Archive for July 7th, 2011

Toddlers and Tiaras. The Sequel.

Thursday, July 7th, 2011

 

 

 

 

“All The Single Ladies.”

 

 

 

Only because you’re begging me.

That is the only reason I would ever revisit The Toddlers and Tiaras Brock Divapalooza for a second day.

Granted, there is still a lot of chewy age inappropriate meat left on that Sacred Reality Cow.  But all the You Tube videos say to keep your blogs fresh with new content, and those 12 year olds seem pretty internet savvy, even tho they’ve never seen daylight.

So only because you’re begging me.

And…well…maybe just a little bit because it may still be burned into my skull.  Just a little.  Or maybe a little more than a little.  Like those optical illusion eye tricks, where you stare at the ink blot for 30 seconds then close your eyes and you still see Jesus.  That kind of burn.  What if it doesn’t go away?  What if I have to spend my twilight years seeing Jesus/Brock and his jazz hands every time I blink?

Speaking of…did you notice that one of the Pageant Moms was wearing a “Team Edward/Team Jacob” tshirt?  At the Event?  I know, right?  Thank you Casual Fridays for kick starting the downfall of civilization.  I was kind of hoping the other Mom would emerge from the Aqua Net fog bank wearing a “And What Team is Your Son On?” tshirt and then they could just throw down in the Ramada.  Now that would be good TV. The Real Housewives of Memphis Mobile Home and Drive-In City.  Get Andy Cohen on Line 2.

Anyway.  So Brock, the self proclaimed Diva, was setting his pretend Jimmy Choos on fire doing a crazy sugar buzz gymnastic dancey thing in his attempt to take down the competition.  That kid is a crazy good gymnast in that googly puppy feet still too big for my body kind of way.  And he was having the best time.  My first question was why he and his matriarchal enabler (look it up…) were rehearsing so much when he was the only dude in the pageant, and he was already guaranteed every Boy Trophy.  I would totally just phone that in.  My second question was the red glitter tank top, only partially hidden under the sheer black over blouse.  Not being one to leave us hanging, TLC quickly explained that the tank was done in the same red glitter styling as Dorothy’s ruby slippers.  And then they reminded us again that Brock  looooooved him some Dorothy.  And then we got to see him in his multiple Dorothy Halloween costumes.  Yeah.  Multiple.  Like more than One.  Here’s hoping the Wizard can send that girl back over the rainbow, asap.

Luckily my gaze was quickly shifted back to the Mom again.  They never really explained what was going on with the Mini-Me Anna Nicole sitting on her lap.  What was that all about?  Check your DVR.  I’m assuming it was a sister or something that was either in her own age category, or they just sprayed her down and dressed her up in something he had outgrown so she didn’t feel left out.  But it also looked like a Today’s Special Value porcelain Marie Osmond doll from QVC, and I never really did see it blink, so your guess is as good as mine.  All I know is if that thing is sitting at the foot of my bed when I wake up I will swear off Reality TV forever.

When Brock chose the Girl Crown instead of the Boy Helmet you had to admire his chutzpa, but the biggest question was why can’t they make those things so they actually fit a human head?  Seriously.  Every Little Miss Uber Goober Mini Supreme is stacked up with at least  14.5 pounds  of weave, and those crowns still don’t fit.  What template is that factory using?  How big do underpaid overseas workers think the American head really is for crying out loud?  Every crown always slide down the kid’s head like a carnival ring toss game.  I would have a lot more stuffed unicorns in my stash if it was that easy at the State Fair.

And another shout out to my girl Betty who ran the show.  Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em, girl. Thirty minutes after all the Little Miss Woulda Coulda Beens are done having their self esteem sucked out of them by Mom and the judges, you know it’s Betty Time.  A quick hit of hotel bathroom cologne, a little spritz of left over Team Edward spray to give some height at the roots, and she’s outta there.  Off into the late afternoon humidity to finally get to live her Dream.  I’m betting that before Brock had back flipped his way into the Mini Van (home made Diva OnBoard sign suction cupped to the rear window) and popped in a Bob Fosse DVD for the long ride home, Betty was already singing Karaoke somewhere.  Lip stick stained glass and Camel unfiltered in one hand, multi purpose lyric cheat sheet/blotting napkin in the other, it’s time to show them how it’s done.  Probably at one of those bars that always seem to be next to a Dairy Queen.

