A dirty little secret

Here are some of the things I've said about "reality" shows and the people who watch them:

"Reality, my ass. If that's real, then I'm the Queen of fuckin England."

"Somebody....for the love a gawd...tell Donald Trump to ditch the disgusting comb-over and buy a decent toupee."

"They're a buncha ignorant, uneducated sheep."

I'm sure I've spewed a few more...ah...colorful remarks, but you get the idea. I'm just not a fan of reality tv.

Until this year.

I admit it. I was an American Idol junkie. Oh, I caught a few episodes last season, but it was hit or miss. If it was on, I'd watch it, but I didn't make it a point to turn it on....like I did this season.

And I don't know why.

I don't know why I turned that first episode on...no idea. But, I got hooked. It was every bit as addicting as that damn Key Lime cheesecake that we brought back from Florida. I wanted it. I neeeeeded it. It was a monkey on my back of ginormous proportions...a fuckin King Kong.

And when each episode was over, it was like..."Ahhhhh yea, baby. That was goooood." Like some kinda heroin addict after that first needle of the night. I'd be satisfied for a few days. Then, come 'long about Monday, I'd start gettin the itch again. Time for another fix.

But it's over and I'm gonna go cold turkey. Well...I'll go cold turkey after the American Idol concert, anyway. Hey...it's gonna be right here in Peoria...I can't very well let that last big fix go if it's gonna be right under my nose, can I?

And MY BOY WON!

Honest ta gawd, I yelled. Right here in my living room, all by myself. I yelled.

Baaaaa.......baaaa.......baaaaaaa....."