HURT LOCKER, WHAT THE FROGKNUCKLE?!?!?!?!?!?!

Hurt Locker just won for best original screenplay based on a script. My jaw fell right open, detached, crumbled into my lap like a burst bag of peanuts, and the blood came out like water. That's how stunned I am. The Hurt Locker, of all movies. It's about lockers and bombs, people, seriously. Seriously! STAB!

Ooh, they just cut to a close-up of Jack Nicholson. He is not happy that the Hurt Locker won. He is seething. Look at his teeth, his yellow yellow teeth. Not happy. Ooh, he's got an open sore on his left eye. The acid of his anger is seeping through his skin. Not happy.

This has got to be the craziest Oscar show I've ever seen, and I'm stuck way back in the third balcony, behind Boy George and Edward G. Robinson III (who smells bad, by the way. Onions or something. Maybe feet. Yeah, probably feet).

Okay, time for a song and dance number. Ton Hanks and Dwight Yoakam dressed as containers of cottage cheese. Liza Minelli montage. Lots of tears being shed.

It's all too touching. I can't type this out on my Palm Pixi right now. Need a napkin to dab my face and throat.