on the red snark-pet

Editorial note: This was originally going to post last night (you know, after the actual Oscars), but Cirque management had an early morning at the office (!) and something had to give. We hope you enjoy your snark day-old. Also, I’m not linking to every bloody dress that was trotted out last night, because I am lazy and the good people at E! Online & Go Fug Yourself don’t need my help.

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Thanks for joining Cirque management & friends, where we’re blogging(ish) the Oscars(ish). (Les, consider this your shout-out, darlin’!) As always, I’m shocked that they’ve let Ryan Seacrest out of the Little People Playset to host the Red Carpet for another year. Jesse, however, had other, more pressing issues in mind…

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Jesse: You couldn’t put on a real tux? Honestly, that’s what I wore to my first [client] meeting last week.

Pocket Seacrest’s first interview is Jennifer Lawrence.

Ang: I like it!

Katie: Yeah, it’s simple, but –

Jesse: BO-ring!

Katie: She’s 20! Cut her some slack!

Jesse: I didn’t fart her at all. She’s lucky.

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Ang: I love Kelly Osborne, but can we fart her hair?

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Pocket Seacrest interviews Melissa Leo.

Ang: I dislike her dress.

Jesse: That is SO fart-worthy, but I’m keeping the phone down.

Ang: Are you ever going to fart something?

Jesse: It’s early.

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Ang: I’m calling it now: nip-slip on Mila Kunis. It’s going to happen.

Pocket Seacrest: “What was the hardest part about the role?”

Mila Kunis: “Blah blah-dee blah…”

Jesse: Really? I would think her hardest role was as Jackie on That ’70s Show… Think about it. She had to kiss Fez.

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Jesse: Katie? Remember how the first time we met each other when we were watching the Oscars?

Katie: Mm-hmm.

Ang: Remember when it was 10 years ago exactly?

Jesse: Really?

Ang: Yup. Aw… I’m getting all verklempt.

Katie: ((throwing a look of disgust)) Please.

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Jennifer Hudson appears, conversation about Anne Hathaway’s awesome red dress halts.

Jesse: Jennifer Hudson, HELL-O!

Ang: No.

Jesse: Love it.

Katie: Not with the bow.

Ang: Hell no.

Jesse: LOVE IT!

Ang: The boobs. The hoisting. Oy. …Katie? Tie breaker? ((Katie plays Switzerland)) Wuss.

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Jesse: There’s Ruffalo…

Katie: Mmmmmm…

Jesse: But, but, but… The wife.

Katie: Oh, dear. She has, like, a shoulder pad involved… And a tail.

Jesse: She gets the first fart! Come on and get interviewed…

Ang: Oh, here she comes!

Jesse: ((giggles in anticipation))

Ang: That truly is a god-awful dress.

Fart machine: “Squeeeeeeeaaaaaaak!”

Jesse: Heeee!

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Camera catches Cate Blanchett arriving.

Ang: Oh. My. God. OHMYGOD.

Jesse: ((maniacal laughter))

Ang: Oh. My. God. She looks like a fucking Fabergé egg.

Jesse: She does! ((prepares fart machine))

Giuliana & Kelly Osborne tongue-bathe Cate’s dress.

Katie: They love it.

Jesse: ((pretends to throttle himself))

Katie: I’m going to go start dinner.

Jesse: If you need help, just holler…

Katie leaves the room. Jesse stretches out on couch.

Ang: Don’t you dare fall asleep.

Jesse: Are you kidding? Now I can fart with abandon.

Kelly Osborne: “Sharon Stone looks gorgeous…”

Jesse & Ang: Arrrgggh! The hair!

Fart machine: FART! Fart! Fart! Fart! Fart! Fart! Fart! Fart! Fart! Fart! Fart! Fart! Fart! Fart! Fart!

Katie: ((from kitchen)) I can hear that!

Fart machine: …Fart!

Immediately afterward:

Marisa Tomei = 5 farts

Marisa Tomei’s earrings = 1 fart

Commercial break = 1 fart

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Helena Bonham Carter & Hillary Swank escape initial fart judgment because Jesse is playing Angry Birds.