Like Brock’s two American Girl dolls who accompany him to every pageant, every week we somehow end up on this ride whether we want to or not.  (Don’t even get me started on that doll thang…)

I give up.  Fighting this show is impossible.  Like the eye of a wind storm that sucks you in before you know what happened,  every week we’re transported to a world of sparkly color and glitz, surrounded by a million costumed little people who seem to come at us from every angle.  As uncomfortable as it makes us feel, we keep staring.  Every turn reveals another tiny costumed dancer, crazier than the last.  Where do they all come from?  We don’t know how we got here, and we don’t know how to get home.

Surrender Dorothy.

Or at least work those red shoes, girl.

Toddlers and Tiaras and Testosterone

Thursday, July 7th, 2011

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Where all my Divas at?”

 

 

 

 

 

So all I really remember is a Pageant Mom oozing that “Brock is truly a Diva inside. He likes his glitz, he likes his sparkle.”  Then I remember Beyonce’s hair extensions being blown around by stage floor fans while she sang  “Diva is a female version of a Hustla.”   Then I spit  out my flipper and the rest of the evening is kind of a sequined, glue gunned  haze.

Toddlers and Tiaras is broadcast cable’s nickel bag of cocaine.  Let’s call it what it is. You swear that you will never do it again.  It’s too disturbing.  Too creepy.  It makes you feel gross the day after.  Never again.  And then suddenly it’s Wednesday night, and you’re running that long red light on the Expressway off ramp to make sure you get home in time for Outfit of Choice.  Just don’t tell anyone.

I still haven’t quite figured out where and when you are supposed to discuss this show after the fact.  There’s a fine line between yakking it up about All Things Reality and your creepy Uncle Steve in the sweater vest, if you know what I mean.  Who are the people who discuss this show on Thursday morning?  I’m betting it’s not water cooler/Monday morning quarterback talk for most of the work force.  I can’t really picture anyone at the NASDAQ  dishing on Mackenziiiieeee or Savanaaaaaah’s spray tans before the day’s trading begins.  (We’ve already discussed the proper way to enunciate contestant names. Please don’t make me relive that again.  Pay attention.)  No one at Starbucks the next morning has ever been going on and on about how big Laura Lou Lee’s hair piece was as I waited for my mocha locha grand supreme.  (There’s a small chance I may be confusing my beverages with my pageant levels.  It’s been a rough night.)   And I certainly have never seen a dude with one foot up on the locker room bench comparing notes on who had the best parade wave.  So where do these people go after the show is over?  Who are they?  Ratings are through the proverbial trailer roof, but no one will ‘fess up.

So anyway.  Brock.  I was already stressed out because the girl who had no front teeth yet had already scored over $50,000 in Savings Bonds.  I know, right?  Shut up. $50,000?  I was about ready to punch out my own enamel and blow finger kisses to some judge.  (And wouldn’t you love to see that job application?  Why Sir, as a 55 year old retiree do you want to judge Little Miss Louisiana Pootay Pageants?)

Brock, the self professed 7 year old Diva, is all buzzed up about taking on those Pixy Stix Beeotches in his age category and bringing home the crown.  The Girl’s crown, no lie. They asked him which one he wanted when he won some JV level sash, and he picked the gigundo glittery Barbie version.  Higher the crown, the closer to God, or something, right?  Good luck hiding in that blinding thing while you’re being chased down a back alley in a few years.

Don’t get me wrong.  The kid was a cootie patooty.  And props to any Mom and Dad who support their kids in whatever they want to do in life.  For realz.  But….whoa.  There is suddenly something to be said for wrapping yourself in your Cloak of Invisibility and sticking to World of Warcraft, dude.  Live your dreams.  Live your passion.  Yes.  But when you fan yourself with both hands like you’re Aunt Edna in her best Sunday hat about to Testify to the Lord with Uncle Beebo, all while saying “I’m Hot”….well, not so much.

And he discovered his love for pageants when he was two.  Two?  That’s One year older than One.  Seriously?  When I was two my greatest loves were hitting my head on the kitchen cabinets, and hitting my head on the coffee table.  I’m pretty sure a two year old didn’t come up with that one on his own.  Any Moms need validation?  Show of  hands? Anyone?

Thank goodness there was Betty the emcee there to keep me grounded.  She was nice enough to take time off from screaming “BINGO!” at the Lodge to run the show.  You totally know that there are at least 6 half-smoked Camels on the window ledge outside that Ballroom.  Take your little nephew’s Tonka truck and roll it backwards down the gravel driveway.  That’s Betty calling Sarah Suzaaaaaaaaaaaaane to the stage.  I love her.  And I kinda love the show.  Not in a creepy way.  But in a jaw dropping wide open for a full hour until my mouth gets dry kind of way.

I just can’t talk about it.  So don’t ask me.


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