Yeah, I know, I’m late. Writing these fuckers takes ages. And I don’t seem to be able to control the flow of my words. Once I’m gone, I’m gone, and I can’t stop.
OK. Let’s see if I can recap this in less than 50 000 words… I love a challenge.
AMERICAN IDOL 7, TOP 10 RESULTS SHOW!!!
Hello Ryan! What’s up my man? How’s your little toy-doll Ramiele? Please tell me that she has a non-terminal, non-life threatening illness, but that because of the risk of contagion, she must be shipped home immediately.
So, on tonight’s menu, we have: cheese, cheese, more cheese, a Ford Commercial, other commercials, some shameless pimping of ‘Idol gives head’, more of that useless gimmicky call-in, speculation on ‘racism on Idol’ (the logical following to the speculation of ‘homophobia on Idol’), an unfair elimination, and a ‘blast from the past’, courtesy of Kimberley Locke. I would have preferred Melinda but Kim is still wayyy better than that the wax replica of Kath McPhee that was wheeled in last week. (Oh, that was HER? Oops… My bad! Hehe… Hum…)
30 millions votes, they got. Isn’t that like.. the usual?
Let’s say hello to the judges, shall we?
Hi Randy, hi Randy’s gimmicky reverse yo peace sign cool hip pitchy dude!
Hi, Paula! You look lovely tonight. Nice dress. Or top. Not as OTT as last night, which is a good thing. (Re: the long gloves: unless it’s Halloween and you’re going the 1920’s/flapper way: not a good idea). I have to try to somehow replicate your hairdo, some time, when I have hours and hours ahead of me. Unless you can email me some tips, perhaps?
Hi Simon! Hi Simon’s chest!
In case you didn’t know, Idol has a songwriting competition, as well as Coke cup designing competition.
I’d go for the cup design, personally. Not because I’m any good at designing, (not that I am any good at songwriting either), it’s simply out of my sheer disgust for all things Jordin Sparks. And it sure seems to me that I see a hell of a lot of her, these says. That phony bitch is everywhere: in the Idol opening credits, in the Idol songwriting pimping segment, and now that she has a CD out, she follows me everywhere else; to other shows, on other channels, on other TVs. I go to a bar to watch Jeopardy? She’s there. She sneaks into every other commercial break and flashes her evil grin at me. I’d even swear that the other day, I saw her giving me the finger.
Yeay! Group cheese time!
They all skip onto the stage, like a bunch of happy kangaroos.
I think this is the worst group number yet. As in nauseatingly corny. I really don’t feel like recapping this you guys, because it sucks. You can view it for yourselves, HERE. I don’t feel like barfing all over my keyboard.
***EDIT: The top 10 group cheese has mysteriously been pulled off YouTube by some Freemantle something people corporation crap. Bastards.
Meh, I’ll just point out of few things I’ve observed during that horrendouscity.
-The Scarf is back. The one that lives part-time in the back pocket of My David’s jeans. What secret signal may this mean, hmm?
-Carly has bedroom hair. Like she just hurried on the stage after having hot sex with Simon in the red green room. (That would also explain Simon’s chest’s extreme visibility from earlier on… Yes, it all makes sense now.)
-Aussie Mike and hippy Jason are on some kind of happy pills tonight; they’re both skipping around and grinning like this idiotic number is the best thing that ever happened to them.
-Krist-Hee crouches all over the place like only she can, and Brooke spreads the Yellow.
-My David clearly tries to edge his way out of this hell. You can see him, in the back, trying to blend into the dark corner of the stage, with the obvious intent of taking off backstage if he succeeds, thus preserving his rocker’s integrity. I don’t blame him.
-Some of them (mostly the stoners; Jason, My David, Michael… you know…) don’t even get to sing solo. Idol, playing favourites?? Tell me something I don’t know!
SEXIEST MOMENT OF THE NIGHT (Could also be: sexiest moment EVER in Idol history): My David and Michael Australia! They do a chest bump! Together! That. Was. Hot. I didn’t know the vision of two hot guys making body contact two feet up in the air could be arousing, but surprisingly, it is, very much so. Hey, check it out, I found a picture!
Ooof! I’ll be right back, I need a cigarette.
ITunes comes in, says “Buy our products”, and then puts Ramiele on the spot by asking her:
“Have you downloaded anything from me yet? Like something that was performed live on this show, for example? Perhaps performed by one or more of these tall people who are surrounding you?”
