I am writing you, dear reader, from a dark place. A cavernous hole. A nightmarish hellscape. I write you having just watched a tape of last night’s Guy’s Choice Awards. I woke up at 8 AM in order to do so, which means I started the day operating at a loss. And it only got worse. I fear the horrors I witnessed during the jail sentence-esque two-hour broadcast have caused me to permanently lose sentience. I now know, however, that I don’t require sentience. Because I have tits.
Below a pair of enormous, reddened, pursed, female lips smoking a fiberglass cigarette, Kevin Hart opened the gendered insult that is the Guy’s Fucking Choice Awards with a vengeance. For his service, he was later bequeathed the title King of Comedy. There was no mention of the potential existence of a Queen of Comedy.
Rihanna vacantly giggled and applauded, looking dazed, as Hart aggressively rambled about her inherent fuckability. A camera cut to a soldier, in uniform, knowingly chuckling at this truism. Hart spoke about how he’d pay a million dollars to see RiRi’s naked body…even though he’s already seen it on Instagram! That’s a testament to how incredibly fucking fuckable she fucking is! He praised her for working on her amazingly fuckable body, like, “24/7,” then presented her with the night’s first award, “Most Desirable Woman.” A montage of her gyrating, twerking, and rubbing her presumably perfect pussy through vinyl panties played as a song, her song, about pole dancing, played overhead.
“How many men are mad that she didn’t come naked?!?” Hart asked once she took the stage. Again, the soldier knowingly chuckled. “Thank you for voting me this at 26,” she said while holding her Golden Antlers, “because it’s all downhill from here.” She then gave a shout out out to “real men,” none of whom were in attendance. She may as well have given a shout out to the void.
“Here to give out the Mantlers for Biggest Ass Kicker,” the announcer boomed, “it’s Aaron Paul. Bitch.” The vulgarity of this statement initially offended me, but my friend Dave, whose house I was watching the show in, explained that Mr. Paul used to regularly say “bitch” on a television program I have not seen. Were I to have assumed what I just heard was mere crudity, and were I were to have typed as such, I’m sure a million white guys on the internet would have been aghast at my error and tweeted their disgust at me. I’m sure they will find something else to register their indignation about.
The entire program existed as a wonderful excuse to celebrate and promote miscellaneous human properties owned by the same corporate overlord. I’d call it a circle jerk, but that would make it gay, and, to the men in the show’s target demographic, there is nothing worse than being gay. They’re not fucking gay, OK? Just because they jerk off in front of their friends doesn’t make ‘em fucking gay! ‘Cause they’re, like, looking at chicks while they do it! Hot ones! Super fucking hot ones! Chicks that, granted, could never appreciate or understand them like their boy Cody, but, y’know, no one can. I mean, Cody’s their boy, y’know what I mean?
Television’s Key and Peele were given the Hottest Couple Award. Their program won a Peabody last year. I wondered, aloud, which honor they were prouder of.
Constant cuts to hot, lip glossed chicks tepidly applauding punctuated each segment. I couldn’t tell if they were actually employed as hot chicks in a modeling or acting capacity, or if they had just been planted in the audience in case any members of the television watching public, for some ungodly reason, temporarily lost their erections.
“Do you guys want Mexican or Chinese?” the announcer spat. “How ‘bout both? Here’s Cheech and Chong.” The quality of content I was presented with was algorithm-like. The question could be posed, “Who writes this shit?” The answer, of course, is, “The deeply apathetic and chronically underemployed.” I’d write this shit, I realized, as a clip of an anthropomorphic dog talking about having the munchies played onscreen.
The little person Chelsea Handler exploits for comedic value was shown, standing next to women in bondage bellhop garb. They were taller than him. Much taller. That was the joke. Why the fuck do mouth breathers think little people are so goddamned funny? As I pondered this question, I caught sight of an overweight woman in the audience and immediately feared for the job security of the show’s director.
Some Australian dude from a television program about violence took the opportunity to put the spotlight on the Real Heroes, the men and women of America’s Armed Forces. Rihanna tepidly applauded. You’d better believe Mark Fucking Wahlberg, though, was the first motherfucker on his feet when those Heroes came on stage to give him the Troops Choice Award.
Wahlberg was celebrated as “someone we love, someone we respect, and admire, whether he’s knockin’ a guy out, kicking a robot ass, or hanging with a foul mouthed bear.” He was also, according to the testimony of real life troops, an “absolute badass” in that movie about Navy SEALS. His films gave them “peace and respite” from the hell that is their lives.
Matthew McConaughey, the natural recipient of the Guy of the Year Award, gave a shout out to women in his acceptance speech. Thank you! I yelled back at the screen. He then gave a shout out to men. “There is a fraternity of men,” he expounded. “A fellowship of men. It’s not easy out there.” He followed this up with an impassioned plea for men to be the best men they could be. While I was touched by the sentiment, I didn’t feel as though the platform from which he spoke was the best environment for the best men.
Perhaps we disagree on our definition of what constitutes a best man. In my opinion, however, the best men don’t make jokes about Rihanna’s vagina having teeth in front of Rihanna, nor do they talk about a woman’s “tits” to her face, nor do they pantomime pussy eating in mixed company. I guess what I’m trying to say is that Jeff Ross, the next man who took the stage, isn’t the best man. According to Jeff Ross, incidentally, the perfect girlfriend is “cool, cute, and does anal.” Sorry, ladies, he’s taken. Though, by his own testimony, he would dump his girlfriend in a heartbeat if given the opportunity to suckle at the precious puss of that chick from the “Blurred Lines” video.
Johnny Knoxville is, apparently, this year’s Guycon. I received, and processed, this information emotionlessly. “We’re talking about a guy who broke his taint,” the presenter explained, “FOR REAL. If that doesn’t qualify him to be your Guycon, I don’t know what will.”
Hugh Grant showed up to support his friend Sandra Bullock, recipient of the Decade of Hotness Award. He brought her a pair of panties, because he is freaky like that. Her eyes teared up as he yammered on about how hot she is. Her decade of hotness was being celebrated, yet the accompanying montage began in high school. An image of her as an underage cheerleader was collectively salivated over.
Keanu Reeves then showed up to participate in Sandra’s gauche, bizarre, utterly fucked version of “This is Your Life.” He praised her humanity and humility. While this praise made her further tear up, his sincerity was not welcome. He made a point to say he was there to celebrate “all of you, my friend, Sandra.” He was the only one thus far who had expressed this sentiment about anything with two X chromosomes. Don’t worry, though. The last thing he said was that she was “definitely, definitely hot.”
What the Guy’s Choice Awards Taught Me Guys Love:
Respecting Troops’ Sacrifice
Being Marketed To
Diet Sodas That Women, for Whatever Reason, Aren’t Allowed to Drink
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