Breast-o-chicken with mango-orange glaze, leftover fettucine Alfredo, and the thing they call “broccolini”
I got outside this tidbit while ruminating on Rebecca Traister’s justifiable complaint that there aren’t any female leads in any of this year’s best picture Oscar nominees. I tried to work up a head of patriarchy-blaming steam over this unsurprising revelation, because let’s face it, Hollywood is the epicenter of American misogyny and it is my sworn duty to mock it whenever possible, but in the end I just gave up. Why? Because I hate celebrities so much that I don’t give a limping rat’s ass if Nicole Kidman, or any other airbrushed fuckbot from the cover of People magazine, wins a stupid Academy Award.
Gimme the female equivalent of Napoleon Mormonface—i.e. a truly homely chick actor playing a putz with whom we’re supposed to sympathize—and we’ll talk. Like that’ll ever happen.
And don’t say “Strangers With Candy.” Because (a) Amy Sedaris is a hottie in real life and (b) that movie still hasn’t been released and (c) if you actually sympathize with Jeri Blank you’re the putz.