The Bestest (or Worstest) Idea Evah!

I have watched "American Idol." My active viewing of the show is limited to the audition installments, because I enjoy a good train wreck like everybody else. I was delighted by William Hung, at least until he got (in)famous and I was confronted with his goofy-ass mug for 14 minutes and 59 seconds longer than I should have been. I tell AJ all the time, like when he sneaks up and pantses me, "One time is funny. Anything after that is annoying." It's like seeing a guy get kicked in the junk. Yes, you laugh, but watch it 5 times and your own balls start to swell. The lustre is gone.

This is in marked contrast with things that can be seen/experienced over and over without losing their allure. Like the six-way, all-girl orgy scene in "Saturday Night Beaver." Or the Full Tilt tourist shoving his TPTK into your nuts. Or this. "You have been imMENSE!"

And like the FA Cup Final, "American Idol" is down to two: the lovely and talented Katherine McPhee and Jay Leno's grandfather. I didn't watch their performances last night. Didn't hear a note. But I will be watching tonight. At my mom's house. She's having an "American Idol" party.

Why would I do this to myself? For you, dear reader. And for the free food. In T-minus 3 hours, I will begin live blogging the party/voting results. Forty- fifty- and sixty-something women getting hopped up on Fuzzy Navels, Ryan Seacrest and moi. A recipe for rapture.

That sound you hear is Felicia's head asploding.

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7:45 p.m.: Welcome to the American Idol Finale, the Estrogen Super Bowl, a national holiday for women (and CJ) across the US of A!

I rolled in a few minutes ago, long enough to power down some meatballs and chili, so, in a pinch, I can clear the room if necessary. I was also surprised to see my brother-in-law, the cop, here, so that gives me another out. He's promised to save a bullet for me.

7:48: Some of you may be wondering why I would do something so sublimely ridiculous. In a word: growth. In order to work on my writing, it was suggested I should write about things which I can claim no knowledge or interest and I have to say "American Idol" is about as far removed from my frame of reference as possible.

7:49: There's a red carpet? Wow. This is like the Grammys. Right down to the shitty music.

7:50: We have our first Kelly Clarkson sighting of the evening. In the ever-understanding words of my sister, "She's back on the Twinkies."

7:53: I just had the following conversation with my brother-in-law:

Me: We should have brought some beer.
He: That's what I was thinkin'. Maybe I'll make a run.
Me: Cool. I'll grab some money.
He: Whaddya want.
Me: Anything. I'll drink paint thinner.

7:59: We are 14 people strong, crammed into Mom's living room. Included is my 12-year-old nephew, who I fear may be forever scarred.

8:00: And we're off. A community sing, all in wedding-gown white. To match Taylor's hair, I presume.

8:03: And there's Seacrest, looking typically ubergeigh, and when I hang that tag on him, I mean simply to imply that he has sex with men.

8:04: He claims the show will be watched by 200 million people and considering that number, how is it that I'm not Emperor of the World yet?

8:06: The introduction of the judges. Randy in splendid blue glasses, Pauly with her skin a lovely shade of orange and hair that appears styled by someone in the throes of a seizure and Simon...okay, I'll give it up for the mocking montage. That was funny. And I'm not the only one who thinks so based on the widespread cackling.

8:10: Oh, bringing back the hot O'Donoghue twins. Solid programming choice.

8:15: I have always hated the band Live, so I'm happy to see they've fallen so far as to prostitute themselves on American Idol in hopes of recapturing their early 90s hitdom. Gawd. So pretentious and insufferable. 'Course they're going home to supermodel girlfriends and my bed is currently a mattress on the floor.

8:19: I was just reprimanded by my mother for drinking beer. She apparently told the rest of the guests they couldn't bring liquor (Mom doesn't imbibe). I responded that the group, unlike me, didn't need liquor to get through the next two hours.

8:24: Meatloaf just got a glistening layer of sweat on McPhee's arm. Memo to Mr. Loaf: You might wanna take her on tour. That was pretty impressive. Call it, "Beauty and the Beast."

8:29: My mother voted 6 times last night. Six times! I might need to wrest control of her estate as she's clearly not in her right mind.

