"Hola, adoring fans. Are you pleased to see me? Of course you are. I am pleased to see you, but I cannot show it, because this very dramatic dress is not for smiling giddy dopey people. It is for SERIOUS people with SERIOUS fierceness, no? And I am VERY SERIOUS. For one thing, I agreed to come here to the Golden Globes even though I am not nominated, despite having done the best acting work of my life just by staying married to this person. Because I am SERIOUS about reminding people that I used to act, and also, I am SERIOUS about getting Ralph Fiennes to talk to me again. Amigos, he won't even make eye-contact. Who had even HEARD of him before Maid in Manhattan, eh? The three people who saw that Sphincter's List, or whatever? My mother, who saw that movie where he was an English man who was somebody's patient? I don't even know the NAME of that thing! I MADE him, and what do I get? He blushes and runs away? Tonto. At least people know how to pronounce my name, RAFE FINES. Dios mio.
You are probably wondering why I am standing here with this loco Milhouse, because I am supposed to be hating him and not wearing my wedding ring. Well, it is a long story, my pets. I made him wear the glasses. He seems less tired, no? If I have to look at him, I need to believe he is not dying. But I also REFUSE to divorce him while She Who Shall Not Be Named is cooing over a new baby with Crapfleck. If his boring rebound marriage is still alive, then SO IS MINE, fools. I will let Marc nibble on my neck at night and allow him to squeal like a pathetic little baby girl whenever we get served garlic bread at a restaurant, and I will serve him V8 through a tube in the mornings, and it will be fine, because that is what divas DO. Divas do not QUIT. Divas do not let girls with big lips and a husband with back hair BEAT THEM. So SUCK IT, Douchefleck and Bride! Now excuse me, I must go slap Ralph Fiennes with my handbag. Or with my Marc. I don't care which one."
