Tonight, as I write this, the slavering hordes of stars will congregate to wear skimpy dresses and pat each other on the back to celebrate their own films. They will congratulate films which made no money and are generally unpopular. They will hand awards to old, ugly people instead of giving them to young, scantily clad people.
They will stand up and support their causes. They will beg for new money for research into cures for deadly diseases, they will demand that some remote tribe or other be helped with food and clothing, and they will lament the such-and-such amount of rainforest that is cut down every day.
And they will do nothing.
Nothing but talk. Talk talk talk talk talk. The fortunes these people amass could lend a great aid to the causes they support, but they'd rather spend the money on booze and drugs and trophy wives and mansions. They'll retire tonight after the show and lament how the stupid public doesn't want to see the "right" movies.
Normally, I wouldn't have a problem with that. However, they should practice what they preach. If they lived lives of public unabashed hedonism, I wouldn't mind, so long as their needle ridden, drugged out corpse doesn't block my driveway. Yet they go on.
I have some choice words for the movie critics, too. BITE ME. I don't care that you think some jerk delivered a fantastic performance in a movie about some crap that I don't care about, I want to see explosions and women. Watch:
See? It's not so hard. If you want art, I suggest you go to an art gallery and leave me to my lowest common denominator.