Steve Jobs - take away the "jobs" and he's just "Steve."

Just like any typical American these days, I find myself feeling a bit like Harry Burns from When Harry Met Sally - insisting on reading the last page of any book first, just in case of unexpected death by Malaria. (What if insidious, exotic mosquitos rise up like the Terminator and take over the subway? In a life without health insurance, I can assure you that hostile, mosquito-based-illnesses are a totally valid concern.) In any case, I found myself reading the last in a series of articles on The Huffington Post today - courtesy of their News Articles That Make You Want To Maybe Build A Batcave And Wait Out The End Of Days Section. Apparently, Apple shareholders wouldn't mind booking a private place, like maybe Hogwarts' Room of Requirement or Punky Brewster's treehouse or 1985, for their next board meeting - no cell phones allowed! No handhelds allowed! No emailing allowed! No streaming to the website allowed! Clearly, this can mean only one of two things. Either 1 - finally, FINALLY (please god let it be true), Sonic the Hedgehog has come to iphone and now the iphone is too awesome for its own meetings, or 2 - Steve Jobs is driving everyone crazy with his newfound facebook-for-iphone obsession. I can only imagine the kinds of shit he posts to Twitter.

Tragic Snark: The Oscars: Let's Get This Party Started!

Dudes, I'm not gonna lie - The Oscars totally had me at Hello. Perhaps more than any other stupid awards show (except for the Grammys which - let's face it - is its own mail-order basket of douchalicious crazy, and here's a question to ponder for next year, Grammy organizers: what does your party say about you when the best dressed person in attendance is Kathy Griffin?) Anyway. As I was saying. The Oscars are... the greatest acknowledgment of art. High Art. The highest... Oh, fuck it.

So, okay. I don't really give a shit who wins tonight; at the end of the evening, all of those wealthy bitches will go home with free lasik eye surgery coupons regardless of whether they get a statue (meanwhile, I'm still wearing an outdated prescription and polishing off my third Twinkie, which reminds me - I'd like to thank Hostess Pastries for such unprecedented, sponge-cake-creamy goodness, Mom and Dad for the blind thing, and of course, God - both for affording me the ability to recognize Retarded and the right to mock it when doused in sequins and desperation - thank you, all of you, from the bottom of my heart. )

Moving on.

Here we go with a few fashion highlights (or "Fuglights" as it were...)


Miley Cyrus apparently decided to come dressed as the sun. Or Jem, Barbie's Prom date. Or She-Ra. Or her grandmother's cubic zirconian Brooch. Of course, in a perfect world Miley Cyrus wouldn't be allowed at the Oscars at all. Or anywhere else. Still, she is the picture of tinfoil sunshine.


And here we have... Angelina Jolie. Oh, world - I cannot tell you how so very, VERY over Angelina Jolie I am. Sure, she's married to a man who is literally The Walking Multiple Orgasm, and together, the two of them have adopted all of Africa, but now that she's become Queen of the American Celebrity Monarchy, every time she opens her mouth to blabber in her Weird Regal I-Am-Jolie-Speak, I just want to slap her across the face and say, "Bitch, please. You used to wear Billy Bob Thorton's blood in a vial around your neck."

This year, Regal Weirdo Jolie's dress is pretty, but.. uninspired. But my guess is those green earrings will get a lot of attention. I might just have to pick some up next week at Kmart. Oh, the pressure to be like Jolie. Damn you, Jolie.

Oh, Vanessa Hutchins. I only have one question for you. Why.... are you here? And why... did you borrow Scarlet O'Hara's mourning gown? (Okay, that was two questions.) Did you lose a bet with Janine Garafalo and Elvira? (Okay fine, three questions.)


Amy Adams, where... do I even start? First, I loved you much better in Enchanted, when you were wearing cotton-candy colored drapes. Second - did you not get that memo about red hair? And red dresses? Maybe before the next awards show, you should have a word with Agent Scully.


Beyonce, you are my favorite - did you steal this off a depressed lawn chair outside your Great Aunt's house? Also, why are you hooked arm-in-arm with Sasha Fierce? (You know she's not real, right?) Finally, I know this dress shows off the crazy (CRAZY!!) awesomeness of your biceps, but your gold headlights are pointed in two totally different directions.


Leslie Mann - so amazing in Knocked Up - apparently doubles as a Solar Wind panel. Good to see celebs willing to go Green for the environment.

