The Horror. The Horror.

Good God darlings, the is The Worst Photograph of Me I have ever seen!


I realize that my judgement is occasionally a tad impaired due to the quality of American vodka, but what was I thinking when I put on that outfit? This is the last time I let the Headless Indian Brave do my make-up! And how on earth could I possibly have forgotten which end to stick the vibrator in? The last time I made that mistake, I had to have my entire upper plate replaced. But then, judging from my facial expression, I have backed up onto my back-up vibrator.


At least my hair looks nice.


Actually, if I may be serious for a moment, I understand that Sanjaya Maladroit chose this look after seeing 300. It's his Roman Gladiator Helmet look. The boy doesn't know the difference between a Trojan and a Roman, which means whatever the hell he is doing in this picture, it isn't safe sex --- or singing. I understand that, if he is finally kicked off the show - and if he isn't, I will officially become an atheist - he will get work as the toothbrush for Mount Rushmore.


Watching Little Jordan sing last night, it occurred to me that David Copperfield could just flick his wrists and her earrings would be linked. And then it occurred to me that I'd rather be seeing that. I know I've sunk to the depths when I'd rather watch a magician.


Last night Little Simon said to Gina Glockenspiel, referring to her improved performance, "It was literally chalk and cheese." Apparently this Englishman has never learned English, as he had just told her that she was, in fact, a piece of cheese, having formerly been, in fact, a piece of chalk. I'm sure he meant that she was like chalk and cheese. The man needs to look up the meaning of the word "Literally". Gina is, at worst, a bit cheesy. Maybe her scent threw him off. More than once my own signature aroma has provoked the greeting, "Who brought the Limburger?"


Understand, I only tuned into American Idol originally because I'd made the natural mistake of thinking it was a show about me, which is sole the reason it's getting those unbelievably high ratings. The show is deliberately deceptively titled to lure in my fans. But I got hooked while waiting, week after week, for Brandon Rogers to take off his shirt. Let's face it; Shirtless Night will be a catastrophe if the only men left when they get to it are Sanjaya and Chris Sligh.


After Lakisha sang Diamonds Are Forever last week, I found myself wishing they'd do a James Bond Title Song Theme Night. Aren't you dying to hear Sanjaya whisper Goldfinger? Wouldn't you like to see Tom Jones coach Little Uncle Fester Jr. on how to bellow Thunderball? Aren't you just waiting on pins and needles (How uncomfortable. I wondered where I'd left this pin cushion.) to hear Simon, after someone sings Live and Let Die, say "Sir Paul Who?" The really lyric-retention-challenged contestants (That's all of them except Melinda.) could hum the theme tune to On Her Majesty's Secret Service, while Little Blake Lewis beatboxes The James Bond Theme. Simon would assume that Nobody Does It Better was about him. (It's not. Carly told me. It's about me.) Imagine Little Nancy Sinatra coaching Gina on how to sing You Only Live Twice between Nancy's shifts waiting table down at Shakey's Pizza. And through the whole evening, I could think about Daniel Craig, and touch myself inappropriately.


Whoops. Have to go. Eddie Griffin has just arrived, to drive me to The Liquor Barn.


Cheers darlings.