Hoping to avoid any gross indecency that could sully its three-hour circle jerk, CBS has issued a “wardrobe advisory” to all presenters and performers scheduled to appear on Sunday’s Grammys broadcast, reminding them of what is and is not acceptable for a show that only really gets attention whenever someone swears or Pink dangles half-naked from the ceiling. As with most detailed lists of things that are naughty, it’s pretty fucking hot.
Along with banning the usual (obscenities and brand names on T-shirts) and the not-so-usual (lapel pins supporting various causes), the email calls upon everyone appearing on camera to please avoid baring their breasts or buttocks—their dirty, dirty breasts and buttocks—in breathless prose that rivals Fifty Shades Of Grey in its graceless eroticism. Allow CBS to shame you in a way you’ll probably enjoy, like the perverted little breast-and-buttock-haver you are:
Please be sure that buttocks and female breasts are adequately covered. Thong type costumes are problematic. Please avoid exposing bare fleshy under curves of the buttocks and buttock crack. Bare sides or under curvature of the breasts is also problematic.
“Buttocks and breasts are wrong—so very wrong,” CBS Standards and Practices says, biting its lip to convey just how problematic those bare, fleshy under-curves are. Those flagrant, buoyant mounds of skin, exposed for all the world and FCC to see, begging to be slapped with fines so, so hard. The thong, wickedly promising a solution when it only creates more problems. Those loping curves drawing the eye involuntarily into the dark, teeming jungles of the buttock crack.
Please avoid sheer see-through clothing that could possibly expose female breast nipples. Please be sure the genital region is adequately covered so that there is no visible “puffy” bare skin exposure.
“Please, don’t wear that dress, the one where your impertinent female breast nipples cannot help but protrude upward, as though tiny daisies reaching for the sun,” CBS pleads in a husky whisper. “No puffy genital skin, rising like the devil’s dough baked in hellfire. Please… No.”
CBS gets out the belt. Sixteen sharp lashes across each shoulder. The pain is pure, cleansing. It prays for a bit.
(Meanwhile, in his Berkshire mansion, Elton John sits reading his email. He sighs and trudges to his walk-in closet, beginning the long process of finding new pants that can hide his buttock crack. This could take all night.)
CBS begins sweating profusely, desperately unable to purge thoughts of bare, fleshy under-curves, these rolling hills and shadowed valleys of puffy genital skin. It turns on a rerun of Criminal Minds, about a man who rapes and murders multiple college girls.
“That’s better,” it sighs.
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