Tuesday, April 28, 2009

"I'm Sorry, We're All Out of Warm Nuts"

Years ago I went on many company trips for various sales awards and got to stay at such
hotels as The Ritz and the W in New York and Clift hotel in San Francisco. I would attend the company award lunches politely eating my endive and lobster salad doing my best not to drip dressing down the front of my Versace suit jacket. A few years ago our company, like many, was bought out and long story short that lobster and endive is now more like grocery store mayo based macaroni salad, the kind with the fake plastic bright green lettuce underneath. 

I recently won a trip to LA for selling let's just say,
a ton of shit. The trip covers a flight for 2 and hotel for 2 nights - but no specifics. I feared the worst and after a long process of paperwork and calls I finally heard from a third party travel agent. The woman that called me sounded not unlike Marge Simpson's sister Thelma. She proceeded to tell me my dates requested were not available but here are some other dates and I will be staying at a Doubletree in lovely Commerce, CA. Ummm, Commerce what the?? So my trip to LA isn't even in LA,  but in some outskirts suburb armpit of the city area? I immediately invisioned Daddy Warbucks flickering on a black light upon entering our room decked out in decor from 1984. 

Marge Simpsons's sister then proceeds to tell me I would be flying an airline I've never heard of (that we will call "air asshole") and that I would return to Dallas by way of Denver and arrive at 11 at night on a Monday night. She could hear my voice wavering as if someone told me I was going to a third world country to make a hut out of dung. She then curtly asked, "Well, where did you want to stay, because this is all there is." (because we all know how all the nice hotels in LA are filled up - with this great economy and all). I badly wanted to say "the friggen Hotel Bel Air beeatch." Instead, I basically told her this would not work and I would get back to her and her Camel unfiltered cigs later. For now, she could kiss my cornholio. 

Many emails later, after getting the higher ups involved I get a call from Bea Arthur (RIP Bea, I still love the Golden Girls) and she tells me the "good news". I can now fly Southwest and stay at a Sheraton that is actually
IN Los Angeles. Her boss even called me and told me that he would send me a few free drink coupons! I politely said 'Thanks' all the while thinking I'm not a "parrothead" so I won't be downing brewskys on Southwest nor do I want to dehydrate my skin first thing in the morning. He also told me that "Air Asshole" is (and I quote) "The bomb."

I may not have any warm nuts coming my way but at least I will be in California (I hope) and I'll get to see my sis and her boyfriend and Val and her hubby. Can't wait!

I went to Commerce, CA for a Sales Award and all I got was this crappy tee shirt:

New Rule: You Can't Run for Miss USA if You are a Dumbass

New Rule #2: You can't wear a god-damned tee shirt and hoodie if you are one of the judges for Miss USA.

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

Old Lady in The Pit: My American Idol Experience

Today was the big day. Me and Ellie awoke (she skipped school), showered, hit the salon and headed up to LA for our big Idol experience.  Below for your review, are some highlights of the day:

We arrived at CBS studios at 2:15 pm (taping begins at 6:00 pm). Because I'm an idiot, I wore high spiked heels, which is so not fun when you are standing outside of CBS Studios by the dirty bus stop waiting to get into American Idol for 2 1/2 hours. At 4 pm  we are shuffled into the lot, only to wait another hour. But before we get inside we are inspected by the Idol profilers and given our "seating assignment." Seating assignment is clearly not "random:" Those who are well dressed, clean and attractive (or a relative of Anoop's) you're in the front. Uglies, groups of guys over the age of 30 and anyone with a ring through their nose or more than 4 tattoos: go directly to the back of the studio.

I was hoping to be in  one of the first three rows, but alas the seat lady told us that we'd be in "The Pit". "The Pit" for those of you who don't know, is right up front by the stage by the judges. My first thought is "holy shit" I'm  going to be right up front! My next thought is "Crap, that means standing for another 2 hours." By the way, they only select about 75 people or so to be in the pit and they are ALL under the age of 18. I'm not lying when I say I could have been the mother of just about everyone around me - I had a good 20 years on them all.  

Taping begins and my daughter and I are literally in the front row, inches from the stage (and the blue couch where the contestants are dealt their fate). But first, the disco number. I can't even remember what they sang, but I can tell you that they started on a platform  right in front of me and I had a bird's eye view of Allison, Adam, Matt and Kris's ass cheeks. 

