When Beauty Gets Ugly

You would think it would be the perfect intersection for me. Cheesy TV (American Idol) meets overconfident blonde beauty queen. You’d be right.

I don’t know her name (they have names?). Let’s just call her Miss Opportunity. When she first auditioned, she challenged Simon on his constant use of the word “pageanty” as a pejorative description of an individual’s performance.

“I’m here to show you that some pageant girls can sing.” And she did. Then she gets to Hollywood. And the crown and sash are weighing heavy.

She gets through the mad pack and into the top 50 (I think. I tend to drink more tequila when the blondes are on), where they had one last chance to do a solo, with a band and backup singers.

She tried to soar at the end and completely went off key. She grimaced and said, in her cute-as-pie voice, “I messed up!” followed immediately by a grin, then a frown—the contemporary embodiment of comedy/tragedy, I suppose.

Then the fun started. She wanted to try again. Simon was adamant in his refusal. But then he shocked everyone by saying yes to her performance. Randy said no. So it was up to Paula. And we all know where this is going, right? Sweet Paula who never dings anyone? She declared herself “on the fence.” And the lobbying began.

Miss Opportunity began cajoling. Cajoling in that annoying way of people who are overly used to getting whatever they want.

Not tonight, sister. Paula KICKED HER ASS TO THE CURB!!!! She began to protest and Simon stepped up, saying “nope, sorry. That’s it. You’re out of the competition.”

Cut to Missy crying in the hallway, not the vision of beauty she had so carefully cultivated. And then the cherry. The rallying cry of American youth: “I just wish they would have given me a fair chance.”

WTF? Are you kidding me? Aside from the fact that YOU were doing the singing. And YOU were the one who bounced that sour note off everyone’s head. What other chances did you want?

Go home girl. Your 12 minutes of fame will be enough to earn you the Miss Possum Trot title and a chance to win Miss Yodel Holler.

Who knows, with this level of exposure, you might end up marrying someone other than an extended relation.

Be grateful.

Morning Juice

I need a little help here. It seems like the congressional “inquiry” into steroid use in sports has been going on for years, doesn’t it? And I can’t seem to wrap my pea brain around why I should feel good about my taxes being used this way. Doesn’t Congress have a rather long list of things we would all agree are higher priorities?

I get the whole “sports-as-economic-driver” thing. But these are professional organizations. With individual governing bodies. They are corporations and the “sport” is actually just a business, plain and simple.

I get the idea that we should care if our Olympic athletes are tainted. That’s a different ideal. They represent their country, in a not-for-profit situation. Except for the sponsorships and advertising revenue, of course.

But I keep thinking of all those folks in New Orleans, with no one there to help but Brad Pitt.

I keep thinking of all those soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan, ready to see their families and get the sand out of their orifi.

I keep thinking of all the little stupid fuckers . . . er, I mean “the children” we’re not teaching to read properly or think properly.

I think of all the money that could be spent on driver’s ed, my personal choice for Threat Level: Orange.

I think of the old people, the homeless, the housing market, diseases and that other thing . . . oh, yeah—THE ECONOMY!!!

Are all of those issues so thoroughly addressed that we have time to dwell on steroid usage? Or do our Members of Congress just want to have another celebrity photo on the wall?

So leave the steroid hunt to the people most impacted—the leagues themselves. It seems like they are constantly suspending people for one infraction or another. Let them keep their own house clean, or have it fall down around them.

Now, let’s talk about that border fence.

Gonna Blog Myself Skinny

So, one of the first things I see on my morning internet walkabout is a story about a woman whose blog helped her lose weight.

A lot of weight.

It seems that Lynn Bering, a 296 pound newspaper editor had given up her career to open an antiques store because she felt she could hide behind the store. I’m pretty sure that was a metaphor. Otherwise it gives a whole new meaning to “big as a house.” (Hmmm, I never thought about an antiques store as a giant hiding place, but that WOULD explain all those 20th century closet-cases going into the field.)

Then she started blogging and lost 170 pounds.

Now, having lost my girlish figure some years ago (and my innocence long before that), it struck me. Maybe if I blogged more regularly, I could fit into those cute “wishful thinking” pants I bought last year. You know, so I’d have something to wear when I got all buff and ripped. (Somehow, I’ve managed to master the “ripped” part, but I don’t really think tequila is the best stomach-flattener.)

I immediately opened a blank page and began typing furiously, pausing every few seconds to run to the scale and check my progress. I’m here to tell you, it doesn’t work. Nothing. Not an ounce. Okay, maybe an ounce, but my scales only measure in half-pounds, and I hate math, so I have no idea if I lost any weight or not.

Amazingly, the chocolate glazed donut only fell out of my mouth once while I was typing.