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Enter Celene Dion

Ang: Oh, hell. Can we fart her, please?

Jesse: ((snorts)) Her dress is okay, though.

Ang: We can’t fart just her very presence?

Pocket Seacrest: “How do you maintain your figure blah-dee-blah?”

Jesse: “Well, Ryan, I eat babies. Tiny, tiny babies.”

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Oh, Nicole Kidman…

Kelly Osborne: ((hedging)) “I don’t know what to say about this…”

Giuliana: “Be honest, Kelly.”

Ang: Yes, Kelly, be honest. The dress is fugs.

Fart machine: Fart! Fart! Fart! Fart-fart-fart-fart-fart-fart! Fart! Fart! Fart!

Ang: Did you just fart Heart & Soul on the piano?

Jesse: ((creepy gremlin laugh))

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Sandra Bullock

Jesse: Ugh. Either get a pair of boobs, or don’t wear that dress. ((Fart-fart! Fart-fart! Fart-fart! ….Fart!))

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Gwynnie

Kelly Osborne: “I am a little bit obsessed with this dress.”

Jesse: Really?? ((Fart!))

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Montage of celebs being shown…

Celine Dion ((fart!)) Penelope Cruz ((fart, fart!)) Nicole Kidman ((fart, fart! … pause … fart!))

Jesse: That last one was for Keith Urban.

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Natalie Portman

Jesse: That’s a terrible dress, but you can’t fart a pregnant lady. The most awkward thing is she’s going to have to do the pregnant lady stand-up thing when she wins.

Ang: Maybe they’ll get her a hydraulic lift chair to make it easier.

Natalie Portman: “…and my jewelry is Tiffany.”

Jesse: Tiffany? Purple plastic earrings are Tiffany?

Close-up on the earrings

Jesse: But really, those earrings don’t look like Tiffany — they look like two of my graduation tassels. “All that hassle for these tassel earrings.”

Ang: Seriously, Jess, I really don’t hate the dress.

Jesse: …  ((The rest of Jesse’s Portman-related rant has been redacted upon request, since he fears going to hell.))

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This concludes the fashion portion of tonight’s entertainment. Because we belonged to the decidedly NON-’shroom-tripping crowd last night (*cough* Franco *cough*), there wasn’t much to report from the actual awards broadcast. In fact, the rest of the evening can basically be summed up as follows:

Jesse: Harry Potter! I pick Harry Potter to win all the awards!

Ang: ((reacting to some host-related ridiculata)) What the fucking fuck? …Did you know my mother thinks I swear too much?

Katie: ((clickety clackety worky-work-work)) Oooh, look at that! I got another one right!

Jesse & Ang: ((death glare))

Fart machine: FART!

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Thanks for playing, kids — see you in 2012!

countdown to oscar

Welcome to Scenes from the Pre-Pre-Pre-Red Carpet on E! Cirque management is spending the day surrounded by besties (and beasties) and immersed in Oscar madness — beginning with E!’s 3-5pm coverage…

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Katie: ((watching a segment about an ostrich, which has followed a segment about a horse, and seems to precede a segment about chameleons)) Am I watching E! or Animal Planet?

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Jesse: Holly Madison is hosting the animal red carpet? Who’s on Peep Show tonight?

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Ang: I kind of want to punch Ross the Intern. Is that wrong?

Katie: ((emphatically)) No.

Ang: Wow. When Katie tells me it’s okay to want to punch someone, I know they must be really, really bad.

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Backstory: Saturday afternoon involved 20 minutes of dedicated fart machine noises by Jesse’s new favorite Android app.

Ang: Jesse! I forgot to tell you, L-Bags has a fart piano app on her iPhone. Have you seen that one?

Jesse: ((lights up immediately; descends on phone, locates two apps)) Do you mean the burp-and-fart piano? Or just the fart variety?

Katie ((giving Ang the death stare)) What did you do?

Ang: I’m sorry!

Katie: …You’re not, though.

Two minutes of nonstop burping & farting noises, punctuated by Jesse laughing so hard he falls over on couch.

