
There will be a notable absence on Sunday night in the best female category. I wasn’t nominated for A Mighty Heart, a film in which I portrayed a Cajun lady whose husband was killed on YouTube. Everyone thought I would be nominated, but the Academy snubbed me.
Enraged fans, breathe deeply. This snub means nothing to me. Do I look like I care? Let me put it this way: Do I look like a leather-faced crack head wearing rags caked in human waste that is not my own?
If you answered yes, perhaps you’re delusional and facing a mirror in a public restroom. Forgive this admission of my own coolness, but—I make the king of cool James Dean look like Danny Tanner on stilts made of inflated condoms.
I have marrow-shatteringly good sex (Ew! Right? Wrong.) in the reverse-cowgirl position while stimulating my childrens’ minds with wordgames via intercom. I could irrigate Africa with my coolness. And I will.
So don’t feel sad for me. Feel sad about AIDS, starving children and that bank in France.








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