Ramiele, apparently, has made a lot of friends on Idol. She may lose a few tonight. All the tree-people around her look down on her, even the Wittle one. She says “Yeah, I have downloaded songs from just the hot guys in this competition, like. I’ve got songs by Jason, Michael, and David Cook, like. The others can go fuck themselves bye-bye. In fact, I have great taste in music, when it comes to other people singing. It’s just when it comes to my songs that my brain goes bye-bye, like.”
ITunes gathers the contestants in the corner of the stage, and orders them: “Come on, it’s time: plug me shamelessly.”
…What is this? My notes say: ‘David C sniffs’… what? Ah, yeah, ‘sniffs around ITunes for ideas’. OK. I was wondering, too.
We see the Idols in the studio, recording. We see an engineer giving shit to Sunshine Yellow, and telling her to watch her pitch. Ha! We see Michael Australia fucking up and acting all goofy and cute about it. We see Wittle David smiling and saying stuff. But I wasn’t listening, so I don’t know.
Recap of the recap of last night’s show:
Flashbacks of Carly rocking, Pikachu sucking, Syesha divahing, Krist-Hee not stinking, Wittle David making wittle girls pass out; Brooke screwing up her intro and Randy congratulating her for it; Aussie Mike being like, really good, for a change; Chikezie shaking hands with the peppit for four minutes; Jason getting shit from Simon for indulging in catnip.
And, My David being his usual red hot and all kinds of awesome self, and oozing sex-appeal and stuff, with his orange anti-cancer bracelet and no Constantinesque Tourette syndrome-like attitude. (He obvious read my blog and made a note of my observations from last week.)
Honest to God, I’d buy lingerie for this guy, if he asked me too. I’d even wear it, if he wanted me too. Even a thong, if so was his desire.
And I fucking hate thongs. They have the ability to spontaneously vanish, and it annoys the fuck out of me. But for him, I would wear one. Even two, with one back to front, for maximum coverage.
Ahh… Damn. I need a cigarette…
Tune back in next week, for part 2 of the description of my imaginary erotic underwear. We’ll talk bras with special guest Ryan Seacrest.
We’re back on Idol; we possibly never even left, I don’t know. I got lost in my sexual fantasy, I apologize.
So then, Wittle David takes the stand, and proclaims rather vehemently, for such a Wittle David, that HE picked HIS song, and it’s NOT someone ELSE who picked it FOR him. Damn. You guys don’t get it, do you?
“Lights down, music up!” Ryan commands. “Chikezie? You’re fired. The torch has spoken, America. You are the weakest link, good-bye. I want to buy a vowel; I’ll buy an ‘E’ For ‘Eliminated’. Seacrest, out”.
Unfortunately, in reality, things move at a much slower pace.
Chikezie walks out, looking nervous and tired. He looks at Ryan, then points in the direction of the trapdoor. Ryan confirms.
This is extremely infuriating, and I just knew it would happen.
(Chikezie, man, it’s me, Rachel talking: I didn’t want to ask, but WHY THE FUCK DID YOU PICK A GODDAM BALLAD FOR THE LOVE OF PETE??? Damn! I’m very angry at you, because I really like you, and by giving the judges’ opinion the finger and listening to the band, -a band that is not even good enough for Joshua Lemming, remember?- you very stupidly grabbed the shovel you’ll be using to dig your own grave during the remainder of this show. How can you be so talented, fun and entertaining, and such a fucking moron at the same time,? Huh?)
[Suggestion: Dear Idol, I think you should set up a direct phone line between me and the contestants, so that they can reach me, in case they need advice, encouragement, and in My David’s case, phone sex and lots of obscene panting.]
(FYI, I’m chain-smoking during these recaps, you guys.)
Sunshine Yellow is summoned. She makes a speech explaining why, for her performance last night, she didn’t ditch the band, like the judges told Joshua Lemming not to do (and we all know where that got him: on ‘not Idol’.)
I’m watching the show at my friend Ian’s place. When Sunshine starts babbling, he mumbles: “Politician”. Ha! Then he adds: “All-American girl; she’s through.” Re-ha!
He’s right. And he’s only seen the show like, three times.
Carly is not preggers. In fact, she tells us that she’s still a virgin. Not that she wouldn’t like to have sex with her husband, but she can’t find him in the bed, because he completely blends in with the flower pattern of the sheets. She admits that she wasn’t at the top of her game last night, and, because confession leads to forgiveness, she’s safe.
