So I know there are a ton of Mia/Michael shippers here, and Schwartzibrow is definitely one of them. But Schwartzibrow is also seemingly obsessed with the idea of Michael being the perfect guy...for another guy. Don't hate, though. Hate is bad. Hate...starts wars. Just enjoy. Then you can go read Better Than Perfect and realize how much we suck. But you can also review.
Have I ever mentioned how much I despise reality television? Ya know, except for the Real World. Because how the hell do you beat seven young adults battling out their insecurities with promiscuous sex, animated brawls, and excessive amounts of alcohol…all in one house…with a CONFESSIONAL?
But besides that, I utterly loathe watching white trash parade around on my plasma screen in hopes that their antics are the ticket to fifteen minutes of fame. I mean, seriously. Have they no shame? At least the Real World identifies with the average twentysomething nomad and is on a glorious mission to reunite lost souls with their owners.
Since when does Trump care about soul-searching? Do the cast members of Survivor ever find anything besides diseased rats? And the day I eat a bull testicle…let alone whore it around on national television…is the day my little sister buys an Ashlee Simpson album.
The worst one of all is Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. I hadn't even dignified it with a viewing till I was over at Trevor's the other night with Felix and Paul.
"You gotta see this, dude," said Felix, snatching the remote from a rather sauced Trevor. "It's the funniest shit on the planet."
After which we were treated to a half-hour of five flamers strutting around in tight pants and imparting their fashion expertise to hicks.
While the other guys roared with laughter, I found myself looking down at my snug jeans in sudden discomfort. And not just because I had finally realized that buying two sizes down was a bad idea.
What was so funny about all this anyway? I see fashion-challenged masses every day and no one's filming my frustration.
"What are they dressing him in anyway?" snorted Felix. "No one in their right mind would wear something that shiny…and purple."
I glanced down at my shirt in sudden horror. "Unless they were making fun of those queers!" I said loudly, my chuckles coming out more like hysterical barks. What's so queer about combing your hair anyway?
But their eyes were glued to the screen, with smug grins plastered on their face. What were they all so pleased about anyway? Congratulations, you CLASH!
With a shaky sigh, I reached into the ice chest at my feet and cracked open a beer.
That wasn't the first time I realized there was something a bit off. The slight lisp that never faded away, even after thousands of dollars worth of speech therapy…the time my mother found me trying on her mascara, and I was twelve…and, of course, the gazillion and one times I've heard my dad bark, "Don't cross your legs, son!"
Maybe I'm making a Britney out of a Michelle Branch. I mean, that little tingly feeling that rushes through my body when Russell comes on screen in Almost Famous could just be my admiration for a talented guitarist. Of course, the tingling occurs in my nether regions…
But what if I've just got the theater bug? Like, that bit of drool that inevitably hangs out of my mouth whenever I see Adam Brody could just be my overwhelming desire to get into the biz. He made it big…why can't I? Because then I'd probably be able to afford whatever he uses to make his hair look so damn soft and luscious…
Fuck. I just said luscious.
No matter! Words…those are a method of communication, right? Without words, we'd be…Helen Keller! And I can only think of about fifty people off-hand who deserve that.
What am I worried about anyhow? Nothing! Because there is nothing wrong. This little bout of paranoia is the result of…drugs. Ya know, being the gigantic cokehead that I am.
So…that Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. That is one fucking hilarious show, ain't it?
I'm burning all my violet apparel first thing in the morning.
If I didn't fully intend to demolish Judith Gershner in the race to become valedictorian, I'd drop out of old AEHS now.
I can just see Albert Einstein turning in his grave. He whose wacky coiffure is immortal must house beefcakes like Josh Richter, who place more gel in their hair than pride…which is saying a lot.
It must be murder to run your hands through hair like that. Like a fucking Rice Krispies commercial…snap, crackle, pop!
Not that I have any plans to stroke the golden strands adorning Beefcake's head. Especially not after what he did to poor Mia Thermopolis.
I wonder if, before he proved himself to be one gigantic anus, he presented Mia with the opportunity to touch his flaxen locks. Because she might tell me what it's like. I did, after all, save her from total humiliation at the dance.
I don't even know what I was doing there in the first place. I suppose I could play the hero and say I came to protect Mia from the clutches of her assy date. But that would be a wee bit false. I mean, sure, I knew Josh wasn't as golden as his hair. And I was most definitely against Mia having anything to do with him.
I just itched to see what these things were like. I asked Felix if he wanted to come along with me, but he was already booked for a party thrown by some girl from Trinity.
Plus, how weird would that have looked if I had walked in with a guy on my arm? Would people sigh and coo, "Oh, how perfectly their tuxes match!"
If we danced, would I put my arms around his neck, or the other way around? We are about the same height, but he's a bit more muscular—
Wow! Is that the bell already? I think I'll catch a few winks during first period. It is, after all, Psychology, and the way I'm headed, I'll be the next case study.
More to come...
