I was going to write a big long diatribe about the Golden Globes. How they were a travesty, how they were terrible, about how I don’t care if you were delusional enough to like Sweeney Todd, there’s not a fucking chance in hell that’s best comedy or musical, let alone Johnny Depp scowling his way to a win, or how Atonement won because the HPFA is a f-in’ FA, and thusly nominated anyone with an accent or who LIVES in a foreign country. How I was stunned that they got some things so right, like giving a great big old fuck you to network television and basically giving awards to anything on cable. How I didn’t even watch the reading of the lots, because who fucking cares.
But that’s what Ben Silverman wants me to do. He threw his little tantrum that how dare we, the writers, piss on his little prom. How dare we ruin the Golden Globes! Shame on us! So I’m sure these were rigged like a Rube Goldberg execution machine, and the results were made in order to foster discussion about the wrongness of the selections.
And that justifies them. Nobody picked a winner when there was no World Series because baseball went on strike. Nobody won anything. I refuse to acknowledge them.
And Ben Silverman, fuck you. Fuck you hard, you shitstain. He looks like some sort of Willy Wonka/Michael Jackson hybrid who’s one “innocent beautiful mistake” away from a huge out of court settlement. Or as the priests at the parish called it “a pat on the head and a bag of peanut M&Ms”. He’s sad he didn’t get his prom. Well, dance away, fucknuts.
It reminds me of that scene in Dirty Rotten Scoundrels where Michael Caine forces the toothpaste heiress to dance to show up Steve Martin. Dance and smile! Pretend it’s all wonderful! And so, out of anger for Ben Silverman not getting that prom he so richly wanted, I am going to push Steve Martin down a flight of stairs in a wheelchair.
