The Lord & Master learned long ago not to interrupt me whilst I am watching a major award show. And, for me, the Emmys are major. When Sassafrass was growing up I passed along to her my vast knowledge of award show etiquette. Especially, the need for shovel food, those all important items you can lift directly into your mouth without tearing your eyeballs off the television screen. Pizza works particularly well, though it’s imperative to assemble an equal mix of salty and sweet to forage between as the evening wears on. And on. Telephone calls during commercial breaks only. This means you, Hot Pants.
Preshows, fashion wraps – now it’s a multiday extravanganza. Thank goodness I can DVR, getting a good, close look at whose cleavage was overflowing, whose ass cheeks peeked into view, who forget to brush her hair, and who never learned that steam removes wrinkles. Joan Rivers, I salute you. Lest we forget, it was Ms. Rivers’ awarding of the Golden Hanger for bad dressing that prompted Helen Mirren to elevate her subsequent looks into the stratosphere.
How I used to relish plucking up that TV Guide Fall Preview Issue, such a fat little garden of delights. I extolled my eagerness to peruse this tome in a Harvard Class Report. In hindsight, maybe that’s why I got the cold shoulder from so many “friends” at my class reunion. That Wiggles, so lowbrow.
Well, screw ’em. I loves what I loves, and I loves me a glitzy, glossy awards show. Emmys, here I come.