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Tuesday
Creepy doom music as Seacrest reviews some uninteresting statistics. Note to show: not everything is suspenseful. In fact, none of it is, given that we've been watching for a month and still don't know anybody's name, and we're scared to get attached because we might never see them again. So the suspense is less focused on anything in particular and more moment-by-moment, which is less like the narrative drama you wish to create, and more like having dinner with McG: Irritating and jittery and a little gay.
So we've traveled 10,000 miles, to seven different cities, and then we name the cities and show their stupid landmarks, and I'm sure it is in some totally fake order that is neither the order we saw them on the show nor the order that they were actually visited, because for some reason this show would prefer to be fake and jacked-up when it would actually be easier to show things that happened in the order in which they happened. If all this were for any real reason, well, the show would be effective then, wouldn't it? Needless Seacrestiana about how there were some good singers, and some bad singers, and some that were "just plain weird." The accompanying shots are of, I think, Sarah Mather (you know I can't identify any of the good singers yet), Good Old Dirk, and Mary Roach Guilbeaux.
You know what? Imagine growing up with the last name "Roach." Girlfriend has done okay, on review. I'd so be in jail by now, especially if I were also congenitally a weirdo. You go, Mary Roach Guilbeaux. Happy Valentine's Day, to you from me.
So now we're in "Hollywood," to face the "most intense" week of their lives. Twin Richard, perhaps inevitably, likens it to "Hell Week." His entire life is like this. I love it. Hopefully there'll be no elephant walk necessary to enter this esteemed brotherhood. Although honestly, he'd probably have a better chance.
Seacrestiana about the "roller coaster of emotions" and how there will be eventually 12 "boys" and 12 "girls" going into the finals. And by the way, that's an insult. Apparently you didn't know that calling a 28-year-old woman a "girl" is bad? It is. Don't do it. I mean, I know there's a whole Peter Pan lesson to be learned here about how Ryan is something like 75 years old and still trying to look like a Mining Company go-go dancer but, like, your life is calling, Seacrest. Okay?
We see the past winners yet again and some confetti, but I still can't care because none of the hopefuls matters so I can't imagine them singing whatever thinly-veiled coronation song Tamyra will write this year, and then the credits, which are also mostly about the past winners, and you know? It's kind of like those light shows in wrestling where the fireworks go off and the people scream and it's very loud and pyro and the man in his underwear, only all digital. The credits get more confusing the more times you see them.