Tilda Swinton came dressed as two completely different garbage bags, with cinches set in strategic places. And by strategic, I mean unfortunate. But maybe this is symbolism - the black and eggshell of the dress represent the good and evil in our world and the changing tides of personal responsibility and... No, I can't. It's just ridiculous. Also, I think the dress understands I'm talking about it and could probably take me.


Amanda Seyfried - today on Unwrapped, Holiday Edition.

Other Related Items:

1. Hugh Jackman + Beyonce Knowles + Marching Band + Dancing Boys + High School Musical + Mamma Mia + the look on Penelope Cruz' face = NO
2. Ben Stiller + Joaquin Pheonix's Ted Kaczynski beard = Awesome
3. 5000 categories + old people who can't read teleprompters + speeches + cut to Brad and Angelina = Time I Will Never Get Back
4. Judd Apatow + Seth Rogen + James Franco = GOLD
5. Slumdog Millionaire > Benjamin Button
6. Winslet > Jolie
7. Silence > Vanessa Hutchins
8. Nose > Sarah Jessica Parker

The Office: No Work Is Good Work

Oh, reruns - how I hate you so. In a perfect world, there would never be reruns. (Or war. Or famine. Or Ann Coulter. Or blue cheese dressing. Seriously, people? It looks like baby puke.)

Sadly, Baby Shower is my least favorite episode of the year - seconded only by the episode in which Meredith turned into Elisabeth Moss from Girl, Interrupted, and Michael proved to the world that clearly, he has never watched a single episode of Intervention.)

The premise: Michael plans a baby shower for Jan's Mail Order Sperm Baby, justifying to the office underlings that because he and Jan once lived together, the baby must be his. (Hint, Michael: That only works on the Tyra Banks Show.) He even goes so far as to plan out birthing scenarios with Dwight (who, let's face it, is a much more likely candidate to mother Michael's children) in a cold-open that I may never forget, if only for the sight of Rain Wilson pretending to push a giant watermelon out of an invisible vagina. If only I'd had that visual back in high school.

Moving on.

More Plottage: New HR-Rep Holly Flax (AKA: The M.C. Hammer to Michael's Vanilla Ice) tries to put out friendly feelers for Jan, who prefers to chomp up friendliness with her Eye Teeth. Meanwhile, Jim is frustrated that Pam's still in NY and Pam is frustrated that Jim can't talk louder than a bunch of crotchety washing machines. Consequently, Pam calls Jim to gush about some tampons and this one friend she has at art school that...whatever. I went to get a Ring Ding. Anyway, nobody cares, including Jim. (Although it is indeed better than listening to Jan sing about whores and preachers banging like monkeys outside the church. As an aside, I sure hope little AssTurd enjoys getting the milk for free when everyone else has to pay 120 freakin dollars - or $12.50 on TDF if you're smart and go for the discount because HEL-LO, nobody goes to see Chicago on Broadway anymore. Like at all. Ever. Sorry Melora Hardin.)

So. I'm not sure what's up with this weird, uneven mix of slapstick and subtlety this year - if last night's episode were a person, it'd be that confused chick on What Not To Wear who pairs leggings with Converse and weeps because she doesn't understand why velvet and plaid don't live together in harmony; obviously, there's a pretty girl inside her somewhere, but how far beneath the camel-toe and the over-the-top Hypercolor and the desperation to be as irreverent as 30 Rock?

But maybe this is just the unavoidable side-effect of popularity: when you start getting requests to air episodes immediately following the Superbowl, its only a matter of time before you've got to hit someone in the crotch with a football or set Meredith on fire. And that's fine. But can we perhaps come to some sort of happy middle ground? Maybe limiting the number of vandalized copy machines Michael throws down the stairs? Or the number of cars he drives into a lake? And if Dwight is really going to do battle with a $1500 Indestructi-Stroller for the duration of the episode, can we at least pretend that someplace in the Dunder Mifflin Universe, these douchebag actions have equal but opposite douchebag consequences? Granted, I spend about 90% of my day either looking up cute baby animals on the internet or shooting at cute baby animals on the internet, and let's face it, anything's better than work - no really, ANYTHING - like there's a list I've actually made up that includes jail, hanging out in a bomb shelter with the cast of High School Musical, and getting punched in the face by a fifth-grader - but my guess is the line would be drawn when I started throwing strollers off of buildings (which I only ever do when money is involved.)

But where was I?

In the end, to quoth Kevin: "It sounds like jail is better than Dunder Mifflin."

Yes, it occasionally is - but only if you're Ryan.