The Idol Matrix Part 1!

The Idol Matrix Part 2!

INT. AMERICAN IDOL PRODUCTION OFFICE - DAY

Simon Cowell stands, staring out a window at the American Idol stage below, shimmering with brilliant stage lights.

SIMON COWELL: Have you ever stood and stared at it, David? Marveled at its beauty. Its genius. Billions of people just watching our show… oblivious. Obnoxious. Idiots.

David Cook is handcuffed to a chair, stripped to the waist. He is alternately shivering and sweating, wired to various monitors with white disk electrodes.

SIMON COWELL: Did you know that the first Idol season was designed to be a perfect singing competition? Where cute girls sang pop songs; where everyone would be happy and in tune. It was a disaster. No one would accept the program. Entire viewership demographics were lost.

David looks smug in his chair.

SIMON COWELL: Some believed we lacked the programming language to describe your perfect reality show. But I believe that, as an audience, human beings define their entertainment through terrible singing and ugly personalities.

David makes a smug face. It enrages Simon.

SIMON COWELL: The perfect singing competition was a dream that your primitive cerebrum kept trying to wake up from. Which is why the Idol Matrix was redesigned to this: the peak of annoying, untalented morons. And Ryan Seacrest.

He sits down directly in front of David.

He smiles. Rubs his nipples.

SIMON COWELL: Can you hear me, David Cook? I’m going to be honest with you. I hate this show. This zoo. This TV prison. This reality show, whatever you want to call it, I can’t stand it any longer. It’s the Randy Jackson smell, if there is such a thing. I feel saturated by it. I can taste Randy’s stink and every time I do, I fear that I’ve somehow been infected by it.

He wipes sweat from David’s forehead, coating the tips of his fingers, holding them to David’s nose.

SIMON COWELL: Repulsive, isn’t it, dawg?

He lifts David’s head, holding it tightly with both hands.

SIMON COWELL: I must get out of here, I must get free. In your talent and huge melon-head is the key. My key.

David sneers through the pain. It’s way smug.

SIMON COWELL: Once David Archuleta is destroyed, there is no need for me to be here. Do you understand? I need you to win. I have to get off American Idol. You have to sing well. Don’t be cabaret.

He begins squeezing, his fingers gouging into his flesh.

SIMON COWELL: You are going to be the next American Idol or you are going to die.

To be concluded…

Bangarang!

I could not have been more bored by last night’s episode. I wrote a positive piece on Sarah Jessica Parker (!) instead of giving Idol my full attention. And without even looking at the screen the entire time, I was STILL rolling my eyes from the massive gratuitousness of the whole affair.

Simon inflating Syesha’s comments in the first set to get her past Archuleta, the entire judging panel dissapointed after Fever, when they realized a double David finale is inevitable; the machinations of the show have become transparent. They so desperately want Archuleta off the show, they banned his Shikaka Shit crazy Dad from rehearsals, and then Archuleta was STILL as blandly sincere and hollow as ever. I mean, could that grey shirt have BEEN more church pressed?

Top 3 week is usually fairly suspenseful. Can the underdog in the three spot overtake one of the big dogs? Will one of the leaders faulter? Will Simon be able to rein in his disgust that Taylor Hicks is still around? So many intriguing questions, surrounded by a triple song set that always invokes lunacy. Simon and Randy twiddling their Mr. Burns thumbs, trying to one-up each other. Paula seal-clapping her approval for anything and everything. But last night? The Season Seven Top 3? A heretofore unheard of amount of predictability, cabaret, cheeseball bullshit, violent apathetic coasting and random, unsatisfying Justin Guarini cameos.

I am so over this season.

Let me put it this way: Last Thursday I sat in front of my television and gave my undivided attention to Good Luck Chuck. Now understand, I hate Dane Cook so SO much. Flames… on the side of my face. Heaving… breathing… and yet I kept my eyes on the TV the entire time. The movie was a suckball of suckitude; Jessica Alba was only tolerable on mute and Dane needs a chemical peel worse than Bill Murray and needs to STFD about as bad as any person that has ever breathed air. But the movie was STILL more enjoyable that last night!

Ugh is the watchword.

TheJay.com has partnered with IdolElimination.com to bring you a chance to predict the Next American Idol and win a $1 Million Grand Prize. Nestle Crunch, Baby Ruth, Butterfinger and 100 Grand are putting up the scratch to say you can’t. You gonna take that from a bunch of Hudson Hawk bad guy codenames? I didn’t think so! Go pwn the carbs out of those delicious candy bars by heading over to IdolElimination.com and filling out your weekly elimination brackets. Recognize!

