I love you, Claiken

My system had to reboot so my recap will be delayed. Much like my pubescent breast growth.

My first thought is that Ryan Seacrest is dressed like a bruise and Paula must stop clapping like a seal.

Why no one will speak of the fact that Lisa Tucker (without the circa ’84 Cover Girl eye makeup) is Aaliyah reincarnated is beyond me. Side note: Ryan almost felt her up while trying to console her post-threesome negative review. I’m just sayin’.

Kelly Pickler sounds like someone who worked at the Sheetz I used to get Diet Cokes at in West Virginia. Her song includes such dignified phrasing as “pickup truck,” and “was broke,” and “suds in the bucket.” It’s so awful I almost feel badly for the trailer park community watching despite the tornado closing in.

Ace reeks of Constantine and it makes the baby Jesus cry. He sings Train and suddenly I feel as if I’ve been hit by one. I think he made that shirt and a pan of blondies last Thursday in Home Ec. I want to make out with Simon for bashing his performance. NEXT.

And so we have Taylor Hicks. Taylor makes Mama want to put her dentures in and buy Depends. Camera 4 shows a boy in the audience who has grayed at age 7 (and ¾) and sadly no one shifts as uncomfortably as I do. (!!!???) Taylor takes an ED med/Ovaltine shake and screeches out something about Trouble. I pour another glass of wine.

Mandisa is up. And I want to make out with her. Despite singing about parting the Red Sea and a burning bush, she is too excellent. Did I mention it would not be appropriate in any context to sing re: “shackles on [your] feet” if you haven’t been on Court TV?

Next up: Vin Diesel. Ryan stares longingly at him while talking smack about the Titanic love theme. Jesus cries again. Chris Daughtry sings Creed (as seen in my third motherland of Tallahassee) and I wish I had more wine. It’s a little bit Eddie Vedder, a little bit my ex-boyfriend before hair plugs. Egh.

The Catherine's pr-interview makes me think of Bill O’Reilly softened by a Friendly’s Fribble. She is hot, undoubtedly, but she didn’t only opt for Christina Aguilera as her song choice, but her stylist. (Which anyone but a girlfriend of Jack the Ripper would deem inappropriate, McPheever. There must be a clerk at Wet Seal who can help you with this affliction.) She sings ok, but I clearly don’t have the boner that the Others have.

Bucky sings, and I see this as an opportunity to do the dishes. If only I appreciated country music, I’d probably have to, well, go to Walmart. Anyhoo, he was really good. For Waffle House.

I’m bored so naturally I start to dial in for contestants before the phones open up.

Crickets.

Here comes a powerhouse in 5-7-9 jeans, with a yellah top and a name like a hospitality diva. Paris has a little groove going on, using “brother” to her advantage, as well as her satisfying voice. She is the best of the night so far. And my judges, if they know what’s good for them, will say so. And they do.

Simon. (insert maniacal laugh here.) Putty in my hands.

Mama aches because Elliott is going to sing. Gavin DeGraw. Elliott is clearly sponsored this evening by the mass production masters Gap and SuperCuts. The masses love it. As does his probation officer. Come on now; no one uses “the crust of creation” in their American Idol top 10 song. So of course I like him.

Paula continues clapping like she’s voting for PETA.

However, should she use the ever-irritating “you made it your own,” critique again, I WILL SO SCARSDALE her ass.

AND SCENE.

A demain,
Kris