Recap: American Inventor: A Bra-Wearing Guardian Angel That Likes Race Cars

Dearest Readers, we have reached the end of a long and arduous journey, one marked by a lot of American flag print shirts, awkward moments tinged with sexual tension, and deluded, potentially psychopathic individuals. We’ve had old people try to convince us that copper cures all ailments (including avian flu), we’ve had crazies try to convince us of the merits of Therapy Buddy. Oh yeah, and George Foreman’s undying love for basically, everything. Ah, the smell of American Inventor.

This would be the weirdest beauty pageant ever.

But seriously, a three hour finale for ABC’s lowest rated show?! What the French toast?

Just kidding. We’re back to the usual hour, which I have condensed into the shortest recap I have ever written. I’m now in Chicago for yet another wedding, and Chi-Town is definitely no LA. It’s been awhile since I’ve felt like the token anything in a town, but I definitely stick out in a suburb like Lake Forest.

Lollapalooza was incredible, and you should definitely see Muse, Snow Patrol, and Tokyo Police Club live. Also, I hate how people love doing the Chicken Dance at weddings. You know what would be a better reality show than this? One that sets people up to believe they’re marrying the love of their lives, but then they get ditched at the altar for (for someone else! ohhhhhh!). I already know I’m going to hell.

So because ABC couldn’t stand to just announce the winner, it got turned into a bloated hour-long production of American Idol-like proportions, complete with live audience and stage. I wonder how much they paid these people to sit there? I bet they pretended they were having auditions for the next season of this show, and lured them in. “Yeah, of course, this is the tryout for season 3….psych!” This includes “fans” waving supportive themed posterboards that were probably created by some poor production assistant in the wee hours of the night to generate an atmosphere of “competition” and “festivity.” Two things that this show lacks, among other watching-worthy qualities.

You know what else is festive? Nick Smith adorned by the dinosaur on my laptop that’s the equivalent of the hourglass you see when you’re waiting for a page to load.

Our three finalists were anxiously awaiting their fate, as determined by the 5-10 Americans who actually texted in to vote for them. Who are they? Let me remind you.

Greg Chavez (hey ABC, you misspelled his name with two “g”s on the website, stop messing with me) has too many children to feed. The Guardian Angel underwent a dramatic transformation, from poster board to something real.

What is it? A small tank of pressurized water disguised as a Christmas present, attached to a hose that is hooked up to an angel decoration that is actually the fusible link that sets off an alarm when smoke/fire is detected. It works without a battery, and will save four out of five lives. I’m taking away one life because you can’t underestimate the power of human stupidity.

Elaine Cato, a beauty pageant director and real estate agent from Tennessee, designed a 6-in-1 Convertible Brassiere. You can wear backless dresses and shirts with no worries of nip slips or boobies flying everywhere, to the chagrin of men everywhere. She’s doing this for her children. ‘Nuff said.

You can try bringing Sexy back, but the store won’t take it without a receipt.

Ricky DeRennaux, hailing from Oklahoma, brought us Custom Build Racers. Trying to find a way to make learning fun, Ricky hoped to allow teens to design, build, and race their own paper model cars. He threw in an awesome airplane version in the later development stages, and even has a version that doesn’t require a computer or printer. However, the median age for his toy also dropped to like, 12 year-old kids.

Stop fucking up the curve, Ricky, with your A+.

So…that means, MONTAGE! MONTAGE! MONTAGE! Clip show extravaganza, because there’s not enough material to make it through the hour. They even throw in a Plexiglass cube containing the million dollars in cash, to remind you that there’s something at stake here. Highlights include the judges top ten favorite craptastic inventions, including “Finger Tunes” and Rayfil Wong’s “Sober Key.” The Love Test, the anti-flame Aluminum Condom, and Crazy Ass Motherfucker Steve Couisineau with the A.C.E. Cycle (i.e. bike with spinners) also made the top ten. As did Pat’s ugly shirts:

If you squint hard enough and dilate your pupils, a unicorn appears.

Doot doot doot doot doot doot doot doot dooooooooooot! You’re sober, but this recap would be better if you were reading it drunk.

Also, Silvio and Black Cougar make it back because they’re the only thing that’ll keep the audience from leaving. Silvio appears to be tap dancing:

You’re officially a freak when even Black Cougar thinks you’re weird.

The theme of this finale is “Everybody’s a winner,” because even though Ricky DeRennaux wins third place, Spinmaster offers to sponsor his toy. Elaine Cato is the beauty pageant equivalent of first-runner up, but don’t fret! This single mom won’t be feeding her kids just Easy Mac, because Maidenform is going to back her product. From Bra-maker to Billionaire, that’s the American Dream.

I’m pretty sure this is an option on Windows desktop backgrounds.

So yeah. It’s obvious. Greg Chavez and Guardian Angel win a million dollars and five minutes of fame. I am not quite sure who’s going to mass produce it and take it to market, as it obviously needs more testing for safety and accuracy. If it’s made in China, we’re seriously fucked. He recalls how he watched the show a year ago and vowed to his wife that he would win this season. Yada yada yada. However, I cannot guarantee that he vowed to his wife that he’d get a vasectomy. Zing!

Sketches complete. A Plan. Marking out the rhythm method on a whiteboard? Priceless.

Well. We made it after all. Kind of anti-climactic, I know. There was no lawsuit, no crazy robot malfunction from British Man, no spurned inventor seeking murderous revenge. SPANX didn’t even get a run in her pantyhose. Nothing that’d show up on Dateline anyway. Pat Croce will continue to wear hideous shirts, and George Foreman will continue to buy everything he sees on TV, including his own grill.

It would’ve been less painful if we had played drinking games like ten fingers.

Thank you, everybody, for sticking with me for the second worst thing since “The Next Best Thing”, and I’ll see you in the fall when I return with, hopefully, a show that like, nearly everyone watches and loves. I won’t know what to do with myself!