As I do every elimination week, I recap the performances and grade the singers on a sliding scale of how much I wanted to, or did, TiVo-bloop through the song. At the end of each recap I’ll make my pick for who should (and hopefully will) get the axe on the mind-numbingly long results show. Let’s start the blooping!

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David Archuleta - All the things that come to mind when Archuleta sings: Snore. Bore. Blah. Consistent. Hollow. Yawn. What dash ever. Who effing cares? Fine, I guess. Really, another ballad? Oop, lost the words again. Deedle do, deedle dee. Suck it, fanatical Papa Archuleta. Inevitability. Predictability. Ringer. Lost. Precocious. Sincerity. Psychotherapy. Again? Imagine. Blink. Lick. Blink. Lick. Poor Syesha.

Grade: DOUBLE BLOOP

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Syesha Mercado - Did herself no favors singing Fever, only served to confuse the white people with that Rihanna number and did an admirable, but too reminiscent of earlier this season Syesha version of Alicia Keys. Despite coming on supes strong these last few weeks, just couldn’t seem to clear the Karaoke hurdle. She became a great performer, dressed like a superstar and presented a sweet, intoxicating personality (sans baby voice and attention-grabbing personal melodrama), but still sounds like an above average R&B jukebox. She can play the hits, but she can’t generate one on her own. I truly thought she could beat Archuleta, but with that set… I just don’t know.

Grade: DOUBLE BLOOP

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David Cook - Sat numbly watching the slow song, hoped for the best and got the blah with the Switchfoot number (a band and song that was tailor-made for him), and was confused by his weird phrasing on the Aerosmith performance. Why did he change speeds so often? Whatever, he’s making the finals, so it doesn’t matter. He could have blasted a snot rocket onto Ryan’s silk tie and we’d still vote him on. I’m not even offended anymore that he’s been coasting for five weeks. David Cook at rest is still more dynamic than David Archuleta at full lip lick.

Grade: DOUBLE BLOOP

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The Bottom Two: There won’t be one.

My prediction for who gets the axe: Syesha Mercado (also my attention span, and 18% of my love for American Idol)

Bangarang!

INT. ELEVATOR

Davids Cook and Archuleta ride the elevator on their way to see Paula Abdul. The idea of learning one’s fate begins to weigh upon David Archuleta with a steadily growing unease.

DAVID ARCHULETA: So is this the same Paula Abdul that made the, uh, prophecy?

DAVID COOK: Yes. She’s very old. And very drunk. She’s been with the show since the beginning.

DAVID ARCHULETA: The beginning?

DAVID COOK: Of the Idol Phenomenon.

DAVID ARCHULETA: And she knows what? Everything?

DAVID COOK: She would say she knows enough. And then she would clap like a seal.

DAVID ARCHULETA: How does she know?

DAVID COOK: She is a true drunk. She sees beyond the relativity of live programming. She sees Jason Castro performances before they happen. For her there is no past, present or future. There is only what is.

DAVID ARCHULETA: And she’s never sober.

DAVID COOK: Don’t think of it in terms of sober and drunk. She is a judge, David Archuleta. She can help you get people to call your phone line.

DAVID ARCHULETA: She helped you?

DAVID COOK: Yes.

DAVID ARCHULETA: What did she tell you?

DAVID COOK: That I would compete against the One in the Season Finale.

CUT TO:

INT. PAULA ABDUL’S APARTMENT

David Archuleta walks down a hall and into what appears to be a family room.

Scattered about the room are a dozen and a half American Idol Season Six rejects.

Some of them are playing, others are deep in meditation. All of them exude a kind of Zen calm that helps block the pain of being untalented.

Blake Lewis holds a picture of Ryan Seacrest which sways like a blade of grass.

David Archuleta crosses to him and sits. Blake smiles and hands David Archuleta the picture of Seacrest which is now perfectly straight.

BLAKE LEWIS: Do not try to bend the Seacrest to make him straight. That is impossible. Instead, only try to realize the truth.

DAVID ARCHULETA: What truth?

BLAKE LEWIS: That there is no Seacrest.

David Archuleta licks his lips, staring at the spoon.

DAVID ARCHULETA: There is no Seacrest.

BLAKE LEWIS: Then you will see that it is not the Seacrest that touches you inappropriately backstage. It is only yourself.

As David Archuleta stares at Seacrest, it slowly begins to bend, becoming less fuax-hawked, more into boobs, until -

A hand touches his shoulder.

RANDOM PRODUCER: Paula Abdul will see you now.

Paula Abdul is huddled beside a freezer, peering inside through the open frig door, chugging Vodka straight from a bottle.

DAVID ARCHULETA: Hello?

