The American Idol Grand Finale
Who should get the more than dubious fucking honors to review the American Idol Grand Finale this year?
Who indeed?
I know, I know! Pick me! I know!
Let’s have Uncle Beppo do it! Here’s a gun. Stick it far up his ass and duct tape his fucking face to the TV for a good never ending two hours.
Who better to review the American Idol Grand Finale than the very least likely person to ever watch the fucking show? What a great joke! Hardy-harr-harr indeed. DRS is soooo fucking funny! Remind me to go "lol fucking lol" as I piss in the punch bowl at our next Christmas Party.
Here we go.
Jordan won.
There, can I go now? I even spelled her fucking name right, even though her parents couldn’t when they named her. Guess the school bus didn’t travel through that part of the ghetto.
OK, OK... I will fucking do it. Ease up on that barrel, will’ya? I can taste the oil already. Shut the hell up and let’s just say you all owe me a big fat one.
All right, here goes…
After the usual exchange of pleasantries and humorous slapsticks between that British cunt and the little stage faggot, we are treated to a barrage of musical multicide courtesy of all the little fuckers who took part in this clusterfuck of a show for the last year or so. I gotta say... For a show that supposedly looks for the next big fresh thing, they sure sing a lot of old shit that most people that were around back then are too fucking senile to remember anyway. I think they sang “We are Family” ten times, in different costumes, while grinning like a bunch of coked up chimps (eyes shining like windows and everything – fucking Pepsodent ecstasy galore). I felt like I was at a tent meeting for the religiously challenged, somewhere near East Jesus, Idaho. What the fuck was with those white tuxedos? Seriously? The Class of ’87 just called and wants its runaway prom back.
Speaking of chimps, I did laugh myself into a fit of a braying mess as they brought that little bush baby motherfucker out on the stage. That is by far the ugliest motherfucker I have ever seen. Seriously, folks! Where in the hell did they find him? You know the one, the googley-eyed little monkey next to that episode of “Humpty Dumpty Goes To Hawaii On the Short Bus”. I shit you not, I laughed so hard I ruptured something inside. I hope it was something I won’t need for a while, because my medical insurance consists of a pack of fucking Seven Dwarves band-aids and crossing my fingers.
Then the Kunta Kinte Choir entered the stage and sang the African Anthem. No flies on their eyeballs either. Funny, by the amount of black chicks on this show singing “Midnight Train to Georgia” I always thought that fucker was the African Anthem. Anway, the choir performance was taken to new heights of hysterics as that little Bush Baby Motherfucker came back out on stage and danced in front of the children, holding a little silver cup. I laughed so hard, again, that I started seeing funny colors. (Note from the Editor: You do know that never happened, right, Beppo? Kenneth Briggs only made an appearance in that first award ceremony. He wasn’t on stage with the choir. – Note from Beppo: What the fuck ever. My world is more fun to live in than yours. Fucking blow me.)
Then Mowgli, er, Sanjaya, returned from the Man Village to sing with Joe Perry for a while. I don’t know who sounded the fucking roughest; Hakuna-Matata or Perry. Hey, don’t get me wrong, both me and Old Joe suffer from the same Pickled Liver Syndrome, because we love the booze, but damn, brother… you are starting to sound and look like shit. Maybe you should play with Britney from now on, so you could just mime the licks like some backup dancing monkey? Oops, too late, right? What’s next? Opening up for Chucky at a Chuck-E-Cheese birthday party? Mighty. Fallen. Fucker. (Speaking of which, how much longer do I have to make this fucking review? Note from editor: - Until you make some goddamn sense. Wrap it up, kid.)
All right, all right… Worth noting was the hysterically crying adoring fan that was beyond her fucking self during Sanjaya’s performance. You know she will slit her wrists over this two years from now, right? They will find her in a stall in the ladies room at her high school, knee deep in her own blood with a message on the wall in black lipstick: “Sanjaya is a fake….. I walk alone……..”
Blah, what else…? Green Day performed an old Lennon song that nobody in the audience knew or got, and no wonder why… Here’s a news flash for the 21st century: You had to be HIGH AS FUCK to appreciate the art of the hippie era. Just repeating “A Working Class Hero is something to be” five hundred times was the shit back then, because people were tripping on fucking LSD and were making up their own music in their heads to go along with it. You had to be there, back then, in the flesh, swaying like a special fucking child back and forth with a dreamy grin on your face, or the point of the song is mooter than a bald Britney. Nowadays it just doesn’t have the same ring to it. Just like that chick, who looked so fucking good at closing last night at Zeke’s Bar, Bait and Tackle doesn’t look all that fucking right in your bed in the cruel light of fucking morning. In the 70’s it was OK to write shitty songs, because you got away with it when your whole fucking audience was stoned out of reality. I have four fucking words for you: “In a Gadda Da Vida”, folks. Just sayin’… (Note from editor: That was five, idiot. Note from me: Well, it so happens I’ve got five words for you too: XXXX XX XXX XXX XXXX!!! Note from editor: You can’t curse out your editor, dumbass. That would be like Stephen Hawking telling his nurse to fuck off during a mountain hike.) Oh, well… Just because it’s old or because St. Lennon wrote it, doesn’t mean we ever need to hear the shit again. Green Day just fucking proved that theory all over again.
OK, so Jordan won and everybody lived happily ever after. All the ones who didn’t win had to sit on the steps below her like some sort of outcasts, basking in her glory with shame on their dumb fucking faces.
I cried.
Fucking sue me.
 | ||||||
Artwork used with permission from Neverland Music Inc.
We hear the one on the bottom asked to be placed in the federal witness protection program to avoid embarrassing mix-ups.
