Adam Lambert: Second To No One Review
Thank Buddha that none of Archuletta’s rabid followers cooked up a conspiracy theory about how you stole Idol from poor little boy David Archuletta. Although I would not put it past his Daddy. That is one messed up dude.
There’s been an interesting controversy over at Top Idol for the last month. One of Adam Lambert’s tards, one Kerry Kolsch of Miami Florida has written a tome alleging a conspiracy over Adam Lambert’s failure to win Mr. American Idol in his season. According to the bits and pieces posted from the book everywhere online it’s a vast conspiracy with roots reaching into government, business, and beyond. She somehow manages to trample every copyright of AI and defame a long list of people with unproven allegations and smear tactics.
If you were thinking about spending $11.95 buying this work of art don’t bother. It’s a fairy tale conspiracy that makes what the Tea Party crew think up look almost rational. You’re better off sticking with reading the comments at Top Idol since they have all the salient points of the book up on the comments.
I came up with my own conspiracy theory as to how this book might have had its genesis.
Disclaimer: What follows below is a work of fiction inspired by the comments at Top Idol.
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Late afternoon sunshine poured through the open slats of the shade into a room painted some industrial shade of beige. Sitting directly beneath the heavily barred window were three ladies, all middle aged, all looking as though they were missing washers in their brains. Slack faces, gawping mouths, vacant eyes staring leadenly at the flickering glow emanating from an ancient television. The plastic safety shield over the screen was smeared with a grimy coating of drool and the grease of a thousand grasping hands.
As other patients in the Sunnyside Mental Hospital milled around in the rec room these three sat there like retarded bumps on the log staring at a very smeary Oprah Winfrey. “Opera” one of them whispered, “Opera, Opera” But everyone ignored her quiet mutterings, continuing to shuffle around like zombies on crack in old bathrobes or sweats.
But the entire vibe of the room changed in an instant as Oprah introduced her musical guest. The man looked like an off-kilter Elvis, as if he were the offspring of Elvis and drag queen Divine. Greased black pompadour, shiny glittery clothing and makeup Tammy Faye Bakker would be proud to sport. When he opened his mouth it wasn’t melodic. Instead shrieky warbling assaulted the ear drums of the listeners as the man butchered a Led Zepplin song. In the glass fronted nurses station one of the burly attendants turned to another and suggested, “Perhaps we should turn the volume down. That caterwauling is enough to stunt corn from growing all the way over in the next county.”
As he found the remote control and turned the volume down to a mere whisper the middle watcher of the trio on the sofa started to vibrate as if she on fire. Her crazy eyes rimmed with cheap kohl rolled and she flailed and cart wheeled onto the floor before running to the television set. Her uncombed hair flew like an electrified nimbus around her head as she tried to claw the tv set as if to clutch the gyrating poser inside. She began to shriek a string of unconnected words, babbling that made no logical sense, “ADAMADAMADAM LAMBERT GLITTERYSPARKLINGALIENLIZARDKINGSEXGOD OPERAOPERACARJUNGMICKJIGGERMATEINGCALLGAMMING KRISALLENDIECHEATING STOLENSTOLEN ATFUCKINGTRIGGEDVOTING ARKANSASCHICKFILCHICKFILACHICKFILA!!!!!!!”
As she continued to scream and thrash the other residents scattered like roaches on a heated iron skillet, scuttling as far away from the action as they could. No one wanted to bring the attention of the attendants down on their heads.
Before the hefty middle aged woman could break through the plexiglass protector on the screen the burley attendants grabbed her, wrestling her considerable bulk into a straight jacket. One of them pinned her tightly to the floor as the other whipped out a loaded syringe filled with lorazepam. As the needle found it’s target and the drug pulsed through her body she relaxed in the grip of the attendants. They hefted her up and between the two men they toted her like an oversized bag of fertilizer into a nearby room. She moaned and whispered, ‘Ar-kan-sas.. Chick-Fil-La… Adam robbed.”
One of the attendants snorted in disgust as he heaved her bulk up onto a bed, ‘Not that stupid American Idol shit again.. I swear this one is crazier than a shithouse rat. She never gives up. She‘s second to no one in the crazy sweepstakes.”