Cheesy disco dance number ends and the cast is rushed off stage to change. When they return to the "blue couch" I can literally hear their conversation (I am that close). Next up: some old crazy disco divas in desperate need of Spanx. And then, the highlight of my year: KC (of KC and the Sunshine Band) comes out in all his aging glory and all I can think is "Is it Tony Soprano or KC?" His stomach was stretching his red disco shirt to it's limits, his face lift was tighter than a drum and he was wearing a ridiculous dangly earring in his left ear.  When KC finished his little number, I was tempted to shout out, "Hey Tony, better get those slutty dancers back to the Bada Bing before the midnight rush!"

Commercial break. We are told that we aren't "raising our arms" enough during the songs. I'd love to raise my arms but my shirt is so tight that every time my elbows go above my shoulders, the middle three buttons pop open exposing my fleshy middle and C & C Factory-like black bra ("Everybody Dance Now") - so I have to literally clap with my hands no higher than my nose, for fear of a wardrobe malfunction.

Next up, David Archuleta. Personally I am not really a fan of David Archuleta (mainly because I am not a 14 year old girl) but the girls behind me screamed bloody murder and didn't hesitate to vocalize just how "HOT" they thought he was. I guess if a short, pubescent, dorky Mormon boy with the smile of a deranged clown is "Hot", then David fits the bill.

The rest of the show is a blur. I did think that Kris Allen was a cutie pie, so was Danny. Adam seemed less like Bloated Elvis in person, but was wearing a shitload of makeup. Matt seemed a little arrogant (I think he was pissed because the "Pitt" was full of Adam and Kris fans). 

When the show ended, I had more adrenaline than a crack addict at a dance contest. My daughter, however acted like she was at a funeral. Her feet were tired, she didn't give a rat's ass about seeing the show up close and personal and she definitely did NOT want to be on camera (she might have been switched at birth, because no daughter of mine would NOT want to be on camera). Unfortunately, camera man #4 disagreed and put us both on camera for a whooping 1.5 seconds during the opening of the show. I know this because Parker took a freeze-frame picture and e-mailed it to me. The result:

I'm the blond with the shiny watch (the one who can't lift her hands above her head) and my daughter is the one who looks like she would rather be anywhere but front row at Idol). I know, I know I broke the "rule" about not having my face on the blog, but what the hell - how many times will I be on camera for 1.5 seconds during the most popular show in America?

As we drove home, I thought to myself that even though my feet felt like I had run the Boston Marathon in hooker pumps, the night couldn't have been better. I was wrong. In the lane next to me was Simon Cowell smoking a cigarette in all his glory, in his cheap, shitty, ugly, brand new black convertible Bentley. As someone who prides myself on keeping my cool whenever I see a celebrity, I did what any normal, 39 -year old demure lady would do. I rolled down my window and my daughter (yes, the shy one) yelled "We love you Simon" while I yelled "Hiiiiiii". Simon flicked his cig, looked over and gave us a dashing smile and said hello. God, if I'd had time I would have asked  him for a bottle of Grey Poupon. He came up upon us at the next light and waved and smiled again (he was totally flirting with me) and then we turned left and drove off into the night.

Monday, April 20, 2009

Central Ass Whip

Ever since the economy fell in the shitter I've had to avoid malls at all costs and bid adieu to my beloved web sites Revolve Clothing and Shop Bop. I occasionally still allow a few JCrew purchases because after all, those are the basics and I am still a working girl. For the most part however I get my 'shopping high' from the grocery store. In north Dallas there are a ton to choose from, one particular store sends monthly coupons that generally equal a value of $10 dollars for each coupon. This, along with a lot of hard to find foodie items, continues to lure me back in to this Mecca of overpriced grocery hell. 

God forbid I go there hungry. I end up with things like ready made pizza dough from New York, Truffle Honey, and a giant log of Pinot Grigio Salami. Items like this are an example of why Jenny Craig could never be an option for me. Today I was actually proud of myself for putting back a frozen deep dish pizza from Chicago: the 450 calories per serving combined with the $12 cost for a frozen pizza brought me back to rational grocery shopping reality

It never fails, at Central Ass whip you have to pick a number and wait for your fish and meat which inevitably takes forever. A pound of halibut requested usually ends up being a little over two. "No really, the
one pound at 24 dollars for just my husband and I is plenty." After the fish cluster fuck I head to the deli meat section and I may as well be in line for U2 tickets because watching paint dry is faster than getting some friggen Havarti and Turkey

Central Ass Whip is laid out so that you have no choice but to go through the entire store before reaching the check-out counter. I'm pretty sure that every person working the 17 different check out lines is on Thorazine, so I literally size all of them up to see who might bag the fastest. Unfortunately everyone is more like Napoleon Dynamite than the next so I take a long breath and prepare to wait.