She jumps on Sunshine Yellow, and they have hot lesbian sex on the sofa, and by the time we come back from commercials, the Blackbird is no more a virgin, the Yellow has turned into a sex addict, and Idol is has been slapped with an R-rating.
The Ford commercial is insipid, boring and features Idols singing on other Idols’ T-shirts. And then they jump in a Ford and drive off.
Meh. The song is the best part. I love Cheap Trick. Plus they’re super-reliable: I asked them to pass a message on to My David, and they did, word for word. My message was: “I want you to want me”. Got it, Cook?
Wittle David toddles in on stage, waits a couple of minutes for the peppit to calm down and stop shrieking, then starts saying “I had fun last night, but I got carried away, and I…”
Ryan cuts him off: “Oh for Christ’s sake, will you shut up already? What is up with you and the verbal diarrhea tonight? Jeez. Go sit, you’re safe.”
There are many different accounts about what occurred on the sofa, at this precise moment. Some folks pretend that Carly sneakily set a push-pin under Wittle David’s bony ass, just as he was about to take a seat. Some people even say they saw Sunshine borrow Paula’s straw, and then drink the puddle of blood that resulted from Carly’s prank. Go on IMDB forums, to find out more about it.
Female Hysteria. That’s for My David. I don’t like it. I don’t want no competition, he’s mine, and mine only, so back the hell off, okay, bitches?
David holds his leather coat wrapped tightly around him; poor baby is freezing. It’s understandable though, they’re in North California, after all.
Ryan hands him a big bunch a pink carnations: they’re from Chris Cornell, he liked how David covered his cover of Billie Jean.
My David won’t be available for playing doctor with me next week. He’s through. Like, duh.
Him and Carly hug, but that’s okay with me, because she’s both married and all sexed out.
The audience boos as Syesha is sent above the trapdoor, to ‘Represent’ with Chikezie.
And now, ladies and gentlemen, it’s clear: Idol doesn’t only hate gays and Growlin’ nurses, they also hate blacks. In fact, they would have booted both of their sorry tar-coloured asses a lot sooner, but this place was roaming with gays; rumours that Simon was paying Naughty David for post-show lap dances were running amok, and all that gayness was giving Idol a bad name in redneck America, which is why they’re all voting for Krist-Hee now. Revenge is a bitch.
As for Amanda, she’s neither gay or black, but they needed a scapegoat to throw in the mix, so that they wouldn’t look too much like the racist homophobes that they are, so they picked on her. Simple.
Michael Australia walks on, under a torrential shower of thongs. He’s overwhelmed, and then he’s through. Ryan pokes fun at his accent.
Dream on, Ryan, dream on. You don’t get chicks JUST with an accent… Although, I guess, if you were the last guy on Earth… Maybe.
Ryan glooms: “Two people that are not smiling right now, are Syesha and Chikezie”.
As we head to commercial, the camera closes on the bottom two, who are both grinning like Santa-believing toddlers on Christmas morning.
Hey, look who is there! Constant-crap, and Gina, who’s just eaten a whole unripe lemon. Or… not. I’m being told she always looks like this. They’ re in the audience. The camera cuts away from Constantine, before he has time to eye-rape millions of viewers. Too late. Backstage, hundreds of phones start ringing, threatening to slap Idol with sexual harassment lawsuits.
Crapola time, kids! It’s the “I have nothing interested to ask to anyone, but I like hearing the sound of my own voice spouting insignificant rubbish on primetime shows with high ratings”. Aka: the call-in.
Sarah, from Atlanta, gives Chikezie a pep-talk. Then asks him if he’s single. (Sarah, tune back in in half an hour; by then, he will be.)
Ian chose this moment to mumble something about something, so I didn’t hear shit about Chikezie’s romantic status. However, I clearly saw Michael Australia getting up and doing an obscene gesture, the kind that makes me wish I was standing half an inch from him when he did it, if you know what I mean.
Damn, all those hot guys they’ve put on the show this year makes recapping very difficult. I find it very hard to stay focused. I’d be down to recapping season 9, right now, if only they had kept the gays and kicked out the studs.
We have Nicole on the phone: “Hi Ryan!”
Nicole: “Ryan, I have a question for Wittle David, which hides another question, this one for Jason. I heard that you too were shacking up together, so I’d like to ask Jason if someone can get stoned by breathing his second-hand smoke?”
