Booted American Idol contestant Sanjaya Malakar tells People this week that he “understand(s) women,” gets along with us better than men, but is NOT GAY.
You kiss gloomy Seattle goodbye and, for fear of turning into a pillar of Gore-Tex, never look back, then you move to New York, make a very quiet splash on Broadway–in Rent, Wicked, Hairspray, take your pick–learn the meaning of the word “fierce,” record a shitty album that goes triple-platinum, befriend an Olsen, develop a coke habit, flunk out of rehab, become Marc Jacobs’ new boy toy, become a huge raging bitch drunk on your newfound fame, did someone say drunk?–get a DUI, go on a fad diet, refuse to sign autographs for 9 year-old girls anymore, laugh in derision when they cry, start wearing heels, take over Page Six with your high-heeled, table-dancing club antics, flash your junk to the paparazzi while tumbling out of a town car on your way to slurp champagne and oysters at Balthazar, return to rehab, date another reality TV star whose name is “Lane,” fall madly in love, move to L.A. for your careers, to a treehouse off of Laurel Canyon, have a well-publicized commitment ceremony with white orchids everywhere and Paula Abdul and your busty sister serving as bridesmaids (you, of course, are the bride), adopt a Chinese baby, become a humanitarian, hit the gay-rights lecture circuit, win some awards lauding your courage of conviction.
If you’re really not gay, Sanjaya, then nothing in this fagtasy will come true. Which means you may as well pull up the hood on your purple rain jacket, skedaddle back to Seattle, and begin reminiscing about your 15 minutes of fame right now.
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