Award «Derrida is Alive and Well and Shagging Molly Bloom» cerimony acceptance speech

You'll have to pardon my cockney and my overemotional pussy sobbing.
I am overcome with astonishment, deeply moved, and somewhat aroused below the waist, but that might be Molly doin' her thang, I cannot be sure, being, as I am, devoid of sensitivity downstairs, since she argued, and I quote, it would be a fun neo-reichian research in sexual thermodynamics to inquire the orgasmic power of conflicting bodily temperatures by making my (hers) torrid body shag your (mine) between-the-legs in the form of an icicle, and urged me to stick my aforementioned man-tool in the cooler for a minute or so, which, on account of my snoozing due to something of a drunken stupor, left my sunday-afternoon-crosspuzzle-leisure-substitute to come close to resemble a deep-frozen mini-mini-sausage roll.
(pause and wipe tear from cheek)
First and foremost, I would like to thank Jacques, James, Molly (whom he, James - Leopold, poor beautiful bastard, was already out of the picture, but still enjoys having a pint with me now and then, as in when I'm penniless and grovel at his feet for one in exchange for speaking him up to Molly in the next shagging-fest - let me have for a while, while his is defrosting (apparently the temperature shock is something of a vintage turn-on for her, and bearing in mind her mental voracity always on the verge of a Nelly-Furtado-breakdown, I would urge you to think twice before assaulting a piece of meat on a stick which underwent a deep-freezing preservation process)), and, of course, thank the member (not that) of Casanova's very own one man academy. (If you're pondering going back to the beginning of the sentence to question the fictional-historical-mish-mash(?) reasonability and cohesiveness of this tale, don't.)
(pause to regain a steady pulse)
I am clearly unworthy of this most unctuous (in every possible, lubricant and rewarding sense) award, though, to my credit, I do try, although margerine is Maria's department and Molly is discontent with spurious comparison, and only through the effort to achieve the necessary degree of moistness with mere recourse to oral stimulation (reading out loud, you filthy swine) I came to be eligible to such a rewarding distinction, which, in and of itself, regardless of the brassed off decoration I expect to receive shortly in my mailbox, is one of the most endearing things anyone has ever said to me (lucky Casanova's arse is in the distance of old Albion).
(stop pushing me you fucks, I'm not done yet)
(mildly pain-stricken and frank frown)
Some might find it either ironic, or perhaps akin to poetic justice, that such an award is delivered to my grateful hands for my portrayal of an angry, bitter, lacking in sexual fulfilment, doodler lashing out against forms of blogospheric distinction anchored in plebiscitary masquerades. However, precisely what one might fail to realise is, opposite to the shallow visibility which is the only criteria sustaining distinction anchored in senseless voting mathematics, these distinctions are unique, personal, tailor-made, not transmissible (therefore, not up for grabs of eligibility or detractory comparison of losers, except the prized one), and more substantive than all the mathematical unanimity of the world, for which I wouldn't trade it (while we're at the symbolic realm of reward, of course. Write me a check, and I'll start linking and licking).
If, despite all my candour and rethoric, you fail to see these clear and present truths, you will, of course, be certain of my unreliable and feeble character, shouting at my naked royalty (figuratively speaking: if I were to be naked at eye-sight for you to shout at me, you would already be passed-out in the pavement, trampled underfoot by Robert Plant, don't ask me why): the filthy unsufferable bastard contradicts himself! Well, as huge Walt before me uttered for eternity: Do I contradict myself? Very well, I contradict myself. I am large. (...)
No, that's it: I am large.
(was I supposed to make a point?...)