And Don’t Get Me Started on Madonna

When Sean Penn walked up to the podium at the Oscars and took it upon himself to defend Jude Law from a joke that host Chris Rock had made earlier, I felt for him. You could sense Penn’s ambivalence because he started by saying, “Forgive my compromised sense of humor.” Anytime you’re saying that, and no one around you is in blackface, you know you’re about to go nuclear with pomposity.

Here’s what I figure his internal struggle was like: He’s standing in the wings of the Kodak Theatre about to present an award when he hears Rock do a riff about how studios shouldn’t bother making movies with their second casting choice.

“You want Tom Cruise, and all you get is Jude Law? Wait!,” Rock advised producers.

“Who is Jude Law? Why’s he in every movie I have seen for the last four years? He’s in everything. Even the movies he’s not in, if you look at the credits, he made cupcakes or something.”

That’s when a stunned Penn is stuck with the moral conundrum: keep quiet and seem cool, or risk acting like a humorless, self-important artiste and defend his fellow actor’s honor by leaning into the microphone and slowly mumbling, “I just want to answer our host’s question about who Jude Law is -- he’s one of our finest actors.”

Penn is so tortured by the decision he runs his hands through his hair over and over, teasing it to Nick Nolte mug shot levels. Do I really want to be remembered as the man who didn’t defend Jude Law? If Jude Law were jumped by five guys trying to steal his wallet, wouldn’t I punch them out? How about if his gardener were slacking off? I’d punch him too. If Jude Law were asked to split a bill when he only showed up for dessert? Punch. What if someone said he has a girl’s name? That, I don’t think I could defend.

Is it possible that Rock really just doesn’t know who Jude Law is? I could clear that up, no problem. Just helpful like. Maybe show him my awesome Jude Law collage, with those little hearts drawn with silver roller-ball pens. Everyone enjoys seeing that.

No, I should really say something. Though, in the past I’ve had some bad luck defending people. Like that Saddam Hussein guy. He let me down big time. But Jude Law, he’s one of our finest actors. How can it go wrong this time? Maybe I should rent “Alfie” first.

What if I just stand here quietly, and let it pass? Might the consequences of my cowardice destroy my life? Is it possible that tomorrow Law’s agent will drop him, figuring that the only actor worth representing is Cruise? And his manager too? And the nice woman who supplies his butter cream? Which would be particularly sad because Jude Law also happens to be one of our finest cupcake makers.

He’ll be out of work and penniless, and I’ll be forced to put him up in my guest room. And there he’ll stay, one of our finest actors, eating my food, alone all day with my wife, Robin Wright Penn, who will quickly take to calling herself Robin Wright Penn Law.

He’ll just be lying on my couch, taunting me by imitating Jeff Spicoli and ordering pizzas to my house. I won’t want to laugh, but I won’t be able to help it. He’s that good.

Yes, I’ll have to say something. You know, Rock picked on Cuba Gooding Jr. too. Maybe I should defend him as well. No, Cuba deserves it for “Snow Dogs.” Though “Get ready for mush hour!” still cracks me up. Mush hour.

I wonder what’s in the gift bag? Maybe some hair product. Would it be weird to use it right now? Maybe just a little volumizer. That feels good.

I won’t say anything. Better not to be seen as taking myself too seriously. Better to be glib and falsely modest and pretend I don’t take acting all that seriously. That’s what people like. Even at the Oscars.

Who am I kidding? I can’t stop myself.