Booze schmooze
The champagne is poured, the canapés are on trays, and the coke is being Hoovered up the noses of more than one agent. It’s the Governor’s Ball and it’s dreadful.
The décor of the ballroom beside the Kodak Theatre resembles a tent, and I didn’t dress up and to go camping. Who the hell thought this was a good idea? Even with my fifth award, you’d think I’d be happy by now, but these decorators have no bloody taste.
God, I need a drink; my flask of Scotch is empty.
While air kissing a series of actors, directors and producers (they’re the only ones with power, unlike writers), I move my way through the ballroom to my table. At least they placed me with A-listers this time, and not Ben Affleck.
The dinner is hardly touched by many of the women because their dresses may split if they eat anything more than two bites of caviar. I eat both my dinner and Nicole’s. Keith is just sitting there, eyeing the bottles of alcohol on the table. He needs a bath.
Helen Mirren comes by and whispers her hotel name and room number in my ear. She winks at me. I swallow hard. God, I want to push all the plates off the table, throw her on it, and fuck her right now.
Next, my handler wakes me from my stupor and reminds me that I have to “make appearances” at the other parties. Am I ever allowed to rest? Is that what an Oscar winner has to go through? These people, I swear.
Off to the Vanity Fair party at Morton’s, where everyone who is everyone is there. There is the walk up to the entrance and the only thing that is seen is a series of flashes. I’m temporarily blinded and am considering suing Getty Images and Corbis.
Madonna looks amazing and shows me how to hold a glass while standing on her head. Oprah sings out of sync when a Mary J. song comes on. Jodie continually says she wants to get out of her dress and into some flannel. They don’t care what they’re doing or saying because the media isn’t allowed inside.
Tom Cruise jumps on a chair and declares his love for me. He’s such a freak. I’ve told him time and time again that I am not going to fuck him or his beard. Doesn’t anyone in his cult speak English? I am going to sell the photos to Star and Us Weekly and make a mint.
God, I need another drink. These booze schmooze fests are dehydrating.
Elton John’s fundraiser is over-the-top glam. I’m told that Jennifer Hudson wants to sing with me on stage. We sing a I Am Changing/One Night Only melody and try to out-church each other with our vocal runs. The crowd gets up and cheers us on. Beyoncé cries under the table, and her creepy father gives me the evil eye.
The studio parties are boring. The Warner Brothers one was filled with the cast and crew of their best picture winner. Other studio parties are dead since they didn’t win anything big. Better luck next time bribing those voters, Paramount. Take a tip from Weinstein and use bullying tactics for 2007.
It’s getting late and my head is swimming in champagne. What time is it? I don’t know. All I can remember is a hotel name and room number. I tell the driver where to go and he obliges. I pass out.
The next thing I remember is waking up and seeing another Oscar on the bedside table, right next to mine.
Wait a minute. This isn’t my room…
The décor of the ballroom beside the Kodak Theatre resembles a tent, and I didn’t dress up and to go camping. Who the hell thought this was a good idea? Even with my fifth award, you’d think I’d be happy by now, but these decorators have no bloody taste.
God, I need a drink; my flask of Scotch is empty.
While air kissing a series of actors, directors and producers (they’re the only ones with power, unlike writers), I move my way through the ballroom to my table. At least they placed me with A-listers this time, and not Ben Affleck.
The dinner is hardly touched by many of the women because their dresses may split if they eat anything more than two bites of caviar. I eat both my dinner and Nicole’s. Keith is just sitting there, eyeing the bottles of alcohol on the table. He needs a bath.
Helen Mirren comes by and whispers her hotel name and room number in my ear. She winks at me. I swallow hard. God, I want to push all the plates off the table, throw her on it, and fuck her right now.
Next, my handler wakes me from my stupor and reminds me that I have to “make appearances” at the other parties. Am I ever allowed to rest? Is that what an Oscar winner has to go through? These people, I swear.
Off to the Vanity Fair party at Morton’s, where everyone who is everyone is there. There is the walk up to the entrance and the only thing that is seen is a series of flashes. I’m temporarily blinded and am considering suing Getty Images and Corbis.
Madonna looks amazing and shows me how to hold a glass while standing on her head. Oprah sings out of sync when a Mary J. song comes on. Jodie continually says she wants to get out of her dress and into some flannel. They don’t care what they’re doing or saying because the media isn’t allowed inside.
Tom Cruise jumps on a chair and declares his love for me. He’s such a freak. I’ve told him time and time again that I am not going to fuck him or his beard. Doesn’t anyone in his cult speak English? I am going to sell the photos to Star and Us Weekly and make a mint.
God, I need another drink. These booze schmooze fests are dehydrating.
Elton John’s fundraiser is over-the-top glam. I’m told that Jennifer Hudson wants to sing with me on stage. We sing a I Am Changing/One Night Only melody and try to out-church each other with our vocal runs. The crowd gets up and cheers us on. Beyoncé cries under the table, and her creepy father gives me the evil eye.
The studio parties are boring. The Warner Brothers one was filled with the cast and crew of their best picture winner. Other studio parties are dead since they didn’t win anything big. Better luck next time bribing those voters, Paramount. Take a tip from Weinstein and use bullying tactics for 2007.
It’s getting late and my head is swimming in champagne. What time is it? I don’t know. All I can remember is a hotel name and room number. I tell the driver where to go and he obliges. I pass out.
The next thing I remember is waking up and seeing another Oscar on the bedside table, right next to mine.
Wait a minute. This isn’t my room…
Authored by S at 12:00 am
5 Comments:
oh no! who's room is it?
And so continues the saga of "Steven, the Young and the Restless".
I bet it's Jennifer Hudson's room. You got trapped in her tremendous boobs and could not escape.
name dropper ...
i had no idea you were so fabulous.
ROFL....Your being silly!!
You need HOT SEX!
Hmmmm *winks*
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