The Red Carpet Is The Greatest Carpet Of All Carpets


The Emmy Awards are airing this Sunday, and my neighbor, supermarket tabloid aficionado Helen Peters, has written in to share her thoughts on the matter.

To My Friends At The Jezebel:

The Emmy Awards, which are the awards they give out to television, you know, sort of like the Oscars but not as important, are this weekend, and my friend Barbara and I are having a little get together, like we always do, to have a drink or two and watch the red carpet. But we only have a Red Carpet Party, you know, the show we watch on our own, because sometimes it’s very boring or very long and we’d both rather be asleep and dreaming of better things, like a young Marlon Brando, pulling up to my house on his motorcycle. Whether or not he has a shirt on in these dreams as he pulls up to my house on his motorcycle is my personal business, thank you very much, but I will say I do not wake up an unhappy woman. You know, they didn’t talk about global warming until Marlon Brando was born, and I do not think that is a coincidence. Good lord, you show a picture of him in his prime to an iceberg and you have a new ocean in 2 hours.

Anyway, Barbara and I are very excited about our Red Carpet Party. I was trying to get everything organized, because there’s nothing worse than a disorganized Girls’ Night, in my opinion, so I called Barbara and I asked her, I asked, “What should I get for this Red Carpet Party?” And she says—get this—”Don’t worry about it, I got us a bottle of wine, some snacks to munch on, and I got myself a pair of Depends because if Josh Groban shows up in a tuxedo, I just might piss myself.” Can you imagine? That Barbara. The things she comes up with! She doesn’t have an incontinence problem, by the way, she was just being funny, because she loves Josh Groban. Not that there’s anything wrong with an incontinence problem. Sometimes I have little accidents when I laugh too hard, and guess whose fault that is? You’re correct, it’s Barbara’s. She is a riot. I love her to death. In my opinion, if you’re not peeing your pants around your friends at least once a year, you need to get some better friends.

Anyway, Barbara and I just love the red carpet. We’re very big fans of real glamour, which, I have to be honest with you, is sincerely missing from the red carpet these days. All these girls, showing up in dresses that look like they’ve been shredded with a cheese grater and rubbed on a Las Vegas casino floor, sparkles and tears and these awful artificial tans. I don’t know why all of these beautiful young women feel the need to transform themselves in to Faberge circus peanuts, but they do. Awful stuff, you know Just awful. And the men are worse! Rumpled suits, messy hair, unshaven faces! I think they think it looks “cool.” Well, let me tell you something, Mr. Cool Red Carpet: if you have millions of dollars and a team of people to help you look your best, you should not be at the Emmys looking like you fell out of bed, regardless of how expensive that bed may be.

I don’t mean to be so picky, you know, it’s just that we watch these shows to see our favorite stars looking their best, so hopefully everyone will show up looking beautiful and handsome and all that jazz. I just hope nobody wears any furs, because Albert—that’s my dog—he goes crazy whenever he sees furs on the red carpet, and who could blame him, the only person who can carry off a fur without looking like something died on her back is Joan Collins, and I don’t think she’s going to the Emmys this year, which is a shame, because if anyone knows glamour, it’s her. Barbara says she’s looking forward to see that Dr. House, but between you and me, I don’t care for him—I think he’s too grouchy—and I certainly wouldn’t let him operate on me, you know, a doctor in rock and roll t-shirts, very unprofessional, and he has the bedside demeanor of Albert when he’s gotten into the garbage and has the runs. Extremely unpleasant. Not very nice at all.

Anyway, when the celebrities hit the red carpet, Barbara and I will be ready to judge them. I mean that’s the fun, isn’t it? We’ll never be on that red carpet—though I did have red carpets in my living room in 1973 or so, we all made mistakes back then—but we can live through the celebrities who make it there. And if they’re screwing it up by looking like a mess, well, can I be honest with you? Sometimes that’s even better. Because Barbara and I get to laugh and drink our wine and remember that nobody’s perfect. Except a young Marlon Brando. And Joan Collins. And my son Kevin, ladies, who is currently available and would like nothing more than to move out his mother’s house and be your perfect husband. You don’t even have to wear an evening gown: just show up and take him. Barbara and I will roll out the red carpet for you.

Your friend,
Helen Peters

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