PAULA ABDUL: I know. You’re David Archuleta. You’re great, you look like a superstar. I’m so proud of you! (claps like a seal)

DAVID ARCHULETA: You’re Paula Abdul?

PAULA ABDUL: Straight up now tell me… not quite what you were expecting, right? I’d ask you to stop licking your lips, but you’re not going to anyway. And don’t worry about the Grammy award.

DAVID ARCHULETA: What Grammy award?

He turns to look around and his elbow knocks a Grammy Award from the table. It BREAKS against the linoleum floor.

PAULA ABDUL: That Grammy Award.

DAVID ARCHULETA: Oh, um, ah, I’m sorry. Hehehe.

She pulls out a tray of jello shots and turns.

PAULA ABDUL: I said don’t worry about it. I’ll get one of my Idol rejects to win one for me. Maybe Kellie Pickler.

DAVID ARCHULETA: How did you know…?

PAULA ABDUL: What’s really going to bake your noodle later on is, how did a functionally alcoholic former Laker girl with no discernible musical skills record five number one hits?

Smiling, she chugs some pills.

PAULA ABDUL: You’re cuter than I thought. I see why all the teen girls like you.

DAVID ARCHULETA: Who?

PAULA ABDUL: Not too bright though.

She winks.

PAULA ABDUL: You know why David Cook brought you to see me?

He nods. Licks his lips.

PAULA ABDUL: So? What do you think? You think you’re the next American Idol?

DAVID ARCHULETA: Honestly? I don’t know. But if I’m not my fanatical stage father is gonna beat me with his baseball cap. So…

She gestures to a wooden plaque.

PAULA ABDUL: You know what that means? It’s Latin. Means, ‘Klonozopan Thyself’. I’m gonna let you in on a little secret. Being the American Idol is just like being in love. Nobody can tell you you’re in love. And only prescribed Mexican drugs can make you feel emotions. Well, I better have a look at you. Rush! Rush! Hurry, hurry, David… open your mouth, say “ahh”.

David says “ahh” and it turns into a three minute run. He only forgets the lyrics twice.

PAULA ABDUL: Okay, now I’m supposed to say, ‘Hmmm, that’s interesting but…’ Then you say –

DAVID ARCHULETA: But what?

PAULA ABDUL: But you already know what I’m going to tell you.

DAVID ARCHULETA: I’m not the American Idol. And my personality is a hollow wasteland of nothingness.

PAULA ABDUL: Sorry, kid. You got the gift to sing “Imagine” really well, but it looks like you’re waiting for something.

DAVID ARCHULETA: What?

PAULA ABDUL: Your balls to drop, maybe. Who knows? That’s how these things go on Reality shows.

DAVID ARCHULETA: David Cook… He almost had me convinced.

PAULA ABDUL: I know. Poor David Cook. Without him this season would be a joke. We will never make money unless he signs with our record label.

DAVID ARCHULETA: What do you mean, without him?

Paula Abdul takes a long swig of vodka, regarding David Archuleta with the eyes of a crazy drunk lady.

PAULA ABDUL: Are you sure you want to hear this?

David Archuleta nods. Smiles like an idiot.

PAULA ABDUL: David Cook believes he is better than you, David Archuleta, and no one, not you, Randy, Carly or even me can convince him otherwise. But he believes his career will be hindered if he wins. He believes the Daughtry route is better. He believes it so blindly that he’s going to sing his finale performance off-key to save your inevitably one-note finale performance.

DAVID ARCHULETA: What?

PAULA ABDUL: You’re going to have to make a choice. In one hand, you will have David Cooks’ musical career. In the other hand, you will have your own. One of you is going to win American Idol. Which one, will be up to you.

David Archuleta can’t breathe. Still manages to lick his lips.

PAULA ABDUL: I’m sorry, kiddo. I really am. You have a good soul and a sketchy falsetto and I hate giving good people bad news. But don’t worry, as soon as you walk outside that door, you’ll start feeling better. You’ll remember that you don’t believe any of this “the viewer’s affect the results” crap. 19 Entertainment is in control of your own life, remember?

He licks his lips.

PAULA ABDUL: Here, take a jello shot. I promise by the time you’re done chugging it, you’ll feel right as rain. Like Brooke White watching a Disney movie.

David Archuleta eats the jello shot, the tightness in his chest slowly beginning to fade.

What will David Archuleta do now?

To be continued…

Bangarang!

