I don't want to use this blog to stand on a righteous soap-box about current affairs or get all Perez Hilton on your asses, but I can't believe all the public sturm und drang about the stoopid Gloden Globes being cancelled because of the writer's strike. The writer's were getting humped in their butts because Hollywierd wouldn't pony up the bones for DVD residuals, allow for union jurisdiction over the hordes of new reality shows + animation + all this internet stuff they wrote. BigWigs & Fat Cats just hoped the lowly writers would lay down and take it. Now, every news show on the air waves is crying rivers over how the poor, poor rich and famous stars -- who already won the genetic lotto and the job bingo (less than 1% of working actors) -- can't wear their billion dollar dresses, kajillion dollar jewels or, my favorite part: pick up their goody/swag bags at all the after parties. Those self-congradulating masterbatory assholes can't go pick up their AWARD. Sniff. Sniff.
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