Amuse-Biatch Relapse

Possums, we’re afraid that a solid week of sweetness and light was simply too much for us. The strain of having to say so many nice things so often and in such a short period of time simply took us over the edge. (And to those of you who wrote to complain that we weren’t saying anything nice at all, that it was all thinly veiled sarcasm and left-handed compliments, we say, with troubled mien, “O ye of little faith!”)

So yesterday morning we made a run for it. We broke out of the Rainbow Springs Gayhab facility through the window and high-tailed it to the nearest IHOP and ordered ourselves the Rooty Tooty Fresh ‘n’ Fruity, the absolute gayest thing we could find. Then we watched the Oscars, and that was truly our downfall.

And the moment when Melissa Etheridge accepted the Oscar for Best Original Song from Queen Latifah and Queen Lottafat (sorry, John Travolta), with Ellen DeGeneres still onstage—well, so much concentrated gayness simply overwhelmed our neurons, and the careful conditioning of Rainbow Springs went out the window, too. We began playing “Spot the Lesbian” (Jodie, possum, those shoulders!) Our every extremity began to tingle when Jennifer Hudson outsang and outracked Beyoncé (heck, she could outrack Betty “Spice Rack” Fraser). We got verklempft when Marty won for Best Director.

That’s it, possums. We’re never going back to Rainbow Springs. If they want to take us back, it will take more than butterfly nets. They’ll have to take us out feet first, and in a gold lamé “straight jacket.” Sorry, Teacup Kitten and company. And hey, hey, possums, the Amuse-Biatch is back.

Sweetness & Light Thursday: Amuse-Biatch "Accentuates" the Positive

Oh, go on, possums, you knew this was coming.

Oh, possums, never have we been so glad to see a Thursday. Just one more day of sweetness and light! Britney, gurl, we know how you feel. Many is the time we've been tempted to flee Rainbow Springs, when the demons of biatchery have beset us, but keep your Promises, Brit-Brit, and Promises will keep you.

At any rate, this being Sweetness & Light Week, we come here not to bury but to praise. We start with our charmingly accented Elia Aboumrad. Not only is she possessed of delightful accent, she also is a trendsetter and a fashion leader. If Elia hadn't done it first, there is no doubt in our minds that Britney would not have done it. Amuse-Biatch, Perez Hilton, Us Weekly, TMZ, Kevin Federline, KFed's attorneys, Lindsay Lohan--we all owe you a debt of gratitude, Elia. Not only that, you also offered Britney, who is near your age, the perfect defense. As you said, if you don't shave your head now, when? Also, your wig is much better than Britney's.

Ah, there. We feel not only sweeter, but so much lighter, almost as if we'd shaved our heads.

Amuse-Biatch Watches Morning Television at Gayhab As Ilan Hall Shows FOX His Coq

What Valentine's Day would be complete without our beloved, entirely heterosexual adjudged Top Chef winner, Ilan Hall, appearing on Fox's Republican-but-randy morning show? That's The Morning Show with Mike and Juliet, the guilty pleasure about which The New York Times television critic wrote:

He’s smarmy. She’s contrived. He leers at girls like an old stage ham. She talks about freezing her eggs and getting her breasts done. Together they’re Mike Jerrick and Juliet Huddy, Fox’s new morning pair, who use their unholy chemistry to pervert the breakfast hour on “The Morning Show With Mike and Juliet.” We owe these two a warm, warm welcome.

We know what morning shows look like on the networks accused by conservatives of liberal bias, but a morning show produced by Fox is more mysterious. Will it just be a last stop for “American Idol” rejects? Can we expect hair-care demos from Hannity and Colmes?

Surprise. In its more than three weeks on the air, “The Morning Show” has opted, above all, for creepy prurience.

And, well, Ilan's appearance did not disappoint. It was smarmy, and contrived, and creepy, and a little bit prurient. Ilan, sporting an increasingly porcupine-like "mulhawk" and apparently having ditched the multiple-wristwatch fad he blames on Suyai, appeared to teach ole Mike and Juliet how to make coq au vin. He sounded gayer than we've ever heard him before, but then our counselor here at Rainbow Springs Gayhab in the Hollywood Hills pointed out that we were spewing homophobic invective, and we felt mightily guilty for setting back our sobriety.

Fortunately, this being Fox, such unpleasant thoughts of gayness were not allowed to linger, and we were treated to a live appearance by... Ilan's girlfriend! Carolina! Yay!

Ok, that was our best Kermit the Frog impression. We have to sit down for a minute now.

And she talks! And she breathes! And wouldn't you know it, they conveniently started dating on Valentine's Day a year ago. Awwwww.

