I’m feeling irrationally, excessively emotional (fluctuating between depressed, elated, constipated, frantic, and resigned) so it must be that time of the month week again. Thanks for visiting me, American Idol!
Cramps and bloating are a bitch.
Seabreath proudly informs us that 56 million votes were cast this week. AI is almost recession-proof! Say every text message costs ten cents. That’s $5,600,000 that could’ve gone to things like, oh, I don’t know, helping the cyclone victims of Myanmar, rescuing schoolchildren buried under the rubble of their own classrooms in China, or Haitians who are forced to stave off hunger pangs with mud cookies (dried yellow mud, salt, and vegetable shortening) from the lack of food and supplies. Yes, they are literally eating dirt.
But now the clay and mud used for the cookies is going up in price because of the rampant demand for it, which means Haitians can’t even afford dirt! All that’s left is for Haiti to export the one thing that their people can sort of afford to eat, to countries rabid for low calorie, low carb snacks. A place like America. Just saying I wish we could translate such avid, passionate mobilization into something like domestic and foreign relief. Hell, 56 million boxes of Girl Scout Thin Mints in aid would be way better than gritty mud cookies, people.
Okay, getting off my soapbox, which is actually a box filled with delicious cookies (Snickerdoodles, in fact). Flipit and I not the only ones feeling show fatigue, as Seacrest talks about how the entire staff is excited to get shitfaced after (or perhaps during, considering some of the really random camera work and angles we’ve seen lately) the season finale next week, TP Simon’s house, totally peacing to Tijuana for some R&R and tacos. He’s also trying to mimic William Shatner’s speech patterns.
Also, is this recycled footage or a vision of the future? Why the hell would Lord Andrew Lloyd Webber ever want to come back to America?
“Fetus’s dad hired me, duh.”
Asinine Analogy Time!
Fetus:Obama::David Cook: ?????
This is harder than the SAT. On one hand, Fetus obviously represents youth and freshness because he can’t even vote yet, but he also represents experience since he’s been singing since he was fished out of his mom’s womb. He’s been vetted by Star Search, but he also possesses the Jesus-like ability to entrance people and make them faint/weep/lose control of their bowels. I am so confused. Help me out here.
Leave your answer in the comments section. I’m looking at you, fire@will, juddfan, georgiababe, carmelicious, Donna Martin, and Company. If I forgot someone, I apologize. I still love you.
All I want is a little transparency in AI: a complete breakdown of the votes for each contestant, and an in-depth look at how Paula pre-games for the show.
The double standard of ogling lives on.
Randy’s given up on looking semi-presentable, and threw on a long-sleeved tee he likes to sleep in plus some funky colored glasses. Paula’s bouffant hair is the inverse of her dangerously low neckline. In a show of solidarity, Simon is busting out the man boobs and chest hair. Seabreath snarks that Simon missed a button or two, as this is a G-rated tv show. Eh, I’d rather see man-cleavage than camel toe.
After the happy happy group sing extravaganza, tonight is just one long video montage. Lovely. Guys? About that T.Vo Technological Betterment Fund you wanted to set up on my behalf…can we please fundraise to bring me into the 21st century of TV yet? I am bracing myself.
Our final three launch into a disco-drenched, rainbow lights and graphics-enhanced version of “Ain’t No Stopping (Two of Us) Now.”
It’s laced with cheesy ’70′s Brady Bunch-esque bullshit choreography that only succeeds in convincing me that Archuleta needs a dance coach and a 40 (like a King Cobra). He’s a lot stiffer than he needs to be for the next High School Musical: On Ice. Hey, it could happen. Syesha looks like she just came from a K-Swiss commercial.
And David Cook really, really has to pee.
From the way she’s performing halfheartedly, Syesha knows she’s going home. It’s sad, but a lot more obvious than last year’s three, with Melinda Doolittle, Jordin, and the Beat Boxing Freakazoid known as Blake. ‘Cause unlike Melinda Doolittle, Syesha was never really a judge/producer favorite (at least not after auditions and Hollywood week) or a top contender. The song is straight out of a never-before-seen Ross commercial, and perhaps more painful than 5 Ford Idol commercials put together. Especially when they make their way through the mosh pit of baby prostitutes and onto the judges’ podium, and it becomes apparent how terrible it is to a live audience.
Not as bad as leggings worn as pants, gold spandex, or an enema, but close.
Oh, and if you want to know how far heaven is, it’s extremely fucking far away when you’re subjected to the following:
“I love eBay!”
Fetus returns to the wet womb. Sort of.