8:36: What is the deal with these obviously hideous singers who come on the show? Are they plants? Are they people who are willing to humiliate themselves infront of 200 million people simply so they can be on TV? Or are they victims of what I like to call "The Mullet Effect." See, in high school, I rocked a sweet mullet. I looked in the mirror every morning, decided I looked fucking awesome and went out into the world looking like a complete jackass. Nobody told me I looked like a complete jackass, so I went about my oblivious business. Is it the same with these off-key impressarios? Do they really NOT KNOW how awful they are? Oh well, some day they will look back and laugh. But first they will go through a few years and cringe.

8:44: Bachman Turner Overdrive just rolled over in their grave. Jesus H. These five should go on the road as American Idol's version of the Village People.

8:48: Apparently Elliott's mother has been in the hospital which precludes me from making fun of her. If I HAD made fun of her, the name "Stu Ungar" may have been invoked.

8:56: Poor Elliott. He was a little overwhelmed by Mary J,. wouldn't you say? Is it really a duet if all you do is stand to one side and wave your arms around while the other commands the stage? Not only that, it looked like she could take him out with one punch. Ms. Blige has got some guns.

9:00: Who wants pie?!?!

9:02: Quiet. I'm watching Carrie Underwood.

9:05: At this point, I have to say some of the musical performances are surprisingly strong. I'm not about to get up and shake my thang, but I don't hate them. The recorded bits, on the other hand, make me want to jam a meat thermometer in my ears and pound it in with a ball peen hammer.

9:08: Quiet. I'm watching Toni Braxton. Whew. Is it hot in here?

9:15: I'm feeling a little light-headed. My sister thinks I may have a mild case of the McPheever. Young Kathrerine really is quite cute.

9:20: Now that baby-faced white kid doing Michael Jackson...I could watch that over and over. I loved his excessive mouth-breathing. Reminds me of some of my favorite poker tables.

9:23: Wow. Clay Aiken's been to a stylist, huh? He looks almost straight. That was a pretty tangible before and after thing going on in that duet.

9:24: I fully expected to have lots of material from the crowd, but, for the most part, they've been rapt in front of the spectacle unfolding before them. There is a fair amont of "Oh! There's so-and-so" in reference to people I've never seen nor heard of, but it's fairly benign. Color me disappointed. Maybe I'll offer them some Coors Lights to open the gig up a little.

9:29: I hope I look that good when I'm Burt Bacharach Taylor Hicks's age.

9:36: Dionne Warwick's appearance brings whoops of joy and surprise from the crowed. I point out they'd have known it was coming if they subscribed to the Psychic Friends Network.

9:39: If I was, in any way, invested in the result of this little contest, I'd be pretty sick and tired of this parade. It's worse than Super Bowl pregame shows. Oh, and if Seacrest pulls one of those smarmy here-comes-the-vote-AAAAAAAAAAFTER-the-commercial moves, I'm gonna drive to Hollywood and kick him in the vagina.

9:49: Prince?!?! PRINCE?!?!? I'm speechless. This is like DeNiro doing dinner theater. Shameful. Guess the new CD isn't doing so well. I think I detected Paula touching herself under the judge's table.

9:53: The tension is palpable, so much that people are being posed for pictures just to pass the agonizing minutes until we found out who wins this essentially meaningless crown since I think it's fair to say both these performers are in line for a record deal. Speaking of which, where's Ruben? Did I miss him? Oh wait, not possible. Silly me. I always enjoyed watching him sweat through a performance and the very real possiblity he'd drop dead on the spot.

9:56: Okay, I'll be the one to say it: Taylor Hicks can't dance. Sure, the effort is there, but it's just a little off. Ask his girlfriend, she'll tell ya.

9:57: 63.4 million votes. I weep for our children.

9:58: And the winner is...FOX!

9:58: And Taylor Hicks, a very popular choice in Mom's house. I enjoy a dozen white women screaming out "Soul Patrol" without a trace of irony.

10:00: Thank you for joining me. Congratulations to the winner and to all of us for making it through another season of the Universe's most popular show. I am off now to plot my overthrow of Rupert Murdoch.