Watch for yourselves as perky blonde Juliet, relieved that no Frenchy-named, molenukewler gastrowhatchamacallit contestant took the prize, trills to Ilan, "Thank God you won! Thank God you won!"

Thrill as Ilan presents her with a gift, a framed picture of himself! Share our pain in gayhab as we struggle not to yell at the television, paraphrasing a Top Design contestant, "How can you argue with a narcissist?"! Delight in how quickly the girlfriend trope is trotted out! Wink virtuously as Carolina admits she's never had Ilan's coq, and Juliet invites her to sample it! Laugh "Rapturously," "Left Behind-edly," and no-land-for-peacefully as Ilan takes the sprinkling of kosher salt to remind the faithful base that he is Jewish, you know, like, from Israel! Shiver with naughty delight at Shriner-style ribaldry as Mike talks about chicken sucking up sauce! Sigh heteronormatively as Mike tries desperately to get Ilan married!

It's a belated valentine from us to you, possums.

Amuse-Biatch Emerges from Its Homophobic, Agoraphobic, Misanthropic, Camera-Shy, Envy-Ridden Dark Basement to Admit It Has a Problem

This fine Sunday morning, we sat in the bright sunlight streaming in through the French windows here at Withering Depths, lost in what poet Wallace Stevens termed "complacencies of the peignoir," and looked up as our houseboy Agador, clad only in his habitual marabou thong (well, after the split from Helen Hunt, Hank Azaria had to find work, and we were only too willing to oblige), brought us our glass of soursop-and-blood-orange juice and our stack of morning papers.

Imagine our delight when, flipping through the pages of that fine Long Island institution, Newsday, we came across an editorial written by Mrs. Rita Hall, mother of Top Chef victor Ilan Hall. Mrs. Hall, who happens to work at Newsday, wrote a trenchant analysis of reality television, and described her own reactions to watching Top Chef:

What I didn't expect was how much I believed what I saw and how much friends who have known Ilan since he was little reassessed their opinion of him, good and bad, based on the edited version of reality that they saw weekly on the small screen. And how just as involved - though utterly presumptuous and cruel - the viewers in the blogosphere can be.

"Utterly presumptuous and cruel?" we queried of the cryptically-monikered Miss XaXa, as she looked at us through her sunglasses and cocked her Hermès-scarf-swathed head at us.

"That sounds about right," said Miss XaXa, interacting with us. "How very well-put."

We sat back, pleased with our human interaction, and resumed reading.

And what of the anonymous souls who spent so much time discussing and disparaging a person they would never meet and who would have no effect on their lives? Cryptically named writers jumped to wild unsubstantiated conclusions and, despite having slavishly watched each episode, made charges and claims that belied what they had seen:

Ilan doesn't deserve to win. (He won more elimination rounds than anyone and was in the group judged the worst only once, far fewer than anyone.) He's gay. (This homophobic invective didn't bother Ilan except that he has a girlfriend and he said so.) What was with the head scarf? (He covered his head for continuity; he changed his hair at the end of filming and they needed to insert interviews into previous episodes when his do was different.) Why the sunglasses in bed? (To avoid the morning onslaught of the bright lights and cameras that was their wake-up call.) Ilan is the bad guy. (In an ongoing conflict with fellow contestant Marcel, bloggers largely sided against Ilan, even though, over 13 weeks, almost every chef had a dispute with Marcel.)Why were they so interested? So certain of their impressions?

I can only imagine that cabin-feverish loners sitting in dark basements envy and loathe reality-TV stars. Reality TV provides a chance for previously anonymous Everymen to become well known. The blogosphere allows people who previously had to interact with other people to bloviate anonymously. How frightening the cameras would be for them. And how they must hate people who live with live cameras so easily.

First of all, Mrs. Hall, it's not a basement. It's a tastefully appointed subterranean lair. Or at least that's what the realtor told us.

And speaking of euphemism, "he changed his hair at the end of filming"?!? But we understand, Mrs. Hall. You're a mother, and we know that if we'd had a mother, it also would have been difficult for her to write, "He shaved his head after instigating and videotaping an assault on Marcel that included an abortive attempt to shave Marcel's head."

But the homophobia? We're afraid we must plead guilty to that. When we, of all people, speculate that someone is gay, it most definitely is "homophobic invective." As soon as we file this post, we will be checking ourselves into the same gayhab that Isaiah Washington so recently and so successfully attended. In fact, while we're there, we're also considering the three-week counseling program that turned pastor Ted Haggard "completely heterosexual." It's the least we can do.

Still, the most valuable lesson to be extracted from Mrs. Hall's editorial is this: Mothers, don't let your babies grow up to be reality-show winners.