I was hit last weekend with the stomach flu or food poisoning. I didn’t know which. The symptoms were the same, so it didn’t matter.
I was dying.
My bones hurt.
Food was revolving.
Fortunately there were the Oscars.
While sucking on a Coke, I watched Ellen Tweet her photos, order pizza and force Scorsese to fork over $200 dollars along with Brad and Leonardo. I noticed she hit the men up for the money and passed out the food to the women. And the guys complied like docile little puppies. Except Brad. She had to shame him in front of a watching world to hand over more bills.
What I didn’t understand was the fairy costume. I must have missed the explanation while my head exploded and I floated off into space like Sandra.
I thought the musical numbers were good, the gowns were sensational, and the jewels were to die for, which I was doing throughout the evening.
I noticed the absence of Tom Hanks and Emma Thompson, but then I notice year after year that the truly talented are passed over for the younger, more appealing. I suppose it’s to keep the youth audiences happy. They’re the ones at the box office, not me.
In between slurps of Coke, I forced myself to drink an ocean of water before they announced the best picture.
Just as the glamour queen opened the envelope, I ran to the bathroom.
When I came back, it was all over.
By Monday, I was several pounds lighter.
I was relieved Gravity hadn’t won.
I felt I was back in orbit.