Ultimate Sacrifice Scenario 1: My son is now 16 and, after a fortune spent on voice lessons, dermatologists and braces, becomes a toothy, apple-cheeked contestant on American Idol XVIII. It's Eighties Oldies night and Minitaur makes his Momma weep with his stirring cover of "Like a Virgin."
The crowd is on its feet. A face-lifted, tummy-tucked Ryan Seacrest turns to a balding Randy Jackson, whose babbling about dogs and strange hand signals I interpret as a positive sign. It's been years since Paula Abdul retired, replaced by a zaftig Britney Spears looking puffy and spent. She loved Minitaur. Of course she did. A drooling, palsied Simon winces, though its hard to distinguish that from his regular expression. Atrocious, he says. The worst performance in Idol history. I'm embarrassed for you.
Minitaur is stoic but something inside his Momma snaps. I leap over three rows and dive-bomb Simon from behind. I get him in a full nelson, screaming Die, You Addled, Tone-Deaf Nazi Career-Crusher! Guards hustle from all sides, the cameras zoom, the crowd cheers. Simon reaches for the walker he keeps parked by the judges table and manages to lift it and bring it down on my head.
The last thing I see is Simon's eyes bulging from his purple face and I leave this world believing I have made it a happier place.
That last scene would be good for ratings.
Posted by: Plosh | April 19, 2004 at 09:44 PM
Exellent!!!!
Posted by: | February 01, 2005 at 06:42 PM