Problems Getting Home

Keith is an avid American Idol fan. He has been since season one when Kelly Clarkson won the honor. In season two, he swore he would never watch the show again if Ruben Studdard won. After judge Simon blasted a woman contestant about her weight, but consistently gave glowing praise to Studdard, he couldn’t stand the show.

“Why doesn’t Simon say anything about Ruben’s weight?” Keith exclaimed. “I have to buy a new, wide screen TV just to fit his wide ass on the tube.”

Ok, at this point I should say I don’t know why Keith isn’t writing this article. When he gets on a roll, he can speak things a hundred times better than I can write. I would never have thought of the above classic line on my own. He’s a comedic genius. If only he would learn to type so he can capture these moments.

Needless to say, season three came along and the show had him glued to the set. It didn’t matter that he said, emphatically, that he would never watch the show again if Studdard won.

He begrudgingly accepted Fantasia Barrino’s win. She was a trashy, ghetto byiatch, but she could sing. So he watched season four and accepted Carrie Underwood’s win, although he thought country should have died out years ago with all the great country stars of yesteryear.

He swore up and down that if Taylor Hicks won season five, that would be it for his following of Idol. The crawdads down in the bayous of Louisiana had more singing talent in their left, bottom pinscher claw than Hicks had in his entire body.

Of course, Hicks won and season six rolled around. Jordin Sparks won the honor and I only know that because I looked it up. Keith doesn’t know. The season was so bland, he only half-followed it to the end. He swore the show would end and there was no point in watching it anymore.

Now season seven has rolled around. At this point in the show, Keith hasn’t formed any attachments towards his favorites nor formed any strong adverse sentiments towards any contestant. Yeah, he likes some more than others, but he hasn’t formed any really strong sentiments towards any of them.

He has, however, formed very strong sentiments against all three judges. Those feelings were cemented the night a contestant sang a song originally performed by Connie Francis. All three judges lambasted the performance as a disgrace to Patsy Cline. Now, Keith knows his oldies as well as a flea knows a dog’s ass. The fact that none of these judges knew Connie Francis was the original singer infuriated him.

“Randy needs to be thrown in a dog pound for reals. Paula needs to med up on her painkillers and be the bitch we all know she really is. And Simon needs to be deported back to Britain with all the rest of those limp-wristed, sissy-talking men wannabes. He’s probably an illegal alien anyways.”

Ok, I have to interject here. Do you see what I mean by Keith should be typing this? I’m not making this up. When Keith gets on a roll, he lets it rip.

So now we’re into season seven. The only contestant to rile him up is Daniel Noriega, but, so far, it’s really the judges riling him up. Noriega, though, should go because he can’t sing worth a bullfrog’s lament and he acts too faggy.

Ok, back up. Yes, most gay guys can recognize faggy behavior quicker than any straight guy. It’s nauseating. You’re gay, big deal. You’re a man, act like one. Let’s face it. If a gay man wants a man, why would he want an effeminate-acting man? He may as well as be straight.

Back to the point of the story – trouble getting home. (This is probably the point where Keith should start typing. That way, I could eliminate all of the background above and you’d get it all out of his telling of the story. Unfortunately, Keith is asleep right now, so you will have to struggle on with my telling of the story, which is as accurate as I can recall from his telling it to me when he finally got home.)

Keith got tied up at work and didn’t get to leave a bit early like he had hoped. It’s not like we live in a city where we can expect congestion. The twelve miles from Cambridge to Easton takes about fifteen minutes. It’s easy highway driving. It’s the thirty miles through the winding marshland roads that take up some time. There’s never traffic congestion. In fact, usually you are on the road by yourself. Nighttime and animals are what slows you down.

When Keith got home, he told me how he tried to rush home. He left Easton and came all the way down through Cambridge with no problem. He hit Maple Dam road to start the thirty-mile trek through the winding marshland. About three to four miles down the road, a car was stopped in the middle of the road. Off to the right was a car in the marsh.

“Fine, you want to stop to see if you can help, pull off to the side of the road so I can get on home,” Keith said to me frustratingly. “You’re there to help him. I’m in a car, which definitely can’t tow him out, so pull off to the side and let me go home. I got a show to watch”

“But, no. The asshole decides to continue on because he can’t help him either. As soon as he started on down the road, I gunned the gas pedal and got as far away from that jerk as I could. I just want to watch my show. I don’t need these games.”

“Well, you’re home, Keith. Relax and watch your show.”

“But you don’t understand. I get down here…I don’t know…just up the road here and there’s a truck in the ditch. My little car can’t pull out that truck. What the Hell was he in the ditch for anyway?”

“Was someone there to help him?”

“Yeah, but I had to wait for them to get organized. You know, all I wanted to do was come home and watch my show.”

“You got time. Go sit down and watch your show.”

“These damn rednecks down here. I probably missed who got kicked off because they don’t know how to drive.”

Keith clicked the TV on. One of the woman contestants was being eliminated.

“See? I missed the guys.”

Keith ranted some more and, after the commercial break, the show resumed with the elimination of one of the guys. In the bottom two was the faggy guy.

“Oh, good! I didn’t miss it.”

When the host of the show said, “Chikezie,” and then the long pause that’s supposed to build excitement, but really just pisses everyone off, “you may have a seat.”

“Yeah,” remarked Keith. “The fag is gone. Now how do we deport Simon? Is there a website you can go on and send his ass back to Britain?”

© 2007
Mark Darien
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