Miss Carol and me were eating dinner the other night when American Idol somehow slipped through my media filters and came on the TV.
Oooh, Miss Carol said, twisting around in her seat. American Idol, she said, still chewing.
Hmmm, I groused.
I don’t know why, but I just fucking hate American Idol. Maybe it’s Ryan Seacrest. Maybe it was the Nikki Minaj years. Maybe it’s just that Steven Tyler is no longer a judge. Whatever it is, it’s causal enough to make me continually hate it.
The new judges are great, Miss Carol said. They have a chemistry, she said, bubbly with excitement.
Hmmm, I said, no longer hungry.
We watched for a little while, and, yeah, ok, Harry and J-Lo and Keith do have a little something going on. But it’s the same old, same old. It’s mostly bad karaoke broadcast big and largely a cappella and mostly awful. Finally I’d had enough and started injecting my own witticisms into the dialog between karaoke star and judge.
You’ll have to smoke the man-meat to win, I said, over-top of Keith politely dashing the hopes of a little blonde girl who’d dreamed of becoming another Carrie Underwood.
Wow, can I get your room key, I said, interjecting my own dialog when J-Lo called one kid cute.
Mommy do I have to blow Harry?, I said, watching a fairly dismal contestant, clutching her gold ticket, re-unite with her family. Why, yes, honey, I continued in-dialog, it’s show-biz and you want to win don’t you? Yes mommy, I said. (I can have whole conversations for people)
Miss Carol was glaring at me. She’d thought me funny for the first five or ten minutes or so, but was tiring of my shit quickly.
I, however, find myself irresistible. So I kept on.
Do you sing that shit while you drive your trash truck, I said for a grinning Keith, as an obese black man pranced up to get his gold ticket to hopelessville.
Thank god, we’re talented and extraordinarily good-looking, I said for J-Lo when the three judges were yukking it up before a commercial break, Yeah, Keith-me said, can you imagine not being us??? No I can’t, the Harry-me chuckled, but if much more of this shit rapes my ears, I may never be able to write music again. Ho-ho, Keith-me said. Hee-Hee, J-Lo-me said, I said.
Miss Carol slammed her cocktail down. For goddamn chrissakes, she said, I can’t even watch TV with you anymore. She got up and stormed over to the sofa and slammed herself down. The dogs followed.
Peckerhead, Cutter said, as he climbed up on the couch.
Yeah, Tug said.