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'tis the season

if memory serves, it was around this time one year ago that i sat down to blog about my post-hollywood-related-stress -disorder which inevitably bubbles to the surface when the oscarmoths circle round the self-important westbeverlybarebulb hanging from c.theron's left tata.

i'm a pretty simple guy, more or less predictable when it comes to all things consumable: beer, lighter than dark... wine- australian. music, independent... and movies, subtitled. i really don't do hollywood for the most part- mutli-million $ films that induce acid reflux in the first 15mins. more often than not, i'm gonna pass.

and then come the oscars, when hollywood eats a giant hollywood sandwich smothered in hollywood with a side of hollywood. all set to the tune of this redcarpetedcrotchetycrustmuffin:
Joan Rivers

it's the one time of year when the department of homeland security swoops in to raise the crispy-corpses-of-terror-o-meter from it's usual moderatedawnofthe deadmolestationprobable to elevatedburntsiennafleshtone/should have taken her out of the oven days ago-

you can imagine my deep dismay when joan rivers' oven stuffah roaster timer finally popped this year, and she's nowhere to be found on network tv.

insert sigh of relief (here). now if i could just get gwen stefani's turkeytimer to pop too- then we'd be livin lahge with both of my arch nemeses sent off to the giant perdue sanctuary in the sky...

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