The Mammies

Ugh. All this hoopla over the Oscars.

"Can you believe that Crash pulled off one of the biggest upsets in Oscar history?"

"Was Reese Witherspoon's performance really worthy of an Oscar?"

"Do you think that Hollywood is out of touch with America?"

Oh, for the love of Peet! Who cares? Crash didn't pull off anything. A bunch of squirrelly, overbaked products of plastic surgeons watched several movies that no one else in America did and voted on which they liked best. This isn't carpool, people. Nobody's kid is hanging in the balance between after school schedules and carseat installation. It's just movies! The land of make believe!

Reese Witherspoon's performance? She's pretending to be someone she isn't! And she's getting paid handsomely for it. For her next project, she will be rewarded with $30 million. And what, you may ask, is she pretending to be this next time around? A mother wrestling a demon possessed child. Hells bells. How many of us don't even have to pretend that one? I do that every damn day for real and ain't nobody paying me. I'd be happy if someone bought me a latte and bummed me a smoke.

Of course, Hollywood is out of touch with America. Just look at the whole industry. We take people, beautiful people, and then make them even more beautiful with well groomed doctors and lasers, fancy lighting and digital enhancements. We give them crazy amounts of money so they're able to lead grandiose lifestyles we can covet through the tabloids. And all they have to do it entertain us.

Sure, they entertain us. We get mindless fun on the big screen. Big fancy effects. Lots of action. Little plot. Don't want to think too hard, now do we? They give it to us and charge us mightily for it. And then these same people delve into what they like to call "independent films." These are films that no one really watches except themselves. Then to celebrate how wonderful they are, how well they did their jobs, how well they pretended to be just another bloke, they throw themselves a big ass party complete with gilded awards and designer dresses. Oh, and what would be a party without a bag of party favors... to the tune of 100 grand a pop!

Blech. My four year old spends her days pretending to be a doctor or a dolphin trainer or a homeless cat lady (don't ask) and she is pretty convincing. This isn't a skill deserving of that much glory, if you ask me. But to get all gussied up and then pat each other on the back for not just being great make believers, but for their ever expanding intellect and sheer brilliance. Blech.

This is what I propose. I propose a motherhood awards. We'll call it "The Mammies." The award itself will be a gilded June Cleaver, complete with pearls and drink tray. Oh, think of it, will you? We can get those big name designers to make us all dresses and then give them to us for free. I'll be contacting Nigo to make me a purple camo hoodie number with BAPE across the front done all in crystals. Yes, yes! A red carpet with loads of paparazzi because everyone will want to know just who the best moms in the country are and what we are wearing and what kind of eye candy we are sporting on our fingers... and arms!

The whole thing will be the way it really should be. That bitch Joan Rivers will have to say nice things or get her damn mouth spanked and go straight home -- no after parties, Missy! Autographs will be granted, but must be shared. Sharing is nice. We share with our friends. There will be mandatory potty breaks so no one is caught in the loo when their big moment arrives. Oh, and little snack tables set up along the red carpet route so we can munch our way in. Everyone knows it's all about the food we didn't have to cook.

People will say things like, "Darling, you look simply amazing. You must have put on 20 lbs! It looks so good on you. Tell me your secret!"

"Well, I am 8 weeks pregnant and the only thing I can hold down are Cheezits and fruity snacks! It just packs those pounds right on" [giggle giggle laugh laugh kiss kiss] "And congratulations on your nomination for Best Pronunciation of a Tongue Twister. I have to tell you that the way you read Fox in Sox... it's just gripping. It... it... moves me."

"Awww... thank you. But you know, it is you that I admire. That line you gave from Snuffy the Goldfish's eulogy..."

"...'Better a flush than a fish stick'?"

"Yes! Yes! That's the one! 'Better a flush than a fish stick!' I was laughing through my tears. What a great send off it was. Then when you closed the lid for the final time and gave old Snuffy a salute... well... that just got me right here."

"Thank you. Oh! Look! Here comes Amy! I really hope she gets the Mammie for Cleanest Floor in a Large Dog Household. She so deserves it. With two Dobermans! And three kids? Ah. I so respect her work."

"Ahhh... yes. Me, too. And she makes a yummy mini bundt cake with peppermint glaze."

And it would go on like that. A total celebration of motherhood. Of us. Patting each other on the back. Telling us that we did good. That we are better than the rest of America. Those unmothers. The common folk, childless ones. Are we out of touch with them? We were the ones that birthed them. We came first. Before George Clooney was born, he was an embryo. And before that he was nothin' but an ovum. We were talking about chicken pox when he was just babbling. Civil rights? We were the ones who told him to be nice to everyone, no matter what they looked like. And before his beloved Academy gave Hattie McDaniel an Oscar, she was a Mammy.

Ech. Hollywood. In the words of Mike's long parted Uncle Jerry, "What do they do for humanity?"

**note: above question must be asked with a heavy Ukrainian accent and a violent swing of the right arm to get the full effect -- best to practice in a mirror.