Letters from FreakLoud: The FreakLoud Awards

I have a different set of values than most folks.

Many people consider award shows important. In my eyes, they’re a giant obscene act of masturbation committed by whatever industry that the particular show is honoring. I find this to be especially true of music industry shows. I noticed recently that the American Music Awards have come and gone for this year. I was reminded how Fernandez had threatened to punch me in the face if I didn’t participate in an award show roundtable last year. Luckily I’ve been participating on my own a little better as of late, so that I didn’t have to watch an award show or suffer any punches to the face.

This is a truncated version of the list things I’d rather do than watch an award show:

1. Apologize to Rex Grossman for ever questioning his manhood.

2. Eat something that I fully realize will result in painful, flaming diarrhea.

3. Go to work wearing two different shoes

4. Go camping in the projects.

Seeing ads for the American Music Awards in the last few weeks also led me to these two thoughts:

1. When I think of the AMAs, pictures of homely and de-sexualized white women flash in my mind along with names like Carrie Underwood and Taylor Swift. Women who I would not be able to pick out of a lineup if you paid me lots and lots of money, and

2. What kind of award show would I watch?

This, dear hearts, is a goldmine…

I began to envision an award show that would reflect my sensibilities in an unabridged fashion. An award show with a 2500-person audience full of people just…like…me.

Firstly, it would be hosted by John S. Hall. If you don’t know who he is, I’m dangerously close to no longer wishing to speak with you. But understanding that I can’t blame you for having bad parents, I invite you to Google him quickly and come back.

The show would begin with a shot of the red carpet, with luminaries like Paul Barman, Alan Moore and Meen Ween being interviewed by our correspondents. In the distance, over the shoulders of a human wall of indie wrestlers, is the velvet rope. Behind the rope lies the broken bodies of folks like Elton John, Usher, Michael Bay and Randy Jackson. Folks who consider themselves famous enough to be here, but alas, weren’t invited. The penalty for attempting to trespass:

The Canadian Destroyer (Pictured below):

…tables and all…

Cut back to John Hall on stage, introducing our first live performer… The Catholic Church!

(Each of the evening’s performers will be one of the nominees for Secret Society of the Year)

As the Jesuits are shown lubing up the yardsticks for their performance, John Hall reminds us that our event is sponsored in part by Wikipedia, Adult Swim and National Public Radio.

The house lights lower as the Vatican prepares to perform its hit, “World Domination Through a Fake Religion”. As the curtain lifts, a voice in the audience clearly shouts,

“Father Flanagan takes it up the ass!”

The church’s scene begins with a dark-skinned baby being born to two impoverished parents. The child quickly grows into a rambunctious and sexually promiscuous teenager who escapes to India to learn the tantric arts. Along the way he happens upon the vedic teachings of the Hindu and wisdom from the Buddha himself. He returns home and begins to teach what he’s learned to his prostitute girlfriend and their small circle of friends. He is captured and killed by the Romans who dig his body up, paint it white and have their greatest artists paint weak-willed portraits of him. These portraits are passed out to fat perverts in army uniforms who travel to distant lands use the paintings to beat indigenous people to death and hump their unconscious bodies. The missionaries bow and fart and the curtains lower once more to a standing ovation.

John Hall is clearly seen wiping vomit from the corners of his mouth as he introduces the next award: Best Actor.

Out to announce our nominees and winner are Steve Buscemi and Andre 3000…

Andre: (to Steve) when you gon’ put me in one in your movies, man. I love them independent flicks.
Steve: When I finally get a budget big enough to hire actors that aren’t my friends. Hey where’s your partner Big Boi tonight?
Andre: Oh, uh, well, they wouldn’t let him in… he caught the Destroyer.
Steve: Ouch, hope his teeth don’t end up looking like mine…

And the nominees for Best Actor are:

Sisqo, for impersonating a heterosexual man (A clip is shown of him looking mildly interested as he receives a lap dance from Melyssa Ford)

Jared from Subway for acting like people actually give a damn that he’s not fat anymore (a subway commercial is shown depicting Jared smiling daftly as Michael Strahan beats him about the head repeatedly with a foot-long Cold Cut Trio).

Rex Grossman for pretending like an NFL quarterback for over three years (footage of last Sunday’s overtime victory over the Denver Broncos is shown).

Hillary Clinton for acting like she’s ever once had sex with Bill (she’s shown looking into the camera at the podium of a Democratic debate and stating confidently that she just gave Bill a BJ fifteen minutes ago).

The crowd bursts into uncontrollable laughter.

And the winner is…

Sisqo!

He throws his hands up in victory and leaves his mid-row seat, ensuring to rub his bottom against the faces of all other men in the row on his way to the aisle.

He skips up the stairs to the stage and appears happy to pick up his trophy to the horror of Andre.

Andre: Hey, dawg, don’t you know what it means if you accept this award?
Sisqo: Oh… oh… damn… oh, I kinda just told all y’all my business, didn’t I?
Andre: (shakes head) Back to you, John.

John reminds us that everyone wins at the Freakloud awards. So Rex Grossman receives a kick in the nuts by Robbie Gould. Hillary wins a brand new mini-skirt and matching pair of crotchless panties, and Jared is forced to walk around in a fat suit… (crowd murmurs) …and then set on fire (crowd roars).

We prepare now for our next live performance from… the Illuminati!

BONG!

A gong sounds, and the lights lower once more. Half the crowd wets itself at the thought that The Undertaker might show up and beat up the Illuminates, but alas, it’s just part of their act. As the curtain rises, two lines of hooded druids are seen entering the stage from each side. They converge into one line and slowly walk a large circle around the stage. Just as the tension becomes unbearable, they make a triangular formation. Suddenly, they cast off their robes to reveal kneepads and leotards. They launch into a crackhead kid-friendly dance medley to the tune of “Its Peanut Butter Jelly Time”. They do the Bankhead Bounce, the Nina Pop, the Chicken Noodle Soup, and Crank Dat Supaman as the grand finale. They then proceed to do a short butt-sex magic ritual and exit the stage bleeding and somewhat enlightened.

John Hall wonders aloud if he’s the only person that got that, and introduces our presenters for the final televised award of the evening. The presenters are:

Dave Chappelle and all of the black guys from TV on the Radio

They are here to present the award for the greatest musician… ever.

The nominees are:

John Linnell

Frank Zappa’s ghost

George Clinton

Don Henley, and

Stevie Wonder

For the winner of this award, the result of the book-reading contest between Soulja Boy and Hurricane Chris, and performances by the Bilderberg group and the Bohemian Grove, you’ll have to tune in next week.

In the meantime, have a song:

This is Parts Unknown (Me and Psychosiz) with Nyctophobia.

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