With American Idol’s seventh season hitting the airwaves, thirteen year-old girls across the nation have a renewed reason to finish their homework on time, dump their Social Studies-only boyfriend, and upgrade their cell phone plans to better text in favor of their new number one. Yes, there will be twelve new hot boys to give the adolescent girls something to swoon over (and the middle school boys someone to idolize). But deep down all the girls know better than to lust after this year’s Sanjaya; because they long for stability. They know their true Idol will be on stage every year. That idol is Ryan Seacrest.
Ten years the wiser, I see that there is nothing attractive about Ryan Seacrest. Sure, no one reads a teleprompter better, but can he have a conversation without one? Yes, he has a handful of amazing costars, but does he ever stand next to them? Are they ever in the studio at the same time? He claims that the Hollywood elite call his cell phone to set the record straight, but does he ever call them? Would they ever accept a dinner invitation from him?
The answer is a resounding no. No to all the questions.
Ryan Seacrest is that guy in High School that came to your parties just to fish the beer cans out of the pool so your parents wouldn’t find out you had a party. He was also that guy who rolled up his sleeves, wore a tie, and made organizing the Homecoming football game look like a matter of National Security. He tried too hard then and he’s trying too hard now.
And that’s exactly why I am petitioning the courts for a restraining order against this menace. I got rid of That Guy from high school and there’s no way I ever want him back…even if he brushes shoulders with the Hollywood It-Girls. I’m not in the position to meet famous people (weird, I know. As co-founder of Awesome Teen Magazine you would think that my Little Black Book is full of Star Magazine-worthy indiscretions and my social calendar is written in pencil.), but if I ever ended up in the same room as Ryan Seacrest, I promise you I would flip out. And not because I wanted his autograph. I’m not saying I’d be a threat to his life. I’m saying I would be a threat to my own. Because if I was in the same room as him I would gouge my eye balls out with my fingers. Or I would slit my wrists with notebook paper. Whatever it took to end it then and there.
And while I’m at the court house, I’ll look into getting a little something for Clay Aiken. If there’s anyone I hate more than Seacrest, it’s that ungrateful Howdy Doody look-alike.
