Error: Twitter did not respond. Please wait a few minutes and refresh this page.
“These faces have been on your screens for over three months. You know more about these tools than any other season. You are voting more passionately than ever, but one of them has to go.”
For a second, I thought Seabreath was breaking the fourth wall and talking directly to me. I was so startled I dropped my Brooke White voodoo doll. Then I realized I am utterly trapped by the glorious gongshow that is American Idol!
I apologize for any confusion as Flipit and I have been tag-teaming AI every week. I’ll do the performances and he’ll do the results one week, then we switch the next. But he never gets accused of being racist when pointing out equine-looking hairstyles that would’ve looked horsey on anyone, white, black, pink, or Muppet. I assure you that I am not. I am, however, incredibly fontist in my blind hatred for crappy fonts.
It’s 7:55 PM, and I am still finishing up the final touches on my Brooke White voodoo doll. I dunked her in a tub filled with the tears of 30 babies (I live close to a daycare center, okay?) because no matter what the results are tonight, she’s going to be bawling. But it’d be even better if she was finally eliminated. I can always hope for a Christmas miracle.
I spy Kristy Lee in the audience! Seabreath is still reeling from last night and claims it was the fastest show, with 45 million votes locked in. Is that a new record? How sad is it that that’s a higher turnout than we’ll get in November?
After the inebriated shitshow of Tuesday, Randy is back to his man-cardigans (this one is trimmed in green) and Simon is his usual self in a grey v-neck pullover. As for Paula, she’s traded the prom dress and flask of rum for a headband, sleek, flatironed hair, and a sheath dress. Chic.
Paula before the Betty Ford Center:
I’m going to be on Gossip Girl!
Neil Diamond SuperHappySingalongFunMedleyTime!
Castro kicks off “Cracklin’ Rosie” and strolls across the stage while the other four sway back and fourth on the safety seat bench. Ten seconds later, I am already seasick.
Then Fetus takes the lead while Brooke and Syesha are forced to get up and twirl from their current positions into the seat openings next to Castro and David Cook. If Brooke fucks this one up, do you think she’ll ask the band to start over? Either way, the choreographers are snickering backstage since they know this is Brooke’s Achilles’ heel.
The group sing is super-breathy and anemic, like they’ve been starved all day (or for the last three months). There’s no vocal power behind the song. I am le tired. Brooke segues into “Song Sung Blue” accompanied by Syesha, and I throw my voodoo doll at the TV, hoping it fast forwards magically for me. Syesha’s either saving her chops in case she has to sing her song swan tonight, or has decided to play a delicate invalid to highlight how awkward Brooke can really be as a performer. Also, Brooke sings something about weeping like a willow, so I am convinced she is gonna be sent packing tonight. Foreshadowing, people – it’s a great literary and reality tv device.
After some awkward side stepping/shuffling-like moves (think middle school dance) “Brother Love’s Traveling Salvation Show” has even more cheesy choreography, like back-to-back sashaying. Brooke and Cook demonstrate the proper technique, while Syesha does not want any of Castro’s dirty dreads touching her bare skin.
Who are you calling a cootie queen, you lint licker?
Also, this arrangement made me giggle:
Fetus and the Weirdest Custody Battle Ever
Fetus gets a ridiculously huge round of applause as he solos in the center as the Axis of Awesome (in the eyes of his teen fans, not mine). Finally, David Cook pretends to be a Baptist preacher telling us to love our brothers, mmmkay? Twenty Hallelujahs later, our contestants check how their deodorant is holding up on the final notes. Everyone except Syesha.
Did you miss the memo?
In the time it took for them to complete the medley, I built a teleportation device out Frisbees, 36 cent tacos, and duct-tape, went to the future, and established myself as the leader of a wildly successful religious movement called Sanstology, a world where there is no Comic Sans font or Brooke White for that matter.
Seabreath visits with former Idol hopefuls/rejects from previous seasons, Constantine and Gina. Something about Fox Reality and American Idol + Extra and contractual obligations and steady paychecks ’cause no one else will hire them to sing. Gina’s dressed up in all the cheap stripper wear you can get on Hollywood Blvd, while Constantine just looks greasy Euro Trash. Seacrest gets Constantine to pout. It is incredibly pathetic.
Bad news, even the lady behind you is mocking you.
And now, for something completely different!
Carrie’s from Oklahoma but her boobs are from California, obviously.
I imagine all the bridezillas of the world ripping their fiancÃ©s a new one for mistakenly buying Carrie Underwood stamps for their wedding invites and I immediately feel better.
A recap of last night is played. I will spare you the gory details. Instead, I thought about yummy snacks I could make. Like bacon popcorn. Mmm, bacon.
“I am delicious, and totally healthy for you!”
