Poo-poo on Paula
Nothing says LOL like kicking off your reality show with some good ol'-fashioned fecal humor. Yes, Paula hid poopy-looking beef jerky in her assistant's bed, and it was a (toilet) bowl full of ROFL-laughter.
Not!
Come on, Paula. What's next? Placing your assistant's finger in a warm glass of water after she falls asleep? Maybe stealing her panties and putting them in the freezer? How about filling her hand with whipping cream and then tickling her nose? You'd most definitely be the hit of my third-grade sleepover, hands down!
Not!
Then Paula got the news that "the people" in charge of the
Bratz movie would "no longer need her services." Y'all know that there's a real juicy story behind this oh-so diplomatic soft-dump; now,
that's the kind of reality television I want to watch! I mean, what could Paula have done that was so heinous that it turned off a bunch of studio execs who are in charge of turning big-headed cartoon tween sluts into a live-action pop-culture summer blockbuster?
Sadly, we never find out why Paula gets the old Hollywood heave-ho. Instead, we get the pictorial pleasure (
Not!) of watching the pop star dissolve into her seemingly on-cue tears for the second time in the show's first four minutes. Oh, Paula, save those snuffles and star in a made-for-television Lifetime movie. You're "I-love-my-Jimmy-Bob-even-though-he-beats-me!" Emmy gold waiting to happen.
The show's true dramatic arc came, however, when Paula realized that she may not have hair and makeup services before her appearance on Letterman. Her ensuing psychotic break with celeb-reality left me thinking one thing and one thing only: "At least this girl's got her priorities in order. I mean, who can even think about global poverty, starvation, genocide or war when they don't know who will be conducting their next straight-ironing!"
I forced my father, a 50+ Midwestern computer technician who is completely devoid of all things mainstream zeitgeist to watch the episode with me. He, perhaps, said best what every viewer was thinking: "Why doesn't that girl just shut her mouth and pick up a comb?" I don't know, Dad. I don't know.
Watching Paula and her people prep for the Letterman appearance was like watching paint dry... only less exciting. At least when paint dries, you see the subtlety of color hues as the shifting of tone adheres to the walls. You witness the vibrant emulsion as it coats the intricate texturing of the painted surfaces. Paula's preparation had no colorful hues or intricate vibrancies. Producers somehow managed to fill 10 minutes with the nonsensical ramblings of her new assistant, Patty, and her "stylist" (and my arch rival!), Kiley.
But the most disturbing part of the episode was Paula's encounter with Megan, her self-described "super-fan." Now, Megan, if you're reading this, please know that I love you, for we are like-minded when it comes to our pop-star adoration. I was once a Backstreet Boys FANatic. Their posters covered all of my bedroom walls. I knew all of their "Quit Playing Games with My Heart" dance moves. I'll admit it: I even cried a little when AJ went to rehab. (OK, I cried a lot....)
But I didn't do it on national television! Megan, you came across looking less like a lover of pop music and more like ButterTeeth McStickyHair. Ten years from now, when you're sitting home alone on prom night with your seven Persian cats and a bucket of Ben & Jerry's in your lardy lap, don't fall to your saggy knees and ask god "Why?!" Instead, TiVo back to this episode of
Hey Paula and you'll have the basic-cable justification behind your forever-to-be-single state.
Clinging Paula desperately, Megan cried (for no apparent reason): "I'm so scared!" We are, too, Ms. McStickyHair. We are, too.
Was this episode worth its space on my DVR? That's a 100 percent Paula positive
yes! (
Not!)