Jason: “What are you talking about? Second hand smoke? There’s no smoke. I use a vaporizer.”
Nicole: “Really? A vaporizer? I wasn’t aware of that. Well thinks anyway, I’ll check it out. So now’s my question to Wittle David: since I can’t blame your shitty song choice on you being high on Jason’s leftovers, then I only have you to blame. What the fuck was that about? It was a really crappy song, why the hell did you pick it?”
(Me: “Way to go, Nicole!!!”)
Wittle David, it turns out, is on speed tonight, so he goes off on a tirade that just doesn’t end and that I didn’t bother taking notes for.
Some lass wants to ask Simon something
Ryan says: “We’re outta time.”
Lass says: “Simon, I want Ryan’s job. How and where do I get it? Can you drop my name around the Godfather?”
Ryan says: “We’re outta time.”
Simon says: “Don’t worry honey, I already have that one covered. “Idol gives head” is coming on in two weeks. In the middle of the show, to give our viewers a break from looking at starving children, we’re going to throw in the wildcard thing. We were going to ask you guys to phone in for your favourite(s), and then only take the votes for Amanda into consideration, but we’ll just bring back David Hernandez instead. I’ll talk to him, and promise him the final two, if he can successfully corner Ryan and trick him into a compromising position. Then I’ll call TMZ, and the next thing you know, the host position is vacant! Call back in two weeks darling, OK? OK, take care now… yes… Ta ta!”
Caitlin is on the phone, with a not-completely-stupid question; she wants to know who Sunshine would like to sing a duet with, anyone she’d like. Brooke first replies “Jesus”, but Caitlin says no, it’s gotta be someone who actually exists. Sunshine then says her second pick would be John Mayer.
Vanessa, from Airheadville, asks Simon if, (or why, or both, whatever,) he thinks he’s the most attractive person on the show and why.
At this very moment, somewhere, in Montreal, a recapper-wannabe rolls her eyes very hard.
Always quick on his feet, Simon retorts: “It’s not what I say, it’s what other people say. ” I hate these folks who ring up to ask really dumb questions like this. Seriously, who fucking cares. Why bother waiting 45 minutes on the phone if you’re not going to ask an intelligent question, try to embarrass someone, or attempt to swear on the air? Tsk…
“Blast from the Past” time!
Tonight, Kimberley Locke. Or half of Kimberley Locke, in fact.
So basically, since not winning Idol, Kimberley decided to lose weight, and in order to achieve that, she opened a restaurant that serves dishes that she’s not allowed to have, like brisket. The logic behind that decision strikes me as a little off, but it seems to have worked for her. The girl has lost a LOT of weight, she looks great. Good for her. She also comes across as an intelligent, level-headed person.
Kimberley appears on the Idol stage, clad in a strapless prom dress, to sing a boring ballad to which I pay absolutely no attention at all., because:
-Recapping this season’s contestants boring ballads is bad enough, I don’t see why I should also recap the boring ballads sung by former contestants. Especially one who now has such a flourishing career as a restaurant owner.
-I’m busy playing with Flea, Ian’s cat; she’s the one who keeps leaving the stupid comments on my blog.
Kimberley bows, compliments Paula on her dress, Paula compliments Kimberley on her dress, they exchange a few make-up tips, and then, a pumpkin-shaped Hummer stops by to pick them up, and just like that, POOF! they’re off to the ball.
Simon and Randy stretch, and Simon spins Paula’s empty chair to put up his feet.
In case you’d forgotten, “Idol gives back” will air on April the 9th, and will feature Snoop Dog, Daughtry, Fergie, and a lot of other people who are eager to come across as caring, generous individuals.
They raised 76 million dollars last year. It’s a lot of moolah; it gives you an idea of how massive an audience this show has. I actually watched “Idol gives head” last year, and to my surprise, I enjoyed it.
However, I cannot help but being somewhat skeptical about of those big fundraising operations. Idol may have raised 76 millions, but I would like to know how much Fox made out of all that.
I read this very interesting article about this last year, and its author made a great point: she was comparing how fundraisers like the 9/11 telethon, or the Tsunami and Katrina funraisers aired WITHOUT commercials, as opposed to Idol Gives Back, which aired WITH commercials, (the article came out shortly before IGB aired) and was wondering about who would profit from the -huge- advertising revenues? Fox, or the people they’re trying to help? You can read the whole article here. Very interesting.
