Natalie Portman addressed the nation with poise and grace as Jackie O, but she wouldn’t be so poised getting her dainty, Oscar-holding hand slammed down to the table by the strength of my glorious triceps! The New York Times may have called Vox Lux a “deeply satisfying, narratively ambitious jolt of a movie,” but if there was money on the table, Natalie would feel a jolt of PAIN as I snap her elbow 90 degrees and leave her weeping on the dance floor of the Vanity Fair afterparty!
Sure, critics and moviegoers alike were enamored by Amy Adams’s Arrival, but it’s Amy who would be fearing my arrival should she agree to face off arm vs. arm under the table in the middle of her Hollywood Reporter Roundtable interview. The New Yorker lauded Amy Adams’s performance in Sharp Objects for being “raw but understated,” but there’s nothing understated about how raw her palms would be after I squeeze the talent out of them in a savage twist and snap maneuver that I call the HUMAN HAMMER!
Sure, Viola Davis is one award away from an EGOT, but she’ll be shouting, “EGADS!” after she feels the wrath and fury of a move I call the Ham SLAMwich! Juilliard, Schmooliard. Viola may know how to get away with murder, but I know how to break knuckles and bathe in the bloody glory of victory! You can bet her four-time SAG award-winning ass will be asking for the help of her chiropractor after I pound her flimsy fist into the table faster than you can say “And the award goes to…”
Just because she can carry an all-female blockbuster doesn’t mean Sandra Bullock could carry her own in an arm-wrestling death match against me, a rough and tumble bitch from the back streets of Redondo Beach. Sandra has embodied a plethora of strong, complex female characters, but even a blindfolded child lost in the river rapids could see that her upper arm strength is weak as fuck. Let’s just say, hope won’t be floating her way anytime soon after she takes a gander at my bone-crunchin’ meat mittens. Hey, I’ve got a proposal for Sandra Bullock: Try not cry all over your quiche at the Glamour Women of the Year Awards after I wrestle your arm into the motherfucking dirt!!
Sandra Oh may have delivered a history-making, Globes-winning performance in Killing Eve, but I learned how to arm wrestle from an actual killer: my doting step-uncle and convicted felon, Ricky Rizzo. Sure, the Rolling Stone praised Sandra’s acting chops as “expressive and complex,” but there’s nothing complex about the terrified expression that would befall her gorgeous, silver screen gem-of-a-face should she witness the fire and fury of Rizzo’s classic switch and bate maneuver, the Merry-Go-POUND! Sandra can dance it out all night long, but she’ll never dance her way out of my deadlocked fist upon hers as the buzzer signals my victory and the crowd rises in unison to shout an uproarious, “Sandra Oh no she didn’t!”
Meryl, Shmeryl! The Oscar for worst shoulder rotation should go to—you know what, nope. I’m sorry, I can’t do this. Who am I kidding? Meryl would destroy me. Emotionally, then physically. The god-like strength of her presence on screen is only matched by the Prada-wearing, devil-like strength of her soul gripping fists. My own personal Sophie’s Choice? Deciding which arm to let Meryl rip clean off my body using her complete and utter cinematic brilliance. Left. No, right! Whoops—it’s too late, she took them both. They’re on her mantle now. Hey, it’s no Academy Award for Florence Foster Jenkins, but it’ll do. It’ll do…