(S35E03) Drew Barrymore is energy. Pure, almost-scary energy. It's disorienting to watch when one is bleary-eyed and staring at a tiny TV in the wee hours of the morning, but this trademark makes for consistent television-viewing. While the quality of Saturday Night Live's writing may waver from episode to episode, every time Drew Barrymore returns, one can safely expect absolute enthusiasm and a palpable willingness to step back and laugh at herself.
All right, little Ms. "I Extra-Love Female Empowerment," prepare for me to work that ego.... Especially when one compares her to the typical "hot girl" host (see: Megan Fox's SNL premiere), Barrymore doesn't box herself in and offers a lot more opportunity for fun characters. Would someone like Fox ever be willing to bolo it up to play Nina Wilkes Booth? I doubt it.
Uber-humorist John Hodgman has a wit that hasn't been seen since the likes of Robert Benchley. His uncanny ability to turn his know-it-all prowess and droll delivery into brilliant comedy deserves scientific study.
I'm not saying he needs a complete autopsy. Maybe just a little exploratory brain surgery that doesn't do any permanent damage to the neurons and synapses that allow him to conjure long lists of hobo names and an incredibly detailed history of the American lobster. Trust me, there is a hilarious global warming cure in that noggin somewhere.
So after watching his brilliant and funny performance at the White House Radio and Television Correspondence Dinner (Speaking of which, didn't we just have one? How many of these damn dinners do they need? Are television reporters experiencing a major shortage of grilled chicken?), a lingering but obvious thought occurred. Why does this man not have his own television show?