Day Twenty Six

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I make this post as someone who is fully aware that we live in a society where you buy bottled water with labels designed by ex-Miss Australia Jennifer Hawkins. I am aware that we can now only watch cooking shows if someone is screaming in the chefs face.

On day insert day here — I think it’s twenty six — of quitting smoking, Tessa and I have decided to watch American Idol with dinner. The dinner is amazing, the American Idol less so. I know Keith Urban has strategically undone the buttons of his designer flannie to show off his awful tribal chest tattoo, which matches his awful wrist and bicep tribal tattoo. And matches his sandy bleached mullet, and soul patch.

But they should not be sitting him next to Mariah Carrey, because Keith Urban’s face looks like someone has taken a latex Mariah Carey mask and pulled it down over a shovel. Not even noted cartoon-eyed tartan leather daddy Nikki Minaj can take attention away from how much his face doesn’t move at all. He looks like a polished condom.

You know, the thing is, we all love a bit of tragedy porn, and there’s no shame in that. We love to see people embarrass themselves publicly, and reality TV has given people the opportunity to embarrass themselves on a grander public scale than ever before.

But when someone comes in and stands in front of the famous judges — howling warbler and star of Glitter Mariah Carey; aforementioned novelty candle Keith Urban; Nikki Minaj, who is the only one I can stand,  because her giant Coca Cola branded cup is clearly full of gin and heroin; and whoever the fuck Randy Jackson is, who sounds like he runs everything he says through an Ebonics dictionary written by Neo Nazis — and they’re shit, like terrible, and the judges all start elbowing and snickering, fuck all of that noise.

I mean, seriously, these people wind up in some sort of Bad At Singing greatest hits so people can laugh at these poor folks who have obviously had someone in their life who has given them too much positive reinforcement, when what they’ve needed is some loving but tough REAL TALK. But when the judges — when these rubbery, coddled, weird, rich people start elbowing each other and  whispering like botoxed children it just fucking shits in my horse. Leave these fucking poor guys alone — just say no, and move on you awful bastards.

The worst part if they’re holding auditions on the Queen Mary, and no one is making any Arrested Development jokes.

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