Last night I watched the Oscars, and in case you missed it, Hugh Jackman hosted the show.
And instead of actually being witty and funny like past hosts such as Jon Stewart, he sang. And sang and sang. It was horrible. It’s not like I don’t enjoy dancing and show tunes and – wait – no, I do hate dancing and show tunes. A lot. I fucking hate it.
If I wanted to watch a big spectacle of dancing and singing I’d just hang outside when the methadone clinic in downtown Brooklyn dispenses the lunch time doses. At least those people have something to truly be happy about.
Of course lots of people enjoyed seeing Jackman up there parading around like a complete moron. I mean he did win 2008’s Sexiest Man Alive (I took myself out of the running – the politics got to be too much), so the women loved it.
As the show went on, though, and he kept coming back on stage, I actually started to feel bad for the guy.
I realized that he was in an impossible position, one that was a no win for him no matter how well he did as the show’s host.
Even if Hugh Jackman somehow wins 47 Oscars between now and when he finishes his career, he’ll never be happy.
Because of this man:
Yes, that’s Paul Hogan/Crocodile Dundee/The Best Australian Ever. Just look at this picture. When was the last time you held a crocodile by the teeth and smiled while wearing a crocodile skin vest with nothing underneath?
Hugh Jackman doesn’t stand a chance. He will never be better than Paul Hogan, and that, in many ways, makes me feel bad for him. But not too bad.