Katie: ((trying unsuccessfully to suppress laughter)) We’re going to be listening to this for the next. SEVEN. HOURS.

E! Pre-pre-pre-Red Carpet: “…Animal has become the new neutral.”

Katie: They’re doing lingerie now? Is Holly Madison in charge of this part?

Jesse: You know what I think about that? ((giant farting noise))

Katie: ((to Ang)) I hope you’re proud of yourself.

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Cirque management invites you to stay tuned for our next installment: Fart-Ranking the Red Carpet.

king of the mountain

Given the most recent poll numbers, this seemed like a fitting visual representation of Chicago’s mayoral race:

Snowmageddon meets Rahmageddon

That mountain of snow occupies one entire corner near my apartment. It’s at least 10 feet tall. And I found this visual to be both striking and hilarious when I happened upon it while walking home.

Frankly, considering that Rahm also lives in Ravenswood, this would have made an excellent site for the storied snow igloo. Alas, no. Just one more big-ass pile of Snowmageddon carnage — and not a Quaxelrod in sight.

and now, a word on our sponsors

Attention friends, family, and assorted interwebs acquaintances:

Should you ever find yourself in a relationship so hopelessly lame that giddily switching your goddamn toilet paper to Cottonelle counts as “shaking things up a bit,” do us both a favor: please don’t tell me. No, really — we both know how this will go. . . I won’t be able to contain my disgust, and will likely as not be forced to roll my eyes so hard they get stuck.

And that’s only if I resist the urge to slap the outright shit out of you.

On a serious note, what’s ailing the ad makers of late? It’s like they all decided to brainstorm while licking the same pool of antifreeze. It shouldn’t surprise me that America deems the sucking of Doritos dust to be hilarious. After all, we are a nation that seems increasingly infatuated with the lowest common denominator. But Jesus, people. . . We deserve better. Even in our commercials.

So. You, and especially you:

. . .well played. You’re totally off the hook. Everyone else? Not so much.

sno, for crying out loud…

When I was a kid, I adored the Little House books. For reasons I’ll never fully understand, I was tickled by the idea of living in a log house/hillside moss bank/one-room tar-paper shanty that your Pa built/hewed from the earth/threw together in an afternoon so the family could have shelter that night.

Winter was a big damn deal to Laura Ingalls & Co. You couldn’t just take a “meh, whatever” approach to winter on the prairie — that’s how you ended up starving to death or burning your furniture for heat! No, you had to spend entire seasons preparing for that shit. There was hunting and haying and butchering and chopping and harvesting and whateverthehellpassedforinsulation-ing to be done. And you’d better get on it — chop-chop — because holy crap, here comes that fucking plague of locusts again, so you KNOW we’re in for another bitch of a winter. . .

Only once your attic was filled to the brim with dried fruit and meat haunches could you take a few minutes to go sledding, or make maple snow candy, or flop around making some sick snow angels. Then it was back to chores — and for the love of Jesus, you made sure to grab the guide rope to help you find the barn in the blizzard, lest you wander out onto the open prairie & freeze to death in a haystack.

So where is all this going, other than to underscore the fact that I’m a massive dork? Well, my friends, the point is that if our pioneer ancestors (semi-fictionalized or otherwise) can get through epic blizzards out on a barren prairie, without an assist from so much as a snow plow or corner 7-11, surely we — as evolved citizens of the 21st century — can keep from losing our collective fucking minds in the face of Snowpocalypse 2011.

Even as I’m writing this, the thunder part of the thundersnow has only just died down and the wind is still howling like a deranged Bears fan calling for Cutler’s head. It’s ugly out there. Gale-force winds. Twenty-five-foot ice waves on Lake Michigan. Wind blowing the snow up, down, sideways, and in choreography resembling that of a Beyonce video. Yep, snow far, snow good: Snowmageddon is living up to every inch of what the forecast. . . well, forecasted.

