Dude. First off, big-time apologies -- I totally meant to write you earlier in the week when your Emmy was still as fresh and warm as a bronze-worthy Suri dump. But I've been busy -- not 16-hour shooting days busy like I'm sure you've been for maybe 20 weeks out of the last year; but solid 8- to 9-hour work day busy, followed by two-hour yoga class busy, followed by sit-down dinner prepared by my work-at-home-house-husband busy, followed by failed attempt to find a new job/career busy, followed by failed attempt to read a book to feel better about my failed job/career search busy, followed by escapist "Simpsons" or "Futurama" rerun on the couch busy. You know how it is. Well, no, actually, you totally don't, but we'll get to that.
So anyway. From 1987 to 1994 or so, I liked you quite a fair bit. Like most females, I was well familiar with the Cusack and Crow ouevres, and I appreciated your continued willingness to steal a scene long before Christopher Walken turned scene-stealing into a cottage industry. Also, I thought you were sort of hot. I'd long had a weird fetish for fit, prematurely balding men, which was embarassing because it meant admitting, for example, that I found the janitor in The Breakfast Club to be a lot hotter than Emilio Estevez or Judd Nelson; but then again, the character I most related to in that movie was Anthony Michael Hall's, so I had plenty to be embarrassed about back then.
But my interest was tentative, because I also long suspected that you were a royal ass, mostly because you usually played a royal ass. A royal-ass loser to be sure, but your assosity was plain nonetheless. Also, I heard from a friend in LA that you have a black woman fetish and used to demand that the "Ellen" casting agents cast black women in the extra roles so that you could hit on them, and that's kind of the dictionary definition of the word "asshole."
So by the time "Entourage" rolled around, I wasn't much interested in what you had to offer.
But then I watched the show and became intrigued again. I thought your whole coke-addled schtick was a clever take on the misplaced adreneline that drives so much of LA, and I admired you because it seemed like you were willing to appear more than a little pathetic as you zeroed in on the misplaced priorities of Hollywood.
Nope! Apparently I had it all wrong. If the viewing masses are to be believed, apparently Ari Gold is a totally cool, awesome guy whom everyone would love to work for because he's so outrageous and just tells it like it is. Meantime, you, Jeremy Piven, decided that TV and real life had gone all post-Cold War and torn down the wall that had once separated them, and so you were out every night actually BEING Ari Gold, picking up 15 women at a time and letting your chest hair dictate your wardrobe selections and playing Seven Minutes in Heaven with Lindsay Lohan at your birthday party and otherwise being an ego-driven dickhead.
That skinned muskrat thingy you wear atop your head is another matter entirely, but I'll leave discussions of said thingy to the PerezHilton Hairpiece Watch Patrol.
So when you won your Emmy on Sunday night, I know I was supposed be all, "Aw! Jeremy Piven finally got his long overdue due! It's about time! AND he brought his mom as his date! Aw!" Instead I was all, "Jesus, do we need ANOTHER posturing actor getting award smoke blown up his ass because he's playing a jacked-up version of himself and in turn is letting his TV character infuse his everyday persona?"
Sorry, JerPi, but I'm here to say that I think you are wildly, wildly overrated. And, I've finally decided, not at all hot to boot. Your head is too big.
P.S. By the way, since you think TV and real life are interchangeable, does that means you were actually sweating buckets over the fact that Bob Newhart could've died Sunday night if the show ran too long? If so, were you sweating even more buckets since you know that human sweat can loosen almost any glue, even the glue that keeps skinned muskrat thingys firmly atop shiny bald heads?
P.P.S. An ascot is not a chest sarong. An ascot is meant to add a foppish flair to an already complete suit ensemble; it's not meant to serve as a semi-sheer coverup of your hickies and chest hair plugs and Cleveland Steamer skid marks and whatever the hell else you've got going on under there. Clean it up, man.