Anyway 76 millions ain’t bad; and I predict that this year, they’ll raise even more. In the spirit of competition and all that. I don’t even remember to what extend the contestants were involved in the show last year, but I do have a vague vision of a group cheese number where everyone was dressed in white. However, my memories are fuzzy.
Idol is one of these shows that is programmed to go straight to the ‘junk’ folder of my brain, once I’ve seen it. Then, every two weeks, the content of the junk folder is automatically deleted, and there is no way to retrieve that data from my system anymore. I occasionally do save a few files, (like the ‘Melinda’, ‘Lakisha’, ‘Bo Bice’, ‘LaToya’, ‘David Cook’ files) on my hard drive, but the rest rapidly sinks into oblivion.
So anyway, the ‘Idol gives head’ pimping clip shows us that Idol doesn’t only cares about Africa, it also gives a minor fuck about it’s neighbours, the poor Americans. Like they donated 25 000 books to some American kids. (I don’t mean to be snotty here, but I’m not blown away; 25 000 books doesn’t strike me as extraordinary, sorry.)
Idol also ran to the help of the California fires victims…? But… Weren’t the California fires victims like, stinking rich people? Like, Malibu residents, pro-golfers, movie stars, rappers-turned-businessmen, folks like that? Oh, there were also folks who actually NEEDED help, were there? Oh. I did not know that. The media didn’t bring up that embarrassing working and middle class trash that probably eats off the garbage cans of the rich. They just mentioned how Tori Spelling had to borrow one of Paris Hilton’s houses, because hers smelled like, really bad, and she couldn’t move back in until they sprayed the whole place with something that would get rid of the stink for good, like Paris Hilton’s fragrance, for instance.
Seriously you guys, if you like that kind of soppy stuff, and want to see it recapped properly, just go elsewhere. I really don’t care about that stuff. Just watch Oprah. She’s the queen of soppy shit.
The only thing I really noticed during that whole bit, was that, unlike Kimberley Locke, Ruben seems to actually have put on weight, if that is possible. This boy is too big, man, he needs to shed some serious pounds there, and try to lose at least one person’s worth, or he’s gonna run into serious health problems.
Anyway, I have a little moment of something resembling love for Ryan, when he says that all corporations should be nice corporations, like Exxon is. Seeing how many times the word ‘Exxon’ is pronounced on that show, I thought for a while that they had hired a new judge. But now, I know that Exxon are very nice people who pay Idol a lot of money in exchange for obscene amounts of name-dropping.
And, unexpectedly, Ryan asks us, not for money, but to bug our corporation for money. Corporation? Like not the little guy, but the big one? That’s unusual… They never pick on the big guy… Maybe it’s all that Obama love that finally made its way into Fox. But I was surprised enough to actually write it down, and right now, I’m surprised that I actually still remember that moment.
So corporations, you heard what Ryan said? Follow Exxon’s example, and give away a fraction of the fortune you built by shamelessly exploiting illegal aliens.
OK, in the future, remind me to keep away from those ‘Idol wants pull a Robin Hood, and take from the rich to give to the poor’ crap; it wakes the left-wing activist that I know is buried in me somewhere, underneath tons of crap and unnecessary emotional baggage. (Which reminds me: spring cleaning is coming soon. For us who live in Quebec, June. On the upside, I only have two feet of snow left on my balcony 🙂 )
A wound-up doll walks onto the stage. Ryan picks it up and says “Hello Rami, how are you? You’re feeling better, you wittle woozy-woo-woo gna gna cutie pie?” The wound-up doll starts crying, so Ryan puts her in his pocket, then looks at his cue card to see who is next.
Paula calls him. (She just got back from the ball, which, for some reason, closed at midnight. Maybe they had a riot, or something, because Paula comes back minus one shoe.) “Hey, Ryan, what are you going to do with this? You’re a guy, you don’t play with dolls, but I do. Can I have it? It will look good on a shelf, next to my Corey Clark doll.”
Ryan reluctantly goes to the desk, and whispers in Paula’s ear “OK, you can have it, but you have to let me visit once in a while. Deal?”
“Deal” says Paula. “Do you have any tissues? I’ll make her a bed in my spare shoe.” Someone in the audience screams “I do! I have tissues!” It’s My David’ mum. While Paula climbs over three rows of spectators to reach the pack of Kleenex Mrs. Cook is handing to her, Simon examines the doll. “Hey, wait a minute, this is Ramiele. You can’t have her Paula. Ryan, go put her on the sofa, she’s through. ”
Ryan: “Can’t we just kick her out? That way, Paula and I can share custody of her. Plus she’s really not that good”.
