This might sound silly, but I keep mine in the bathroom! It just felt a little pretentious putting it on the living-room mantle. Like, “Ooh, look at me, I’m a big-shot Oscar winner and don’t you forget it!” I suppose the back of the toilet is a bit irreverent. . . . But you’ve got to keep your feet on the ground, right?
I bet that I’ll never hear the end of this—but I keep it in the bathroom! Ha-ha. Right there on the bathroom fridge. It’s a fun little conversation starter if you have people over, which I do not. But, if I did, it would show them that, like, yeah, yeah, she has an Oscar—but she’s still just a regular Joe who puts her pants on one leg at a time and has a refrigerator fully stocked with seltzer and sashimi in her bathroom. Just like they do!
You’re going to laugh, but I keep mine in the bathroom. But not where you think—it’s in the shower. I know. Crazy, right? Yeah. It’s annoying and dangerous, and my family and I have injured ourselves many, many times. But what’s the alternative? Be the asshole who keeps it right there in the living room? No, thanks. That ain’t me. Shower falls build character; concussions aren’t always as bad as they sound. I just think that, ultimately, given how corrupting show business can be, this shower thing makes sense. And if my wife’s tibia heals correctly, I’m pretty sure she’ll agree.
I keep it in an outhouse on our ranch. Yeah. Right there next to the hole. And I miked it. I’ve accumulated hours and hours of people in there. Then I used that audio to create a “speech.” If I ever win another Oscar, I’m going to play that audio when I’m onstage—a crude symphony to show the Academy what I think of their awards.
Sorry, I didn’t hear the question. Where do I keep my what? My Osc—? Oh, right. The Academy Award I won for Best Actress in a Leading Role in 2010. I forgot that I won that for my groundbreaking performance in a historically crowded field. Well, first and foremost, I feel like I should clarify that motherhood will always be my most important role. No achievement could ever top being a mom, and I want my kids to know that. So, at first, I kept my Oscar in the bathroom. But even that felt a little performative, you know? So I drove out to Malibu, threw it off a cliff, and then commissioned a statue of my uterus to display in its place. The golden uterus statue is my real trophy. Oscars are false idols. You really have to be careful about what you worship. It’s like when my kids come home with awards. My youngest came home with a blue ribbon for swimming the other day. She held it up to me, smiling. I threw it in the trash. She cried, and I took a picture of her enraged, tear-stained face. I blew the photo up, spray-painted “Ego” on it, and placed it on the mantle, next to my uterus trophy. I just think that it’s important for kids to grow up with a sense of normalcy, you know?
For tax reasons, my Oscar is in Cyprus from January to July, and then from August to December it’s in a marine terminal in New Orlean—hmm? Oh, weird. My lawyer just told me I shouldn’t say that. And now my agent’s chiming in to agree. I don’t get it, though. Why not? I mean, it’s not like I said some pretentious horseshit like I keep it in the bathroom. What is it with those people? Like, do you want another award for how fucking down-to-earth you are? It’s the most trafficked room in the house, dipshit. Get a life.
I keep it in the bathroom, and the reason is simple! There’s just no better high than staring at a small golden nude with V-cut abs as you release your bowels and think, “Holy Geronimo—I won an Academy Award in 1997 for Best Supporting Actress!” Top that off with an ice-cold seltz from the shitter fridge, and boom—you’re on top of the world. ♦