Despite the apparent attempt at a very late intervention by His Holiness Pope Benedict, Carly Smithson departed American Idol like the echo of a sparrow’s chirp in the Grand Canyon.
Perhaps we can count the days to the moment when Lord Lloyd Webber, racked by guilt and the strange nightmares that keep reminding him that Carly has a peculiar resemblance to his first wife, Sarah Brightman, offers Carly the lead role in a revival of “JC Supe”.
You think this is unlikely to happen? Please give the concept some further consideration.
It was Lloyd Webber, after all, who encouraged her, no, ordered the poor, defenseless Irish warblette, to sing “JC Supe” rather than some dirgy ballad she had been fed by a filthy-sneakered producer.
Did he really think he was condemning her to a certain final curtain? Or might he have some alternative dastardly plan only befitting a very British, maroon trouser-wearing Lord?
I understand that Lord Lloyd Webber was, at times, barely able to contract his sphincter to inhuman levels of pressure as he watched his compositions being taken to the vocal abattoir by the singers from the Idol Junior High School.
Brooke White and Jason Castro ought both to have been ushered away from the stage and into an awaiting limousine with their large empty suitcases, just as defiled contestants are made to do by the WigWham himself, Donald Trump on “The Apprentice.”
They sent the show to depths not seen since Jason Guarini began dancing like a waxwork before 35-millimeter cameras with Kelly Clarkson.
There is not a prepubescent adolescent in America who could not have at least equaled the effluent that emerged from their mouths and presented a false passport that read “Music.”
Please forgive me for this sudden onset of onslaught.
I believe that because I am writing this from within Linda Blair Projectile Distance of the Idol Theater I am a little too close to the Idol Orbit and am struggling to find oblique humor in such a miasma of misery.
One ought to credit the English Lord (no, not Lord JC Supe) for doing his best to prepare the audience for the phantom bantams they were about to endure.
He tried to help, instruct, explain, translate, inspire, goad and perform intellectual CPR.
He was absurdly honest too.
Yet he was rewarded like a psychiatrist who thinks he has made a breakthrough with a patient only to discover the next day that the patient has plugged himself into his electric train set and self-immolated on platform three.
Of course Carly Smithson wasn’t the worst on the night.
She merely was too European to realize that singing about Jesus Christ being a superstar was not going to endear her to the old dears who cast their votes just before slipping into the dribble on their sofa cushions after one sip too many of white zinfandel.
She also displayed a singularly refined talent for leaving the audience feeling as much as they do when the novocaine sets in before their root canal.
How on earth will the Idol sweaty armpits react to what remains?
David Archuleta, despite the bizarre praiseology of the judges, is no more than one rung up Jacob’s Ladder.
He can barely see David Cook, who is perched at the top ready to try on his coat of many colors while talking to his agent of many contracts.
Syesha, Jason and Brooke are three mere fillings that will be tenderly excised over the next weeks.
I will attempt to gird my loins and sneak into rehearsals just to bring you essentials of the next fateful song choices.
(I trust those of you who were paying attention to the allegorical nature of this Pond, will have remembered that my rumored last choice for Carly was “As If We Never Said Goodbye.” So, please, at least, bow your head gently to the Pond’s unerring accuracy as to the order of dismissal.)
I fear these next nights will be among the longest for some of the remaining Idol contestants.
And as I end this evening utilizing some of the Sheraton Group’s most precious free wifi, let us not forget that at least the noble Ms. Smithson did not declare that she was going to ignore the popular vote and appeal to the superdelegates in the audience.
The Pond thanks Katie Tegtmeyer for capturing the Dark Lord at home.