So last night while attempting to explain Battlestar Galactica to my sweet non-nerd wife (No, you see, you can be a Cylon without knowing you’re a Cylon, because Cylons are robots and they can be programmed to think they’re human. Get it?) when I checked the comments on my last post. It seems I ended last night’s entry with a subtle dig at ol’ Clay Aiken.
Whoops.
Turns out that AndrewOsenga.com is some sort of mob-front for an intense Clay Aiken society. I had no idea. I learned from a few comments left by people who have never posted here before that I should not joke about Clay.
He is off-limits.
It seems that my thinking that he was a slightly awkward runner-up who sang a creepy song about being invisible so he could stalk people was wrong. I was also wrong in thinking that I might not want my kids to enjoy his harmless brand of diet soft-rock. Or his hair. And I was definitely wrong when I implied (it must have been very subtle, even I didn’t know I implied it) that he may be a bit, let’s say, ambigious.
Turns out he is the last bastion of morality and wholesomeness in this God-forsaken, gangster rap-loving, unhealthy body image of a nation.
So, please forgive me, Mr. Aiken. I never meant to write songs that make everybody want to get naked.
Or nekkid, as the “gangstahs” say.
I had no idea the harm I was doing.
From now on the name of Clay Aiken will stand esteemed on the hallowed ground that is this independent progressive singer-songwriter’s overly opinionated piece of world wide webbery.
Any rating from 1 to 10 that I may make on a piece of gear or a movie or a song will now be based on a scale of 1 to Clay.
And the next time I’m at Kroger I’m heading straight for the baby bubble bath and I’m getting the one with your glorious spiky head on the front. Now my girls will be clean on the outside and the inside.
The blog that the ClayMates found so objectional and their responses can be found here:
