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.
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
The X-Men Meet Sam Kinison, it held true for Huey, Dewey, Louie and McVeigh, and dammit, it’ll hold true for Idol.
Simon’s mellowed in his old age, and the American people want blood, plain and simple. The new Idol judge has got to be a shot in the arm, literally if possible. Is Kara DioGuardi willing to punch singers in the arm if they get too rangey? Because I am.
Idol Producers, your selfishness has cost you everything, and while smaller men than myself might revel in your demise, I for one want to see American Idol live on. Therefore, I’m giving you a second chance. I will allow you to re-hire me. All I ask is that you publicly fire DioGuardi on the air (have Seacrest do it), put the show on sabbatical for retooling, and rename it
In case you’re not yet convinced of my charm, musical knowledge, or capacity for petty cruelty, I’ve provided here my witty, insightful, off-the-cuff responses to a wide range of singers, from amateur to professional to Rick Astley (which is to say legendary).
“I’m sorry, and not to offend, but this sounds like if a drill were jammed into my ear, except the bit in the drill is made of a bunch of annoying squeaks and whistles, and the guy doing the drilling is gargling urine at the top of his lungs. Again, I’m sorry if that seems ‘harsh’ to you. I’m just speaking the truth, because I care about this competition, you fat, pimply, whore.”
“I have nothing to say about your singing, as I refuse to critique an obvious pedophile. Good day, sir.”
“Your singing’s made me so furious with disgust that I’m going to strangle Randy with a belt just to teach you a lesson.”
Here I wouldn’t speak, but simply drop my pants, get onto the judge’s table, squat, and lay a steaming pile of reasoned critique onto the singer’s entry form, maintaining rigid eye contact all the while.
“A little pitchy, but otherwise fine. You’re through!”
Oh, I’m sorry, were you expecting Rick Astley here? You just got REVERSE RICK ROLL’D!* OH SHIT!
I await your apology call, Idol Producers. I also await your apology call, Paula (don’t make me say what for. Let’s just say the tests came back positive).
*Also known as a “Rick Unroll,” this is of course the technique of promising someone Rick Astley, then linking them to anything else whatsoever.
When not salvaging a television empire, Michael serves as head writer for and co-founder of Those Aren't Muskets!
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