There have scarcely been more obvious truisms than this: I simply love Australian Idol.
I love it with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns.
I love it with the abandon of Jennifer Keyte wrestling playfully with a handsome bottle of Veuve Cliquot on a summer's afternoon.
I love it with the kind of obsessive commitment shown by Rebecca De Mornay and a breast pump circa 1992; or like Nicolas Cage about 3 years later when presented with Elisabeth Shue's nipples and a whole lot of bourbon.
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