It’s bad enough that the universe awoke yesterday to the news that Orlando Bloom and Katy Perry have split—sad stuff, gang. Sad, sad, #sad—but that fails in comparison to the ongoing saga and, quite frankly, national crisis that is the Oscars flub from Sunday night.

In case you missed it, the SHORT-short version is one film was announced as Best Picture champion WHEN another film was supposed to be the winner. Since then, the globe has shifted on its axis to an upright, attentive position— a “what the fuck, Hollywood?” moment. Accompanying this paradox, as you’d imagine, have been many sleepless nights for the collective fan bases of all parties involved, many tears have been shed, and factory workflow has basically ceased. And keep in mind, March Madness is about to commence, and that’s when 99 percent of the workforce temporarily stops in the name of Bracketology and Warren Buffet.

But holy shit! Talk about madness.

Since this goddamn mistake, this Oscars nightmare, things have been a mess. And, because we truly care for the well being of actors and celebrities and Steve Guttenberg and the newest Tesla and Pink Panther reboots to such exhaustive nail-biting that we use the F word like chocolate in a Wonka film, there have been approximately 35 billion think pieces and lists on how to not only fix the colossal fuck-up, but also how to avoid it in the future. (I even read one that was a six-part deal, which meant the writer understood the severity of the situation, so much, that the solution took on an unstoppable flow of words and phrases, instructing the reader AND ALL OF A SUDDEN WE’RE ASSEMBLING SOMETHING FROM IKEA.)

However, this massive amount of commentary on the topic has totally inspired me, transporting my general understanding of celebrity issues on a wave of Enya songs toward a no-need-to-hit-the-snooze-button awakening—and, well, I feel left out for not sharing my thoughts on how to fix—and yes, avoid—this Oscar dilemma again.

So, first I want to talk about what makes a great fi—

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MMMMM-ah!. What the hell is happening here? Why am I falling…

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Oh shit, guys, what have I done? I’m… down here, in some sort of celeb-based alternate universe—alternate to the alternate that is Hollywood awards shows, of course, where the deepest thoughts of the rich and the famous dwell and multiply like wet Gremlins…the fragments of life, the imbalances coming together in perfect harmony and form. Balanced, if you will.

The room, space, it’s spinning out of control.

Ah!!!

So this is where they where they keep old pictures of Eric Stoltz as Rocky Dennis from Mask.

Ah!

And  posters of the other one that might’ve confused you.

Guys, I can’t stop falling!

Falling almost too fast now…

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Furious!

Whoa! Is this…could this be a sneak peek at part of the franchise?

Furious 17: Who The Fuck Let Warren Drive?

Of course, by then the cast will be replaced by a pack of carefree monkeys. And…

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It’s Pee-Wee Herman!

What the fuck is he doing here? Is he the key to solving what happened at the Oscars? Did he switch the envelopes?

Look! I found a flashlight. This will help. (Moonlight would be better, though—you know what I mean?)

Where in the hell is the rest of my body!?!

No matter, I just saw someone from the first Season of American Idol.

Hey! It’s that cute kid from Dick Tracy!

What the hell is this place, gang?!?

Wait!

Is that it? Did Hollywood mess with Warren Beatty because of his direct involvement in Dick Tracy?

And Madonna, what about Madonna?

Oh man, if Madonna did this because we all thought her English accent was nutty…I mean, other than landing on the moon, this would be the biggest discovery of all time.

AH! She’s here!

No, Madonna, don’t!

I’m…

I’m…

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Old people dancing!

Old people dancing!

What the hell is this place!?! What have I unlocked?

It’s Carl Lewis!

Yikes! I’m in a realm, next to the other realm, a locked door in Matthew McConaughey’s vault of unused Lincoln commercial scripts. This is deep. It smells like sage and the leftover milk from a bowl of Fruity Pebbles.

Yep, here it is…Christ!

Wait…I just said leftovers. Leftovers! The Leftovers is coming out soon, Season 3, then we will know what the fuck is going on there. Damn straight!

But does that mean the Guilty Remnant had something to do with the Oscars mix-up?

Was it Justin Theroux?

He’s married to Jennifer Aniston.

