The Grannies

Every now and then I get the desire to do absolutely nothing productive, take a mental vacation, and join the rest of the western world in engaging in some mindless mouth-breathing for a few hours. And what could be a more perfect way to indulge than watching television?

So, I had Blanche fix me up a bucket of gin and tonics, fired up the first of a carton of Lucky Strikes, clicked the remote, and slammed the old gray matter into neutral. Within minutes I began to feel the celebral cells sizzle - which at my age, isn't too much of a risk of my outliving my remaining brain tissue. I wouldn't do this every day, mind you, but again, at my age, it's all right to take a few risks, you know, live on the edge a little. I'm sitting there in front of the boob tube trying to find a channel to settle on, when I see this award show starting. They call it the "grannies" - and it seems to have something to do with music.

Why the hell do they call these awards the grannies? The oldest looking manjack on the show was this kid Tony Bennett. I realize he's gotta be pushing 50 or so, but most of the other folks on the show looked too young to be grannies.

But anyway, I decide to lean back into the chesterfield and start subtracting a little blood from the alcohol in my veins as I watch this trainwreck.

They started the show with some fellas that claimed to be cops. I don't think they were, as I never met a flatfoot named "Sting." No revolvers, no billy clubs, just some kid in a leather outfit wailing "Roxanne" over and over. This screeching secured a standing ovation for the wannabe cops.

It was going to be a long night.

Some observations...

This Mary J. Bilge needs to change her name. When your last name sounds like a sewage pump, it would seem like a wise decision to come up with something new. She should also stop whining about how everybody used to hate her. I still do, and I never heard of the broad.

They need to get bathrooms for the performers. There was this strange Spanish-speaking colored guy named after one of those old Bible translators (John Wycliffe?) who was dancing around with some Mexican stripper. Fine enough, but he kept grabbing his you-know-what like a six-year old who doesn't want to take a pee-pee break. Also, his pants were drooping embarrassingly low, as though, understanding the bathroom shortage, wore Depends to the awards, and then proceeded to fill them with a load in the rear flank. I know this happens to some of the fellas at the Legion Hall, but it ain't televised. I'll bet this stripper gal was embarrassed. Her name was Shark-killer, or some such. I don't speak Mexican, so that actually might have been something I saw on the drive thru board at Taco Bell. I don't think she was wearing a diaper, though - unless it was the size of a band aid.

Then there was this chick whose hair was so blonde, she must have been a Norwegian, or maybe even Icelandic. Possibly German, but that's pushing it pretty far close to the equator for women that Caucasian. What I want to know is how she got the name "Chris Aguilera." Not too many platinum blondes with those kinds of names. I know of a few Argentinians with Kraut names, but they ain't singing James Brown songs on TV. They tend to lay low and mind their own business.

Some advice for this kid named Stevie Wonder: get a haircut, hit the treadmill, and lose the sunglasses. I know those studio lights are bright, even blinding, but that's no excuse to be rude and wear the shades indoors. It makes you look menacing.

I don't get this girl Justine Timberlake. There's something a little masculine about her. Maybe it's the Sinead O'Connor head. And, I think I saw some facial peach fuzz. You'd think these Hollywood gals could afford to have that stuff nipped in the bud. Maybe she's working on some hormone treatments to do the old "gender reassignment" or whatever they call the freak shows these days. Of course, her voice is as girly as they come. The last time I heard a voice like that it came out of Shirly Temple. I just think Justine should either grow hair on her head and shave the stubble on her chin, or go whole hog and have a couple "tea bags" sewn on and try to market herself as a dude. What the heck, it worked for Little Richard!

What's with the guys dressed up like airline pilots? The one that looks like Idi Amin kept asking me if that made him crazy. I think you made your point, there, Captain Dada. One straight jacket to go, hold the lapel pins.

Ludacris needs to learn how to spell. A few singing lessons couldn't hurt either.

And what's with the Dixie Chicks? I watched all night and never heard Dixie once. They could have at least done a rendition of the Bonnie Blue Flag or the Yellow Rose of Texas. I realize the song Dixie is considered politically-incorrect these days, but these gals seem paranoid about something. Maybe all those left-wingers can't abide their Confederate flags. Maybe they're a little too hawkish for the peacenik Hollywood types. I don't know, it's all too confusing for me.

And what was that the Red Hot Chili Peppers were doing? I've seen retarded feral cats gag up hairballs with more artistic integrity. Don't quit your day jobs, fellas.

All in all, a supreme waste of time (much like blogging). Well, at least I can pray Compline and stagger off to bed now, not to mention enjoy the lingering effects of nicotine in my blood. I don't think I'll be buying any music any time soon, though.