On the night of the awards, Taylor Swift will get into the elevator on the top floor, dressed to impress in a 19th century petticoat she had shipped to her from the remains of the Titanic wreckage. She’ll stare into her hand mirror, gaze lovingly at her curls and practice saying, “oh this old thing? It’s just a vintage dress I found on the floor of the Atlantic ocean.” She’ll smile coyly and practice looking humble as the elevator opens up on the 18th floor.
“Why helloooo there, friends!” A man bustled into one of James Franco’s many gigantic lofts (this one located in the cool part of East-East Williamsburg, Brooklyn, which real estate agents had promised James was so hip and underground, there weren’t even trains in a 20 block radius). The man who entered the apartment was wearing giant glasses with a fake nose attached, a tutu dress, and a shirt that said “Fuck Celebrities.”
“Hello, Adrian Grenier,” said James Franco, sitting naked — save for the Eyes Wide Shut orgy mask he had picked up on his travels — on a hemp rug with his house-guest, actor/visionary Joaquin Phoenix, “Won’t you please come in and join our little party? Now that you are here, we can properly start the process of gratuitous self-congratulation.”