<![CDATA[Gawker: defamer, fear]]> http://tags.gawker.com/assets/base/img/thumbs140x140/gawker.com.png <![CDATA[Gawker: defamer, fear]]> http://gawker.com/tag/defamer/fear http://gawker.com/tag/defamer/fear <![CDATA[Cloris Leachman Conjures Swinging Wig Hops Of The 1950s In Unhinged 'Dancing' Performance]]> As far as nightmare-fueling Dancing with the Stars performances go, nothing in the sequence above even approaches Marie Osmond's legendary Baby Doll Dance of Despair—a harrowing journey into wind-up madness that to this day makes our left eyelid twitch whenever we hear the song "Start Me Up" or see the color pink. We'll extend that now to fuchsia, too, as it seems Cloris Leachman's hairpiece-malfunction-plagued rockabilly ballet has already burrowed itself into our subconscious; we hold it singularly responsible for what is sure to be a recurring Busby Berkeley-on-bad-acid fever dream, featuring our worm's-eye view of hundreds of spanky-pants-wearing octogenarians scissor-kicking around us in circle formation.

]]> http://gawker.com/index.php?op=postcommentfeed&postId=5060228&view=rss&microfeed=true <![CDATA[Fantasia 2: The Fantasianing]]> On last night's splendiferous, Sayesha-ejecting American Idol results show—like nasty walnut chunks in maple ice cream, she was utterly ruining our pure, David-savoring experience—third season Idol winner Fantasia Barrino stopped by the Karoakedome to perform. And yet "perform" seems not quite the sufficient term in this instance—rather, she seemed literally belched from some fiery, subterranean afterworld miles beneath CBS Television City, accompanied by a chorus of winged backup-demons. The audience—many of whom were still enjoying the pleasant, torpor-inducing effects of David Archuleta singing about "fishes in the ocean"—reacted as though they had just been smacked against the side of the head with a hooker's club foot.

Anarchy soon broke out in the relative peace-loving community of the arm-swaying pit, as all attempts at enacting their primary, limb-waving duties were rendered instantly futile by the tuneless, arrhythmic morass. It wasn't long before severed limbs were spotted flying into the bleachers; the sight of several freshly gimped Pepperdine sorority girls running screaming for the exits was the last home viewers glimpsed of the carnage before stage manager Debbie frantically waved towards the control booth to cut to commercial.

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