the winner of the Best Director Oscar, Nacutchacokov laughed at first, then realized it wasn't a gag announcement and stormed off in a huff, requiring him to be tasered by security personnel. No one was entirely sure the tasering was completely necessary, but they weren't taking any chances since Ted Ted had thrown our original television set out the window in a rage during the ceremony's opening title sequence, and our TV set budget had been badly depleted during Australia's poor showing at the winter Olympics last month.

Pope Swears God Will Punish Drug Dealers With Poor-Quality Shit

Vintage Dell to Grace Smithsonian's New What the Fuck Were We Thinking? Wing

Isaac Hayes Recognized on Bad Mother’s Day

'Paris Hilton Autopsy' Sculpture Signed to Three-Picture Deal

Back in my school days I was of truest retro nature, riding a camel to school in a day when all the kids rode dromedaries, or at least Malibus. Can you pluralize Malibu? Sounds like a sickly French school bus to me.

Bas Lurman or no Bas Lurman (though of course I prefer the former), I have to say that retro anything is a good excuse to wear the clothes you get off the old couples when you do those home invasion robberies. You agree, no? Not fewer than seven times have I had the fashion-savvy passerby comment upon my depression-era negligee and feather boa. But I have to admit that even I cringe at those old high school yearbook photos, thinking as I did at the time that I was posing for a Playboy spread. Quite the challenge for a young Wisconsin boy but we're of scrappy stock and suffer for our art.

And suffer we did! The episodes with Scrappy were the hardest Scooby Doos to watch, indeed. I always thought "Scooby Doo" sounded like something you find on your windshield after you get your car out of long-term parking at the airport. But still the courts would not hear my intellectual property suit, which was a shame since its pinstripes were exquisite. Am I getting through to you?

I'm so confused... if only Alex Trebek were here to help me out in my time of need…

-dissolve-

"Welcome to the show Stu, why don't you start us off and pick a category? Your choices are: "Kidd Rock's in My Outhouse!" "High School Fashions of the Damned" "Andy Rooney's Hemorrhoid Pillow" "Things You've Eaten By Accident" and "What's In This Damn Shampoo?"."

"I'll take Vanna White for a ride, Alex!"

"That's not an option, Stu. That's not even the right show."

"Judges?"

"Goddammit Stu! Only I can question the judges! You're treading on thin ice mister!"

-jarring return to reality-

Last year I met those Hansen kids in person and I have to say, those were some cute motherfuckers. We're talking cute beyond all intelligible speech. I had to communicate through a hand puppet the whole time. If I'd had more time to prepare, it probably wouldn't have been a boxing puppet of Hitler dressed up as a nun, but it was short notice and all. I don't think they really meant what they said about my ruining of their lives and all that. Crazy kids.

But a restraining order is a restraining order, as my dad used to say. And this one, I believe, has also been ratified by NATO. That can't be right.

I was just commenting the other day: Man, Clorox sucks on cereal! Oh, wait -flips through mental file- I guess the relevant comment would actually be: I need to come up with a plan for my life. A mission, even. Do you have a mission, should I choose to accept it? Why thank you, I love Spanish architecture! Haha. That one never gets old. Seriously though, my plan:

(Read slowly, 'cause I don't write that fast.)

Five years from now, I'd like to be, for all intents and purposes, Bjork.

There you go. That is my five-year plan, though Dad tells me it shouldn't have taken five years just to come up with that. I told him to bite it, Hotsy.

Anyway, now I see a wayward soul trying to put a parking ticket on my windshield outside, I must go and act as his conscience. I did mention that I'm three inches tall, and a cricket, right?

º Last Column: A Brief Survey
º more columns

At one time a distant relative of mine told a timid and anxious nation that we have nothing to fear but fear itself. And mostly I agree with that, except I thought I'd ammend it since it's a different world today.

For one, first and foremost, in the wake of recent events, there is a renewedfear of bio-terrorism. Anthrax, anthrax everywhere! Sure, it would seem likewe're not in any immediate danger if we don't work for politicians or newspeople, but now they say that crap can rub off on other mail just by being mixed together. Whoa-ho! That ought to send a chill creeping right up your spine.

Let's not forget what started all this panic. We have to admit that we have terrorist attacks and retaliation to fear. More specifically, we have crazy hijackers commandeering planes and flying them into national monuments and highly-populated tourist attractions to fear. Not to mention long-standing favorite terrorist actions, like driving exploding trucks or cars into populated buildings or planting undetectable bombs where we can't find them to fear. That's pretty scary shit.

Then there's the whole idea of Muslim retaliation from foreign countries and militant groups that side with terrorists. They could rip apart global alliances or even, in most drastic situations, start a holy war with our country. Jesus damn! How did this shit get started? You're goddamn right we have that to fear, even if not as much as some of the other stuff first. And everybody's got a nuclear bomb these days. What if some nutjob decides to set it off? Or the president gets really pissed off or we elect some senial nut like Reagan, remember the '80s when every day you woke up thinking today is going to be the day that wrinkled fascist thinks he's he's buzzing his secretary and BOOM! Fucking Ameritoast. So even if we don't get bombed by our enemies we could explode ourselves into smithereens, thank you very much, Mr. As-Yet-Unknown Senial President of the Future.

Oh, shit, I didn't even mention trying to get on a plane. If you think those college dropouts laid off from the McDonald's are going to check your bag well enough to find any potential weapon, good luck to you. These guys are lucky to dress themselves in the morning, I bet. Or they'll be so busy checking for Arabs with boxcutters they'll let Johnny Militia and his constituency of fruitcakes through the metal detectors with Ryder truck manure bombs strapped to their fucking back. Remember, it wasn't so long ago when young white Americans were the biggest enemy to freedom you'd ever fucking seen. These assholes are so worried about the threat the U.N. poses to us they must have missed, oh, I guess the part of the Constitution that says don't blow up your own fucking country, you dumbasses.

And that ain't it, no sirs. Let's not forget the big G, the Creator, the Man Upstairs, His Holy Capitalized Self. He's always giving us the shit: Tornadoes, Hurricanes, Earthquakes—check that out, wake up for a nice day of going to work and making some bread and the fucking ground opens up under you! Holy shit! Forgot to mention that part in the Bible, eh, Your Holy Groundripper, Sir? I don't know what apostle was supposed too get that shit into the Bible but he sure fucked up big time.

Then there's always the dumb shit. Getting hit by lightning, falling off the house while re-shingling it, the real dumb stuff the obituary columns won't even print 'cause it looks so retarded. And then there's car accidents up the whazoo. Car accidents claim more people in a regular year than any terrorist attacks do.

And disease and cancer and getting shot by some random dumbass who thinks you flipped him off in traffic. Shit, you know what, I don't even want to get up in the morning anymore. Nothing to fear but fear itself? Yeah, that's kind of right, ol' Mr. Roosevelt. Although I think you forgot to mention, oh, EVERYTHING. Thank you very fucking much.

º Last Column: All I Want for Christmas is My Two Front Teeth, and a Robotic Dinosaur
º more columns