Let's make this quick. I was already timeshifted before I got spoiled, and now that I have a second while everybody naps -- Royal Wedding in like ten minutes -- I want to make the most of it. Well, no. What I want is a nap. Especially since I already know who got sent home. On the other hand, Steven Tyler is finally just a regular transvestite now. Just your garden-variety crossdresser. He's not shrouding it in mystery like before: He stands proud. A proud, crossdressing pirate. A proud, illiterate, crossdressing, solipsistic, technically retarded pirate.
Ryan's hair is viciously parted. He looks like the sweetest and secretly scariest member of a Young Republican Bloodsport Fight Club. It's hot. J. Lo is dressed as a Coke logo, which is almost too many thoughts at once, and out in the crowd somebody's got a poster that says, and I am not shitting you, MARRY ME RANDY! If you ever wondered who those ladies are that write to the serial killers and/or want to marry them in prison, well, I still can't explain those assholes but I can tell you that they are cooler than at least one person.
Ryan thinks tonight will be hard. I'm sure that it will be, for some of us. For others of us, who actually had shit to do on Thursday night and thus weren't slavering at the screen live as it happened, it won't be so hard, because there is zero suspense. It will be an empty exercise, but it won't be particularly painful. Just stupid. And we were already doing just fine with how stupid this show is.
Blah blah, Ryan gives Steven Tyler the opportunity to talk nonsensically about himself, on the way to doing a month-too-late Charlie Sheen joke, so that's nice. Steven Tyler simply doesn't get enough opportunities to go on and on about himself and his sexuality. It's that kind of sensual, thrilling, throbbing, virile, English Leather masculinity that goes without saying. Or might, if he ever stopped talking about it, or himself, for five fucking seconds.
First there's a whole thing at the British Consulate that I'm not interested in talking about. Suffice to say, James Durbin does a "British" "accent." Not like how he usually randomly does that whenever anything happens at all, but specifically and on-purpose. Bleep-bloop. Then the kids do maybe the worst medley yet, screaming and not harmonizing in any way to a whole Carole King partial-birth that I can't even bother with. Bleep-bloop yet again. You might think I'm leaning too hard on the FF button this week, but check it: