On things that shouldn't need a neon sign

Okay, so this has been reported around already, but I thought I'd take a swing at it because it's just that good. Needing little introduction, courtesy of Pandagon, it is... the lawsuit heard round the world:

LATEST: Nine former fans of AMERICAN IDOL star CLAY AIKEN are forging ahead with threats to sue his record label bosses for false advertising.

The one-time devotees have been shocked by recent US tabloid claims the wholesome pop singer is gay and they’ve filed a Federal Trade Commission complain against executives at RCA and Sony/BMG, alleging they were duped in marketing and promotional campaigns…..

The angry ladies go on to state, “This is tantamount to a manufacturer concealing information about a defective product. Therefore these actions were both unfair and deceptive to consumers.”

A spokeswoman for the group says, “As consumers, we feel ripped off. It is obvious now that the private Clay is very different from the manufactured packaged public Clay that was marketed to us.”

I won't go into the sheer and unabashed homophobia involved in declaring your favorite prepackaged pop star "defective" because he's gay; Amanda covers that quite nicely. And I won't go into the wastefulness involved in yet another spurious lawsuit or the willful blindness involved in not being able to tell that he makes Elton John look butch, because Doug covers that quite nicely. Myself, I really found three significant implications of the lawsuit:

1. These women were too dumb to tell that he was gay. Untrained gaydar, perhaps, or maybe just hope springing eternal. But they didn't know.

2. When they did find out, they weren't smart enough to know that filing a lawsuit would reveal to the world exactly how dumb they were, and

3. At least nine women in the universe have had sexual fantasies about Clay Aiken.

Now, don't get me wrong; I have nothing against Clay Aiken. He looks like a nice, pleasant boy, like the ginger-haired seventh-grader next door who mows your lawn for ten dollars to save up for a four-wheeler, and he does a lousy job but you always let him do it because he's just so polite and cute and it's nice to see young people being industrious. But you don't exactly fantasize about said seventh-grader stripping to the waist before starting the job; no, you save that for the hot twenty-something you hire to clean up the job the seventh-grader did, and sure, he does a lousy job, too, but there's something about those rippling back muscles...

Aherm. Sorry, where was I?

Anyway, can you imagine a Clay Aiken-based sexual fantasy? The fantasy life of a girl who watches American Idol and hears him singing about being invisible and watching you in your room, and thinks, Mmm, break me off a nice big chunk of that?

Slowly, he unbuttoned his shirt, his pale, freckled, concave chest glistening with sweat.

"I've wanted you ever since our eyes met across the crowded floor at the Ricky Martin concert," he whispered. "I'm so glad my mom drove me over here tonight, because you are beyond hot."

He slipped down his Superman Underoos...