Tonight, as a follow-up to my American Idol story from last year, I was forcedassigned to watch the finale and then talk to some of the people I interviewed for it to get their reactions on the winner, and wouldn't you know that the one bitch I was able to get a hold of who told me she'd be home watching it conveniently wasn't home, therefore making me suffer through that crap.

(Based on her iciness when I talked to her this afternoon, though, I'm not entirely surprised. She probably thought my story last year was going to be all about HER and it wasn't. But it's not like the paper cared about Idol that much, anyway -- not when there's murder and mayhem afoot -- so joke's on you, beeyotch.)

Yeah, so Poppy called it that Taylor "thank-God-they-put-tight-pants-on-him-tonight-so-he-couldn't-jump-
around-like-Snidge's-nefew-doing-his-poop-dance" Hicks would be the next sucker, based on the fact that the winners so far have been 1) a lithesome brunette, 2) an overweight black male, 3) an illiterate black woman and 4) a blonde who pretended to be a pop star but who really is a country star, and that with all the money the AI people have invested in the show and its hype it would have to be staged, but c'mon, people! He BLEW! Couldn't sing a note all damn night. Not even Toni Braxton could help him out, but then again, she sounded like ass, too. And I would've completely loved the Clay Aiken segment, were it not for ol' Clay sidling around like this one gay theater major I used to hang with in college when he was trying to channel Gary Oldman in Bram Stoker's Dracula. Longer hair becomes ol' Gay ... I mean, Clay.* But Prince is now dead to me.

Anyway, when it's not ass-humid out and my hair isn't all frizzed up, remind me to post a picture of my awesome new haircut. Picture a cross between Louise Brooks and Emo Phillips, and you're close.