I'm the first to call out a retard, mock the fat "disabled" people who zizz around in scooters, and comment on bad skin . . . but last night was painful. I don't mean to kill your boners, y'all, but American Idol, last night, sank to a sadistic level I wasn't prepared to handle. I didn't think Simon's comments to the bona fide freaks -- not to mention Randy and Paula's cruel laughter -- were particularly amusing. In fact, my cold, black heart ached for them. How can these priveleged, filthy rich assholes live with themselves? When the cameras stop rolling, do they at all question the things they've done and said to these poor kids?
Seriously. I couldn't stop thinking about the look on the Bush Baby's face, or the way that chunky lisper stared at the judges as they tore him down. It bothered me all day at work, too, so I resolved not to contribute any negative commentary to last night's collection.
I'm not going to get on a moral high horse, because likely I wouldn't be able to reach the saddle anyway (I'm 5'0). But a line was crossed last night, so much so that I asked myself why I bother to watch the show.
Oh, except for Misha with the tits down to Mexico. Jesus fuck -- a bra, please? Her puffy nipples were mesmerizing and gag-worthy as they swayed and shimmied inside that sexy satin chemise.