It happens every year. I can practically set my watch to it. In fact, I’m surprised it doesn’t have a designated calendar day all its own. Take out the decorations, folks; it’s time for the annual celebration of Dump All Over the Oscars!
I find this next point immaterial to the subject matter, but allow me to be transparent: I unabashedly love the Oscars. I overused-pop-culture-buzzword-LURVE them. I’ve been a committed and passionate viewer since I was Oscar statuette-sized. My mom and I make a mother-daughter event out of it, complete with nominated-film-themed food, winner ballots, Oscar bingo, and swag bags. We are the Oscars’ target audience, so it’s no surprise to me when I fervently enjoy them every year.
It’s strange, though. I elect to watch this annual broadcast entirely of own free will. I don’t recall anyone showing up at my door with explosives strapped to their chest demanding I turn on my TV. Last I checked, I hadn’t been waterboarded until I was able to form an opinion on the red carpet fashion. And I’m fairly confident that no member of my family had been abducted by the Academy Mafia with a ransom set at the price of “watch the Oscars.”
But I’m starting to feel like maybe I should be insulted? Have I been singled out? Am I the last member of the social-media-connected world who the Academy hasn’t included in some Clockwork Orange-style forced viewing of the awards show? I’m a droog, too! Aren’t I special? If you prick me, do I not cry the tears of a thousand Leonardo DiCaprio fans?
Listen, friends. I like a good kvetch as much as the next person. A sassy tweet is my weapon of choice, and I happily wield it during all major events that capture our community’s consciousness. It’s fun to hate-watch stuff from time-to-time. But at the root of all hate-watching should be a general enjoyment of the program in question—otherwise, da hell are you doing with your life? Oh, you’re spending your time vehemently loathing something you’re doing voluntarily that you could easily and immediately stop? Rock on. But dear god, please tell me you don’t vote…or plan on procreating.
The point is, sweet petunias, that no one—I repeat, no one—is forcing you to watch the mutha-fuggin’ Oscars. They’re just not. The Oscars aren’t even something that you need to feel you should watch in order to be a contributing member of society. They are a frivolous pastime that is meant to be enjoyed by those who are interested. You are making a choice and, again, if you’re choosing to watch something you loathe for the same damn reasons every year, you are making what is called a “bad choice.” With that in mind, could everyone please justify the following complaints to me?
The Oscars Are Too Long
Really? The awards show that’s meant to honor the best out of the hundreds of films that were made in the last year through the major production and distribution companies that need to be judged in 24 different and complex areas of performance, design, and production; not to mention honor those in the community who’ve made a meaningful contribution and have died; not to mention provide continual varied yet inoffensive entertainment via a comedic emcee for a room full of thousands of people and millions across the world; not to mention allow time for the human beings who’ve deigned to be proud of their body of work and want to take 60 seconds to thank those who are important to them for contributing to that work which brought them this award…should clock in around 2 hours? Is that was you’re telling me?
I know we’re keeping you from your very busy schedule of solving race relations and discovering a renewable energy source, but brutha, this thing happens…
Once. A. Year.
It’s supposed to be long. And jeezus, it’s not wartime torture! You’re watching pretty dresses, funny people, and impressive performances. Woof, you’re right, that is an ordeal. Oh, I’m sorry, was the talent parade too long? Was there just too much time spent enjoying art, music, and comedy? What an unending trial! Next time, we’ll end the celebration of a medium that brings billions of people simple joy around hour two and return you to your usual routine of mindlessly wandering the internet. Our bad.
No one is forcing you. Turn it off when you get bored.
The Acceptance Speeches Never End
Hahahahahah, yeah, OKAY. I’ve seen your Facebook page, world. You heap congratulations on yourself when you do nothing more impressive than make it a week without eating your weight in Girl Scout Cookies. Now TRY and tell me you’d be brief if you won the most coveted award in your field. TRY and tell me you wouldn’t thank every man, woman, child, and mailbox you ever met. TRY. Yeah…I didn’t think so.
No one is forcing you. DVR it and fast-forward through the acceptance speeches like the heartless Grinch you are. I won’t tell. (J/K, you’re completely soulless and should hide your ugly face in shame.)
The Host And/Or Whole Show Was Boring
Um…I’m confused. Didn’t you just finish complaining to me like a sniveling pre-teen with the attention span of a very dull gnat about how looooong the Oscars are? Wasn’t that you? Okay, cool, yeah—it was. I thought I recognized that big, dumb, slack-jawed face.
Make up your mind, people. Exactly how much do you think can be squeezed in between award presentations before the show starts creeping toward 6 hours? You can’t have it both ways. Are you so much in need of constant entertainment that a witty opening monologue and silly bits peppered throughout isn’t enough to get you through a once-a-year broadcast? Ellen wore a giant Glinda the Good Witch costume, people! That’s gold. If you can’t enjoy Ellen in a giant Glinda the Good Witch costume, the terrorists win.
Oh, but maybe you’re one of those who thinks less time should be paid to the awards so as to allow for more “entertainment.” Well, I hope you’re a knockout, cause you’re sure as shootin’ not getting by on your brainses. It’s an awards show. Don’t like awards shows? …WTF are you doing watching one and now reading a blog post about one?!?!?
No one is forcing you. Just…don’t watch it. Okay? Just don’t. Read any part of the 1.21 gigawatts worth of press coverage that will greet you 15 seconds after the Best Picture winner is announced. You’ll feel better. I’ll have less to write about, but you’ll feel better. Help me help you, mkay?
There is one group whose unending, self-important, inexplicable hatred of something as innocuous as the Oscars I could maybe tolerate: the writers who are required to report on them the next day for their jobs. I guess you get a free pa–
You know what?
You’re GETTING PAID TO WRITE. Boo. Freakin’. Hoo. Screw you and the golden-horse-made-of-unbelievable-luck-and-candy that you rode in on. In fact, you’re the worst of all.
My fellow countrymen, there is a show towering atop the ratings that is based on a family of bigots who made millions off of duck calls. The Oscars are the least upsetting thing that attracts that level of viewership. So, let me enjoy my Prada and Dior, my record-breaking selfies, and my indulgent montages in peace.
Or, as is more likely, I’ll see ya next year—ya noxious trolls.