Which is kinda the point. We DO live in the massively overloaded information age. We DID have such a glut of warnings about Snoprah Winfrey that it became downright ridiculous. I think at one point, Tom Skilling actually pulled out his WGN Weather Bible, opened to “Feb. 1, 2011″ and read aloud the passage where his great-great-grandfather, Snowstradamus Skilling, predicted the whole storm — right down to naming which sucker reporter would draw the short straw and end up reporting live from within the Blizzaster. Nothing about this storm should have come as a surprise to anyone with, say, two of their five senses functioning properly. We got it, right?

In fact, the coverage has been SO overwhelming that fully 2/3 of the adult population in Chicago went and lost their fool minds in preparation:

It’s gonna storm for FORTY-EIGHT HOURS, you say? Holy crap! Get me to the nearest Costco! How will we possibly survive until Thursday without a year’s worth of food/drinking water/candles/flashlights/camping gear/toilet paper/canned goods/Twilight books/diapers? What’s that? “We don’t have babies,” you say? Yes, of course I know we don’t have babies. But snOMG, DID YOU HEAR THERE’S AN EPIC BLIZZARD HEADING STRAIGHT FOR US? That it has GPS tracking and one of those Terminator viewfinder thingies and it sees us when we’re sleeping and by the time we’re able to dig out of our robust dwelling in this large, metropolitan area, WE COULD HAVE BABIES, DAMMIT!

The fact that store shelves were cleared of absolutely everything is insane. Salt, staples, flashlights with fresh batteries — sure. But we’re not talking about wartime preparations. Or even some wacky computer numbering glitch with the so-called power to delete all of humanity. We’re talking about two days of snow. In the third-largest city in America. Absurd amounts of snow? Yes. Snow you don’t wanna be driving or walking around in? For sure. But six packages of double-stuff Oreos and a 22-pound ham? Really? How the hell would you go about feeding yourself on a NORMAL Wednesday if Snowtorious B.I.G. wasn’t upon us?

But that’s the easy stuff to pick on, because unless Darwin’s involved, no one gets hurt by bum-rushing a Jewel for 16 gallons of milk. The really bad shit is happening on Lake Shore right now, where there are still motorists (and possibly CTA bus passengers) stuck on the Drive five hours after it was closed, and up to seven hours after traffic stopped moving. Jackknifed buses. Abandoned cars. Motorists who are hungry, freezing, pissed off, and being told if they just sit tight, emergency crews will get to them. Some of the stranded motorists are pregnant or elderly.

This is the story that’s going to be dissected long after the snow ceases. In all the ways you’re imagining right now, and probably a few we haven’t even dreamed up yet. “Nightmare on LSD” will be a lasting headline from The Blizzard of 2011, along with the role social media played in providing updates and connecting helping hands with those in need.

I’m still trying to wrap my brain around it, I guess. Obviously, even the best laid plans can’t predict everything. But I can’t grasp how a storm that was heralded so far in advance still seemed to catch the city — and some of its residents — by surprise in this way. Why didn’t Chicago have a better plan for the closure and/or triage of LSD? Why were there so many people trying to navigate the Drive in such horrendous conditions in the first place? And if the city warned everyone to stay off of LSD (…heh), why in God’s name weren’t the CTA buses being re-routed?

I don’t know. And right now I don’t care, except to hope that every single person stuck on the Drive finds warmth and safety. Whether it be through emergency services or the kindness of a lakefront-dwelling neighbor. It’s nice to see Chicagoans being good to each other tonight. . . Helps make the inevitable squabbles over parking places a little easier to stomach once “dibs” kicks in.

Anyway, I’m done babbling for the night. Time to tend to the chores & livestock (AKA: unplug the electronics & coax Deacon into Katie’s guest bed to space-heater my feet). No doubt the scene tomorrow will be Snowgasmic.

. . . Just be safe out there, friends, and be smart. It’s only snow, but it’ll still give you a heart attack if you try to play Superman & mass-shovel it, you know? Check on your neighbors, stay home & telecommute unless your boss is evil, and for God’s sake, nobody go wandering off onto the open prairie, okay?

In other word: Bite down on something, Chicago. We’re going to get through this.