Duke Of Web

The titan American Idol continues to suck the life out of America every Tuesday, but at least it’s getting shorter as more contestants return home to mass fanfare and car wash openings. Ryan Seacrest, the architect of clever catchphrase “Seacrest…out!” has penned a new opener that is possibly even more annoying.

“This……..(dramatic pause)……………is American Idol………”

Here is our breakdown of last night’s show, by contestant.

Ramiele Malubay: I cringed in discomfort as she stumbled through parts of her performance. She just wasn’t on it. Points though for wearing shorts like the Von Trapp kids in The Sound Of Music, and deliciously wet lip gloss that conjured up thoughts of a dark alley in Bangkok.

Jason Castro: Decent performance. Although the “vulnerable warble” gets a bit old, he’s pretty consistent from week to week and has a cool vibe. Especially entertaining were his excruciating facial contortions, which looked as if he were crapping an entire pineapple. His family is Columbian, so he can always fall back on cocaine trafficking should his music career go nowhere.

Syesha Mercado: Right off the top she scores points for A) looking like sexy jezebel Thandie Newton, and B) because her Dad looks like Barrack Obama. She also delivered a great performance which could have been greatly enhanced by the absence of a shirt. Just my opinion.

David Cooke: We’re usually pretty harsh on this imperious killjoy who’s single-handedly trying to bring back the soul patch. But the dude can sing, even with an extraordinarily large cranium. Unfortunately for him, the singer for Nickelback already has the market cornered for gravely, angst-ridden top-40 butt rock.

Brooke White: More of the same. Good pianist. Still want to be behind her in yoga class when she does the cat stretch. And her Dad looks like Ed Harris.

David Archuleta: Less rapid-tongue-movement this week. The kid is good, but it’s hard to envision him anywhere except waving his hands atop a Disney parade float lip-syncing A Whole New World. Peter Jackson should cast him in The Hobbit.

Michael Johns: What is it with Australian dudes having two first names? He went back to what he does best this week, delivering impassioned yet uneventful productions from the Queen catalog. Simon once again sang his praises in his arbitrary, nonsensical style.

Kristy Lee Cook: She was signed to MCA records long before Idol. But who cares. More importantly, we found this hot pic of her straddling a horse.

Carly Smithson: She won’t make the top 5 but Steve Wynn will probably contract her to play a shitty Vegas showroom for 2 years. We especially enjoyed when the camera panned to her tattoo-faced husband who looked like he wanted to stab Simon through the heart with a screwdriver.

Chikezie: We still maintain he could star as Isaac The Bartender in a Love Boat remake, and sounds like Luther Vandross after the stroke.

If only that were true. If only he could succeed where Lance Bass failed, joining the Russians to be thrust into the exosphere where an unfortunate mishap would result in instant atomization. But the perma-grinned socialite with the luxurious wavy golden mane remains earthbound, blessing us with his existence. Everything about this tool is annoying, from his unnatural orange glow to his pompous first name. Unless he finds the cure for cancer or starts working in a soup kitchen for the homeless, he’s just using up valuable oxygen, prancing around Hollywood seeking out photo ops with his surgically altered and equally useless girlfriend, Heidi Montag. Actually, that’s not fair. Heidi does have one redeeming quality; frequent parading of her 22-year-old bikini-clad ass amidst paparazzi armed with an arsenal of cameras. We’re still waiting for the dirty photos to surface, like those of compatriot Audrina Partidge. Or at the very least, a Britney Spears-style upskirt as she exits a taxi.

Never before has someone capitalized on their 15 minutes like American Idol whipping boy and Hindi pimp Sanjaya Malakar. Apparently he was important enough to invite to the recent White House Correspondence Dinner. I guess Todd Bridges couldn’t make it. Here he is with his patented shit-eating grin cozying up to MILF’s Valeri Bertinelli and Teri Hatcher, whom he may have tag-teamed in the Lincoln suite if his maniacal smile is any indication. Is it just me, or does Valery Bertinelli look like she swan dove off the Nutrisystem wagon and ingested a small Korean child? It’s great to see the chiclet-toothed muppet flipping the bird to legions of haters by hobnobbing with a steady stream of Hollywood tail. The only explanation for that insane grin is that he’s hung like a baby’s arm. Cosmic justice would then be served. We like Sanjaya, but realistically his only shot of holding onto fame is to get cast as Mowgli in The Jungle Book on Broadway, opposite Rosie O’Donnell’s Balou.

Newsflash: Violet Baudelaire, the inventive teenage vixen from 2004’s Lemony Snickets, A Series Of Unfortunate Events is now 19-years-old. We offer this information as a public service, first because she’s been off the radar for a few years, and secondly so you don’t feel like such a lecherous pedophile for ogling her amazing pillowy lips when horror film A Tale Of Two Sisters is released later this year. Despite whispers of a Lemony Snickets sequel, it is unlikely Emily would be re-cast as the Baudelaire orphan. She was a mere 15-years-old during the shooting of the first film. Were she to return in the role now, Jim Carrey would probably have to kidnap her and dress her in cellophane and hold her in a dark, dank basement, subjecting her to forbidden erotic pleasures. That’s how our version would go, anyway.

What do you get when you take 30 years, top-40 gold and every last shred of musical talent away from Canadian rock legend Bryan Adams? You get Aaron Carter! The 1990’s boy wonder and former Disney darling does have one other thing in common with Adams besides flippant Kevin Bacon-inspired hair and rugged good looks; an unfortunate skin condition that left both with pizza face. Fortunately, model-good-looks aren’t required to sell records. Otherwise we’d never have the masterpiece Everything I do, I do For You, which has helped legions of high-school kids cop a feel of ass at senior proms. Adams has a prolific catalog of music that helped define an entire generation. Carter’s only real claim to fame at this point is that his finger smells like Lindsey Lohan. No longer Disney’s bitch, he’s moved on to bigger and better things. Like getting arrested in February for speeding and possessing stank weed while driving through Texas.