Nothing scares me more than stage moms. Their lipstick-smeared grins and mom jeans, ripping fistfuls of ribboned pigtail out of their 7-year-old's head while she bawls uncontrollably, Maybelline running down her face.
I caught a few episodes of Little Miss Perfect again today, and I'm sorry I did. You can just TELL by the way the it's filmed that whoever came up with the concept of the show did it to make fun of the idea. An econ professor, a former pageant queen, and a cashier from McDonalds perch in a menacing row, judging girls wearing a mountain of sequins and enough makeup to make RuPaul cringe. The girls come out, all Vaseline smiles and taffeta, and spin slowly on the stage while the judges criticize their costumes, talent, faces.
I love when they pan to the moms in the crowd, though. They sit in all their former glory, overweight and overbearing, coaching their princess from the metal folding chairs. Their smiles are too wide, their boobs saggy, their disapproval evident as they soak up the spotlight vicariously through their offspring.
They spend hours with the tools of their torture: curling irons, teeth whitening kits, faux tanning sprayers, complaining that the people they hired to take care of these things are incompetent and unworthy to live.
Then the end of the show comes; the girls are lined up on stage like tiny Skipper dolls, while the host of the show, the creepiest creepster who thinks he's a pageant queen himself, lives out his American Idol dreams and serenades the girls with a pedophilic melody. And I can't help but think to myself that an appropriate punishment for these buffoons would be to box the host and the moms up in plastic boxes and put them on the shelf in a toy store for the remainder of eternity, a-la the N'Sync video "Bye Bye Bye."