Someone recently asked me to name three celebs I’d like to have with me on a desert island, and one of my three was Amy Poehler, because without Jessica or any of my other ladies around, I’m totally going to need a girlfriend to gossip with, who will crack me up routinely, and who will tell me if the saltwater is doing weird things to my hair or whether my palm fronts are sufficiently flattering. Amy Poehler is totally that person, or at least, in my head.
And while we were on the island, watching Ron Swanson carve us a habitat with his bare hands as Steven Colbert wrote the evening’s newscast and Eric Ripert made us some fish (since Ron is fictional, I invited him along), I would turn to her and say, “Amy, remember that orange dress Stella gave you? The one that was a great color but looked like a full-body poncho?” And she’d be all, “No, because I ate some brain-eating berries over there,” and I’d be like, “PHEW, good choice, because I don’t think you want that memory, and also, stop eating those.”
Actually, no, I’d tell her to eat them one more time, until they erased the memory of this as well:
Amy is LOVELY. Look how foxy she is here. This outfit is just plain mean to her, and I don’t like to see my imaginary best friends treated in this manner.