2nd Annual Missy Wraps up the Oscars

Wow. We’ve passed an anniversary. This time last year, I made fun of the Oscars for the first time on my blog. Here we are again. One year later. Same event. Different movies. Has anything really changed?

No.

Last year I said there was only one way to watch the Oscars. With cynicism and at 11:15 for 15 minutes. Last night I called The Informinator and scolded her for not watching every moment. What has happened to me? I’m escaping the stress of moving and running school fundraisers by watching people who bring their body parts to the Oscars like pets to be admired. Good grief.

So here’s my too-involved take on 2012.

  • Ben Stiller and Billy Crystal standing on each other’s shoulders are still shorter than the average man.
  • Christopher Plummer should stick to white gloves and Julie Andrews.
  • Super Duper Loud and Seriously Close might have won were it not for the Terribly Confusing and Awfully Disconcerting title.
  • Angelina Jolie is actually already dead and they exhumed her body and hologrammed her in for that presentation. There’s no way that skinny ghost was still alive. I was aghast. Really, ask Todd. AGHAST.
  • Robyn Porch made the pie in the opening movie montage. I went to tiny little Florida College with Robyn. How cool is that?
  • The Artist? Really? A SILENT FILM? There’s a reason they did away with silent films. It’s called MICROPHONES. Talkies, people. You don’t step back 100 years just to be cute. I don’t cook over a fire now. Why would I do that? I have a cook top. When I do cook over a fire, my marshmallow ALWAYS catches on fire. I think my point is made.
  • There were only 2 songs up for Best Song. What’s up with that? Muppet or Man vs. the Rio song? Were there no songs written in adult movies this last year? That’s just weird.
  • JLo. I know you got it going on and stuff, but showing half your boobs does not make them more attractive. In fact, they looked kinda smashy and weird and I’m sure you paid $500,000 for that one dress, but I hate to tell you: It wasn’t worth that. Also, put a jacket on.

And the Moscars (that’s Missy’s Oscar) go to:

Best Picture: The Muppet Movie
Best Actor: Walter in the Muppet Movie. He is up and coming, I’m pretty sure.
Best Actress: DEFINITELY Viola Davis. DEFINITELY.
Best Original Score: Mario Galaxy Soundtrack for the Wii. Really perky stuff.

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Chopping Block

I shouldn’t read CNN.com. It’s my version of a soap opera. Apparently I don’t think my own life of tripping over tea parties and wiping up disgusting things is exciting enough. So I borrow trouble. The news is trouble. It either leaves me empty and desperately sad, as in the case of the father who fell to his death at a Texas Rangers game last week while his son watched (I don’t know if I’ll ever get over this one) or it leaves me furious, as in the case of poor Juror #12 in the Casey Anthony trial.

It’s a mistake to talk about the Casey Anthony trial. I know it is. People are hot as fire over this. Everyone has an opinion. Everyone is right. Except the jurors. And according to most people, they are as dumb as bricks or as evil as Jezebel. Mostly they are dumb as bricks. I don’t think that. I think they followed the rules of our court system.

They listened to the information. It looked bad for Casey Anthony. I mean, come ON, she waited 31 days to report her daughter as a missing person? Partying like it’s 1999. Stinky trunk. Oddly content behavior. No mention to anyone of her fears or worries.

Do I think she did it? Yep.

Do I know for sure? Nope.

She knows. God knows. I’m not sure anyone else does.

The jury couldn’t prove a cause of death in the child. If you can’t prove cause of death, it’s pretty difficult to paint a clear image of a crime scene and place a person there as the murderer. And they couldn’t find any real DNA to prove Anthony was there.

So the jury listened to every last detail. And they probably wanted to believe she did it and put her away for the stupid looks on her face. But at the end of the road, they weren’t sure. Because the American justice system that we’re so proud of says that if there’s a reasonable doubt, you have to acquit. And no proof of how this child died leaves a decent gap for a reasonable doubt to walk through.

But that’s not good enough for America. No, they have to take their opinions and write them down in death threats and send them to Juror #12, a 60 year old wife, mother, and grandmother who never wanted to be on a murder trial jury. She just wants to go back to her job at Publix. But she can’t do that now, because it isn’t safe to. So she has gone into hiding with her husband, stating that she’d rather go to jail than be on a jury like this one again. In ways, she is in jail. She can’t go home. She can’t live her life.

We like our freedoms. And, by Sister Sassyfras, we’re entitled to them all. Those freedoms are protected by a justice system, among many other things. This jury gave up weeks of their lives to sit and listen and discern the facts of this case. When they didn’t return the verdict that we were certain was the right one, a whole bunch of people began making death threats.  That makes  a heap of sense, doesn’t it?

That’s not the justice system. That’s a lynch mob.

To Juror #12, on behalf of America, I am very sorry.

Stupid Salsa Knuckles

Dear All People Who Make Salsa,
I have been a long-standing fan of salsa far and wide for many years, since my babies were diagnosed with Robbie Benson’s Bubble Boy syndrome and I was reduced to a diet of salsa and meat and flax chips as I attempted to ‘purify’ their food source. During my salsa dieting days, I learned a thing or two.  You, Salsa Makers of the World, have learned nothing. So let me inform you of four things.

  1. Taste and freshness matter. Some salsa makers are aware of this. Green Mountain Gringo Medium Salsa is a fresh as a babbling brook and as tasty as my grandma’s fried chicken. So to speak. Pace–just stop trying.
  2. Texture matters. If I have to chew anything, besides the chip itself, I’m done. Also, the tomato paste/pizza sauce consistency is quite icky. Somewhere in the middle is where you ought to be. I should not have to be telling you this, since this is your chosen profession.
  3. Price matters. And though Green Mountain Gringo can kill any other salsa producer on the planet in taste and texture, they are quire unaware that the economy tanked badly. There are, I would imagine, a goodly number of people who can skip the freshness when $5.19 is the price you have to pay for it. I am one of those skippers. It hurts my heart to pass it by, but at that price, I have broken up with Green Mountain Gringo.
  4. SIZE OF JAR matters gargantuanly. I am baffled that there is no salsa maker out there who understands this point. The life’s purpose of a jar of salsa is to be a swimming pool for a triangular chip. So why, OH WHY, is every jar designed to cause Salsa Knuckles when you go for your 10 minute chips n salsa fix every afternoon? To Chi Chi’s, I must specifically say: Woe to you for your tall, skinny jar. Only a pickle should come in a jar like yours. Put some thought into your packaging, people. What am I supposed to do, crush up a chip into the balled-up fist of a 10-week-old baby  and somehow dip out some salsa? Even if that worked, I’d still have Salsa Baby Hands to clean up. Perhaps I could cinch up my Tostito into a corset and lower it through that scary funnel you call a jar opening?  Don’t make me pour my salsa into a bowl like I’m a farm donkey from 1898. Don’t make me nibble the corners off my perfectly shaped tortilla chip until it is thin enough to lower down your little mine shaft. If I was willing to do that, I would be snacking on cold corn on the cob. And what about Man Calves? Her hands are twice the size of mine. She will be reduced to using a teaspoon just to get the salsa out. If this is where we land, we may as well be spreading jelly on scones.

So how about a jar that is short and fat? How hard is that? Do you know how much money you would make off of that? You can target women with french manicures or people who hate eating ribs.

Or how about a jar that has a little wheel at the bottom like a tube of chap stick? As my salsa gets lower in the jar, I can adjust the bottom and keep pushing the salsa up as I go. This one may be slightly cost prohibitive, but I’m just brainstorming in an area that is clearly unexplored.

I am tired of salsa knuckles. It is ruining my snack time.

.