My cashier is excruciatingly slow. I have visions of showing how to bag faster and exploding flour all over her register area. I am however thankful for the line I chose, as the line next to me has a  woman who just realized she forgot to get her free shrimp for which she has a coupon.  She makes a mad dash back to the seafood counter leaving all her shit with the cashier and two people waiting behind her. My cashier is so slow there is actually enough time for me to see the woman return, half-ass apologize to the people behind her and then proceed to write a frigging check. Seriously, why do people still write checks at grocery stores? My mouth Is
in full fly catching mode at this point.

My three bags of groceries total $120. Once home I immediately pour myself a glass of win, because rather than my day at work or the torrential downpour I drove in all day, it is instead Central Ass Whip that has thrown me into a tizzy.

Sunday, April 19, 2009

Idol or Bust: Save a Seat for Me Simon!

When American Idol started last year I looked at my 11-year old daughter and said, "This is the year. Come hell or high water, we are going to a  taping of Idol." After all, my dad always told me you have to have "goals" in life. 

The problem, for those  of you who aren't familiar with the intricacies of American Idol, is that it is essentially the "Hope Diamond" of studio audience tickets. Unless you are the Christina Applegate, David Spade, Paula's pill dealer, or a member of Anoop's fraternity, you are screwed. Needless to say I tried a few connections: my husband was working in LA all last year and whenever I begged him to pull some strings and find us some Idol tickets and he just rolled his eyes. Even Parker's network executive sister deemed Idol tickets "impossible." I even entered the Good Morning Fox LA Idol ticket giveaway every Tuesday and Wednesday (I know, am I 13 or 39?), but with no luck.

I had just about given up on ever seeing a taping of Idol, when just last Friday I received the golden-chalice of all emails. It was a confirmation that I had been cleared from an Idol ticket wait list (one I'd joined more than  a year and a half ago; literally so long ago that I'd completely forgotten about it) and had tickets to next Wednesday's show.

Of course in life nothing is easy and neither is the process of going to American Idol. The ticket had a 2-page list of instructions which included the following no-nos:
  • No purses, backpacks or bags. Everything must be in your pockets. 
  • No jeans, tee shirts or shirts with logos. No flip flops and No wearing white.
  • No cell phones, cameras or recording devices of ANY kind. 
  • Dress "hip" like you are going  out to dinner (Do they mean a dinner at Applebees? Or dinner at Spago? Because that makes all the difference!)
  • No one under 14 will be admitted. 
Wait, what? Ella is only 11. But for crying out loud I promised her she could attend and if I have to whore  her up like Jodi Foster in Taxi Driver just to get her in the door, then that's what I'll do. I've seen Teri Hatcher and Heather Locklear sitting next to their tween daughers and by golly if Heather can do it, so can I.

Needless to say, this Wednesday we are going to get our hair done (real lady like), and put on our best, dark, no logo, hip (not Taco Bell night) outfits and head on up to LA to be part of Idol History. I of course am delusional in thinking that I will be in the first three rows somewhere behind Randy or Kara, where I will be tempted to make the "Rocker" sign with my right hand while mugging for the camera with my tongue sticking out like Gene Simmons. (My husband told me that under no circumstances was I allowed to do this). Also, since it is "Disco  Week" I am looking forward to a complicated choreographed dance number (one that rivals the Brady Bunch's "Sunshine Day") to "Disco Inferno." Perhaps they'll even be a guest appearance by one of the Gibb brothers? (or at least Tony Orlando and Dawn).

Only time will tell. Stay tuned for my Idol experience later this week!

NOTE: I found the above picture online and can I just say that this little harlot is breaking so many rules. First I'm pretty sure she is not 14, secondly she is wearing a tee shirt WITH a logo on it (an American Idol logo, but still). I just bet she is also wearing flip flops and carrying a ginormous Hannah Montana purse. She definitely does not look like she is getting ready to go to dinner at Spago!

