The Chosen One was robbed of the title last night. Despite receiving unanimous praise from the judges, the Chosen One came out with 44% of the vote, compared to Cook’s 56% (side note, don’t you hate it when people write 44% percent? The “%” means percent, you jerk). I don’t understand. I mean, I dialed multiple times and received a busy tone, which only tells me that the Chosen One was robbed of the title. Which made me remember one of the funniest YouTube videos I have ever seen:
This is a Japanese exercise/language video in which the viewer is encouraged to engage in some light aerobic exercise, while learning simple English phrases which, presumably, are useful for travel situations. After vacationing in Japan, I understand this video. There is no crime in Japan. Like zero as in you can leave your bling in a bathroom and someone will drop it off at Lost & Found. I mean, if I came from a country with zero crime, I’d probably want to learn this phrase too.
Just like the first time, the Chosen One’s rendition of “Imagine” gave me chills. Side note. Paula was again scripted last night. Bitch ain’t that eloquent.
Message to the Chosen One. My offer still stands. If you need a new mommy and daddy, we’re here for you kiddo. We will encourage you, mold you into a superstar, manage your schedule . . . and in return, you can buy us houses all over the world. I mean, with all the traveling we’ll have to do, we need some semblance of normality.
Jeff Archuleta, father of the Chosen One, has been banned from the backstage of American Idol. Apparently, Archuleta senior is the stage-dad from hell, and the final straw came when he, against the wishes of AI producers, had the Chosen One change the lyrics to “Stand by Me,” costing AI a crapload of money for publishing rights to Sean Kingston’s “Beautiful Girls.”
So it looks like the Chosen One could use new parents. Last I checked, the hubby and I have a spare bedroom, a spare bathroom, and a spare space in our hearts to welcome the Chosen One to our family. I will pinch his cheeks and follow his travels around the world. I will help him cater to his growing legion of fans and teach him how to fend off trashy groupie whores. And the Chosen One will allow his new-found parents to retire within the next 5 years. You can call me Joe Jackson. Except I’m not a dude. I’m not abusive. And I would not allow my little Chosen One to take his shirt off and expose his pasty skin to the world in a video in which he makes out with Lisa Marie Presley, causing recurring episodes of vomiting all across the globe.
Speaking of AI, did anyone notice that Paula was remarkably coherent and articulate on Tuesday? After last week’s gaffe, something tells me that Paula’s comments were scripted . . .
So as many of you know, I’m allergic to everything in DC. Inside, outside, you name it — I’m allergic to it. I try desperately to avoid these allergens (I ran away from an evil allergen-ridden girl who wanted to “sell me cookies” the other day; that evil wench). It’s now springtime in our nation’s capital, and flowers and trees are blooming. Damn, people even come to DC during the spring specifically to see the cherry blossoms and revel in the physical beauty of it all. Well, spring is beautiful, I must admit, but spring to me just means that the quarantine begins! Other people see cherry blossoms, and I see days of writhing around in bed with my eyes swollen shut, my face puffy, and all in all looking like a heroin from a Lifetime movie. On a side note, apparently the Japanese gave the US the cherry blossoms sometime in the early 1900s. Boy, did we get gypped. DC has some of the worst sushi restaurants I’ve ever been to–I think we should return the trees and get some fresh fish and chefs in return. I’ll be the first in line to chop those babies down. I digress.
So to combat the allergens, I’ve been prescribed a cocktail of drugs from my awesome doctor, who I believe thinks of me as some kind of experiment–a bipedal hamster, if you will. I took my prescriptions and headed happily to my nearest pharmacy, beaming from ear to ear. Then, I see the price. $84 and $46 — for ONE month. Dude. I damn near vomited on the poor man. I’m sure his little scanner gun would have needed some serious TLC if I puked my guts out right there and then (did I have corn yesterday? . . . ). Now, $130 a month (and this is not even taking into consideration my other $84/month med that I refuse to use because it’s so damn cost-prohibitive)–let me just take a moment to ask how the hell some people can afford medication and health care? I mean, according to my doc, I should actually be taking in over $200/month (yes, this is after insurance) in medication. That’s a ridonkulous amount of money to spend on drugs.
The pharmaceutical industry really is making out like bandits here. Now, on the one hand, by allowing the industry to make a crapload of money, we are encouraging research and development and all that jazz. But on the other hand, it seems like the R&D will only benefit those who can actually afford such scientific advancements, as opposed to much of America, who probably do not have the luxury of forking over hundreds of dollars every month for some drugs. Sigh. This is a deeper issue than I have time or the inclination to deal with. I will say this though. Every time I see that Nasonex Bumble Bee (who sounds like Antonio Banderas – is it?), I will curse at him. I will tell him that although I love him and wish he would fly around my apartment and clear my life of allergens, I will always wonder why he is milking me dry. Nasonex Bee – you suck.
On a side note – Little David Archuleta is safe!!!! Yay!!!!!!!
So I shamelessly watch and love American Idol. I must be home this evening to cheer for the Chosen One. That would be little David Archuleta. If any other dude sang, “Think of Me” last night, I would have turned off the TV in protest. But not the Chosen One.
People say that if you can sing, you can sing anything, including the phone book. The Chosen One sings so well, he could sing the directions to Preparation H or Tampax and I would still love the tender tone of this voice. I digress.
Go Little David Archuleta!