American Idol 4 - Episodes 27 & 28 Summary

'Wicked Sound Of Music, Making The Audience Les Miserables' By Gothmog

So here we are, me writing and you reading my first (and perhaps last) ever RTVW summary. A couple words of explanation before you invest your time here, just so you know what you're getting into: If I seem overly snarky, it's because I’m a teacher (which means I’m very skilled at pouring my derisions on anything you do) and a professional musician (professional in the sense that I play for pay, even if it ain’t how I make most of my living) with a desperate need for an outlet for my snark (which means I learned everything I know about summary writing from Landru—please refer all complaints to him).

If I seem overly harsh on Dweeze, it's because he's a Cardinals fan and they deserve it these days, what with the Pope and all (and besides which, I'm not allowed to make fun of True in this capacity unless she lets me). If this summary seems disjointed, it’s because I wrote it at 10-minute intervals over the past 4 days, for reasons I won’t bother you with, k? So let’s just get this party started before it sucks any more life from me than it has already.

We begin, as usual, with Ryan Seacrest in a sweater brought to you by Spirograph. Are you like me? Do you think "Seacrest" sounds like a toothpaste? Let's try this out--every time you hear his name in the next week, say, "Mmmmm. Minty Fresh." Go on, you'll feel better, you really will. Oookay, after the usual bit about nine remaining contestants, the pressure, and other such brakage (I’d footnote Landru here, but I don’t know the right HTML code, plus I’m not sure if this requires MLA or APA format, and besides, his head is big enough anyway, so we’ll just “All hail” him and move on, shall we? Hail yes, we shall), we segue into the opening theme, featuring a creepy humanoid figure which seems to change gender every 2-3 seconds (which I’m sure is just some subliminal code for Seacrest--"Mmmmm. Minty Fresh." See how fun that was?) The man himself emerges, noticing all the signage and claiming that it will take 2 hours just read them all, seeing as how they’re filled with big words such as "cow" and "dogg." He reminds us of the story thus far: last week, Jessica was boobed booted, the third contestant and–displaying his ability to recognize gender from a long way off–the third girl in a row. thank YOU captain obvious, which will here and forevermore be abbreviated as "tYco."

There’s the introduction of our usual judges, who have nothing whatsoever to do with this competition anymore since America never listens to them anyway because they say the same things about each contestant regardless of how the performance actually is. No really, someone should invent an American Idol version of "Hi Bob"–take a drink every time Randy uses the words "keepin it real" or "dawg" or "pitchy", Paula says "inspiration" or "improved", and Simon gets booed. My thinking is: that way you’d be drunk 15 minutes into the show, with the following benefits: Simon’s metaphors would start making sense, the performances would become more tolerable, and you’d watch the show on a level playing field with Paula.

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So we cut to a behind the scenes look of the contestants playing "Guess the Theme." Ryan tells them that this week the theme will "challenge them vocally," at which the camera, always searching for the irony of the moment, cuts to Anthony trying (and failing) to look ponderous. The first two clues for Guess the Theme are: Prof. Henry Higgins and the King of Siam. Constantine buzzes in, but is disqualified for not putting the answer in the form of a question, so we’re given another hint: Annie Oakley. "Ok, next clue?" says Anthony, final proof that they removed part of his brain when they did the throat thing. Now were you like me at this point, reaching for something to throw at the idiots who could not recognize any of these three names? Annie Oakley, I’ll grant you, is a little obscure, but the King of Friggin Siam? You have GOT to be sh!tting me. Ryan eases their anguish with a gimme: the Phantom, and the light bulb finally pops over Carrie's head. Yeah, like that happens a lot, I know.

Yes, kiddoes, for the first time ever, it’s Classic Musical night on American Idol, and I realize I picked the wrong week to stop sniffing glue. You see, I was involved in a number of musicals when I was growing up, enough so that my sexual orientation was seriously questioned innumerable times (yeah I know. Good thing I’m such a manly-man now that I haven’t caused people to wonder about my gender for years and years), and I know that at least 3 times tonight I’m going hear something that I love butchered and forever rendered excruciatingly painful to my memory. I can only hope that the agony is delayed a contestant or two, a hope which is dashed immediately with the introduction of Scott.

