14 Days Until Nirvana

A Show for the Ignorant Masses...and everyone else.

Anticipation builds with each tease of a brief 30 second commercial. A tidal wave of catacalysmic porportions begins to churn your tummy and turns your otherwise agile mind to malleable goo. This is is folks, strap in, grab your vomit bag and snacks, the ride of the ages has commenced.

Just the promise of the face of that Madman of Mean, Simon Cowell, and his smarmy yet beautiful smile is enough to hold any hormone driven woman to watch AI, but wait! There is more to this iconic show than simple Mr. Cowell.

We are heaved into the bosom of a glassy-eyed, brain-dead refried 80s pop wonder Paula Abdul. Her non-coherant string of words that she has remarkably convinced herself might actually be an real sentence is enough to make you want to pull out each hair on her pint sized head with a pair of Tweezerman Tweezers (the best there is!). And, oh no, that is not all, we get Christmas reprised every week with our Signature "Urban" Guy, Randy "I overuse simple words" Jackson. I say "urban" but its really just a asethetic thing because I am now convinced, after seeing him in all his tie-dyed, spandexed glory of his Journey days, that he is as white as the day is long.

And, of course, there are The Contestants. The starry eyed dreamers of future bright lights enveloped in delusional grandure make us take a couple steps back, enhale deeply, and thank the ever loving Lord that we can laugh at them and not with them. I don't think anyone will argue with me when I say that the Crazy Contestants are the best. Those whom you may get an eery suspicion that they will immediatley leave their failed audition, seek out the next homeless person they see on they street, and kill him.

I began to watch this show four years ago because I quietly thought to myself I might want to be one of these fifteen minute of fame attention whores. "Maybe I could do this?" I wondered. I realized quickly, as I watched one flailing contestant after another, there is no way that my coolness would allow me to be one of these losers. I no longer crave the attention of my shallow teenage life. Well, perhaps it just dilluted a bit. I watch the car accident that is American Idol now to simply appreciate the gore.

Thus begins another season of my life, err, I mean American Idol. The show that reunites lost lovers after decades spent apart. The show that cures cancer. The show that climbed moutains just to see if it could make it to the top. The show that makes people happy, pure and simple. The show that my friend, Gina, and I plan to ruthlessly and without mercy shread with all our "our parents didn't love us enough" bitterness until we hit bone and then, still, scape that bone to dust. Please join us for laughter and persecution for the Best Worst Show Ever created.

Crystal