I love watching gowns and jewels and gorgeous man candy during awards season. But I have to put the TV on mute because the brain-dead “interviewers” (cough “boxes of hair” cough) are doing anything but interviewing. You’d think that Billy Bush was assaulted by The Walking Dead. Over and over, I wait for a question, and this is what I hear:
"Your dress is amazing. It’s such a beautiful color."
"It must be amazing to work with Darren Aronofsky. I mean, he’s such a visionary."
"Your body is slammin’."
No questions are actually asked. A microphone invades the personal space of a celebrity, who is then supposed to do an impromptu stand-up routine while suffering fools in designer duds. If a question is actually posed, it’s claw-your-face-off, Seacrest-on-a-chalkboard banal. “Who are you excited to see tonight?” “Isn't James Franco just SO talented?”
Please, find your pulse and ask what we really want to know: Would you ever work a red carpet encased in an egg? To what tropical bird was your hairdresser paying homage? Did you have a colonic today to drop those last couple of pounds? Do you ever buy your own clothes or jewelry? Do you want to punch me in the face?
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