South Be-otch

The INCREDIBLY emaciated girl was yelling into her phone about one of “her girls’” behavior. What? Was she a madam?

“MY girls don’t behave that way. She can find her own way back to Miami!” declared the stick figure (who by the way, was MUNCHING ferociously on a bag of assorted fast/junk foods. I kept praying that she would purge BEFORE we got on the plane . . . ).

Then, a woman and her two traveling companions very gently inserted themselves into the conversation to ask if the three seats around her were taken. I’m sure they were basing that assumption on the fact that Miss Ann Orexia (as I nicknamed her—Bu Limia seemed to Asian for some reason.) had spread her shit out all over the section.

“Is there nowhere else with three seats together?” she huffed. ("Ohhhh, Shit!" I thought. This could get good.)

“No.” replied the kindly woman.

So, vocalizing her exasperation, she gathered her things and the kindly people sat down.

Missy MOVED! I guess that showed them, huh?

Except that, almost immediately, one of the ladies decided she wanted to watch TV and noticed that there were three seats open RIGHT in front of the TV. So, they moved.

Miss Orexia was NOT well for it. And she went OFF on whoever was on the other end of the line.

I'm giggling my ass off. On the inside. 'Cause I don't want the 30 pound girl with junk food habit hatin' on MY ass.

“Oh my GOD!” she said. “This morbidly obese woman just came up and made me move all my stuff so she and her fat-ass friends could sit here. Then they MOVED! I cannot believe this.”

Uh . . . you moved first, bitch.

I kept waiting for an opportunity to pull my friend gardoggy’s trick. He inserts himself into the conversation, saying things like, “you’re kidding!” or “I didn’t know that.”

Then when people ask him what the deal is, he reads them the riot act about how there’s no way he could NOT participate, given the intrusive volume of the person’s conversation. I love gardoggy.

Unfortunately, she didn’t give me an opportunity to be clever. Oh, well. Surely she’d have to throw up soon.

Low Tide

So, the beloved and I took a few days of R&R and headed down to Miami. Now, like the wannabe trend queen that I am, I hadn’t been to South Beach in a looooooong while. The last time I went, the bloodstains were still on the steps of the Versace mansion.

I’m guessing that must have been a sign.

Because all of the life has gone out of South Beach. Where were all the pretty people? Where was all the fabulousness? Whatever happened to customer service?

Hay, mira girl. She’s not there.

In place of the beautiful people are sunbirds and hucksters, figuring, no doubt, that if you were stupid enough to come here on vacation, you were probably an easy mark.

But all we were looking for was a beach and a pool. And a bottle of tequila as big as my head. Somehow, we managed to find all three.

That and a little bit of blog fodder.

White Trash Collection

So, I generally shy away from commentary on the train wreck/punchline that is Britney Spears. I kind of skim the reportage now, looking for the phrase “found dead.” When I realize she’s still taking up valuable oxygen, I go back to my Fruity Pebbles and wonder if a middle aged man wearing footy pajamas is cool and retro or just sad.

So the tally is in for the precise military style operation that was BS’s trip to the hospital.

$25,000. (Or as Britney would say “Twenty-five thousand trips to the Dollar Store.”)

Yup. That’s right. Apparently the City of Los Angeles thinks Britney Spears is worth the money and hassle. So much so that:

“Los Angeles City Councilman Dennis Zine announced this morning he plans to push for an ordinance that would create a minimum "personal safety zone" around individuals targeted by the media. "I don't want a repeat of what happened to Princess Diana with a celebrity in Los Angeles," he said. "We had to have 12 officers" escort Britney, and they could have been fighting crime elsewhere.”

Yeah, but then you wouldn’t have gotten all this publicity. And in the City of Angels, whatever your day job, it is usually preceded by “actor/ . . .”

The cops probably thought they’d get their SAG card if any of the footage showed up on TV.

“Police officials defended the cost, saying that aggressive paparazzi required the dozen police officers.“

Uh . . . have you ever heard the phrase “don’t feed the animals?” Miss BS feeds the paps like they were stray cats. The attention is the only thing keeping her alive.

But for anyone who heard her last album or her loverly hybrid Brit/Coon Ass accent (I guess it’s half-Brit, half-ney), you really gotta think there are better ways to spend 25 Grand. I wonder what Dr. Kervorkian could do for that kind of scratch?

O'Where O'P?

I’ve been a very bad blogger. So I want you to take out your O’Pine action figure (skin-hugging, sparkly ice-skating costume sold separately), and get the miniature cat o’nine tails from Barbie’s Dream Dungeon (you’ll never get THAT image out of your head) and spank your little heart out.

There. Feel better? I do.

Now, where were we?