American Idolatry
Unable to hold back any longer, I am thankful that I can count on the blogging world at large upon which to unload my bipolar distress over the American Idol Disaster of 2006. Because it hurts. And the more it hurts, the more I love it, and really, whether you’re in the closet or openly preaching your love of AI to anyone who will listen (can I get a witness?), there is great comfort knowing I am not alone in this.
* Judas Priest, what is Paula on this week? It’s a game! Fun for the whole family! Spot the symptoms, place your bets and name your drug. Glassy eyes? Check. Slurred speech? Check. Unabashed love for all living and inanimate objects, including Simon? Could be Tina. Wait, she keeps waving an imaginary lasso above her head. Looks like it’s a hallucinogenic. My money’s on a bottle of Ritalin with a rubber cement chaser. Also, it appears her left bang swoop may be strategically hiding a lazy eye? Or is her left eye is a lightweigt? We’ll never know.
* Why is Randy always a broken record? When the show first started, all we heard about was how he played bass on Journey records back in the day. Dawg was constantly reliving his glory days. Now he just picks a couple choice phrases and repeats them ad nauseum. Last night’s victims: “Out the box” and “You worked it OUT, man.”
* Mandisa is a class act, yo. (Damn you, Randy!)
* Bucky. Bucky. Bucky. So yucky.
Looks of a truck driver. Voice of a lawn mower.
* Paris. If I have to hear Paris say “tink you” to the judges one more time… I mean, clearly the girl is extremely talented, but her über-cutsie 5 year old speaking voice and mannerisms make me feel like I am watching some sort of creepy human/Cabbage Patch hybrid.
* Chris. Do yourself a favor and stay as far away from Paula as you can. She a cold hearted snake. Look into her (glassy) eyes, oh oh oh.
* Katharine. I can’t help but like her although I think she would take Idolship to a very cabaret type place.
* Taylor. I just can’t.
* Lisa. Dawg, you are really getting on my nerves. This is not your high school production of Carousel! I get the feeling she’s the kind of girl I probably hated in high school, and is so precious that she thinks pierced ears are trampy, gets ill from one cigarette and wears a virginal white dressing gown with matching headband to bed. In short, she needs to get her hands dirty. I suggest a scandalous affair with Paris. Again, stay away from Paula.
* Kevin. I have a theory that under that fully buttoned polo shirt lies a full flokati rug of chest hair.
Kevin charitably donates his chest hair to needy children of the world.
* Ellllleeeeeeooooottttt. Brilliantly compared to Alf and Miranda’s favorite. I like him a whole lot, but want to feed him Sudafed. Boy is stuffed up!
* Kellie Pickler. FTLOC, she is MILKING that southern-fried hick/vacant blonde act for all she can get. Can anyone really be that stupid? She is like a caricature of herself, dumbfounded by the most common objects and foods. She’s still harping on her introduction to calamari. It irritates me to no end and makes me want to sit and try to convince her to eat inedible things. “Shellac? I’ve nayver hayad a shellayac sandwich before. Fried Q-tips? I’ve nayver even heard of a Q-tip before.” You get the picture.
Ace. I would like to hear him sing an entire Barry White album in falsetto.
