At first, I thought the bunch of mid-thirties guys performing what I suppose you would call ”dance moves” (although that’s up for debate) were a band of American Idol rejects.   You know—the horrifically untalented ones you cringe while watching at the very beginning of the season? 

And then it hit me.  God forgive me, I actually recognized that song they were singing. 

I was watching New Kids on the Block.  Only older.  And lamer.  And even less talented than they originally were (if that’s even possible).

I’m not trying to be cruel—really.  They seemed like very nice men, er, kids, er—what the heck do I call them?—when they were interviewed between performances.  But honestly.  Shouldn’t there be rules about this sort of thing?  Like, in order to make a comeback, you had to have possessed a modicum of talent to begin with?  Because, seriously, if those guys hit one more off-key note, my windows were coming down.

And the dancing.  Or lack thereof.  I was crying and laughing at the same time.  Crying because those poor schmucks probably thought they actually looked good, and laughing because even my drunk husband can pull out better moves than that.  And he’s no Fred Astaire.

All I could think during this flagrant abuse of Today-show viewers was this—and here I thought I was embarrassing my kids with my blog.

And yet that’s exactly what I did.  I’d like to blame it on the flu, but I’m pretty sure that doesn’t explain away the previous few years of Idol debauchery occurring at my home.

What is it about Idol that is so darn addicting?  Is it that cute as a button Ryan Seacrest (I think not—I like my men to look like men)?  The subversive anticipation of seeing if Simon can outdo even himself with his lack of human kindness (although you have to admit, he’s right on the mark most of the time)?  Or are we all just watching to see if Paula gets hopped up on the happy pills again?

Whatever the reason, it’s obvious that American Idol, in all of its manifestations, is completely and repulsively addictive.

Now, on to the good stuff.  Did you see the guy who collected his fingernail clippings in a ziploc bag?  And how did you react—with repulsion, disgust, horror, or something to that effect? 

Not me.  I bet I was one of a select few, out of millions of viewers, thinking, “Wow, what a great way to store your finger and toenail particles, instead of leaving them in every corner of the house to decay and then jump out and surprise you at the most inconvenient of moments.”  Like when your in-laws are visiting and you open the pull-out, only to find the toenails of days gone by, up front and center. 

Okay, I concede—I was undoubtedly the only one thinking that. 

At any rate, welcome to the non-fingernail-free zone that we like to refer to as home.  Wanna come visit and watch some Idol?  I promise, we don’t have to open the couch.