Today I sat and watched ANOTHER womens oriented talk show. I watched The View.
Usually I would rather had flaming needles poked through my eyeballs and listened to ‘For Your Entertainment’ repeatedly at Alvin and the Chipmunks speeds than watch a womens talk show. But I like Whoopi Goldberg and Joy Behar so I bit the bullet vibrator and tuned in to see Bert, errr, Bret Michaels lie some more about how wonderfully healthy he is now.
I do not care what the dude says; you do not recover instantaneously from a stroke. Or two strokes. Or a brain hemorrhage and a stroke and a hole in your heart. I still believe the dude is dicing with death, dancing with the Reaper.
But what did my surprised eyes spy once The View started? Nope, not a Wigzilla-free Bert. Nope, not Elizabeth Hasselback suddenly turning liberal. Nope, not Barbara Walters mounting a stripper pole. I saw Claylene, the original American Idol always a bridesmaid, never a bride Clay Aiken. He was the guest-host of The View, hawking his new tour with Idol winner – flop sweating fool Ruben Studdard.
It looks like Clay’s over the top plastic surgery is starting to settle in. He’s lost some of the freakish shiny mask appearance even if he still looks nothing like that goofy stick-thin young man that auditioned for Idol.
I kept waiting for Claylene to speak but he sat like a paralytic lump of Juvederm, Botox and Restylane without saying much, or having facial expressions or smiling. He was less than enthusiastic when Bret Michaels performed and interviewed. He said nothing about the clacking and babbling going on about the Mel Gibson rant tape. Only when poked and pointedly stared at by his other cohosts did he finally speak up about “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” but still had nothing of any substance to add. He said something during the obligatory food segment about not ever drinking booze while drinking down a dessert martini. He seemed colder than a box of the Gorton’s Fisherman’s fish sticks.
Does he even still have tards? Why?