What do I want to happen Sunday night during the Oscarcast? Total chaos. Astounding upsets. Epochal disruptions of the space-time continuum. Weeping and wailing, heads exploding, dogs and cats living together...
In short: I want the bloviating Oscar bloggers to be battered and flabbergasted. After lo these many months of endless handicapping, it's no longer a question of who I think will or should win. No: At this point, to paraphrase Michael Caine in The Dark Knight, I want to see the world of the Oscar bloggers burn.
Yes, that's right: I want American Sniper -- or, better still, Selma -- to claim Best Picture. I want Benedict Cumberbatch to snatch the Best Actor prize, and Rosalind Pike to strike Oscar gold as Best Actress. I want to see Wes Anderson tell his fellow Best Director nominees: "Back off, bitches! This motherfucker is mine!" I want Meryl Streep to go for the gusto and grab the Supporting Actress award. And I really, really want Robert Duvall to wrap his fingers around the Supporting Actor statuette, and tell anyone who doesn't like it to kiss his 84-year-old ass.
So there.
Think I'll go lie down now.
