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Best in 2022: The Raisins d’Ors

It’s that time again. The most wonderful time of the year? Not even close. Real fans will know I’m a Christmas fetishist, which, for me, means that this is the time of year where the tree glows a little less brightly but I can’t quite bring myself to take it down. Don’t pity me; there’s one set of the lights that shine just as bright: the rhodium-plated sconces of the diamond chandeliers that cast a radiant glow upon the faces of those in attendance at the most exclusive awards show of the year. Were you under the misapprehension that other awards shows were known for impressive red carpet entrances? Let me disabuse you. The carpet that ushers guests into my show is ultraviolet, and the privileged few who walk upon it, that absolute elite of the elite, the infinitesimals atop the global 1% of fame and notoriety, are dressed better than you’ve ever seen. I can’t show you because you’re not ready for it. Every dress is a meat dress. Leather is out, flyskin is in. It’s a scorcher out here. Show up in your birthday suit? You’re overdressed.

Inside, the awards are less than half the fun. A competitor film awards ceremony started a  media carnival when its host took a punch on live TV. The presenter at my awards show died. The replacement presenter also died. After that, no one wanted to present the rest of the awards, so we had to have the ChatGPT bot do it. We routed everything it said through an Ellen DeGeneres voice modulator and laughed every time it mispronounced “Puss in Boots”. Before the third category had been read out, half the audience descended into primal orgy and the other half took an oath of lifelong abstinence.

Let’s go goblin mode.

You can find last year’s awards here.

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