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Dear American Idol,
By briantologist | May 9, 2007
NOTE: These are the notes I took for this week’s Idol post, which seem to have become an applicable substitute for this week’s Idol post. Though they were posted after tonight’s results show, rest assured they were composed before tonight’s broadcast. As evidenced by the fact that I did not pick the correct loser. So. Let’s get to it.
Dude, no way! It’s Barry Gibb’s Talk Show Night on Idol! Holyfuck. Magic. The Bee Gees’ sackbuster budget must’ve been colossal. Also the teeth-bonding budget.
“I’ve made a lot of re-kords with ladies.” Thanks, Barry. “It worksh for a lady. I wush shingin’ like a lady in tha firsht plasche.” BG seems to have spent some time at the Sean Connery School of Elocution. And tooth-bonding.
Paula has roughly a metric ton of pearl-like objects around her neck. Her necklace clearly outweighs her. Simon’s T-shirt clearly out-translucents him. Or, um, something. So, right.
Mindy Doo: Fine. Paula just described herself as “succinct.” I just described myself as “cut.”
Blake is seriously happy about BG. BG is happy about Blake. The engineer is happy about deep, deep, deep reverb. Having turned in his six-week beat-boxing chip during last week’s rendition of “You Give Love a Bad Name,” Blake continues his bender for a second week. On the one hand, it’s getting kind of ridiculous. On the other, it does kind of fit the song. On another hand entirely, Blake’s dad kind of makes me all teary. I dunno, I just love how proud he is of Blake. It’s sweet.
Fucking Randy. “I thought it sounded like a discotheque in a foreign country.” Does that discotheque play a lot of late-period Journey, Rands? Checkin’. Juuuust checkin’.
LaKisha’s “Stayin’ Alive” is not so good. I would like, however, to point out that “Stayin’ Alive”? Not so good in and of itself. In fact, the Bee Gees? Actively not so good. Actively, consistently, overwhelmingly not so good. The Bee Gees have never inspired anything so much as they do my projectile vomiting reflex. (It’s like the gag reflex, but way more exciting.) I believe this is because they fucking blow. And have been doing so for decades now. Yes, this makes me an apologist for these four contestants, who can I just say? are totally my four faves, the ones I’ve been voting for week after week when I remember to vote. But I ask you, gentle reader, to look past this and see the bigger picture: a picture of me hating the Bee Gees. An oil portrait of me hating the Bee Gees. In Elizabethan garb. Wearing an elaborate hat. No neck ruffle, though. Please. Even though it’d be really funny.
Jordin’s grades are good! Good for her. I notice the common thread for this evening, other than the Bee Gees blowing dog, is Barry Gibb not being able to imagine a girl singing his songs. What does B.G. imagine? Having that gasket clamp removed from his scrotum so he can sing in the register of a normal adult male? One wonders.
Mindy Doo! First tape: Michael Jackson. “Bad.” Y’know, an amusing fact
“I’d rather be wet than be a loser.” Wow. I think I just ruptured a synapse. In a good way, though. Attagirl, Mindy Doo.
Dude, Paula, what the fuck. Randy is right for once an evening, in this case when he points out to Blake that he doesn’t have to beat-box EVERY SINGLE FUCKING TIME, and Paula … “… but he can!” What? “… But he can!” Paula. Just no. Blake, I think you may be leaving us soon.
WTF?!?!? Judge Judy? HOLY CRAP IT’S SIMON’S MOM! Oh, wait. That’s Judge Judy’s mom. Is it? Christ, I dunno. I’ve been drinking since the show started, and I gotta tellya, I’m pretty impressed with the progress I’ve made in under an hour.
So yeah, something happened and LaKisha sang, and I’m pretty sure it was okay. Now BG is talking again. “Rough! That’s the way your mother likes it, Trebek!” YAHAAAAA!!!!
Jordin sings something Streisand apparently sang at one point. In that I like Streisand as much as I like it when my hemorrhoid flares up*, I’m guessing I’m gonna like Jordin’s work better. Even removed from that delightful scenario, Jordin is doing an excellent job. I gotta say people, if the election were held tonight, I’d string George W. Bush up by his own lower intestine and leave his fucking sorry ass for the vultures. But once that was done, I’d totally crown Jordin the new American Idol. Also I’d crown Randy a fucking idiot. What the fuck, Paula. Just don’t do it, with the talking, any longer. Just stop. Stop it, stop it. Stop. Just sit there and collect money and take pills. And dance and weep, occasionally. Just do it for me.
In conclusion, I kind of really think it’s time for Blake to go home.
——————– (Post Script.) ——————–
Man, I seriously can not believe you, America. Sendin’ LaKisha home. I just honestly do not know what the fuck is wrong with you people. Other than the fact that you watch “American Idol” every week. You’re no better than a common … me. Churl.
* — I named it “Little Andy.”
Topics: 'Murkin Idol, Existential Horror, Tales of Drink | 8 Comments »
May 9th, 2007 at 10:15 pm
1.FACS: fellow of the college of surgeons
2. Optimus Prime thanks you for clarifying his identity. Too bad he comes with such a shitty driver.
May 10th, 2007 at 8:43 am
Here’s your oil painting. ;)
May 10th, 2007 at 9:48 am
brilliant
May 11th, 2007 at 7:27 am
american college of surgeons, that is
May 11th, 2007 at 8:13 am
If there were an award for awesome feats of Photoshopping, you’d have won four of them for that one. That’s fucking fantastic.
May 11th, 2007 at 8:51 am
You should have seen the Elizabeth outfits I had to choose from. I went with the subdued Henry VIII. Codpieces were apparently en vogue.
May 11th, 2007 at 8:51 am
Elizabethan. Oy.
May 17th, 2007 at 12:00 pm
I am still doing my awesome Barry Gibb impression a week later. It involves not drinking any liquids for three days and then going “sha-shah-sha-shaa” a lot. Dude couldn’t seem to get his teeth to move in his mouth correctly.