I Will Soon Be Judging American Idol
It's happened. The dynasty that was American Idol has come crumbling down, and despite inaugurations to the contrary, I'm taking it as a clear sign that America as a whole is officially defunct. After all, when your most watched television show of all time (which happens to have the name of your country in its title) is folding, it's time to call up the Russians and surrender. We still hate Russians, right? I mean, I know I do, but is it still national policy? Anyway, it's time to call whomever is fit to dismantle our government and sell it off piece by piece and give up. Hazy though I may be on international politics, I do know at least one thing: After we've all been boiled down and used to fuel the lamps in St. Petersbuerg Cathedral, and the romantics and optimists tell you that the reason for Idol's ten percent decline in viewership was election season, or the fact that the show is nearly a decade old, or the fact that every episode after the auditions are over is unwatchable drek, you can tell them they’re wrong. Damn wrong. The reason Idol (and, subsequently, America) is on the verge of irretrievable decline is clear: Kara DioGuardi. Kara is Idol’s new spunky, sassy female judge. Here she is bragging about working with Celine Dion, which tells you right off the bat that she’s dangerously delusional.
Idol Producers spent months and thousands of dollars looking for a new judge to liven up the team, and all they could come up with was the white version of Paula Abdul. If I sound bitter, it’s because my own audition to be the fourth Idol judge went so well.
Admittedly I don’t have as much experience in the music business, and I think the Producers only called me in because of the wild popularity of my ’92 single “Drippin’ Wet (The Ice Cream Song),” and, as it later turned out, the fact that Paula Abdul wanted to have filthy bathroom sex with me.
But even before the bathroom sex, things went well. I mean, I really thought I had it. Randy was calling me “dog” left and right; I think he even threw a “cat” in there once or twice. Simon invited me back to his flat for tea and crumpets. Paula—well, it would be uncouth to say too much (the sex I mentioned earlier).
Imagine my horror, months later, to find out they’d given the job to some recording woman just because her middle name happened to be “Dio,” Simon’s favorite aging rocker.
Frankly, Kara was just about the worst decision they could have made. When you’ve got such an archetypal trio—the dry, cruel Brit, peppy Latina pan-ethnic sex goddess and hip, jovial Black—there’s clearly only one direction to go in for your fourth: an edgy, even crueler white guy of average appearance. It’s the classic pattern. It held true for
When not salvaging a television empire, Michael serves as head writer for and co-founder of Those Aren't Muskets!