Seabreath mentions that last night the judges were “thrown a curveball” on the show, being live and all, and that Paula’s flashback to the future was widely discussed on gossip sites and blogs. Seabreath then admits to getting his news from Perez Hilton, TMZ, and The Superficial and defends Paula with an ambiguous : “The rumors, they’re not true. She’s part of our family, and we love her. Also, Simon still wants to hook up with her.”
Way to dance around the issue and not tell us exactly what the rumor is. But seriously. Paula must’ve watched the rehearsal and pre-show run-throughs, and jotted down notes ahead of time, so why can’t they just fess up and admit that Idol isn’t completely fresh when it comes to the judging? She also spent all day crying whilst in a Cheeto Orange spray-tanning booth.
Up first: Jason Castro. Seabreath calls him “J.Cas.” Worst. Nickname. Ever. I know he boned his performances but enough teenyboppers who read Tiger Beat magazine, Jack Johnson fans, and college stoners saved him. Castro’s confused as to why he’s still here.
My thoughts exactly.
He’s sent to the couch of safety! But not before acknowledging that he only does well on weeks where he really knows/loves the songs and/or changed up their arrangements, and this week was not one of them. Hee. Also is he wearing a dark denim shirt over jeans? I can’t tell, my TV is not HD.
Fetus is called to the stage next. There is no way he’s in the bottom 2, unless this is opposite day and no one told me. Tuesday was Free Scoop Day at Ben and Jerry’s, and I am sad I am missing 31 cent cone day at Baskin-Robbins. The sacrifices I make for you, AI.
Isn’t “America” about the hopes and dreams of immigrants on boats and planes? It’s interesting that Simon says the song was a smart choice because I thought most of AI‘s Midwestern/Southern fans are patriots in favor of erecting a giant wall between us and Mexico. Not to mention Canada. I suppose they don’t pay attention to the lyrics so much, or Archuleta’s last name.
Paula insists that she wants to see more joy on Fetus’ face when he performs. Dude. More joy? The kid is miserable. He was singing patriotic ballads before his mom’s placenta came out. Don’t rub salt in the wounds, Paula. Fetus is safe, durrrrrr!
Fetus continues to act stunned/surprised/deer-in-headlights when he learns he’s safe for another week. He stumbles dazedly towards the safety couch, half “You love me? You really love me?” and half “Oh god, I still have to sing next week.” Ugh. Maybe it’s not an act, but utter naivetÃ©. Perhaps he really is that humble because his dad punishes him for the tiniest fumbles and mistakes and never built up his self-esteem. Or maybe Fetus tried to bone it this week and failed.
Save the “Oh god, I just woke up in TJ without my promise ring and pants after being roofied by that nice midget who bought me cheese sticks” face for later.
Also, Fetus’ mom makes Miley Cyrus’ “teen harlot” red pout in Vanity Fair look tasteful and Puritanesque.
And don’t forget the hot sauce, cholo!
Next week is going to see Syesha get kicked off (if she isn’t tonight), ’cause it’s Rock and Roll Hall of Fame time = David Cook passes go and collects $200. Once Fetus was confirmed safe, I knew it was Syesha and Brooke in the bottom 2. Which means that David Cook is safe as well, and we’re going to have a whole lotta filler before we find out which girl is walking the plank.
And now, for a preview of next season’s SO! YOU! THINK! YOU! CAN! DANCE! Spills. Tears. Midriff-baring belly shirts. Reverse pushups. Breakdancing. Screaming Mary.
And Jellybones McGee here.
And, of course, Nigel, who is on the side of the stage critiquing Seacrest’s hosting abilities, with his right hand in a cast.
The closest my TV will ever come to having Picture-in-Picture.
Stalling for more time, we are treated to Randy modeling the winner of the Creative Coca-Cola Cup Contest. By the time we’re done with that part of the filler, I have taught myself Latin, Portuguese, and how to perform open heart surgery using only a paperclip, a silly straw, and some string cheese.
Have some more Kool-Aid, it’s delightful.
David Cook is officially announced as safe, and Brooke immediately starts blubbering like a faithful elf who’s learned that Santa Claus is really a pedophile who suffers from erectile dysfunction.
Syesha and Brooke come out on stage. Syesha is staring daggers into Brooke’s back. Brooke is already red and blotchy and sniffling while Syesha just smiles bravely like the pro that she is. Jesus, Brooke, even God hates you by now. I liked that you didn’t fit the pop-idol mold with your singer/songwriter voice and instruments, but I’m over your excuses, do-overs, and lack of performance chops.
A visual definition of Frenemies, by T.Vo:
“I hate you more than LC hates Heidi and practical clothing combined.”
But first! Natasha Bedingfield, followed by Neil Diamond.
