Paula-tics
Oh Paula! What an eventful few weeks you have had! I mean, I know that the American Idol machine thrives on supposed controversies. God knows it’s seen its fair share. What with all the child-porn posing of Frenchie Davis, the sister-smacking of Corey Clark, the myyyyssteeeeeeriooouuuus dropping-out of Mario Vasquez, the cell phone assault followed by completely sincere regret of Scott Savol, the totally predictable drug admissions of Bo Bice, with all the votefortheworst controversies of John Stevens and Scott Savol, the whole Hawaii time-zone auto-dialler nightmare of Jasmine Trias, the Oprah-pimpin’ of Ruben Studdard, the Oops!-we-showed-the-wrong-phone-numbers-by-accident-(honest!) incident earlier this season, and the Elton John smackdown accusation of rampant racism! It’s just getting hard to keep all these things straight. Nothing stops the juggernaut. All these little issues keep seeming to add fuel to the fire. And God knows I’m not going to stop watching any time soon. But, Paula, Paula, Paula, at you? I shake my head in dismay.
First with the happy, grinning, nonsense, babbling and carbon-copy commentary. Then with the constant cutting off of the Simon— for whom we watch the show, so, um, stop raining on his parade already! Then with the climbing into Simon’s lap and slobbering all over him. Then with the rumours of drug use, which, I’m totally buying because it explains the babbling and the interrupting and the dog-face-licking perfectly. But the drug rumours persist long enough to migrate out from the internet world and into the actual real world, where there are red-states and full-on outrage at that kind of “illicit behaviour”. This is not good. So you go on Entertainment Tonight and spin, spin, spin. You educate the world about reflex sympathetic dystrophy, and I must admit, I got nothing out of that lesson. But you say you totally have it. And it’s a totally real disease. And you are totally not on drugs. Things look up for two seconds.
And then you go and let Corey Clark burn you. Shame, shame, shame.
COREY CLARK! Y’all remember him, right? He was the weaselly looking café-au-lait, with the mop of “wear it natural” curls on his head, with the soprano voice and the ook-ook-ooky look in his eyes that got righteously dismissed midway through the semis of season two because of the aforementioned sister-smacking. He’s a claaaaaaaass act, I tell ya.
Paula, you slept with Corey Clark, didn’t you? At least that’s what Clark says. Clark’s got phone bills, and parent affirmations, and shifty friends to back him up, too. Also, he has a song called “Paula-tics” on his upcoming “album” that explains the whole sordid affair. But in case that song never hits real radio stations (which it won’t, because it’s, um, not so good,) he’s also got Prime Time Live to play it over and over and over, as the soundtrack to his one-hour exposé all about you, PAULA ABDUL, and the sex he, you know, had with you, PAULA ABDUL.
Here’s the thing: Clark is about as convincing in his story as Ben Affleck is when he says he’s “so over the gambling thing and the drinking thing.” Clark is shifty. He won’t state things outright. He’ll only answer the most painfully leading of questions. His friends are hoodlums who won’t look the camera in the eye. Clark has been peddling around a tell-all book and he just got a record deal and the whole thing REAKS OF PUBLICITY STUNT. There are enough holes in his story within which to taxi a Boeing 747. And yet, despite how poorly portrayed this whole bungling mess of a story is, I STILL TOTALLY BELIEVE YOU WERE BANGING HIM!
And, I mean, if that’s true, then I’m just as sure that Justin Guarini came before Clark. And I’m even more sure that Constantine Maroulis came after Clark. You deal with them all the same way. The same ruthless adoration and sly smiles. You never backhand them like you backhand Carrie with the “I’m glad you have so many fans.” You publicly admit that you are falling in love with them. You melt and cry and fall apart when they leave the show. You touch foreheads with their mothers. And can I just say?
Ew.
