Hooray for Hollywood, it’s still churning out shite. Ten thousand units of it, to be precise, and defying all reason, not one of them has thought through the power of TV producers. I’m not talking about flight, or healing; they’re super-villains that can make you look any way they want, a power bolstered by their utter lack of conscience.
They can make you look like an Adam Lambert-copying twat, show what a little shite your kid is when he says your practice was crap, or follow you when you sob you guts out, convinced that the dreaded quad-rejection has sent you to the seventh circle of hell. They don’t care when you suddenly get aloof after getting the brush-off, and have your friends drop a couple of F-bombs as you walk away telling them they suck with fake kindness; it only makes for better TV.
They can get really creative and make a complete c**t out of you with graphics and sound effects, if you make the naïve mistake of telling them you are into martial arts. Damien explained that he was ironically, a pacifist, and sometimes that “means swallowing your pride and looking like a fool”. Admittedly, he looks like he’s been studying at a dojo specializing in the Ree-Tard-Do discipline, but at least he understands how the show works.
Don’t even try to joke with them like Austin, in his sexually chocolate spandex. It doesn’t matter that your voice is an over-the-top cacophony and your friend can’t hold in his laughter at your ironic performance art. They don’t care; it only makes for better TV. They even know how to make Cowell look like he has a bleeding heart, as he gives Pat Benetar-channeling Mary a nod, and her daughter, a kiss. Go home and shower with some Comet, kid.
Especially don’t go and expect support from the judges, not the sincere kind anyway. The producers like to enlist people like Katy Perry, hoping her rack will distract from her rude comments…… What was I typing? Oh yeah, horrible judges; the producers love ’em. Nothing like Royal Biznitch Avril Lavigne for good ratings, particularly when she belies her 25 years by acting like a spoiled rich teenager and looking down her nose at some sweaty-faced geek boy whose name I’ve forgotten, and sneers as she thinks about the severe beat-down he will receive tomorrow morning by the jocks in school, something not even his Vulcan death-grip will get him out of.
No, the judges don’t care, no, not at all, even if snot-nosed Avril had the chutzpah to question Jim the worship-leader’s personal decision to try out, because he had a family, despite the great performance of his own song. Nobody gave a good Goddamn about Captain Autism leaving behind his family last week.
Andrew, they don’t give a shit about your gang-bang parents, esse. It just makes for better TV; your brilliant voice isn’t allowed to speak for itself. Oh, and super-foster-kid with the twenty five families? They don’t care. They just want to shoot you on the proverbial wrong side of the tracks, they way they always shoot background stories after the fact. If music is always where you felt secure, then why are you in this competition? Like Katy Perry says, this isn’t a Lifetime movie.
They don’t care about your little dreams, or the tears or the drama, or the 23 Golden tickets, just like I don’t care about Dallas tomorrow night. Like JFK, I need it like I need a f**king hole in the head.