melodramatic isn’t a strong enough word

I’m watching American Idol again this year. It’s not like that’s a shocker. I even got into a discussion with my chiropractor’s office manager about the damn show today.
You know what I’m tired of already this year, even though it’s into the second week of the season? The sob stories.

Some girl name Ashanti is reciting a clearly over-rehearsed speech about her struggles to make it to the tryouts for the third or fourth time and blah blah blah. What cracks me up is that these horrible singers thing they’re actually going to change the judges mind by saying: “You don’t understand!” They may not understand, but even more importantly? They don’t care.

I hate it when they girls dress like hooches. I hate it when people dress up like Uncle Sam. I hate it when people honestly think they’re really, really good and, well, aren’t. I hate it when people say that their family or their friends or their co-workers convince the people they know to try out, knowing damn good and well they’re gonna sound like a dying camel. I hate anytime Randy Seacrest opens his mouth.
But, man, I love the show. I love it when Simon checks out the 19 year old girls that walk in. I love it when Randy gets to the point where he can’t stop laughing. I love it when Paula has to pass on someone and doesn’t know how to tell them. And I love that no matter how horrible a singer might be at the beginning of the show, and no matter how badly I want to turn the damn show off, I don’t – I sit through the two hour episode because it sucks me in like one hell of a vacuum.