I know none of you would be foolish enough to fall into a trap like this. I did. Never, and I mean, NEVER let a nine-year-old talk you into watching a tv movie about the Osmond Family.
They laughed, they cried, they sang, danced, prayed, bickered and wore some of the worst wigs this side of an Oliver Stone movie.
By the end, my daughter was sighing dreamily and I was reduced to a drooling idiot. I could actually feel what little intelligence I have draining out my ears. I felt like I was being reprogrammed a la Clockwork Orange. Only I didn’t have those little metal thingies holding my eyes open. Instead, it was my daughter’s incessant chant, “Which one is that? Which one is that? Is that Wayne? Is that Merrill?”
My son hit the nail on the head. He came lumbering downstairs to raid the kitchen when he was accosted by his sister and invited to watch with us. He said, “What, watch the Osmond movie? Are you kidding? That’s like…child abuse.”
And to make matters worse, I missed Junkyard Wars.