After tonight, three become two — and two become finale. Then finale becomes everlasting freedom from the weekly exercise in lethargy that this show has become. Who knew we had it so good back in the days of Chris Sligh? Vonzell Solomon, anyone? Exactly. This is American Idol. “Feel that shimmy? That’s your hind legs trying to outrun your front.”
The contestants are interviewed on the couch by ace reporter Ryan Seacrest. Has life changed for the Idols? No, silly, they were TV fixtures and household names long before this. Have they ever thought about winning? No, they came here with an overwhelming desire to lose the competition and fade into a dark oblivion. How is the balance between the competition and real life? In real life, they can sing songs that were actually recorded within the last three years. And in real life, Kara would still do Casey…if he’d have her.
Ford Ad. The Idols spray stencils of themselves on a wall. The stencils become animated and sing. The Idols drive away. Wow. Even the producers of these crappy videos are like, “Fuck it, when does Big Brother start?”
Casey visits his home town, Cool, Texas, and is mobbed by the masses. “He touched me!” screams some poor delusional child. There are cheerleaders, dirty hippie ladies, and the signing of dogs and human flesh. Casey visits the hospital where he recovered after…something. A car accident? A fight with Donkey Kong? He presents his hottie-hot doctor with an autographed guitar. Oh, just pay your bill, Casey. Then he performs a concert for what appears to be the entire population of Texas.
Performance. Perez Hilton. Huh. Really? Okay, if you say so… Perez Hilton introduces pop sensation Travis Garland, famous for his hit song — HA!! I’m not even serious! Famous…not so much. Auto-Tune…much. Very much. Generic dance-candy. 21 Jump Street-looking pretty boy. Is this a joke? He he some new Glee character? Er…maybe not. Travis Garland. That’s a person we’re supposed to know? Yep. Whatever, you say, Perez Hilton.
Crystal goes home to Elliston, Ohio. “Crystal Bowersox Day” is declared. Raging hillbilly boy screams for an autograph. Getting the key to the city of…Toledo. So this isn’t her hometown? I’m confused by geography and things of that nature. Barbecue with the family. The return of Benjamin Button baby!! Hugs from Dad. Concert: Bowerstock. Why do people scream at celebrities? More to the point, why do people scream at reality show contestants who aren’t really celebrities at all, often even after they win?
Dweezil returns to Chicago or wherever the hell he’s from. I’m not looking it up. More crowds. Appearances on the local news. Hysterical females who should wear bras like their mamas taught them. Some baseball thing. Chicago Cubs. Who fucking knows. This is a gay show. We’ll have no baseball here. Reunited with his first grade teacher. Back to his old job at the Buy More. Tears upon tears. “I’m gonna try to win the thing, alright?” Really, Dweezil. What fucking more do these people want from you? Blood?
Performance. Justin Beiber or Bieber and his Hilary Swank-goon-face perform some flaccid song as retarded girls sing along in the audience, and by retarded I mean fucking-retarded because they’re like thirty years old and sure, I like the Jonas Brothers, but at least they have pubic hair (mostly — I think Joe waxes) and don’t sing like Raven-Symoné. Then he plays the drums, and you know what? Thank god because at least he’s not singing. Freaky little gremlin.
Results (blink and you’ll miss ‘em)…
Dweezil. Safe. Done!
Crystal. Safe. Done!
Casey. Home. Gone!
Lickety-split, in almost the amount of time it took me to type it. Denied and booted. There’s Casey, already in the process of being forgotten. The cheese stands alone. Sad, innit? But next week, either Dweezil or Crystal will win this bitch and we can all get some rest.