Ding Dang Y’all!

Be still my quiverin heart! There she was in all her glory – that big booosomed, bewigged temptress Miss Dolly Parton herself! Memories flooded back of mom ‘n pop loadin sister gurl and me into our big ole’ Oldsmobile Custom Cruiser wagon, the maroon one with wood panelin, and drivin through the smoky mountains of sister gurl’s birth to visit heaven on earth – DOLLYWOOD!! Yee Haw! Ahhh the memories! And let’s just chat here for a minute about Miss Big Boooosom herself. Ya know she’s gotta be like 90 years old, but dang y’all, she don’t look a day over 45 and that booosom…woooohooo! Plastic she may be, but plastic works for little boys playin’ with rosie and her five sisters.

With the overload of memories, I seriously doubted whether I’d be able to concentrate on the music. And lawd ya’ll, we know Miss Big Boooosom is song writer extraordinaire, but we also must contend with those frauds we are callin contestants and the question for me, assuming I could get past my juvenile obsession with those boooosoms, was would they do Miss Dolly’s songs justice. Before I could get that question properly sorted out, Brooke came strollin’ out with her geetar. Let’s get real ya’ll, this blonde thing from AZ is boring on so many levels. I know, I know…my mind is still in the juvenile gutter, but this gurl don’t do squat for me. And that strumming…bleck!

By the way, who pee’d in Simon’s Wheaties tonight? Lawd-a-mercy ya’ll, that man had his panties so twisted he was darn near turnin purple in the face. For once I was wishin ole’ Drunk Paula to reach over and provide a little lap relief. Alas, she appeared realitively sober tonight which left Mr. Nasty Pants verbally assaulting all of those precious little frauds. I wished for my dear sweet saintly grandmother to make her way off the smoky mountain retreat and stick a cake of lye soap in that man’s mouth. The chirren don’t need no more abuse than they get on the regular and man was ole’ Nasty Pants full of it.

Well, that’s not to say that some of it wasn’t deserved. I’ve already mentioned little miss goody two shoes and that mangling of Joleen. Poor little Ramiele…she’s just out classed, out sung and plum outdone. Send her packin. And lawd, ya’ll know I love me some Jason Castro, but he surely sounded the same this week as he did last. Lawd knows I’d strip nekkid and let that dread-head strum me all over like he did that geetar tonight, but ya’ll know I gott be honest (because I always am), he just bored me a little bit. And there ya have it…my bottom three.

I forgot to mention that the good Farmacist, Dr. P. Haze has spent the past several days attempting to atone for the sin of tangling with Johnny Law. As such, I came home to an amazing dinner and a lovely bottle of a fruity white wine. Kiddies, I’m just a little tanked and not particularly upset with the good Dr. any longer. That being said, and the good Dr.’s love for elfin-boy not withstanding, I am sick to death of little David Archuleta. Randy declared him back and I just declared war. That child has a lovely voice but his daddy’s got him by the balls and is runnin him around ragged makin him live out the life daddy wishes were his. Seriously ya’ll, daddy is screwin things up! If you don’t believe me, just head over to Harvey’s pad and play a little catch up. I know there’s a cute little pre-pubescent little girl out there somewhere who is just dyin for him to croon to her, but the rest of us grown folks are all throwin up just a little in our mouths.

Well ya’ll, I’m gonna wrap this up and head to bed to bask in memories of smoky mountains, big booosoms and Rosie’s regular night-time visits. I’d be stoopid though if I didn’t tell you that I absolutely adored Mr./Miss. Cook tonight. Ole lush herself, DC Vodkalips, rang to chat about Mr. Cook’s haircut…loved it! I’m pretty sure though that that night belonged to Michael Johns. Yee Haw ya’ll!!!

UPDATE – 04/02/08

You’re outta here –

Pint-sized powerhouse Ramiele Malubay who seems to have lost her voice since her soul-mate and sister Danny Noriega left the show.  Poor thing, cried buckets and buckets last night, soaking Simon’s favorite shirt.

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