Upon winning the SAG award for Best Actress last night for her thoroughly mediocre, more than a tad shrill, and wholly nauseating performance in the nothing-more-than opportunistic piece of trash Walk the Line, chin-tastic Reese Witherspoon found herself the recipient of something even more prestigious: the first ever Reverse Shot Shut the Fuck Up award.
“Oh, my God, y’all. Sometimes, I can’t just shake the feeling that I’m just a little girl from Tennessee,” exclaimed America’s sweetheart, while marriage-counselled hubbie and one of the more embarrassing performers from Crash (that’s saying a lot) Ryan Philippe beamed with pride.
Excuse me while I try not to vomit my hush puppies and okra all over my Prada purse, but Reese, please, shut the fuck up. A la Renée Zellweger, I never heard that adorable twang come out on the red carpet until you went all regional (see Renee’s chicken-choking Molly Ivins hackjob work in Cold Mountain). Take your faux-regionalism and shove it; hangin’ with your Baton Rouge peeps once every five years at a dive bar with an exclusively Creedence-playing jukebox doesn’t exactly make you Hollywood fish out of water. Just like James Mangled’s movie jumped on Johnny Cash’s “lifestory” like a pitbull on a poodle when he died, you’ve really used your newfound award-winning cachet to bring yourself down to the level of the real people, or in other words, eke out some semblance of an identity to separate yourself from the rest of the bland-o-rific blondies in LA. As another Reverse Shotter so succinctly said after your disgusting “This is the music of my people!” shit at the Golden Globes: Johnny Cash is from Northern Arkansas, you’re from Baton Rouge. What is it with Southerners that they all think they’re from the same place?
In the gross-out sweepstakes, Reese’s idiocy still runs only a close second to Charlize Theron’s “I’m just an African girl!” shtick from the 2003 Oscars, but Reese, honestly, with your Oscar preordained by publicists way back in August before Walk the Line was even done in the editing room, you should learn to just take your award and be quiet. Or maybe be honest:
“Oh my God, y’all, I can’t believe you’re seriously continually awarding me for such a completely unremarkable, basically supporting performance in such a piece of TNT-rejected piffle! I really better thank all of those Oscar prognosticating dorks online who got the ball rolling for me before the movie was even out, and especially to the lack of any other actresses even remotely watchable in any American movies all year long. I’m indebted to you. Now I’m gonna go get piss-drunk and listen to the Dixie Chicks!”