How fitting. The Oscar telecast, nearly four hours (or so I’m told) of political correctness, reached its pinnacle, its crowning moment, with nothing short of a fiasco.
It mattered not to me that Bonnie and Clyde robbed “Moonlight” of getting its recognition as the Best Picture. I was sound asleep.
“La La Land” was a lock, or so we were led to believe. I didn’t give a good tux, never plunking down a mortgage payment to buy a ticket to either one.
And apparently, many others are right with me. The box office receipts are in the toilet. People are finding other things to do.
These Hollywood folks better get a quick dose of reality. The ratings for the annual display of grandeur and phoniness were dismal.
The morons who are stars in their minds and egotistical degenerates in the minds of many hard-working Americans, recently whimpered their rallying action plan: No more movies in protest of President Trump? Not real smart. His Tuesday night speech was a shining moment in what looks to be the start of some good times for the country.
High approval ratings and a good many of us watched.
A week ago, hours before host Jimmy Kimmel stoked egos of celebrities basking in self-importance, across the country, the NASCAR crowd revved things up in north Florida.
Let’s contrast the two events, keeping in mind I never watched all that much of the Daytona 500, instead enjoying the heck out of the pre-race telecast.
In “Miss You So Badly,” Jimmy Buffett sang: “Don’t try to describe the ocean if you’ve never seen it.” No problem. I’ve had plenty of experience watching Joan and Melissa fawn over yesterday’s stars, many who can’t seem get a role in an infomercial these days.
NASCAR is asphalt, Oscar is red carpet.
NASCAR is Larry The Cable Guy in a sleeveless shirt, Oscar is “Who are you wearing?” If anyone asked me who I was wearing, I think I’d call a cop.
NASCAR is a slap on the back and sock in the arm, Oscar is air kisses. Again, anyone ever try to air kiss me, we just might go to Fist City.
NASCAR is a hand-on-the heart as Jordin Sparks does a magnificent job of singing the National Anthem. It’s the U.S. Coast Guard presenting the colors, a prayer and a spectacular flyover by the Thunderbirds. Oscar is a clenched fist salute.
You probably needed your toes and fingers, as well as those of your neighbors, to count the protesters in Hollywood. There was no such nonsense in Daytona. In fact, Danica Patrick, the only female driver in the race, looked pretty angry, as if prepared to give an old-fashioned country butt-whuppin’ to anyone with the nerve to disrupt.
NASCAR introduces its drivers, most while holding their child’s hand (or even better, giving a horsey-ride) two-by-two. Oscar pretty much is off limits for the youngsters.
NASCAR is Chevy, Ford and Dodge, Oscar is Prius and maybe even Schwinn.
NASCAR calls Daytona “The Great American Race.” Oscar has become “The Great un-American Farce.”
If NASCAR was affiliated with Price-Waterhouse, we would have been led to believe that Dawsonville’s Chase Elliott was the winner. Not sure why Oscar gave us a Best Picture swerve or how many truly cared.
While the insomnia-curing Oscar telecast was going on (and on and on and on…), my activities consisted of reading and being entertained with something on the opposite side of the viewing spectrum.
The animal rights activists will probably break out voodoo dolls and stick pins, made from recycled metal, into a likeness of your columnist. But make no mistake, I’m an animal lover. I deplore using bunnies to help a company decide if a perfume is going to sell.
But I must confess to having a bizarre viewing quirk: I love watching the Professional Bull Riders events on the weekend. And to give you a further glimpse into my psyche, I root for the bulls.
No way I want the cowboys to get hurt. It’s just entertaining to watching them get launched like the final jump on a trampoline.
Those guys are crazy and get the daylights beat out of them.
Musician Robert Earl Keen said if you want to know what it’s like to ride a bull, just drive your car 60 miles per hour, then toss the steering wheel out the window.
So I’m proposing a new sport: celebrity bull riding.
I’d pay scalpers prices, too.
For the actors who’ve seen their careers hit the skids, this might be a way to re-connect with Americana.
How do we entice Michael Moore, Bill O’Reilly and Martin Sheen to mount up?
Mike Tasos’ column is published every other Sunday. He would’ve included Rosie O’Donnell in the celebrity PBR event, but that would constitute cruelty to the bulls. Comments can be sent to email@example.com.