Hell is having disgusting amounts of money, a God complex, and only Fords in your garage. Oh, and Criss Angel’s wardrobe.
Last night, Syesha ate it on “Fever” and the “Happy Feet” song to the booing of a million tapdancing penguins. Simon Cowell fellated himself a bit more with his song selection for David Cook, who generally rocked out, Fetus sang the word “boo” and his moves were straight out of an awkward middle school dance. Attempts at hip swiveling and pelvic thrusting led me to affirmatively say that Fetus has never dry-humped a girl.
Cook was smart to win the Christian vote with a Switchfoot song and the only Aerosmith tune to ever hit #1 on the charts.
Yeah. We’re only 15 minutes into the hour and I already want to call an emergency hotline because I don’t think I can make it. I’ve already eaten my entire bag of Sabor de Soledads. Seabreath keeps trying to reassure me that the votes are in, but we have a bajillion filler items to get through. I’m too young for this!
First up, Fantasia! She’s singing a song called… “Mourning”? Oh, I actually heard right the first time, and it’s “Bore Me.” It must be opposite day, because what ensues is more of a Baptist revival/voodoo ritual dance/call of the wild.
It’s like watching a trainwreck involving an Oreo truck, a tanker full of packing peanuts, and a circus car full of Russian midgets.
The long lost love child of Dennis Rodman and Perez Hilton.
More energetic than the top 24 contenders put together (where is Hannah Mantana when you need him?), and freaking me out, Fantasia’s dressed like Brian Boitano on a good day in a velvet halter jumpsuit that screams Cats gone to the ’70′s discothÃ¨que, and there is a whole lot of frenetic singing/jumping/dancing/thrusting. I am at a loss for words. Epileptic seizure, or demon possession?
Panic! At the Disco
Her three backup singers/dancers resemble Mariah Carey, Rihanna, and a poor man’s Pussycat Doll impersonators. Don’t you love shitshows?
The exorcism of good taste.
The song itself is an arts&crafts project gone bad after a brush with the Bedazzler, but Fantasia’s captivating in a way that Syesha and Fetus just aren’t. You know, the WTF?! provoking performance skills that cause me to keep watching even though it’s incredibly painful. She’s a walking, talking, vibrating Now That’s What I Call Entertainment!. She even duck walks sassily. Someone whose face is covered by a furry black Kangol hat solos from the balcony while the guitar wails away. Who is it? How the hell did she win this competition? The ridiculousness of all this is too much for my TV and for my poor eyeballs. I’m afraid she’s going to attack an audience member with her screech attack.
Simon’s priceless reaction:
And then I realized both hookers were dead.
For once, the judges all agree.
We’re being punk’d, right? Nerts to you, Ashton Kutcher!
Seabreath, perhaps also strapped for compliments, resorts to backhanded praise: “It’s so subtle – just like you!” and “Your breath control is amazing!” Uh. Is it just me or is he subtly talking about blow jobs on national television? And does Fantasia have braces, a mouthguard, or just extraordinarily tiny doll teeth? The answer doesn’t matter, because she promptly attacks Seabreath and has her way with him.
It’s nothing like practicing on your hand.
That just happened. Idol thinks it can subject me and you to forty-five more minutes of montages? I’ll attempt something very difficult for me: brevity.
Fetus’s montage(s) are first. He pretends to be mega-excited about his high school’s cheerleaders.
Fetus and Fox manage to get in a shoutout to poor people and foreign aid.
One man’s wet dream is a Fetus’s nightmare.
The final stage before Girls Gone Wild videos.
Pedro is pissed.
In short, Utah worships John Smith and Fetus. Little girls ask him to sign their training bras, Mormon mothers and fathers bid to have their daughters’ uteruses promised to Fetus, and the little guy simply can’t handle it. He’s awwwwverwhelmed, gosh. It is a giant clusterfuck of high-pitched screaming and squealing on par with the tones of dog whistles, and it’s driving me absolutely bonkers. Any more than 30 seconds of the whistle-screaming is enough to make a girl throw a laptop at the screen.
This is going to sound bad, but all I can think is, “What if some Hot Topic-clad, sardonic hater shoots Fetus? Just to fuck with AI and make a point about the commercialization of music and how far off track this show has gotten?” and “Hmm…the security doesn’t look that effective” as little girls pull and clutch at Fetus’s sweater.
Welcome to Paradise, Mr. Pedophile.