Simon: “I can’t put her in the bottom three. Then we’d have three minorities up there, people will think we’re racist. Plus, I want to get rid of a black person tonight, no matter which one. And the problem is, they’re both way better than this videogame character. We need a talented white person to complete the bottom 3, so that I can kick out one of these two pesky black singers without looking like an arsehole. It’s win-win situation for everyone, except the black who’ll be going home, but who cares about that. Put the doll on the sofa, Ryan… Not here, not next to Michael Australia, he’s too hyper tonight, he could accidentally squash her. Give her to Wittle David; children love toys.”
A little miffed, Ryan goes back centre-stage for the final two victims. Krist-Hee appears, dragging a very sleepy looking Jason by a dread. “Come on, dude, move! And try to look awake, dang!” They both stand there, Krist-Hee silently mouthing “I’m proud to be an American” and pointing at herself, and Jason, gently swaying from side to side, humming to himself, his eyes half closed and a little smile on his face.
Ryan: “Krist-Hee? ….
The word I was waiting for was “Screwed”. So much for high hopes.
Talking about ‘high’, the show has been over for half and hour, and the other Idols have long gone back to their respective condos.
Meanwhile, Jason is still on the stage, waiting, humming.
Ryan says punches him on the shoulder.
Jason: “Ouch! hey! Whatdidjadothatfor, dude? It hurt. Stop it.”
Ryan: “You’re in the bottom 3, moron. For Christ’ sake, Jason, weed is one thing, but magic mushrooms… You’re really stretching your luck, buddy.”
Jason: “But it was my birthday, dude!”
Ryan: “I know. But none of that counts when you’re on Idol. Here, there are no birthdays, no Christmas, no social or family life. When you make top 10, you belong to us, body, mind and soul. So either you learn to live with it and love it, or you go back to strum your guitar in some vegan coffee shop for a bunch a smelly hippies. It’s up to you.”
Jason: “No; it’s actually up to you guys. It’s not my fault that I’m so beautiful that girls vote for me in spite of themselves. But anyway, I’ve stopped hallucinating now, so you can read the final results.”
Ryan gets a staff member to ring up the Idols and tell them to come back to the studio, and heads over to the trapdoor, to wake up Chikezie and Syesha, who are both fast asleep, huddled up together like two large black kittens.
I honestly didn’t see this coming AT ALL, you guys. In my mind, Krist-Hee was an absolute shoo-in for the bottom 3, and Jason had enough of a solid fanbase to make it at least to top 6. Things are not going according to my plan at all; a plan that involved saying our good byes to either a tall, blonde, proud American, or an X-small, X-boring Asian. I had predicted Chikezie in the bottom 3, but in my mind, it was more as a warning, like “You see what happens when you sing ballads? Nothing.” That type of thing. He did deserved to get his ass swifly kicked, but certainly not kicked OUT. As for Syesha, I don’t understand at all. She should be yawning in a cab, on her way back to the studio right now.
Ryan, who needs to keep Jason awake for at least a few more minutes, asks him “So, you nonchalant motherfucker, how does it feel to realize that you might not after all be able to happily coast on this show, based solely on your beautiful white eyes and sparkling blue smile?”
Jason: Huh? Oh, that? Yeah. In fact, when I was asleep backstage, I had a dream that I was performing, and then the judges weren’t heaping praise on top of my dreadlocks like they usually do. Then when Krist-Hee woke me up to drag me up here, she said it was 9.50, and I thought that was weird, because on the previous shows, they woke me up much earlier than that. But anyway, why are you asking this?
Ryan: Oh Jason, for fuck’s sake, will you get with it? You’re still tripping, aren’t you?
Jason nods, and giggles ‘Yeah’.
Ryan: Oh, fuck it. Just go sit down. And try to show up sober next week for a change. There are folks over here who have started to call you Jason Abdul. You may want to do some damage control on that one.
Jason stumbles his way across the stage, and collapses on the sofa, where all the Idols pile up on top of him, all happy that they are to keep their pusher for another week.
Chikezie and Syesha, the only visible BLACK minorities are standing side by side. Shot of Simon rubbing his hands together. We hear a muffled “Mwahaha!”.