Now growing up, Scott was too busy being served by TROs to get any culture, so he asks for help from his mom, who tells him about the the story of Don Quixote (or, as my students and Mr. Rogers like to spell it, Donkey Hotay). He says it kind of fit his life, which I can see–he probably imagined his babymutha was a windmill or something–so he decides to sing "Impossible Dream" and I’m ready for butchering #1 to commence.

Scott comes out wearing a suit from David Byrne. Someone needs to tell him the baggy hip-hop look just doesn’t work in pin-stripes. Speaking of which, you know what the biggest problem with Scott is? He really wants to be doing hip-hop, and in this competition they actually require the contestants to, you know, sing. Notes ‘n all. Imagine that. What he needs to do, with your help O Voting Public, is quit this competition right now and go find some Russell Simmons-type sleazebag who can turn him into the Next Big Thang. Literally. I mean really, he’s twice the man Marshall Mathers is, right? Again, I mean literally. What he needs is a good handle, which I understand has been giving him trouble. In fact, I have right here in my possession the Top Ten Rejected Rap Names for Scott. I’ll ignore the witty banter so that this summary doesn’t approach Landru-like proportions (too late, I know) and get right to the list. Here we go:

Tongiht’s Category: Top Ten Rejected Rap Names for Scott:

10. Vanilla Ice Cream
9. Puff Pastry Daddy
8. Busta Notes
7. LL Tepid S
6. Eminenima
5. WD-40
4. 32 Cent and some Pocket Lint
3. Flusher
2. Ludafisk (that’s for my friends in Minnesooooota. How ya doin dere, MataSwami? And yes, L-boy, I know it's spelled Lutefisk, and we all know how important spelling is when coming up with a good rap handle.)

And the #1 Rejected Rap Name for Scott is.... (drumroll) --

1. MC HammerYoGF

Props to Sheila for contributing #4 on that list. Have some corn tonight in her honor. No really. Go get it out, right now. After all, everybody here IS familiar with corn, right? Ok, this being a summary ‘n all, I suppose I better get around to reporting what actually happened on the show. So, back to the song.

Scott, your first clue that this was going to be wretched was in the title. And I don’t mean the "Impossible" part, even though it was obviously beyond your meager abilities. "Impossible" is actually a pretty good word, considering. It reminds me of KimPossible, who is a friend of mine and heading to London this summer all thanks to me, big Woo Hoo! I myself like to believe in Six Impossible Things Before Breakfast, and I also happen to like the Mission: Impossible movies; they’re very cerebral. No, your problem, Scott, was in the "Dream" part. And when I say "Dream," I mean the kind that involves Robert Englund and lots of quaint little devices borrowed from your local dentist’s office. Your little Dream there will keep me up for weeks, weeping and whimpering in a fetal position like Dweeze after the ‘85 World Series. Thanks so much for that, pal.

So, let’s hear from the panel:

Randy: It was a’ight, a sh!tty song, but ended with a bang. Not a bang-bang, though. (Sorry, the Sh!tty-Sh!tty Bang-Bang joke is just too easy there.)

Paula: Oooh, I’d take that Bang. You know I’m never one to refuse a good Bang. You seem to pick songs the reflect your life, and we all know you don’t have to sing good songs, just pick them. After all, no one knows better than me how to disguise mediocre talent by picking good songs. Oh, and? Always listen to your mutha. After which, you can go b!tch-slap your GF, I suppose.

Simon: I thought it was more of a tap than a bang. See, I’ve never read T.S. Eliot, having spent too much time making millions in the music industry, so I don’t know that the opposite of "bang" is "whimper," otherwise known as what Dweeze was doing in ‘85. No, Scott, your performance was ordinarily extraodinary, which, if you think about it, is a pretty moronic oxymoron.

Ryan tells people to vote for Scott, and they flash the number on-screen as a special service for the hearing-impaired, who will be the only people voting for Scott anyway. And so we head to --

Commercials...

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