Most people think we Hollywood residents are all wannabe actors and actresses, but that’s not true. Sure, some people here are drunks, deadbeats, or perverts – the main vocations of aspiring actors – but many Hollywood residents are just fanatics of celebrity culture. People who moved here not because they want to work in the business, but because they want to be close to the business.

You might think that’s a little creepy, but those of us who have attended a lame Oscar party full of these folks know it’s creepy. Take the most celebrity-obsessed person you know and times it by 12,000. Then surround yourself with those people in an environment where they’re encouraged to study and analyze celebrities as if they were discussing Plato’s theory of forms. The result is both comedic and tragically disturbing.

“Look at Lindsay Lohan’s eyebrows in these photos,” says one woman with a thick valley girl accent, clutching a copy of US Weekly as if some invisible menace were plotting to steal it from her. “They’re sooooo good. She’s obviously going to a new salon. I think she’s totally going to recover and become a big star again.”

“Yeah, but look at her dress,” says a flat-nosed woman whose sentences often disintegrate into unintelligible squealing. “There’s, like, tacky sequins all over it. She’ll probably kill herself next week. I know I would.”

Take 20 of these people and put them in the same living room with a large bowl of Wheat Thins, and you not only have a reason to hate humanity, but also an Oscar party that someone as lame as me gets invited to. These are the sort of people who, if there wasn’t TV or movies, would sit underneath the Golden Gate Bridge waiting for suicidal people to jump.

Why must we have Oscar parties? Why do we even have the Oscars? Aren’t rich and famous people fortunate enough? Do we really need to throw them a multi-million dollar ceremony that’s held on the same day as church? Do we really need to give people this lucky an opportunity to gush about how great it is to be lucky, and then complain bitterly about how the band played them offstage after 45 seconds? If someone who makes $20 million per film is still talking about themselves after 45 seconds, their Oscar should be given to the runner-up.

Yet Oscar parties are still a popular activity here. Everyone seems to hold one or go to one. It is considered rude to not arrive with a pot of little smokies that you’ve titled, “Weenie Todd and the Demon Sauce” or a bottle of expensive alcohol which you’ve named, “No Country for Old Scotch”. Or Bloody Mary mix that you refer to as, “There Will Be Bloody Marys”. I could go on for hours listing Oscar-friendly culinary puns. God knows the people at the Oscar parties did.

The only reason I can think of to gather a bunch of celebrity-obsessed people in the same room is to slash their car tires while they’re inside. I, for one, am done with Oscar parties for good. In movie terms, I am “Gone Baby Gone”.

Did I just make a movie pun? Oh God, it’s too late.

I really need someone to do illustrations for these columns.

“John Edwards” does not sound like a candy bar. It sounds like a company of very elderly men who make specialty dress shoes. Pretty shoes, but ones you quickly regret buying once you realize nobody gives a shit about how pretty their shoes look.

A Mike Gravel candy bar sounds outlandish, inedible, and borderline batshit-crazy. “Gravel bar”? Like road gravel? In a candy bar? That’s not going to sell well. Gravel bars can join Zagnut bars as the items most likely to be kicked under your refrigerator, then consumed and upchucked by your dog. “Gravel bar! Only 60 calories, lodged in your colon like a brick!”

A “McCain bar” seems like it might be good, but it also seems like it might be a little too nutty. Sometimes it sounds like a whole pile of nuts that someone positioned into a candy bar shape with coconut. The only way you don’t recognize them as being just plain nuts is because of the form they’ve been shaped into. It also seems like a very angry candy bar. “McCain bar! Eat it or die, pussy!” “McCain bar! Eat it before the Vietnamese lock you in a cage!”

What? Too soon? It happened in 1967, for God’s sake.

I’m torn on whether Mitt Romney should go with “Romney bar” or “Mitty Sweets”. Either way, the candy bar would fail because of Mormonism. Most of them don’t eat chocolate because of the caffeine in it, so his candy bar would have to be one of those awful organic ones. Have you ever tried one of those Clif Nectar bars? You need eight glasses of water to wash one down.

Now call me crazy, but a “Huckabee bar” sounds mighty tasty. No matter how much I despise Mike Huckabee’s politics or religious agenda, I can’t deny that the man’s name sounds delicious. If you offered me a Huckabee bar, not only would I take one, but I’d a second one and keep it in my back pocket for a sunny Sunday afternoon at the ol’ fishing hole.

A Huckabee bar even sounds slightly religious. “Huckabee bar! Come get you some chocolate Jesus!” I’d be really excited if people started referring to Mike Huckabee as “Chocolate Jesus”. I don’t care if it doesn’t make sense.

I don’t even want to talk about a Rudy Giuliani candy bar. It probably wouldn’t be sold in Iowa, Michigan, or half the states that matter in the primaries. It’d only be sold in Florida, where it would just sit on the shelves, ignored and forgotten except as a cruel joke.

I’d comment on what candy bar Ron Paul would be like, but his energetic – if that’s the right word for it – supporters would find me, slit my throat, and use my corpse to make creepy homemade signs urging people to vote for Ron Paul.

I hope this column helped you choose a presidential candidate. Not everyone is interested in politics, but I find it helps apathetic citizens tremendously if you compare the candidates to enjoyable things like sugary treats. Next week’s column: Which style of underwear represents your favorite candidate? Is Mike Gravel a soiled pantaloon? Is Ron Paul a farthingdale or a bronzed codpiece? Stay tuned!