Hollywood Week – Round 1

Now listen here kids, I’m in some sort of mood right now! Hollywood week means all those damn kids have descended on my fair little city and right down the hill from my humble little hovel high in the hills above Hollywood. If I’m being honest, and we know I always am, Hollywood can handle 147 nervous nellies who have their hearts beatin and bumpin in their heaving chests and their hopes built up like sandcastles.

These little fraudulent wanna-be’s showed up in my little berg and were immediately thrown head-long into some sort of boot camp. Now, my good friend the Army Drill Sargent said it was nothing, absolutely nothing like what a real boot camp looked, felt or tasted like and felt it was an absolute travesty that these Idol buffoons could get away with calling it such. But, whatever! The most important thing to come out of this so-called “boot camp” was not that frosted queen Miss Manilow. No, it was that song-selection is to be the main ingredient throughout the season…right from the get-go. And Lawd a mercy did a whole bunch of these little frauds fail that little test.

Now I’m not gonna start pickin on these little frauds who have “sacrificed” everything they’ve got to worship at the altar of this bloated and self-important teevee reality show called Idol. But listen kids, if you’ve got bad hair, bad teeth and an atrocious accent plus you sound like you’re trying to squeeze a canary out your ass then don’t tell the judges they suck! There is NO call for being rude when you’ve just got a free ticket to visit someplace you’ve never been and won’t ever come back to. This little fraudster wanted to know what kind of “message” the judges were sending so, let me clear it up real quick like. You can’t sing!

And speaking of singing, this is a damn singing competition right? Or at least it purports to be one. So why in the name of all goodness and light did we put a damn comedian through? Huh? You tell me! Norman Gentle made me wanna hurl stuff at my big-ass teevee screen…the flat kind that hangs on my wall and puts forth an image that is crystal clear. And for some damn reason our judges put him through? Have they lost every last little damn bit of those things they call minds?

Before I completely blow a gasket here, I need to talk about that insipid little no-talent except on the stripper pole whose name I don’t care to know or remember girl sometimes referred to as “stripperbikini girl.” Even the hot-blooded heterosexual man currently sleeping on my sofa thought this child could not sing. Which of course had absolutely nothing to do with what he wanted to do with her naughty parts. It’s safe to say that’s why she sailed on through to the next round. Mr. Heterosexual himself, old Simon horn dog, wants to tap that ass. You know it, and I know it.

Now kids, I’ve got a lot more to say but I’m damn tired! Tonight, apparently, we will be treated to round two. I think we’d be smart to cut about half of these 104 children left. Hell, we should probably do so before we get to round two! Lord knows, I’m afraid they’ll be scaling my gate and sleeping on my lawn if we don’t hurriedly put them on a plane back to Timbuktu or where-ever-the-hell they came from!

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