Friday, April 17, 2009

Words of Wisdom from a Really Old Annoying Guy

I've never been a fan of Andy Rooney - his voice annoys me and whenever I see him I desperately want to pluck a long gray hair from his nose and hold him down while I place Crest White Strips on his aging teeth. Yesterday, my sister sent me an email which has probably been forwarded to every Cougar over 40 in the Northern Hemisphere, but this one actually rings true. As someone who is still "pushing 40", I have to agree with Mr. Hairy Nose on this:

As I grow in age, I value women over 40 most of all. Here are just a few reasons why: 
A woman over 40 will never wake you in the middle of the night and ask, 'What are you thinking?' She doesn't care what you think. 
If a woman over 40 doesn't want to watch the game, she doesn't sit around whining about it.  She does something she wants to do, and it's usually more interesting.  
Women over 40 are dignified. They seldom have a screaming match with you at the opera or in the middle of an expensive restaurant. Of course, if you deserve it, they won't hesitate to shoot you if they think they can get away with it. 
Older women are generous with praise, often undeserved. They know what it's like to be unappreciated. 
Women get psychic as they age. You never have to confess your sins to a woman over 40. 
Once you get past a wrinkle or two, a woman over 40 is far sexier than her younger counterpart. 
Older women are forthright and honest. They'll tell you right off if you are a jerk, if you are acting like one. You don't ever have to wonder where you stand with her. 
Yes, we praise women over 40 for a multitude of reasons. Unfortunately, it's not reciprocal. For every stunning, smart, well-coiffed, hot woman over 40, there is a bald, paunchy relic in yellow pants making a fool of himself with some 22-year old waitress. Ladies, I apologize. 
For all those men who say, 'Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?Here's an update for you. Nowadays 80% of women are against marriage. Why? Because women realize it's not worth buying an entire pig just to get a little sausage! 

Thursday, April 16, 2009

Blogging in the Bathtub: Assorted Things on my mind, including Pirates, Jane Fonda and Sunday School Teachers with Suitcases

A few months ago I decided I was done with my joke of a dead-end job working 4 hours a week in an office (which could double as a dark cave after a shit-storm of office supplies have been strewn carelessly about), where I could literally show up in my Pajamas after not showering for a week and no one would care. After almost 7 years of 'not really working' I was ready for a full-time Part-Time job. Long story short, I was hired at the local college to work in the Health Sciences Division for a grueling 20 hours a week. When I told Parker, she congratulated me by re-naming me Melanie Griffith (a.k.a. Working Girl). Today officially ends my first week back in the professional world. Unfortunately I don't yet have a computer at my desk so I've been doing menial things like using a typewriter to fill out forms in lieu of Microsoft Word and making copies for people. I can say with confidence that after today's brush with the late 80's model electronic typewriter and my run in with a copy machine possessed by Satan, that I was a dead ringer for Jane Fonda in 9 to 5 ("Umm Roz? a little help please!").

Truth be told I'm glad to be back in the workforce, but there is always a downside: like not being up to date on all the important events in the media. Last night I saw a Breaking News story about the Pirate captives and looked at my husband with a "
Whatchyou talkin' about Willis" expression. Seriously, Americans now have to worry about being attacked by pirates? Is it 1602 or 2009? Also, are these "Pirates" hiring? Because I'm guessing it's a pretty lucrative and adventurous job.

Also I keep seeing little blurbs on CNN about the Sunday School Teacher and her suitcase with a dead child, but then they always quickly move on to other stories. Wait, I'm so lost. Luckily "People" magazine will have the down low within a week or two. Not to mention I have no idea what's up
with Octo-mom, was too tired to watch JT Gummi teeth (with mesmerizing mole on his forehead) get voted off  (and then saved) last night on American Idol, and horror of all horrors can no longer drink on "work nights." (Insert Dolly Parton singing the "9 to 5" theme song here).

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

RIP Newton

Sorry the blog has been lacking lately. Parker has been busy with work, I took a family vacation last week and yesterday had to put my dear old dog Newton to sleep. Last year I posted a story about Newton, and in I am reposting it in his honor. I love you old boy. 

ALL DOGS GO TO HEAVEN: Some Just Take Longer
Originally written July 8, 2008

I still remember the day: at the ripe old age of 21 I decided that despite being a full-time student during the day with a full-time waitressing job at night, I wanted more responsibility. Realizing that I wasn't mature enough to be a mom, a dog would be the next best thing. My husband Tom and I had been dating about a year and he reluctantly drove me to the local Humane Society to begin my search. It didn't take long for me to find the most pitiful and saddest looking dog among the bunch. While most dogs were yelping and jumping spastically in their cages like teens on Ecstasy at a Rave, Newton (I've changed his name to protect his identity) sat there shaking like a leaf. He looked like Oliver fricking Twist - I half expected him to look up at me with his brown puppy dog eyes and say, "I want some more please". I chose him partly because of his sweet demeanor and mostly because he was the only dog in the joint not barking his ass off. I would soon realize this was all a ruse.

