God, what a bore! Where is Renee Zellweger, making that horrible face, when you need her?

All I wanted was for James Cameron not to win, so I shouldn’t complain. But this year’s show was one of the blandest ever. Luckily, my guests turned out to have various grievances against various nominees, so the awards were not totally devoid of drama.

We all know who won, so let’s get to how everyone looked:

Meryl Streep wore a white bed-sheet, J Lo wore a dresss made out of Styrofoam packing material, and Miley Cyrus looked like a low-end prostitute. Sarah Jessica Parker was the victim of a fake-tan accident and wore a dead animal on the   back of her head.

Sandra Bullock fucked up her look with a day-glow lipstick, and looked strangely enervated. George Clooney wore his gray hair in little bangs and refused to smile for the cameras. Cameron Diaz looked less disheveled than usual but you could sense her need for a steady boyfriend. The girl from “Precious” was absolutely enormous, but no one was allowed to mention it. On the other hand, James Cameron’s billionth wife, Suzy Amis, is clearly starving to death. Send a social worker to their house, please! Maybe he’s keeping her locked up in the basement and forgets to feed her!

Kathryn Bigalowe is 58 and looks fantastic, having escaped from James Cameron before it was too late. Collin Farrell looked yummier than ever; when I asked “Who here does not want Colin Farrell?” only my teenager raised his hand.

The most fashionable woman of the evening was Sandy Powell, who won her third Oscar for costume design and came across as hilariously arrogant. But her whole look was shockingly cool compared to the parade of uninspired evening gowns. Down to her deep green nail polish, she looked fabulous.

On a personal note, I drank my first bottle of beer in nearly 4o years, because it was flavored with strawberry. Perhaps now my dream of becoming an alcoholic can finally come true!

Here I am, innocently checking out the headlines at Huffington Post, when I am assaulted by the news that Mackenzie Phillips slept with her father, John Phillips.   Eoow, god, why do we have to know this?!   I will never be able to enjoy “California Dreaming” again.

If you don’t know who John Phillips is, you’re probably not going to give a shit about this. Unless you pretend it’s Miley Cyrus admitting to an affair with her dad. Which she won’t do, even though it’s obvious they are lovers.

Mackenzie is 49 years old now, and she’s already talked quite a bit about her struggles with drug addiction. I’m sure she had a screwed up life, but why must she go public about having sex with her father? I’m thinking that if I experienced incest, it would be good to tell a therapist, but what moves a person to notify the entire world?

Maybe I just can’t bear to think that this stuff goes on.   Am I being mean to Mackenzie? Do you want to know which celebrities slept with their parents or their kids? Except for Miley and Billy Ray, I am so not into it!

If you’re a “name” and you plan to write a confessional memoir, this has certainly raised the bar. Perhaps that’s the silver lining: famous people might consider leaving us alone now.

Here we are, trying to digest the news about the crazy polygamist ranch in Texas, when a maniac in Austria admits to fathering seven kids with his imprisoned daughter. Can’t these people take turns getting arrested, so we can focus on one story at a time?

The guy in Austria clearly wins the Worst Father in the World award. Anyone whose grandchildren are also his children is a real bastard, in my book. God only knows how this tale will end. His wife will probably have to admit that she knew what was going on, and people will probably agree that she has Battered Wife Syndrome.   He will be rightly vilified as a monster of unthinkable proportions. First Hitler, now this guy, what’s up with Austria? It’s clear that paternalistic societies are dangerous, and not just to women.

Trouble comes in threes, as we know, so it stands to reason that Miley Cyrus has to choose this moment to implode, or whatever it is she’s doing via her publicists. Big deal that she posed with a bed-sheet in Vanity Fair! She’s fifteen going on thirty, and teenagers today are horrifyingly casual about sex and nudity.

I’m much more concerned about Miley’s relationship with her dad. Ever since I first saw them together, my feeling has been, Eeoow. There is something inappropriate going on, and you’d have to be blind to not see it. Why are they always all over each other? Why is she always out on a red carpet with him as her date? Miley’s mom better get her ass in gear before it gets uglier.

Years ago, I worked for a woman who was molested by her grandfather when she was a girl. Her story shook me to the core, and for a long time, I couldn’t look at an old grandpa without thinking, ‘Child Molester!’ I got over it, mostly.   But now I’m going to feel creepy about old Austrian guys.

Thank goodness I’ve always felt creepy about Billy Ray Cyrus.