Clay Aiken coming out of the closet is like Chris Rock telling the world he’s a black man. At least when Jodie Foster came out, we were all happy to include her as one of our own–not that we didn’t already know she was gay. Who didn’t?

And so we ad Clay Aiken to the list of out celebrities, musicians, designers, news hounds and talking heads: Neil Patrick Harris, Jodie Foster, Rachel Maddow, Ellen, k.d. Lang, half the leads on Good Morning America, Anderson Cooper. Sorry, he’s still in that gray (silver fox) area. Wentworth Miller is in denial. Lindsay Lohan is vacationing on the Isle of Lesbos, at least in her head. And let’s not forget all those Hollywood heavy weights who remain deep in the closet, under mountains of bell bottoms, baby clothes and high school band uniforms.

But really, I’d rather Clay Aiken remain in the closet. He’s too creepy to count as a brother let alone a sister. He’s more like Cousin It. I can’t even look at him without thinking of Chucky from those Child’s Play movies. His Southern drawl, pale baby face and far away button eyes of coal are enough to send a chill down my spine.

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