There is no relevance to your red carpet. Read the room. Preen and glare into the flashes, glamorous and indignant. Your public is a hassle, you know the depth of your shallow pool, no diving, no horseplay. This is serious, we have war.
Pilled and coked, vaped and doped. Agents are sweating and hyperventilating, chauffeurs are pretending to dig everything, interviewers are having audio difficulties. The shit show of America. Stand for the Indians, the Ukrainians won't mind. They have other worries.
Steal from the past, even Toy Story gets ripped off. Nothing new, same scripts. Like stale cinematic bread, bland and hard to digest. Knotty stomach aches all around, acid reflux moans, a pepto bismol evening. Try not to crack a tooth.