(By special Mung Hour contributing writer, Double-S)In the immortal words of Marlon Brando, “The horror… The horror.” It is fortunate I don’t watch Oprah and only learned of this familial coagulation from the relative safety of the Internet. I mean, why are there more than a hundred Osmonds?
Yeah, I get it. They keep copulating sans birth control. Understood. The compulsory reproduction of say Alan, Wayne, or even Merrill is understandable. Wouldn’t Jimmy Osmond’s wife, at some point, have crawled out from underneath the chubby dork and asked, “Honestly, Jimbo, how many more buck toothed falsetto Mormons does this world really need?”
Do the math! If they all live as long as old Bombo or whatever his name was and keep reproducing at this rate, there’ll be like five hundred of them before long. That can’t be good. They just don’t serve any purpose. They all have bad hair, dorky teeth, irritating mannerisms, and nauseating singing voices.
And how did they warrant an audience with the Queen of All Media? A tubby divorcé feints on national TV and a two hundred year old man dies. That gets you and a hundred inbred relatives on Oprah? For the love of gravy, put them back where you found them, Oprah. They’re over. I know you’ve had a rough couple of months, but come on. The Osmonds?
We said “Aloha!” to Donny and Marie when Jimmy Carter was still president. If Donny wants to pretend he’s Dick Clark or play Joseph at a dinner theatre in Scranton, that’s fine. Marie just needs a MySpace page and a date. The rest of the country must stop pretending that pie-faced has-been with fireplugs for legs is a better dancer than Doctor Quinn, Medicine Woman. She’s not. Besides that, the excessive Botoxing and oversized false teeth make her look like Shakes the Clown wearing an Incan Death Mask.
Go home. Make another hundred pumpkin-heads destined for the back row of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Do some damned thing. Just leave the rest of us alone.
No comments:
Post a Comment