Oh snap! Ya’ll need to hide your kids, hide your wives, and hide your husbands because it’s time for the Third Annual Irwie Awards! (Sadly Antoine Dodson refused to attend the ceremony because he was upset at being nominated in the “guilty pleasure” category. The Irwie officials meant no disservice and wish Dodson nothing but the best of luck on his entrepreneurial career.) For those unfamiliar, the Irwie awards acknowledge those who have made an impact in popular culture over the past year in honor of the iconic Steve Irwin. Let’s get to the awards!
Honorary Gold Star Recipient: Brett Favre
Favre has put up with a lot this year—injuries, struggling team, further tainted public image—but no one deserves an A for effort more than Minnesota’s public enemy number one. At a time where many his age struggle to change the channel on their new digital televisions, Favre has entrusted technology with his most personal messages (and appendage). Though most members of his generation would be limited to faxing or snail mailing pictures of their genitalia, the elder statesman of the quarterback position successfully sent a picture message of little Brett using his mobile phone. I don’t know why he’s going through so much trouble to deny his feat; his generation could sorely use that success story.
Guilty Pleasure of the Year:
“Who Dat Girl” by Flo Rida featuring Akon
All the objectification of women makes me sick, but I can’t deny a catchy song. Plus, I’ve got to give Mr. Rida ups for being honest with his lyric “I imagine her topless.” Most artists wouldn’t go there. And before the music video descends into “generic party video” mode, it boasts a pretty creative set-up.
Man of the Year: This guy. Words cannot describe why. You must watch.
Disappointment of the Year: How Do You Know
It was tough coming to terms with a Max Weinberg-less Conan. It was also disheartening for a Potter fan like myself to see the most recent installment eclipsed by Tangled in the box office because of a certain British dime piece. I’ve got to give this one to How Do You Know, though. I was really looking forward to it. The film, especially Paul Rudd’s character, was bogged down by wooden, pretentious dialogue. Not only did the trailers contain the film’s best jokes, but they also exhibited better comic timing than the awkwardly edited motion picture. I haven’t seen Spanglish, but from what I can gather, this is Brooks’ second straight disappointment (because The Simpsons Movie doesn’t count).
Stone Cold Fox of the Year: Robyn
Robyn also wins the artist/human being of the year award as far as I’m concerned. Body Talk, a collection of the best tracks across the terrific three-part EP series, is the catchiest thing since post 9/11 xenophobia. Never before has an artist released so much music that I like in a single year. She’s also a ferocious performer. She has more stage presence in one of her cups (which she always fills, and has no need to supersize), than most people have in their entire bodies. She delivered a rendition of “Hyperballad” that nearly brought Björk to tears. She also brought the house down at the Nobel ceremony for the second time in three years (here’s the first time). And on top of all that, she is so unapologetically herself that one can’t help but see her for the fox she is.
Honorary Gold Star Recipient: Brett Favre
Favre has put up with a lot this year—injuries, struggling team, further tainted public image—but no one deserves an A for effort more than Minnesota’s public enemy number one. At a time where many his age struggle to change the channel on their new digital televisions, Favre has entrusted technology with his most personal messages (and appendage). Though most members of his generation would be limited to faxing or snail mailing pictures of their genitalia, the elder statesman of the quarterback position successfully sent a picture message of little Brett using his mobile phone. I don’t know why he’s going through so much trouble to deny his feat; his generation could sorely use that success story.
Guilty Pleasure of the Year:
“Who Dat Girl” by Flo Rida featuring Akon
All the objectification of women makes me sick, but I can’t deny a catchy song. Plus, I’ve got to give Mr. Rida ups for being honest with his lyric “I imagine her topless.” Most artists wouldn’t go there. And before the music video descends into “generic party video” mode, it boasts a pretty creative set-up.
Man of the Year: This guy. Words cannot describe why. You must watch.
Disappointment of the Year: How Do You Know
It was tough coming to terms with a Max Weinberg-less Conan. It was also disheartening for a Potter fan like myself to see the most recent installment eclipsed by Tangled in the box office because of a certain British dime piece. I’ve got to give this one to How Do You Know, though. I was really looking forward to it. The film, especially Paul Rudd’s character, was bogged down by wooden, pretentious dialogue. Not only did the trailers contain the film’s best jokes, but they also exhibited better comic timing than the awkwardly edited motion picture. I haven’t seen Spanglish, but from what I can gather, this is Brooks’ second straight disappointment (because The Simpsons Movie doesn’t count).
Stone Cold Fox of the Year: Robyn
Robyn also wins the artist/human being of the year award as far as I’m concerned. Body Talk, a collection of the best tracks across the terrific three-part EP series, is the catchiest thing since post 9/11 xenophobia. Never before has an artist released so much music that I like in a single year. She’s also a ferocious performer. She has more stage presence in one of her cups (which she always fills, and has no need to supersize), than most people have in their entire bodies. She delivered a rendition of “Hyperballad” that nearly brought Björk to tears. She also brought the house down at the Nobel ceremony for the second time in three years (here’s the first time). And on top of all that, she is so unapologetically herself that one can’t help but see her for the fox she is.
