Bridget Everett is everywhere. She’s sneering on Lady Dynamite, cackling on Inside Amy Schumer and on her own wildly popular tour.
Squinting, shrugging, and gyrating, she is good medicine. The woman has many stages right now, but none of them define her — anywhere Bridget’s mouth opens and sings about what she gotta to get the rated R equivalent of male affection, you can hear her, dropping off tired expectations of a woman on the side of the road and leaving them for dead. Her gaze is steady as she rubs into several strangers a night, presenting her wondrous bosom in your face as she volunteers info about her favorite people and inappropriate doll usage to everybody in particular. On Amy’s show, you totally can see that she’s a chill person at a bar, but like all artists likely totally insane.
It’s so important to treasure Bridget Everett beyond her loud sexy antics. She’s so necessary because she just lifts the pressure off of everyone and melts it away with her totally together hot mess shtick. She’s a portrait of a woman who is just down to do her, as we all could be if we looked like Bridgett in approximately four pounds of glitter all over.
In today’s embarrassing world of pop culture, Amy Schumer gets on a magazine specifically for “every size,” because that’s more body diversity than what we’re used to seeing, and Bridgett is big in every way, and should be worshipped for her possession of zero cares. Hers is a radical act, even if it’s in your face nutso and often naughtiness-themed. Her format is not simple — it’s not be the most shocking diva ever. As she regales you, she reveals things about herself with her utter refusal to sit down, shut up, and be nice.
She blipped onto everyone’s radar thanks to her crazy live shows, and has real staying power, not as a sidekick, but as a leading lady. Her secret is that she pretends to be an aggressive crazy telling you fun campy tales, but she really just gives everyone a break from being self-conscious. She turns songs of crazy acts into vehicles of release. Her fellow nut balls comedians love her, John Slattery understands she is a deity, and we want saint candles of her image and for her to sing at our funerals so that everyone can calm the hell down.
Her fake voice and her fake ‘tude are wrenched from somewhere deep in her soul when she’s grinding and blessedly ignorant of the exact location of her visible underpants, but also kind of doing it on purpose. The example she sets, the completely unique material she deploys is just total deep belly laugh brilliance. Here is Bridget, guru of life itself, neck deep in the telling of her tale.