Girl, please. Paula Abdul, I bought Forever Your Girl when I was thirteen years old and I still know all the words to “Straight Up”, and “Forever Your Girl”, and “Cold-Hearted Snake” and “Opposites Attract”. Hell I PROBABLY STILL KNOW ALL THE DANCE MOVES. (As sad as that is... This ISN'T about me!) I love your crazy-act. I think Idol would be just as lost without your loopy grin as it would be without Simon’s snooty criticism.
But you have bad taste in men (or, you know, boys, as the case may be.) Please stop sleeping with the creepy male contestants. Go back to Emilio. Live happily – and reflex sympathetic dystrophically pain-free – ever after.
First with the happy, grinning, nonsense, babbling and carbon-copy commentary. Then with the constant cutting off of the Simon— for whom we watch the show, so, um, stop raining on his parade already! Then with the climbing into Simon’s lap and slobbering all over him. Then with the rumours of drug use, which, I’m totally buying because it explains the babbling and the interrupting and the dog-face-licking perfectly. But the drug rumours persist long enough to migrate out from the internet world and into the actual real world, where there are red-states and full-on outrage at that kind of “illicit behaviour”. This is not good. So you go on Entertainment Tonight and spin, spin, spin. You educate the world about reflex sympathetic dystrophy, and I must admit, I got nothing out of that lesson. But you say you totally have it. And it’s a totally real disease. And you are totally not on drugs. Things look up for two seconds.
And then you go and let Corey Clark burn you. Shame, shame, shame.
COREY CLARK! Y’all remember him, right? He was the weaselly looking café-au-lait, with the mop of “wear it natural” curls on his head, with the soprano voice and the ook-ook-ooky look in his eyes that got righteously dismissed midway through the semis of season two because of the aforementioned sister-smacking. He’s a claaaaaaaass act, I tell ya.
Paula, you slept with Corey Clark, didn’t you? At least that’s what Clark says. Clark’s got phone bills, and parent affirmations, and shifty friends to back him up, too. Also, he has a song called “Paula-tics” on his upcoming “album” that explains the whole sordid affair. But in case that song never hits real radio stations (which it won’t, because it’s, um, not so good,) he’s also got Prime Time Live to play it over and over and over, as the soundtrack to his one-hour exposé all about you, PAULA ABDUL, and the sex he, you know, had with you, PAULA ABDUL.
Here’s the thing: Clark is about as convincing in his story as Ben Affleck is when he says he’s “so over the gambling thing and the drinking thing.” Clark is shifty. He won’t state things outright. He’ll only answer the most painfully leading of questions. His friends are hoodlums who won’t look the camera in the eye. Clark has been peddling around a tell-all book and he just got a record deal and the whole thing REAKS OF PUBLICITY STUNT. There are enough holes in his story within which to taxi a Boeing 747. And yet, despite how poorly portrayed this whole bungling mess of a story is, I STILL TOTALLY BELIEVE YOU WERE BANGING HIM!
And, I mean, if that’s true, then I’m just as sure that Justin Guarini came before Clark. And I’m even more sure that Constantine Maroulis came after Clark. You deal with them all the same way. The same ruthless adoration and sly smiles. You never backhand them like you backhand Carrie with the “I’m glad you have so many fans.” You publicly admit that you are falling in love with them. You melt and cry and fall apart when they leave the show. You touch foreheads with their mothers. And can I just say?
Ew.
Girl, please. Paula Abdul, I bought Forever Your Girl when I was thirteen years old and I still know all the words to “Straight Up”, and “Forever Your Girl”, and “Cold-Hearted Snake” and “Opposites Attract”. Hell I PROBABLY STILL KNOW ALL THE DANCE MOVES. (As sad as that is... This ISN'T about me!) I love your crazy-act. I think Idol would be just as lost without your loopy grin as it would be without Simon’s snooty criticism.
But you have bad taste in men (or, you know, boys, as the case may be.) Please stop sleeping with the creepy male contestants. Go back to Emilio. Live happily – and reflex sympathetic dystrophically pain-free – ever after.
posted by nerdifer at 5:17 p.m.
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