Ryan interrupts Simon’s party of one, to ask him why the heck is Chikezie standing next to him, instead of Krist-Hee.
Simon starts saying: “Well, duh, look at him. Isn’t it obvious? He’s bla… Bland. That’s it. Bland, ballads, bad, all words that start with a ‘B’. But, my own racist issues aside, he just made a bad song choice, like Jason. Only difference is that Jason is white, cute, and not that great, so there is no way he can pose a threat to Wittle David’s pre-planned victory.
On the other hand, Chikezie has shown us that he’s one hell of a singer, as well as a crazy ass amazing performer. He has potential and has talent, so clearly, he’s gotta go. And same goes for the black chick. So I’ll leave it up to Randy and Paula to pick one of them.”
Randy and Paula whisper briefly in eachother’s ears, then Paula announces: “We picked Syesha. She can stay for another week. Chikezie, we’re really sorry.”
Randy softly says to Chikezie: “I wanted you to stick around, bro. I was all for booting Ramiele, because my eyes are not that good anyway, and I always need my binoculars to find her on the stage when she’s performing; they’re pretty heavy, it’s a pain in the butt to always have to carry them around. But I don’t make the decisions here; I only got hired because the desk looked too big with only two people sitting behind it; but in reality, apart from a handful of recappers, no one gives a shit about what I have to say. It’s the British mafia who calls most of the shots around here.”
Then Chikezie’s brief past on Idol flashes in front of our very eyes: the terrible suit, the fantastic “She’s a woman”, Randy, enthusiastically exclaiming “Chikezie smashed it!!!” and Chikezie looking so pleased and happy, and then, a little piece of my heart broke off and went ‘plunk’ when it reached the bottom of my empty stomach.
Exxon briefly waves at us, and mouths “We’re a nice corporation! We give back!”.
And it’s time for Chikezie’s final song. Please, let him sing “She’s a woman”, and leave on a high note. Please.
For the record, Chikezie is being gracious and a great sport about this whole blatant unfairness that this “elimination” is, and the emotion that I’m feeling right now is pretty close to sadness. I will miss him.
Unfortunately, my last memory of Chikezie will be interspersed with many a yawn, since he’s going with his boring-ass ballad again; but for him, I will make a real effort to stay awake. Had it been Ramiele, I would already be sitting at some bar, buying everyone victory shots of Jager.
He actually sounds much better than last night. He walks around, shakes hands with the top 9, with the peppit. Paula looks like she could burst into tears anytime, Mrs. Eze looks like she in a trance, the top 9 look like they don’t give a fuck, besides Pikachu who looks like she’s feeling guilty about something. And rightly so, bitch.
Eventually, the contestants on the top row start moving, led by Michael Australia, and they look like they’re just about to go and join him on the stage, which is what they usually do. But bizarrely enough, they all stop next to sofa, and bundle up there. Weird. Do they all hate blacks on that show?
No, there is half a second in between Chikezie’s last note, and the appearance of some stupid logo, where we see all the Idols running on stage, to surround him, led by a tall dude who jumps affectionately on Chikezie; I think it is Michael Australia, but it could also be My David. You decide, here’s the video of Chikezie’s elimination.
This last show was a bit weird for me, because it’s kind of as if the fog has lifted, and I’m suddenly getting a clear vision of who the frontrunners are.
At this point, I’m seriously starting to get flashes of a War of the Davids, for the final two.
And I’ve got also come up with a top 6: in it, I have My David, the other David, Aussie Mike, Yellow, the Blackbird, and Hippie Jason. Yup, Jason; I have faith in him. And in these blue eyes of his. 😉
So for the time being, these are my predictions. I’ll update as Idol fucks around with my plans.
Conclusion (yeay! Lol!)
And then, they were 9. Or, more accurately 8 and a half. Let’s even this out to 8 next week, shall we?
For the record, I do not believe that Simon, or anyone else on Idol is racist. After all, they’ve defused that rumour by making Ruben and Fantasia win. Jordin, being nothing but a shitty android, doesn’t count as a black person, or even as a person, for that matter.
But come on, who hasn’t thought about it? Sift out the gays, then move on to the blacks? It was such an easy think to pick on for a fun storyline, how could I resist?
And on that last note, I notice that my plans to write a blog entry of reasonable size have once again failed miserably.
OK, I’m outta here, see you back next week for Syesha’s elimination! 😉
Until then, ta ta!