Pink performing during the 79th Tony Awards at Radio City Music Hall on June 7, 2026. Photo by Charles Sykes/Invision/AP See more of our coverage in your search results.
Add The New York Post on Google Tonys emcees pretty vacant So now it’s summertime and the TV is easy. And every out-of-work butcher, baker and unemployed bra-maker is an authority. Like particularly on the — ugh! — Tonys.
One out-of-work lighting expert who never earned enough to cheat on income tax solved the problem of TV’s ratings war. He said: “CBS? Cancel all commercials. And feature open, like really open, discussions on sex.”
Explained is that this would panic the FCC. “Then that’s their problem,” he said.
Amateurs are the professional pests of the professionals. Our vocation is their avocation.
People who can’t decide to knock or go for gin without a Ouija board issue decisions on everything artistic. Geniuses at the bottom of everything except their unemployment line forward suggestions — to beings so elevated in the theatrical stratosphere that they wear oxygen masks to write the drivel the Tonys preshow burbles.
Oy, is that terrible stuff terrible. Female emcees — in overdressed overtight gowns with hair pulled tighter than their cheeks — always ask, “Isn’t this the most exciting moment of your life?” Stomachs, hairpieces and behinds are pulled tighter than Mrs. Biden’s bullbleep. And the smile? Their open mouths could engulf the Grand Canyon.
How about once, once, a real question. Like: What’s your method to memorize? Ever blow a line onstage? What if an audience member’s phone goes off and you lose your place?
These lady emcees are rammed into gowns they don’t own with jewelry they don’t own with creativity they don’t own. They think they’re better — at least thinner — than their bosses. Will somebody, anybody, even a nobody, write some decent questions for them while they’re busy smiling larger than for a root canal.
The boobs, tight. Behind, tight. Hips, tight. Hair, tight. Dress, tight. Smile, tight. So tight she’d have to drink up her eye makeup, which is so thick she can barely lift her lids.
For their TV moment, some have redone noses, ears, boobs, stomach, cheeks. Refixed hairlines. Colored brows. It’s penciled eyebrows, erased pimples, raised hairlines. Everything’s lifted but good questions. Off camera they nervously study their suggested rehearsed asks.
Some tightly dressed dream of being the next Marilyn Monroe — more famous than semi Prince Harry’s temporary wife. When the Nembutal wears off and the corset rips off, she dreams of marrying an old geezer rather than the zeroes who take her bowling.
It’s corsets so their behinds are narrower than their outlook. Push in here, puff out there. And parts where they can’t make it, they fake it.
Not that they’re not gorgeous. They are. Not that I’m not jealous. I am.
And thanks to NY1’s Broadway guru Frank DiLella for expertise. If not for him, some of us would’ve still been cheering for Ethel Barrymore.
Hunter’s offering a free copy to whoever buys one of his paintings.
One of NYC’s new ladies of the evening, any evening — even late nights will do — asked a passerby for money. “Not now,” said the gent, “but I’ll give you something on the way back.” Hooker: “No. That won’t do. You’d be surprised at how much money I’ve lost giving credit that way.”
Only in Zero Crapdammy’s old neighborhood, kids, only in Zero Crapdammy’s old neighborhood.