Something whoa-oh pocketful of sunshine. Maybe it’s completely different microphones and vocal effects (like the wah-wah one) but Natasha Bedingfield’s voice projects way more than any of the voices during the group sing. I’m perplexed. Her song is a lot poppier than the one that was immortalized as the intro song for The Hills, which had a singer-songwriter streak in it. You can run, but you can’t hide, Natasha. MTV knows where you sleep.
Her top is also flesh colored, matching her skintone perfectly. Paired with high-waisted pants, she’s a hippie and Navy crew member in one. Pants that eat your feet are never a good fashion choice.That was a huge mistake. I’ve seen Brooke’s future, and it looks like this (give it two years):
“The sun is on my side / it takes me for a ride” — Yeah, a ride to wrinkles and cancer.
Paula is loving it because “Pocketful of Sunshine” could be played on top of “Dance like There’s No Tomorrow” and we’d never know the difference.
After some embarrassing Seacrest banter (he asks her about her first audition, but she never had to audition for this show), Natasha prances over to the safety couch and gives Fetus a kiss and a hug. Dude, Fetus is only 17, Natasha! Jokes about Fetus inviting her to his prom ensue.
Stupid Viewer Questions Time, or, Things Even a Public Access Channel Won’t Stoop To In Order To Kill Time!
Things we learn: Paula is sweet because it’s a side effect of her medications, Randy may appear as an animated dog in an upcoming music video, and Simon is called a squirrel.
The last caller happens to be Simon’s first kiss (when he was 9). Seacrest looks envious. Tara Miller, age 45, reminds Simon that he had no idea what he was doing and asks if the kiss was as memorable as his kiss with Paula. Aw. It’s worth it to see Simon blush and squirm, but he appears to have fond memories of this woman in this segment of This Is Your Life. Tara jokes that she’s fine after all the therapy she’s had. How much did they pay her to call in? I’m betting at least a Ford Hybrid.
I’m going to ignore the Ford “Catch the Wind” commercial, which is, as usual, bizarre, surreal, and claims to reverse the seasons as well as global warming. It did not happen. Moving along.
Neil Diamond is sadly wearing neither sequins nor a scarf. Just a woven leather jacket, like he’s a fancy Bottega Veneta handbag. What is this song? A Latin-tinged song called “Pretty Amazing” complete with sassy dancing back-up singers. It is “Amazing Grace” with a horn section. That’s all you need to know. Still impressive for a man who’s allegedly sold over 120 million records (third after Elton and Babs) and whose middle name is Leslie. Just in case you missed it, here’s Flipit’s version:
Love and truth and hope and grace! And a right eye, I could totes use another one.
I am shocked when Neil reveals his mommy is in the audience, but I do a quick Google search and he’s only 67. Dude. Neil Diamond is younger than John McCain. Mama Diamond is one tough cookie.
The poor man’s Dr. Ruth.
Finally, finally, finally, after some Fox commercials about how you can make your two-year-old learn how to read, we’re going to get some results. Sweet Jesus, how do they make this show feel like it’s gone on for three hours? I could’ve gone to the DMV and the AT&T store already.
Subtle signs of patriotism may save you yet, Syesha.
Like ripping off a Band-Aid, Seacrest quickly announces that BROOKE IS GOING HOME! She wails, “I knew it!” and dissolves in a flood of tears. Woot! I brace myself and redunk my voodoo doll in the kitchen sink as Brooke clings to Seacrest and bawls. We get audible sobs and dry heaving sounds, and I can’t help but feel a teeny bit bad. But it passes, and I am back to being thrilled that there is a God.
Brooke’s farewell montage includes the following gems:
Brooke White: World’s Best Stylist, Twirler, and Leprechaun Kicker
By this point, Brooke has totally broken down and lost it, and her Kleenex has given up on life. I am afraid she’s going to have the band start over on her swansong. She forgets the lyrics and sings haltingly in a ragged voice. The song is so prophetic, about how she feels lost in LA and how it’s not home and how she’s herself. She’s just so teary that she sounds like she’s been chain-smoking for 100 years as she sandpapers the lyrics “I am sad-eyed.”
And this is how to snap a girl’s bra in front of millions of people.
The other contestants gather behind her awkwardly, unsure of what to do. Eventually, Brooke flings her mic hand down, and cuts the song short with a thank you, turning her back to the camera and audience just like her exit video. Boo! Entertain me, woman! All I can say is that Syesha would never act like this; she’d belt her little broken heart out and land herself a spot on Broadway.
“Hey, at least you didn’t sell your pony for this.”
It’s the first time I ever recall the show not cutting off the song mid-note, because she’s stopped prematurely. And that, Gasmii, concludes the story of Brooke White, the 24-year-old nanny with a 40-year-old neck, partial facial paralysis, and a propensity for do-overs. Let this be a lesson to all of you: don’tever admit to being an R-rated movie virgin on national television. See you next week, when we rock, roll, and pelvic thrust our way to the Top 3!