This montage would not be complete with a complete and utter emotional breakdown. Fetus cries as a giant clusterfuck of bodies throngs around him. I hate throngs. I decide to double up on the Pill and never bear children as I see the sea of bodies smashed together, writhing for Fetus. Fetus gushes that he never thought so many people would support him, and that he’s just worked so hard and suffered so much abuse to get where he’s at. I do feel bad for the kid, because he’s never had any semblance of a normal life. But not enough to stop making fun of him.
“I was just tearing up over the people who have nothing.”
The best part? When Fetus gets back in the car and marvels, “Oh my gosh, where did all these people park?” Hee.
He unites blonde tweenyboppers with angsty Amy Winehouse wannabes! He really is the messiah!
May 9, 2008 is Fetus Day in Murray, Utah. More importantly, the mayor of the town has an impressive English moustache. How contradictory, considering the patriotic shirt!
Son, my Lady Tickler drives all the women crazy. Call me when you ever get facial hair.
After this load of sappy crock and my ears have started bleeding from the din of Fetus Fanatics, Seacrest pretends that Fetus has to watch the entire hometown visit all over again. We basically do, only the montage spans his entire Idoljourney and I feel bad for the poor guy or gal who has to make these things. I hope they get paid well, or that they snap and take revenge by manipulating the clips, like the pissed-off Disney animator who snuck penises into The Little Mermaid.
Syesha looks like she’s had all the spunkiness flatironed out of her as we go to her hometown welcome montage. While Fetus captured the hearts of everyone Caucasian and pre-puberty, i.e. the idk, my bff jill generation, Syesha’s fans appear to be of an entirely different demographic. One that still has trouble with cell phone usage and Microsoft Word. They’re all fannypack-wearing retirees (we are in Florida, after all), soccer moms, and pregnant women. Fox also pimps Syesha out to the local affiliate news station and sends her on a parade. Only hers seems to involve a lot more walking in the end.
“I didn’t know what your favorite candy was, so…take my baby, he’s delicious!”
Why do people hand over their infants to complete strangers, by the way? So they can claim that they’re being stolen later on?
Racial profiling blows.
We hop to Bradenton, where she visits her high school alma mater. The energy level is not as hopped up on Trolli gummies and Red Bull as Fetus’s fans, but hey. Take what you can get. Like this rabid fan.
Uh, Beauty and the Geek is on the CW.
Best of all? Sarasota’s spry mayor, who is more bendy than Gumby.
“We’re turning inside out and upside down for Syesha!”
Spring Break Sarasota 2008, baby!
We get some inane babbling and Syesha cradling a snowglobe that inexplicably plays “The Entertainer” (at least I think that’s what it was) in a van while crying. If that didn’t get your panties in a twist, there’s more. Time for her entire Idol journey video!
Paula needs to double what she’s taking, because she is starting to sound incredibly logical and well-spoken in the revisit of last night. Next thing you know, she’ll be publishing mathematical proofs with Winnie Cooper. Then there’s a weird moment where Seabreath tries to get Randy and Simon to agree that Paula (of all people!) was “too harsh” in saying that Syesha’s last song won’t take her to the finals. Stop messing with me, Nigel. I am le tired. Fire zee missiles!
Syesha’s parting words: “If you believe in yourself, anything is possible.”
Well, I taught this penguin everything it knows.
David Cook shares the story of how he originally went to Omaha to support his younger brother Andrew, who was who was auditioning for Idol. Long story short? I think Andrew, who never made to Hollywood Week, secretly resents David. But this all pales in the face of their other brother, Adam. Because cancer beats rock, y’all.
Seabreath Cookie Sandwich: vaguely homoerotic, but mostly grey.
In Kansas city, Cook’s fans appear either middle-aged, or incredibly, incredibly young. As in toddlers-who-still-poop-themselves young. I am waiting for the teen contingent to show up, but they’re probably at the mall food court. However, white trash fans are fun, especially when they wear matching t-shirts with poorly-chosen fonts. It reminds me of the swapmeet’s knock-off brands, like Celvin Klean and Nik (the poor man’s Nike).
Who’s David Cock?
Fortunately for you, I’ve also managed to find everyone’s favorite little Dutch soccer hooligan. He’s into rock and roll now, and the lavish lifestyle that comes with it (biting the heads off bats, trashing hotel rooms, and going after Midwestern sorority girls).
I’d say Cook’s fans are generally more delightful and thankfully lower-pitched than Fetus’s. Except for the blubbering, hyperventilating girl who makes David sign her posterboard.
I think I’ll have…THE CHICKEN!
