Ow! The light!

 It appears that a whole week has passed since I posted anything. It’s not because I’ve been grieving for Lucky, though I still miss him but he’s way better off; it’s because between meetings, the GRAY CLOUDY MISERABLE WEATHER, and collapsing from cleaning the carpet I’ve either slept the remainder of the time, or watched instructional TV like the Miss America Pageant. 

 Holy Fetid-Reality TV-on-a-Shingle. Even after drinking a couple of glasses of wine it was excruciating. What amplified the horror was that I actually caught bits and pieces of the reality show preceding the event-the girl groups against each other doing something to or for one another, exhibitions of I don’t know, exhibitionism, and like that plus GET IT OUT OF MY HEAD! 

 Mind you I’m a huge crap TV junkie. I have particular shows, none of which have even the remotest redeeming value, that I love to watch. I’ll kick Mr. Froth out of the room for Project Runway and scream if he bugs me. That’s the only one I refuse to honor external comments about from anybody external from me. In the vicinity of my body. At the time. I WILL swear at you and hurt your ears. Leave the room. Seriously. Kai, hai, srsly.  

Other shows I’ll surreptitiously switch back and forth between during a “legitimate” show-though if I see another UFO show on the history channel or another Nostradamus spectacular I’m going to rip somebody’s third eye out. For example, Rock of Love. It’s completely degenerate. Totally.  Not to the point of blood and guts and gore degenerate, so at least we don’t have torture porn, but it’s pretty rank. I have been known to watch an episode or two. Since Flavor of Love III isn’t on yet, it will have to suffice. And New York is out of the picture, bless her I-think-she’s-trangendered-NTTAWTT-heart.

  

What else do we have? Make Me a Supermodel. Ah. Yes. This will segue nicely into the Miss America pageant because it outputrids said pageant by virtue of its pandering to all that is sexual. Really, after the 7,000^th reference, coy or overt, to someone’s bi-anything, and “challenges” that include whips, chains and porn shots, and then to maintain your contest viability—I dunno. Beat me, w hip me, change the channel.

  

Miss America is just stupid. As the sweet, enhanced post-anorexic pre-Girls Next Door tapped their way through each segment I thought “Froth. WTF? Really. What is wrong with you that you’re watching this? It’s not even funny bad. It’s just bad bad. Why are you doing this?”

  

And I answered myself “I want to see the baton twirler. I want to see if somebody’s boob job explodes during the evening gown competition. You know.”

  

Then I realized, there may just BE a baton twirler, because they really, truly had the badly choreographed dances with strange hats and Somewhere Over the Rainbow, and–Opera.  Who, in their even slightly addled mind, thinks an operatic solo reflects anything of relevance or entertainment during a beauty pageant? It’s the definition of incongruity. Nobody in the audience is an opera buff. The opera buffs are at the opera.

  

Let’s pull out that thing I did back then, that so entranced Uncle Sherb and Aunt Mil and remember they said “You’ll be a beauty queen one day and you can do that for the talent contest!” and let’s perform it on a stage and inflict it on thousands of people, some of whom have probably eaten beforehand and weren’t planning on purging. Even if I don’t win I’ll have given it my all and that’s what I’ll tell all the little starving waifs who I’m going to save through my speechifying!

  

The evening gowns were dreadful. Then they got near the end, winnowed some peeps out and I just had to go to bed. I was snoring wide awake and realizing I was getting sucked into a vortex of bad that not even Top Chef could help me escape. Run! Run! Run!

  So then I cleaned the carpet this weekend and sucked up–not me personally, as in “I” sucked up, the machine sucked up, months of dog and cat puke, seven course meals that had begun on plates and bowls, but eventually landed on the floor and 9000 cubic feet of mud. Along with unfortunate errant lizards, roaches and I think I caught up a gnome. We are now sweet smelling-er. Until Beebs yakked up that leaf yesterday. Thanks!