There is so much crazy running around loose in the world right now, I almost feel normal.
Among the worst of the insanity, we have terrorism, AIDS, hunger, racism, and Paula Abdul.
Last night as I was experiencing another of my wicked bouts of insomnia, I flipped over to Bravo knowing for sure they would provide something just brainless enough to lull me to sleep.
Unlike all my husbands, Bravo never disappoints.
“Hey Paula” is a “reality” show about the “wonderful” dancing/singing/judging “talent” that is Paula Abdul. (I love quotation marks. They can make any word at all absolutely drip with “sarcasm”.)
If you haven’t seen this show, you have to stop whatever you’re doing right now and jot down a reminder. Trust me when I tell you that no matter how bad you might feel about yourself for whatever reason, watching Paula transition from drunk to drunker to slobbering will boost your self image instantaneously.
You’ll turn off the tube; raise your hands toward Heaven in gratitude and whisper, “At least I’m not her”.
Listen, this show would be funny if I didn’t feel so bad for her. She’s clearly bumped her head one too many times because she is absolutely oblivious to how nuts she is. In fact, it seems like she’s pretty sure she’s the only sane one in the entire country and everyone else is just out to get her.
Which makes her paranoid, which everyone knows is only three steps up the crazy ladder to full blown psycho.
Although I am admittedly completely mentally impaired, I’ve always known it. To my mind, if a person knows they are crazy it is indisputable evidence that they are somehow better than the kind of person who is crazy and has no idea.
I figure if I know I’m nuts and admit it freely, I’m not going to wake up one day and want to pass the time between handfuls of meds by sewing extra pockets on all my clothes or painting my front porch purple to ward off the evil spirits that attach themselves to the tires of my car when I’m pumping gas.
FYI, evil gas pumping spirits are the worst. They are as hard to remove as mustard off a white shirt or blood from a blunt object that was allegedly used to make your husband stop leaving his dirty socks in little balls.
In any case, I am genuinely sorry for Paula Abdul and it is my hope someone in her gang of kiss asses magically grows a pair of pears and tells her she needs to get some help. Not in one of those Brittney joints either. An honest to goodness padded-walls and plastic spork kind of place is what she needs.
Give me a call, Paula’s Peeps. I’ve got several on speed dial.
Oh! By the way, this column is called Biological Magnetite because I am all powerful and I can call it whatever I want. In the interest of education however, Biological is defined as “Logic from the Bayou” and Magnetite of course is a reference to how we 80’s girls used to wear our jeans.
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