His elementary school music teacher, Mrs. Gentry (awesome name) is still alive, and has turned her classroom into a shrine dedicated to her favorite student, as of several months ago. It seems that Fetus and Syesha got their own official hometown days declared by the town mayors, but Cook gets a state rep! And no official “David Cook Day” but whatevs, the guy gets to throw the opening pitch at a Royals game.
How far will David Cook fans go for him?
The most compelling reason why David Cook needs to not win Idol: Randy telling him, “That’s the kind of record I see you making, a Switchfoot record.” Switchfoot!? Get out now, while you still can, or refuse to play next week and sign to a decent label that allows you creative license. Or at least one that gives you a super hot entourage and your own energy drink.
David Cook, in my book, trounces the Fetus, musically and personality-wise. He’s a musician, which is why the competition feels so weird this year with allowing instruments into the mix. You’ve got pop singers pitted against real musicians who happen to sing. He’s pretty deserving of the title, but I want him to be spared the whole contractual obligation bullshit. I also want to spare Fetus, who is half-saved/half-doomed if he wins it all but that’s because I am firmly against child labor and indentured servitude.
Cook’s journey montage is perhaps the least annoying of the three contestants (maybe I’m just worn down and am suffering from Stockholm Syndrome)…until we get the last ten seconds.
Well, that was a mood-killer.
Finally, with all three of the contestants lined up, Seabreath clarifies that Cook sang a song by Roberta Flack, not Chaka Khan, and rips a nameless production assistant a new one for “bad research” in writing up his cue card. Eek, so much for that festive party atmosphere!
It’s bad when a show makes you dry heave, right? I’ve hit “The Wall,” which is what avid runners seem to talk about all the time, where the just. can’t. go. on. Their brain turns to mush, their legs turn into jelly, and moving forward feels impossible. I am totally not a runner, by the way. I prefer the walk from my couch to my desk and then to the pantry.
JUDGE’S FINAL THOUGHTS OMG I AM DYING WILL SOMEONE SAVE ME PLZ? NO, FINE, I KNOW YOU HAVE BETTER THINGS TO DO WITH YOUR TIME SO I WILL PUSH ONWARDS AND TYPE IN ALL CAPS TILL I FEEL SLIGHTLY BETTER ABOUT LIFE. THERE. LET’S DO THIS, LOLLERSKATES.
Randy: “Dawg. Y’all did an amazing job, be well proud of yourself, ’cause you’re three out of 100,000, whatever that means, hawt.”
Paula: “Life is about moments. And if you’re lucky you’ll create ones that last forever. If you’re really, really, really lucky, the world will watch (and rewind, and fast forward, and remix everything on YouTube while loudly ridiculing you).”
Simon: “If it is who I think it is, next week will be a real humdinger.”
Okay fine, you already know Syesha’s going home. We knew that a Fetus/Cook showdown at the Alamo was imminent like 8 weeks ago. Fetus, however, maintains his ability to act shocked and stunned like a rabblerouser tasered outside of Applebee’s. OH MY GOSH WOW. He is dismissed to the safety couch but can’t move until prodded by David Cook, who is also announced as safe.
David Cook to Mercenary Sniper: “Shoot this one.”
You know, this would be easier to recap if I were a nihilist.
“Fetus, I know you thought the intimate moment you and Seacrest shared last week was special, but…he’s kind of a whore. Don’t look at him all over Syesha, it’ll only hurt more.”
Syesha’s swan song? One of the better, classier exits this season, and sans tears. Just like a pro. So it’s too bad that they decided to show her most flattering faces on the giant screen.
When Botox Goes Bonkers: Fox Special at 11
Aww, Syesha. You were one of my favorite girls, ’cause you had pipes and were coordinated and generally funny. Until you sang “Fever” and it all went to hell. I expect to see you on Broadway, or at least in a Disney-produced musical. Show ‘em how to twirl, girl.
Holy shit. Mavis, as in Mavis Beacon Teaches Typing!?
Remember that typing program?
Erg. Now that I’ve gotten that out of my system, I want to tell me your biggest fears. Is it Fetus becoming Idol and discovering cocaine, or David Cook winning the title and rapidly spiraling down into bad pop rock?
Personally, my greatest fear is what might happen while walking behind strangers as they climb stairs and standing behind them on rising escalators. My lack of height puts me smack in front of their butts, even if they’re only a step or two in front of me, and I’m terrified that they’re going to fart in my face. Seriously. Being 5’2″ makes for the perfect face to stranger’s butthole alignment for some reason. And when it happens, because I have that sort of luck, I won’t be able to twist my head or bend my torso backwards, Matrix-style, fast enough. I just know it.