A Space shuttle, Kennedy Space Center, Florida, 2009.
You see what they did there? It’s like the dreams of the deluded hopefuls; trying to reach for the stars! O…M…G. More like the Challenger disaster, if you ask me.
Or ask Kristin Chenoweth, ubiquitous performer from stage, television and film, who swung into town for a little Orange Juice and the shitastic auditions with the three stooges. Yes, yes, they were wowed by Germaine who sprung back from his failure in the season 7 auditions, and by the sisters from Joisey, Bernadette and Ana, who believe in each other far too much, and fulfilled every stereotype my cynical mind could come up with.
Ooh, but the judges no likely-likely über-gay Theo, not even with his forehead mirrors and sparkly cape, people! Not even. His “best friend” was very surprised. Ummm, Simon, what about redneck stoner Jarrell? He even put on his best flannel shirt. Nah, he had to be escorted out after butchering Amazing Grace. Read as: he was barrel-rolled out the door and cuffed, COPS style.
No stranger to cuffs was Matt, who robbed a bank with a BB gun when he was fifteen. Well, he must’ve spent his four years in juvey singing, because ol’ boy has a pair of lungs on him, reminiscent of Andrew Strong of The Commitments fame. So good was he, Simon gushed, “It feels like you could’ve written that song … it felt authentic.” Well, yes, that must’ve felt very strange to you Simon; someone singing to you that might have actually written their own material! I hope you choke on the Pepsi in your Coca-Cola cup, you big-titted twat.
Still, Simon comes a close second to what really stuck in my craw: The utterly sickening, manufactured drama of Seth Rollins (pictured above) and the autistic son whose life he wants to “fix”…
Recipe for “Seacrest’s Best”© Tearjerker:
One child, disabled.
One father, convinced that a talent contest will make his son’s life better*.
One opportunistic TV producer.
Mix ingredients well with scmatlzy music (the unforgivably exploited Fix You, by Coldplay), layer onto a Golden Ticket, fold in the insincere applause of 400 opponents, and top off with a final shot of the dynamic duo, infused with title lyrics of the song. Bake for one hour in the pit of your stomach until it’s ready to come out, all by itself.
I am not completely devoid of admiration, though. Shelby was a pretty, ballsey chick who won all four “Yes”s, despite the insecurity about her facial disfigurement, or Jay Stone, the pretender to Blake Lewis’ throne, who persevered over a disbelieving Cowell. Lap-dance educated Cornelius takes the biscuit, however with a jumping leg split that resulted in an audible Nutmeg and his exclamation of “Mah pants done ripped!” Four “Yes”s, just for the show.
Wardrobe malfunctions aside, the Sunshine State blew the Mid-west out of the water with 31 Golden Tickets. Now, if only we could find a place where the over-indulged feel comfortable… L.A., anyone?
*Not unlike the imbeciles who go on the Bachelor/Bachelorette to “find love”?!