I hate AI Auditions
I hate them so much that I don't usually blog about them. But I need to vent. I'd avoid these episodes all together, but I want to see the good singers. I want to form some kind of attachment to them and their stories before I see them in Hollywood. But A.I. producers continue to thwart our good intentions with their nonsense.
I hate the waste of time that is stupid-person-getting-airtime auditions on American Idol.
I hate the endless clips of rising suns, rain, seas of umbrellas, rolling clouds in fast motion, setting suns, mass transit, various historical statues, and crowds of thousands chanting, "I'm the next American Idol!" instead of, oh, I don't know, PEOPLE SINGING WELL!!
I don't want to be entirely negative, so let me add that I love Tivo and the ability to fast forward through said waste of time.
Back to the negatives. Because that's what this post is about. I hate that the producers air a 2-hour program, show us 3 decent singers, 147 crappy ones, and then wrap it up at the end with a 30-second montage with the voice over telling us that "19 other hopefuls got that golden ticket." 19 people we didn't see. Because we had to watch girls dressed as guitars, tirades we can't even hear because they're covered up by loud, annoying beeping sounds paired with strategically-placed blue American Idol ovals, and hokey dramatizations mocking decent back woods people from the South or Appalachia, which I'm sorry but is just so totally over the top rude and so very, very politically INcorrect, that I don't know how they don't have yearly lawsuits from the ACLU.
I hate that they let Paula Abdul get away. Loopy or not, she was the saving grace of that show.
WHERE IS ELLEN?? I am so ready for Ellen.
And my biggest beef of all beefs, as I've mentioned before maybe once or twice, Randy Jackson gets on my last nerve. Paula they let go. But Dumb Ass they keep. Let's just call him D.A. for short.
Let's proceed with some of the reasons I don't like him.
D.A. has the inability to think for himself.
After Simon says, "Let's vote. I say yes." D.A. says, "Uh yeah, I say yes, too." But confusion strikes when Simon defaults to D.A. first. We get a series of uhs and ums and nervous laughter followed by stupid questions like, "You want to know what I think?"
And they pay him millions of dollars to do this, Ladies and Gentlemen.
D.A. is a total follower.
Simon likes them, then so does D.A.
Kara likes them. Big surprise! So does D.A.
Simon gets up to take a smoke break. Randy gets up even though he doesn't even smoke.
D.A. makes tons of veiled insults that he doesn't recognize as totally transparent and, on top of that, really believes are compliments.
An average-looking kid walks in and sings like a superstar and D.A. says with a look of awe and a sound of utter surprise, "Wow! I'll tell you what, Dawg. When you walked in here, I did NOT think you would sound like that, but you can really sing!" Which roughly translates to, "Dude, you are so ugly that I thought you would suck" while also conveying the message, "I am totally shallow and pre judge based on outward appearances, because I'm just that fly."
D.A. is a total math idiot (and in 9 seasons, they have yet to clue him in).
I mean he sounds like such a dope and no one stops him.
Simon says, "100% yes."
D.A. follows up with, "1 billion trillion gazillion percent yes!"
Kara says, "100% yes."
D.A. follows up with, "Five hundred thousand percent yes!"
Mary J. Blige says, "100% yes."
D.A. follows up with, "200 percent yes!"
(Not that Mary J. has much on Mr. Jackson. I do believe she said that one of the contestants had won a congeal-iality award. Unless there is a prize in Miss America for the ability to solidify or coagulate of which I am unaware, she could use some clueing in as well).
D.A. has next to nothing intelligent to say.
It all sounds something like "Yo, I mean, dope, dawg. I mean, Dude. That was . . . what?!?! What was, I mean, that was, you know. I don't know, you know? Yo."
He drives me crazy. Seriously, God bless the inventor of Tivo. 2 cities down and 6 to go.