She was married to Brad Pitt…

Oh God, you don’t think Brad had something to do with this—out of spite because of the thing about the other thing with other girl and that zombie movie and whatnot!?!

Or, come on, you don’t think…

Christ! If it was Papa John then I don’t know if I want to be involved in this anymore. Not when that guy offers delicious pizza at really competitive prices—AND the garlic sauce!

No kissing, Papa John!

I can’t take this anymore…this was supposed to be a simple blog about how to help the world heal from the Oscars snafu. But this, holy shit, I didn’t know trying to solve celebrity dilemmas would be such tough sleddin’. And honestly, the last thing I need is a bloated pizza belly AND OH NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO…

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Is that a small horse…trying to do the “running man!?”

This is crazy, gang. And I don’t see any exit signs.

Will this ever end!?!

I’m lost, sinking and falling deeper, sinking and falling…

Falling and S

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Is that…is that Mischa Barton?

Tate Donovan?

Am I in fucking Orange County?

This whole time…was it the cast from The O.C.?

Wait, the Postal Service had songs featured in The O.C. Does that mean it’s a symbolical blame involving the actual postal service…the Ol’ USPS…that it’s really about sorting the mail correctly? I guess…making sure the correct card was in the correct hands would be the most plausible solution, but why in the hell did I have to beam to Orange County to figure that out?

Hmm…wait a sec…is this REALLY Orange County, though? I haven’t seen a golf course in, like, well ever. This feels…different. It’s like a Kmart, stuffed inside of a Wal-Mart, stuffed into a McDonald’s.

Hey, it’s Suki Waterhouse!

Price Waterhouse! Those fuckers!

Are you all still here?

Guys?

Readers?

For the love of Pete, it’s the trailer for Prayer of the Rollerboys, starring Corey Haim.

What. Have. I. Done?

Gods of Los Angeles, if I get out of here alive and unscathed, with some sort of understanding and brain cells to at least use cutlery, I will forever thank the academy and Hollywood and whomever else needs to be thanked in order for me to get the hell out of here.

I’ll register with Central Casting and I will always bring multiple options to set.

Please! I didn’t know the proverbial waters that provide gentle flotation for the celebrity psyche were so deep and uncharted; the varying thicknesses of it all like a wiggling bowl of purple Jello.

Of course Joan of Arc is here…

No, not that one, the one from Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure.

Yep, her.

AHHHHHH! This is seriously getting out of control. I may never get back to civilization, which means this blog will cease. Jesus! My blog didn’t last as long as Warren Beatty—AND Betty White, for that matter. This was a mistake. People need to be warned!

I guess…I should write, like, a farewell note…something for the next goofball who thinks they can simply solve celebrity issues with a few clicks of the keyboard?  I never thought it would come to this, but there’s a piece of paper on the ground here and I have a pen, so…

Wait, this piece of paper!!!!!!!

Hold on! This isn’t a piece of paper, it’s a scroll—I wonder how old it is, from what era?

No, check that, it’s not a scroll. It’s…it’s a Julia Child recipe!

Guys, this is it! I have a Julia Child recipe! And… I think I see a refrigerator! That must be the exit from this nightmare.

Well, this is fucking weird…

But guys, I hear…oh shit, you guys, I hear Katy Perry singing. It’s coming full circle! This blog has a chance after all.

I’m…

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AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

Hello?

Hellloooo?

Guys?

This is seven hours later, when I awoke from a confused slumber. There was drool.

What a ride, dear friends, man oh man!

I can’t thank you enough for sticking with me on this little adventure. Honestly I had no idea—no fucking clue—that it was going to rise to that extreme and take us into spaces that we didn’t know existed. But the discovery was a necessary means to an end, right? The end, of course, being the ultimate solution to one of our most pressing matters in history.

And wouldn’t you know it…through all of it, all of the constant chattering and opinions (the tears), Joan of Arc, all we really needed was an old Julia Child recipe, and PRESTO! Never again will an awards ceremony falter, thus fucking up the pageantry and the elegance.

And here it is, gang, I kept it secure whilst rocketing back from the unknown and out that rhino’s ass. It’s the solution:

Huh.