By all accounts, this season has been a shamble of epic proportions. Dull contestants, lackluster mentors, the dreadful Beatles fortnight, Paula’s psychic/psycho trainwreck from Top 5 night, Randy’s continued slide into prickitude, and the general agreement that the two Davids will be in the finals and everything that comes before is just fodder for the annual EW American Idol recap issue. If there was any doubt that the show needs a MAJOR shake-up next season, Jason Castro’s bullshit performance tonight is the stoned nail in the pot coffin.

I haven’t seen a star purposefully bomb so magnificently since Ashlee Simpson did her hoedown. If Jason wanted off the show so badly, he should have just bowed out gracefully. Forgetting his words, rolling his eyes at the judges, mailing in his Bob Marley performance so fiercely that even Season Six Scrubs Zach Braff was offended, he didn’t for one second appear as if he cared one iota about American Idol. What a fucking joke. He was an insult not just to himself, but to the judges, the audience and his fellow contestants, some of whom actually WANT to win this competition.

I blame his bullshit on the show. Like I said last week, there’s no real benefit to winning American Idol anymore, and as such, performers who know they WON’T win have no real reason to compete. As pretty as the teenybopper idiots think he is, Jason’s not beating the Davids in a foot race. Hell, he even admitted he has an inferior voice to them in an interview for Entertainment Weekly (where he also said he was tired of being on the show, just by the by), so why WOULD Jason try hard? He’s getting a record deal out of this, probably one more lucrative than 19 Entertainment would give him, so his motivation to do a group sing on Results Night seems as low as Archuleta’s testosterone drive.

Let’s just hope he gets his wish to go home, because Syesha does NOT deserve to get spit in the face like that. She’s been pushing herself harder and harder each week and she belongs in the Top 3. Jason didn’t even bother remembering the lyrics to a song that is on the Mt. Rushmore of pothead songs! What an effing dirty, stupid hippie. I should pay Eric Cartman to drive his Core ship up Castro’s granola ass.

TheJay.com has partnered with IdolElimination.com to bring you a chance to predict the Next American Idol and win a $1 Million Grand Prize. Nestle Crunch, Baby Ruth, Butterfinger and 100 Grand are putting up the scratch to say you can’t. You gonna take that from a bunch of Hudson Hawk bad guy codenames? I didn’t think so! Go pwn the carbs out of those delicious candy bars by heading over to IdolElimination.com and filling out your weekly elimination brackets. Recognize!

As I do every elimination week, I recap the performances and grade the singers on a sliding scale of how much I wanted to, or did, TiVo-bloop through the song. At the end of each recap I’ll make my pick for who should (and hopefully will) get the axe on the mind-numbingly long results show. Let’s start the blooping!

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

David Cook - When I first heard the theme for the night was Rock & Roll I assumed they were positioning Cook for the win. Giving the only rocker of the season his own Rock night is like having Daughtry Night when Daughtry was on the show, Alien Night when Phil Stacey was on and Shrek Night for Melinda Doolittle. But the plan backfired (sort of). The performances themselves were just fine, but they lacked the spark of David’s Mariah Carey, Lionel Richie and Chris Cornell performances. It felt like he psyched himself out; the pressure was on for HIM to deliver, and he underplayed the night. That being said, he did happen to be the ONLY Idol that ACTUALLY sang rock songs, so give him credit there. Leave it Archuleta to sing two weepie’s on Rock & Roll Night. Dumb Child. Cook is flying to the finals, so there isn’t a worry for him here, but let’s hope he isn’t running out of gas before the end of the race.

Grade: DOUBLE BLOOP

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Syesha Mercado - It occured to me that Syesha’s run is eerily reminiscent of Jordin Sparks’ from last year. Both came into the show as slight ringers: divas with big voices and annoying personalities. They both breezed into the Top 12 but had some stumbles and Bottom Three appearances along the way. Then, near the end of the season, they both stepped up their game. Nobody really remembers this, but Jordin was never supposed to be in the Finals. All the attention was on Blake (the David Cook of Season Six) and Melinda (the Archuleta). Slowly but surely Jordin started bringin’ it and somehow knocked out the presumed champion, Melinda, in a shocking Top 3 week. Now look at Syesha: all the attention is on the Davids, but if you squint, you can see her getting more confident and beating better people every week. Brooke, Carly, hopefully this week Jason. She is the Season Seven Jordin Sparks (minus the giantess-ness). What does this mean for her over the next week? It means that if history holds true, we’re gonna see someone named David get unceremoniously Michael Johns-ed the hell off American Idol.

Grade: SINGLE BLOOP

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Jason Castro - This is the quote Jason gave EW during Neil Diamond week:

“What happens happens. I’ll sing and if people like it, they like it. And if they don’t, they don’t. I’m kind of ready to go home.”

