Ashley Judd can barely contain her excitement after her husband, hot Italian race-car driver Dario Franchitti, wins the Indianapolis 500. Dario, on the other hand, seems slightly bemused. All right, he's more than slightly bemused - he's wondering why his crazy wife is running around taking all the attention away from him on his big day. Jesus Ashley, it's not like you just got nominated for an Oscar (which of course will never actually happen).
"My husband is so marvelous. He can drive a race-car and balance a huge trophy on his head. Now if he'd just learn cunningulus..."
"Hee-hee, huh-huh, hmm-hmm, ho-ho, hee-hee, hnn-hnn...Renfield."
"Dear God, please let my husband win the car race, so that I may achieve a sense of vicarious triumph, and thereby slightly make up for the fact that my acting career is a joke. And please let my fat sister's ex-husband learn that it's not right to touch little boys' peepees. And please, please let my mother and sister burn in hell forever for making me sweep out the tour-bus for fifty cents a day. And please, God, if you would, please see your way clear to putting a few more acupuncturists out in the African bush, so that the next time I am on a U.N. mission and I need an acupuncturist, I won't have to settle for some skinny black dude jabbing me with little slivers of elephant tusk. Oh, and God, thank you for having the black dude jab me with his other thing later - that was really nice of you. Hugs."
