Idol. I'm almost done with it. I say almost because the manipulating power of this program exceeds my ability to exercise the sense that normally I find to be so common to me. Seriously. The whole Sanjaya debacle has slayed the show. For weeks now I've thought, "Well, people aren't that smart. I get it. Whatever. He can't possibly get any worse..."
And then I watched last night's show.
Now listen. On country night, I thought I'd let it pass that the only country song he could think of singing was "Something to Talk About." I thought I could do it because I realize that it's highly likely he imagines himself as Julia Roberts being whirled around the dance floor by Dennis Quaid, but then he opened his mouth.
Effective immediately, the phrase, "Holy kcuf," entered my lexicon and stayed there nearly exalted in repetition for the full eternity that was the most hellacious 2 minutes of my life.
I called Rachel and left her a voicemail expressing tremendous outrage. One should not. ever. be permitted. to decimate the sheer magnificence of Bonnie Raitt. I should've known it was going to be horrific when he cooed, "I just hope I can do Bonnie Raitt justice. [BIG LAME SISSIFIED-ASS SMILE]"
It was code. Code for "I am so [valley girl hand motion] like totally [valley girl hand motion] gonna mega [valley girl hand motion] fug this song like straight [valley girl eye roll] up! Yeah!"
I felt like I immediately needed to found a Citizens Against the Denigration of Bonnie Raitt Organization.
Someone needs to punch his sassy punk face out. I mean seriously, there's a dude from a local radio station who has been sleeping on the roof of a local Toyota dealership for a month now because of this.
In the words of the Police, "If you LOVE someone. Set them free."
Gracious.
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Nor'easters suck.
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I finally succeeded in leaving my crockpot on (at home alone like some latchkey kid) for a full day without scorching the heck out of something and sentencing myself to gulping down three bites of nasty.
Success.