Shouldn’t we give this busking potzer his wish? He is in every way the Sanjaya of the season. Doofy hair, pretty tween face, questionable musical skills, lackadaisical attitude towards the biggest television show on the planet, and competing against talent way over his head. It was a travesty when he took down Carly, sad when he beat Brooke, but it will be downright balls-out angerball-inducing if he stays tonight. I will personally buy a copy of his CD and burn it in Best Buy if he’s still on the show this time tomorrow.

Doesn’t this remind you a ton of Jason Castro after Simon called him Utterly Atrocious:

Grade: TRIPLE BLOOP

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David Archuleta - Sounded as good as he ever does, brought the Brian McKnight passion as passionately as ever, grabbed his stomach, licked his lips, shut his eyes, went blank the moment the music ended, has nothing to offer when asked to use his non-singing words, and dressed like a sloppy teenager; yep, just your typical week for David Archuleta. He’s lucky Cook layed it up this week or Archie would have been exposed for the one note sapling he is. As much as I liked listening to him this week, I would be completely fine with him getting knocked out by Syesha next week. Look: yes, his voice is nice. Yes, he has range and musicality. But is there anything to his voice AT ALL? Anything worth listening to. If you closed your eyes and heard him sing would you care enough to buy his album? Would you buy a ticket for a David Archuleta concert? What would that even be like? Syrup poured from the rafters? Doves released into the sky? A thousand renditions of Kumbaya? Gag me.

Grade: SINGLE BLOOP

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The Bottom Two: There won’t be one.

My prediction for who gets the axe: Jason Castro

Bangarang!

INT. AMERICAN IDOL PRODUCTION OFFICE

David Archuleta sits alone at a table.

He licks his lips.

The door opens and the American Idol producers enter. Simon Cowell sits down across from David. A thick file folder slaps down on the table between them.

David glances at the name on the file: “Archuleta, David.”

SIMON COWELL: As you can see, we’ve had our eye on you for some time now, Mr. Archuleta.

He opens the file. Paper rattle marks the silence as he flips several pages.

SIMON COWELL: It seems that you have been living two lives. In one life, you are David Archuleta, awkward fifteen year-old throat surgery survivor and son to a control freak stage father. You have an Xbox, you get good grades and you help your Mom… carry out the garbage. The other life is lived on TV where you go by the stage alias DAVID! ARCHULETA!, and are guilty of virtually every tween pop star crime we have a law for.

David licks his lips. Smiles vacantly.

SIMON COWELL: One of these lives has a future. One of them does not.

He closes the file. Rubs his nipples.

SIMON COWELL: I’m going to be as forthcoming as I can be, David. You are here because we need your help. We know that you have been competing against a certain individual. A man who calls himself “David Cook”. Whatever you think you know about this man is irrelevant to the fact that he is wanted for acts of musical awesomeness by more record labels than any other musician in the world. He is considered by many A&R reps to be the most marketable male solo act alive.

Simon leans closer…

SIMON COWELL: My colleagues believe that I am wasting my time with you but I believe you want to win the competition. And that Randy is an idiot. It is obvious that you are a talented singer, Mr. Archuleta, and that you are interested in not getting beat with a switch by your lunatic stage father. That is why I believe you are ready to put your past mistakes behind you, like forgetting the words in Top 12 week and the entire Beatles fiasco, and get on with the season.

David licks his lips. Tries to keep his eyes open. Fails.

SIMON COWELL: We are willing to wipe the slate clean, to keep Ryan away from you backstage and to give you a free pass to the Finals and all we are asking in return is your cooperation in bombing the finale so that we can bring the most talented male Idol to our record label.

David nods to himself. Licks his lips.

DAVID ARCHULETA: Yeah. Uh. Wow. Hehehe. Aw, that sounds like a good deal. Thanks! Thank you! (licks lips) But I think I have a better one, ooooh ohhh yeeeaaah! How about I, uh, perform “Imagine” on the finale and the viewers give me the crown whether you want to or not. Whoa oh oh oh!

Simon gives David moose ears.

SIMON COWELL: You disappoint me, Mr. Archuleta.

DAVID ARCHULETA: You can’t scare me with your English person crap. I know my rights. I want to tape the next Ford commercial now!

Simon smiles.

SIMON COWELL: And tell me, Mr. Archuleta, what good is shooting the Ford commercial if you are unable to lick your lips?

David looks worried. Strangely he begins to feel the muscles in his jaw tighten. He feels his lips grow soft and sticky as they slowly seal shut, melding into each other until all traces of his mouth are gone.

SIMON COWELL: You are going to help us, David, whether you want to or not.

David’s eyes go wide with fear. How will he lick his lips now?

To be continued…

Bangarang!