Ah, Shark has been dying to weigh in on this American cultural phenomena.
Exuse me if I'm late, kids, but I'm watching this show for the first time — so I'll be able to coverse with my fellow semi-domesticated primates about something more important than everybody on the planet owning nook-yul-er weapons — or the apocalyptic BIRD FLU that approaches like the angel of death to wipe out probably 30 percent of the earth's population and turn our economies back to medieval times.
1) That Simon guy is the greatest! He's my hero. Of course, I'm sure everyone hates him, because the worst thing one can do these days is tell the spot-on, honest-ta-gawd truth to morons raised on our ubiquitous new "psychological" mantra: "Keep up your precious self-esteem regardless of whether you have any talent or character to justify it." Everything Simon says is right. He's never wrong. He is smart, thoughtful, and actually gives great advice. (I predict he'll be assassinated before his next birthday.)
2) What the fuck is that has-been that never-was, Paula Abdul, doing ADVISING PEOPLE ABOUT TALENT? What? Should Hitler lecture people on sensitivity toward Jews? Should the late Christopher Reeves have given riding lessons? Jeezus. You must be joking!? What did she ever do in show-biz? Wasn't she... like... some NFL cheerleader or something? Which means maybe her snatch would qualify for a stint on a Home Shopping Network sports memorabilia sale, but that's about it.
3) And now we get to that fat black spud, "Randy" (his parents must have hated him). WHAT A FUCKING MAROON. How "hip" can this big turd of a human be? Doesn't anyone have the heart to tell him that "YO!" - "dude" - "hey dog" - "da Bomb" — and holding your hands in front of you gesturing like you're suffering from massive brain damage while trying to perform American Sign Language WENT OUT with Grandmaster Flash — who, like Randy's "vernacular" — is old enough and stale enough to be in a Zip-Lock Bag seated in a wheelchair in a Brooklyn nursing home.
YO, RANDY, DUDE, DOG, YOU AIN'T DA BOMB, YO; you be a fuggin' Oreo Cracker from Malibu with an inferiority complex. And you KNOW you were never within a BMW length of da hood, you fake motherfucker.