Hot on the heels of a lovely Thanksgiving holiday, I am feeling stressy and crabby and tired and right at the edge of sick this Monday morning — a very pretty picture indeed. So: Forgive the lame-o blogging.

I made the long drive home yesterday morning, and spent a couple hours of my ride listening to that stalwart of Sunday morning programming, “American Top 40.” Or, as Ryan Seacrest apparently insists on calling it, “AT40.” Blech.

It’s been years since I heard more than the snippiest of snippets of this show, and the loathsome Seacrest was almost enough to make me switch channels as soon as I realized it was he — and that it was now “AT40.” Now, I don’t watch “American Idol,” and really only have a passing awareness of the vile wee man, but is he not the world’s worst person interviewer? How is he a deejay/emcee/celebrity/millionaire? I heard him talking to Cher — with whom he has some passing familiarity, one presumes, given that his girlfriend was just in a movie with her — and he was barely listening to her answers or engaging her in actual conversation. UGH. Twas horrid and painful.

I only heard a few songs in the 20s of the AT40 before I lost the signal, but was surprised how many of them I knew. I got a good (in the sense of “healthy,” not “high quality”) dose of Adam Lambert, Lady Antebellum, and Katy Perry (and don’t need to hear any of those songs again any time soon). I was hoping for Cee Lo, whose “F&#$ You” I taught my parents over Thanksgiving (much to my and my siblings’ delight), but got none. Overall, I was unimpressed, and my hopes for enlightenment on the front of up-to-the-moment pop hits were unsatisfied.

However, my non-existent appetite for smug, preening, airheaded, hair-gelled turkeys was totally filled. Seacrest out. No really, Seacrest: OUT.

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