American Idol S8 Finals Ep18 Aftermath

Kittens, this results show was a mash up of everything that I love and hate about American Idol. Je suis confused. On the one hand, Paula Abdul is a tiny, surprisingly big breasted ball of awesome and her “singing” performance was one of the greatest things I’ve seen in my entire life. On the other hand, Frikkin’ Gokey turned out to be the absolute worst person in all of humanity in exactly the way that my beloved reality TV has taught people to be hideous creatures. On the other, other hand, Allison gave perhaps the single best sing out I have ever seen on this or any other performance based competition show. There are two great lucky loser FIGJAM performances in the history of reality TV – performances where the loser made it completely irrelevant who won because the towering artistry of what they laid down was so undeniable that they drew back the curtain on America’s fiction that we are a merit based society. One is Danny Tidwell on SYTYCD doing things with his body to We Are the Champions that are just beyond human, nigh unto divine and being a fabulous queen diva bitch about it the whole time. The other, also on SYTYCD and pre-dating the Danny fabulousness, was Blake’s opus to another Queen song, Body Language. I still don’t know how he got his shirt off while spinning like that and the ending flip defies the laws of man and nature. To these two performances, I will now add a third, because Ms. Iraheta tore down that Janis Joplin song. As much as I was meh about her performance on Tuesday night, I was on fire after her last stand. That’s the Allison I’ve been longing for, melting faces with that incredible voice of hers, throwing attitude all over Simon, throwing shade all over Judge #4 when she went in for the hug, giving mad love to Paula as should all individuals, and completely ignoring the Dawg. A sacrosanct and holy performance that almost reached Fantasia/I Believe levels of greatness. Damn. And of course, America screwed it up again and sent that fantasticness home, noodles. AI voters make the baby Jesus cry, y’all.

But anyway, let’s deal with this results night show, shall we? I was alarmed that the show began with Ryan talking about someone getting schooled, a phrase which should never, ever be uttered by an overly orange, metrosexual man, not even in a post-ironic hipsterish way. I was also alarmed that they stuck my Ryan in the swaybot pit. You don’t know where those hos have been. They probably cooked up the swine flu in their sweaty basement lair. I shudder, kiddies. Hands off my Ryan. Also disturbing? 64 million votes were cast for this sham of a show. I mean, I love Idol more than any soul crushing, manufactured drama generator in history, but I have never, ever picked up a phone to cast even a single vote for this fake ass show. Not that I’m judging, because you voters out there are what keep my favorite pop trash entertainment on the airwaves. But y’all ain’t right. That’s all I’m saying.

Next up, pimpmercial. And I love how they are now just basically Adam and Kris standing around looking gorgeous and then Gokey pops up out of a garbage can or peeks out from behind Kris’ ass cheek and he’s wearing suspenders or a bib or some shit and then just before the end, they let Allison show up and sing two bars. I love that. And then the group sing severely underwhelmed and continued the week long theme of craptacular song choices. And kittens, my heart was breaking because it was completely evident even here that all of the AI-lettes knew that Allison was going home, including Allison. Poor, wee Manic Panic. At least she got to take out her aggression by slapping Gokey around. You slapped for us all, chola. You slapped for us all.

And we must, noodles, we must pause and consider the wrongness that was Ryan’s interview with Frikkin’ Gokey because as much as I love reality TV, Gokey’s entire problem with his gigantic assitude can be traced back to its roots. And while in most cases I vehemently disagree, in this way, reality TV is actually ruining America. How, you ask, kiddies? By taking away our sense of shame. Because the fact that Frikkin’ Gokey wasn’t so embarrassed by the awful, awful horror of his performance last night to the point where he couldn’t even think about crawling out from under the covers and showing his face anywhere in polite society? The fact that he thought that shit was funny, that he was proud of it? That he felt it represented his finest moment on Idol, that he wants to feature it in a movie, Gokey: The Frikkin’ Gokey Story? That shit is foul. And that is a direct result of reality TV stripping us of our sense of shame. When a Top Model contestant can run around in an adult sized diaper and pee on herself on national TV and still make Top 5, it desensitizes us to what we should rightly be ashamed of. When one of the most beloved characters from any season of The Real World is a tiny Hawaiian girl who spent her entire season drunk off her ass and endangering both her life and, at times, the lives of her castmates, then we have lost our ability to be truly humbled by our bad behavior. When a show like Celebrity Apprentice can even exist, it indicates that our basic sense of decorum has broken down to such an extent that we allow something like Frikkin’ Gokey to happen. Why wouldn’t he be a smarmy cheesemaster, when that is everything we glorify on a day-to-day basis on the 12 millionth season of Rock of Love? We have met the Gokey, and he is us. Kittens, what I’m saying is that Frikkin’ Gokey just cannot win this season of American Idol. Not just for me, or for you, but for America. Think on it.

But just as AI makes us face the horror of the worst of us, it also gives us a delicious taste of the best of us. And that taste came last night in the form of one Ms. Paula Abdul. Darlings, I don’t care that she lip synched to a song that was 99% vocoder. I don’t care that at times she forgot to even pretend to pretend to be singing. Paula, at 140 million years old, can still dance her ass off and she looked damn good doing it. The breasts were just this side of out of control, managing to stave of the final escape from her minimal clothing option even whilst being flipped over backward and hoisted one handed over the head of a back up dancer or being flung face first into the waiting arms of a sea of gay men. The song is kind of crappy and I would never ever listen to it on the radio let alone buy the download off itunes, but dammit, noodles, Paula is the queen. Saucy! That’s the happiest I’ve seen her look since she was a purple and gold clad Laker girl. Oh, Pau Pau. You earned your pills last night.

Noodles, I could write more, but why bother? Nobody cares about No Doubt anymore. They don’t even have any new music. Gavin Rossdale lost that cute Brit thing he used to have. Gwen is way too old to do that rock pixie thing and since she can’t actually sing, well . . . I think Sanjaya could’ve done a better job. Daughtry is the nasty precursor to Fivehead and I refuse. Kris and Adam continue on in the hopes of becoming the perfect sexy beast double winner of AI and Allison kicked ass and confirmed that not winning American Idol is a demonstrably better path to fame and fortune than winning American Idol. And then we were out.

Next week, we’ll get home visits and I expect every self respecting queen in the greater San Diego metro area to turn out in full drag for our little alien boy/girl sex god, Adam Lambert, and freak middle America right the hell on out. We’ll also get the undead husk of Clive Davis proving that while he may, in fact be a blood sucking were-creature, he can pick a song like nobody’s business. For the love of all that’s holy, please do not Let Judge #4 pick anything. Not even her nose. No, nothing, darlings. And then, if we all clap our hands and believe real, real hard, Frikkin’ Gokey will finally be sent back to the primordial ooze from whence he came and we will wind up with the prettiest final two in the history of creation. Adam and Kris together in the finale would be so hot my TV might explode. Let’s make that happen, no?