I brought him home and soon discovered that at a year old, Newton had never been taught to climb stairs or been allowed on a bed or a couch. This would all change, but first I had to go to work. Newton was given food and water, a pat on the head and promptly left alone, where he proceeded to bark continually for the next 8 hours. Our neighbors were not happy to say the least. Within 3 days I received a letter that said it was the dog or I: one of us had to go. I arranged for  him to spend days and a few nights a week at a friends house (with a yard) until my lease was up. In the meantime, Newton didn't hesitate in destroying the carpet (and every carpet since) with his supercharged urinie. Sorry Mr. Landlord. 

17 years later (at the age of 18!) Newton is still growing strong. Well, maybe "strong" isn't the best word, but he's still around. Over the years he has had countless brushes with death including some doozies such as:
  • Eating half of a 12-inch Jack Daniels Chocolate Ganache cake, which he dug out of the trash after the guests at my party were unable to stomach it's richness. He promptly threw up a black oil-like substance all over my white Berber carpet. Amazingly he was fine.
  • Escaping from my many yards no fewer than 50 times over the years. A virtual canine Houdini, Newton was able to break out of almost any block fence by digging intricate tunnels that were always undetected by the human eye.
  •  Being caught by the Dog Catcher (in 4 different cities) and thrown in the slammer approximately 6 times (I graciously paid his bail each time and lectured him accordingly).
  • Running away during a torrential monsoon - disappearing for 52 hours, only to return hungry, looking like the Swamp Thing and smelling like rotting eggs. 
  • Sprinting down Frank Sinatra Blvd. (one of the busiest streets in Palm Springs) dodging cars like he was in the live version of  Frogger video game.
  • Most recently surviving a $1700 procedure at the vet's office (in an effort to make him comfortable as his spine slowly disintegrates eventually morphing him into an invertebrate) only to come home and eat a half of a block of rat poison hidden in the hedge (oops!) The rat poison had no effect. 
He has been with me through my wedding, the birth of 2 children and 10 moves. Today Newton is deaf, partially blind and has breath that smells not unlike a corpse that has been rotting in a sewage filled swamp for the past 6 months. I'm pretty sure he's lost most feeling in his back legs as he occasionally sits in a position that makes origami look simple. Every once in a while a round Whopper-like poop just falls out of his ass with no warning. My dad has nicknamed him "Methuselah"  and suggested I send his body to Harvard for testing when he dies.

I know he doesn't have much time left, but he still enjoys life. He's clearly not in any pain, still begs for steak like Amy Winehouse in a crack den and occasionally takes flying leaps in the air-- often crashing into a wall or potted plant. He is the George Burns of the dog world and I will dearly miss him when he is gone.  

Friday, April 10, 2009

Diary of a Madwoman (in a RV)

Before last Saturday, I'd never set foot in an RV - but when my husband suggested a family "camping" trip a few months ago, I felt adventurous and totally went for it. Last Saturday we headed  out, in route to the Grand Canyon and Lake Powell in a 24 foot RV. Below are excerpts from my 'travel diary.'

Day 1: 
9:00 am: The RV is not as bad as I thought. Lots of space, two flat screens and a bathroom - this vacation might not be so bad after all.

4:00  pm: Just arrived outside the Grand Canyon. Holy shit it is freezing. I feel like Emile Hirsch's character in "Into the Wild" camping in the back of an abandoned bus, freezing my ass off (except that I have Italian linens, a down comforter, 40 DVDs and a refrigerator full of food - but aside from that I'm just like the Into The Wild guy.)

Day 2:
3:00 am: Is someone trying to break into the RV? No that's just hurricane-like winds rocking the hell out of this tin can on wheels. Damn I'm cold. 

6:00 am: There are fricking icicles hanging off the outside of the RV. Just took a shower in the RV which was not unlike standing inside a phone booth while someone  spits on me. 

10:00 am: Arrived at the Grand Canyon. It is a big beautiful hole in the ground. Walked 3 miles and saw deer and elk. Note to self: NEVER wear designer low rise jeans while hiking the Grand Canyon. If I had come across a "Mom Jeans" stand on one of the these trails, I would have willingly shelled out $200 for a pair, just to contain my ginormous muffintop.

