Say what you will about Kanye West, but we could sure use his brazenly meddlesome approach at Sunday's Primetime Emmys. This has always been an awards show desperately in need of a second opinion.

Say Elisabeth Moss wins best actress in a drama for her role on Mad Men. Kanye could run out, snatch the microphone from her, and declare, "You can have your say in a minute, but I just want to point out that Glenn Close had a monster season on Damages. One of the best seasons ever!"

Julia Louis-Dreyfus takes best actress in a comedy? Kanye to the rescue. "I'm going to let you finish...," he begins.

"Finish?" marvels Louis-Dreyfus. "I never got started."

"Whatever," Kanye continues. "Before you make your little speech, I just want to give props to my girl, Tina Fey - stand up, Tina. She is so much funnier, it's sick. Sick."

When the figurine for best actor in a comedy goes to Alec Baldwin, our Emmy emissary sprints out, takes one look at the burly Baldwin, and backs away, fanning his hands.

That's because Kanye has one hard-and-fast rule for his awards-show interventions: Never bum-rush a winner who weighs more than 120 pounds.

What was the name of your band? Mary Hart conducted an interview of Paul McCartney on Entertainment Tonight this week that exemplified the show's ridiculous obsession with the flavor of the week.

She asked the pop legend what he thought of flash-in-the-pan Susan Boyle. That's like getting a sit-down with Dame Judi Dench to ask her what she thinks of Gossip Girl Blake Lively.

Makeup please. This doesn't happen often, but it was a good week for Tom Arnold. He's featured in a funny new ad campaign, lecturing a bunch of sad sacks sitting on folding chairs in a church basement on how to improve their football-watching techniques.

Arnold also showed up on FX's Sons of Anarchy as a sleazy porn king. Most convincing performance he's ever given. But I have to tell you, Tom - hi-def is not your friend.

Maybe he knows a shortcut? The supernatural Fringe has returned for its second season, more patterned than ever on The X-Files. Right down to its causal disregard for travel time.

Peter is grocery shopping with his father in Boston when he gets a call that Olivia has been in a serious car crash in Manhattan.

Next thing you know, he's screeching up to the accident scene in a black SUV. The smashed cars are still in the same spots, as are the emergency responders.

I made that same drive two weeks ago with my daughter. Took us five hours. And I tore through Connecticut like Tony Stewart.

While I'm picking nits: As Olivia is recovering in the hospital, her FBI partner Charlie tells her a story that begins, "When I was in my second year on Brooklyn P.D. . . ."

Sorry, Charlie, there is no such thing. Every borough is policed by the N.Y.P.D.

Ad embargo. I don't know about you, but I'm sick and tired of the commercials with the googly eyes atop a bundle of money purporting to be the savings I would get by signing with a different insurance company.

These spots seem to be on five times an hour.

Besides, it looks like a panhandler's soiled pile of singles. Hardly worth filling out the paperwork.

Contact staff writer David Hiltbrand at 215-854-4552 or dhiltbrand@phillynews.com. Read his recent work at http://go.philly.com/ daveondemand.