The American Idol Formula
The worst show on television is the Wednesday edition of American Idol. It's a half hour of rejection, and not even very much rejection, just four contestants told to take a hike while (this week at least) a dozen survive. No one sings. There is no judging. Ryan Seacrest, the too-cute, smarmy, Mouseketeer-like host, attempts to insert additional drama into the show by verbally misleading contestants into thinking they're losers, only to do a 180 and reveal that they've survived another week. It's manipulative, juvenile and not the slightest bit entertaining.
The Monday and Tuesday editions are good family fare, however, and on Tuesday night anyone with ears and eyes could see that Nadia Turner blew the roof off and ought to be a star even if she doesn't win the competition. As always, Randy and Paula are way too nice and forgiving, and only the acidic Simon tells the truth.
If you've never seen the show, this is pretty much how the three judges talk after someone puts on a performance:
Randy: I like you, man. I like your energy, I like the way you take chances. Maybe the cowboy outfit doesn't really go with the Marvin Gaye song, I mean I've just never seen anyone sing "Sexual Healing" while twirling a lasso, but whatever, man, you are refreshingly different.
Paula: I love you, I loved your song, I loved the way you kept shouting "giddyup!" at odd moments. You're a star.
Simon: That was simply putrescent. In a night of relentlessly derivative, stupid, off-key, karaoke-quality performances, that was not merely hideous but truly nauseating. I'm convulsing over here. You should not only be voted off the stage immediately but also arrested for creating a public nuisance. The only thing that keeps me from hating you even more is that I must save some of my energy for loathing Paula.
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