Day 3:
9:00 am: Arrived at Lake Powell last night. Thank god it is warmer. Refused to take shower in the RV, ended up shelling out $2 for the community RV park showers. Tried to stand as still as possible and ignore the shower curtain covered in strangers' hair.

4:00 pm: Took a boat  out on the lake. Good times, despite freezing winds in my face. RV is  now covered in thin layer of sand. Starting to feel like Jack Nicholson in The Shining. Total cabin fever. 

9:00 pm: My Italian sheets are covered in sand,  I smell like a campfire, claustrophobia has started to kick in and I'm considering hitching my way back to California. Aside from that, having a great time.

Day 4:
3:00 pm: Spent entire day on boat (for a mere $500 rental fee, great deal). Am sunburned and greasy. Am suffering from Pop Culture withdrawal. My Blackberry isn't getting a signal and I haven't been online in an eternity. My dad lives a mere 2 hours away. I wonder if he'd like to have some houseguests?

4:00 pm: Called my dad and told him to order 2 pizzas and buy some beer, we are headed his way. I am so over this RV. Next year, Hawaii.


Thursday, April 2, 2009

Where Was The Vagina Dress in 1987?

Had this dress been around in 1987, I might have tried harder to get a Prom Date. Because I would love to have a picture of me with Madonna-hair in a Vagina Dress. 

Sadly, I wasn't asked to the prom. Most girls my age would have stayed at home on prom night watching  'Who's The Boss', while drowning their sorrows with a gallon of Dryers. Not me. Nothing was  going to stop me from partaking in the festivities. I put on my Mom's Purple and white checkered Liz Claiborne dress (with matching thin vinyl belt), liberally applied purple eye shadow and hightailed it down to the hotel to check out the action. I had the wherewithal to know that I needed to be stealth, I wasn't about to be seen looming around dateless. I parked my car far away and snuck into the hotel through a side door, took the elevator to the third floor and like a soldier in a foxhole made my camp near a balcony overlooking the lobby. From there I had a bird's eye view of all my classmates entering into the lobby on their way into the ballroom. Even back then, I can remember critiquing other people (in an obvious effort to make myself feel better),   silently making fun of their dress, hair, makeup etc..... Honestly if I'd had a bucket of cow blood, there's a 90% chance I might have dumped it on someones head.

For once in my high school career, I did not have  Parker as my partner in crime. Senior year, Parker went and found herself a boyfriend. A Hispanic Football Player named David who had the body of Adonis but couldn't put more then three words together let alone form a sentence. Parker's family nicknamed him "Huh" because he always responded with a caveman like grunt. Like the annoying younger sister, I used to go on their dates with them and jump up from the backseat and say "So, whatta we gonna do now?"

While Parker and "Huh" danced to "The Lady in Red" I made my way to the Ramada Inn (off the I-10 freeway, in South Tucson) and checked into a room with a bottle of Strawberry Hill along with a few other dateless lonely hearts and drank myself into a tizzy. After the prom the rest of the class showed up to the Ramada Inn, where I'm sure many virginities (but not mine) were lost. I managed to have a great time despite not having a date. And somewhere out there is a picture of reveling Prom Dates in a shitty hotel room, and if you look very closely in the background you can catch a glimpse of my mom's Liz Clairborne dress sprawled out on the bed, while I slept like a baby clutching an empty bottle of Strawberry Hill.

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Idol Chatter. Whathisname?

Although I've been watching American Idol religiously since it started, for some reason this year I'm having trouble remembering any of the contestants' names. After last night's kinda boring show, I've given up completely and assigned new nicknames for them all. 

Bloated Elvis

JT Gummi Teeth

1984 called and wants it's hairstyle back

Hispanic Kelly Clarkson

Robert Downey Jr. in Weird Science
(without the gap)

Crest White Strips

Tapioca Butt


I have no business calling Lil Rounds "Tapioca Butt" considering my behind looks like a sock filled with marbles, but c'mon who was the sadist behind the scenes who said, "That dress looks terrific on you."? Girl needed  a  Spanx intervention. And, I actually really liked Milquetoast's version of his song - except that I can't even remember the name of it. I was going to put up a picture of Anoop and call him "Kumar goes to Whitecastle" but I didn't want to offend anyone and also Anoop is about as exciting as the dried out turd on my front lawn. Besides he is probably going home. Either him or JT Gummi Teeth.