Gentlemen of the Committee:
I thank you. From the bottom of my heart, I thank you. But I cannot accept this great honor.
It was approximately 9:10 AM this morning when I received the kind of telephone call every young girl dreams of getting at least twice in her lifetime…
Dearest Tori, the voice said, rich and syrupy through the static, I am honored to inform you that you have been awarded the Best Actress Oscar for your short film, The Way You Walked to Work This Morning While Listening to Tupac.
How did I react? I dropped my martini and screamed at the cockroach that was crawling up my leg, bien sûr. And then I cried. I cried tears of searing joy and searing grief, because every human emotion experienced since the beginning of time was coursing through my body–naturally, I snapped a few quick emotive headshots–and I could do nothing but bow my head and feel.
But here, standing before you in the nude Cavalli dress I had to be sewn into, I realize that I cannot accept this gleaming signifier of my own perfection. Yes, my performance was flawless. The spring in my step and the gleam in my eye as I sung the words “smoking sherm, drinking malt liquor” under my breath will probably become an iconic Youtube clip. I am a devoted method actress and have practiced that scene by listening to Tupac on my way to work hundreds–nay, thousands!–of times. And I blush at the critical acclaim garnered by my scene in the elevator, as I prepared to face the dragons of a corporate job by “juking” to the lyrics “never leave me, baby, I’m paranoid, sleeping witchu loaded by my bedside.”
Wouldst thou bequeath this honor on me, when the skies of Hollywood are bright with so many incandescent stars? Before you immortalize me, stop and consider The Others–the femme fatales who you snub tonight:
What of Angelina Jolie’s immaculate performance in The Tourist, where every scene was a perfectly-executed rendition of a woman so frozen by plastic surgery that she can only look over her shoulder and blink her heavily made-up eyes?
What of Gwyneth Paltrow in Country Strong, who imbued her raw vocal talent with the gritty blues and rough-hewn heartbreak of her native Mississippi?
What of Justin Bieber in Justin Bieber: Never Say Never, whose face is destined to be the template of feminine beauty for decades to come? Who dared–dared!–to show the world what’s possible “if you never give up”? Can you afford to ignore such a powerful cinematographic message of socioeconomic change?
What of Vanessa Hudgens in Beastly? The Academy has overlooked her glorious, cutthroat, breathtaking genius for too long!
But I digress–my passion gets the best of me, and the orchestra crescendos in protest. And so I place this oddly heavy statuette on the podium, gather my skirts about me, and leave. Oh, the limo isn’t mine, I’d rather walk. Can someone please return it? I’ll keep the bracelet. The bodyguard won’t stop following me. Ugh. Oh, he wants the bracelet back. That’s cool, man. Anyone want to get tacos?