Next up on the stage is a MySpace dance troupe. It is obvious from one look at this troupe that we are already at the Turn for the Worse. A woman in a French maid's outfit, a spokesmodel in sunglasses and a white suit with gold epaulettes and a cane that was stolen from Michael Jackson's Goodwill pile, and four extras in black trenchcoats, sunglasses, and umbrellas. Piers does not look excited to see them. Diva Boy (the man in the shoulder pads) introduces his "sexplosion" dancers and assures Piers that they are worth a million dollars. The black-clad dancers spread out, the French maid whirls, Diva Boy swings his cane and Piers buzzes. They continue their crap impression of trained dancers and Hoff buzzes followed quickly by Sharon. Diva Boy takes off his sunglasses for the judgment. It's a big no. Diva Boy puts his sunglasses back on to hide his tears. Hasselhoff explains that no one would ever pay a million dollars for that act ever ever ever. Like that needed explanation. Diva Boy's complete and utter awfulness is further discussed backstage between Piers and The Hoff. They were awful. And, really, does anyone have French maid fantasies anymore? Anyone?

Next to grace the stage is a motivational speaker named Eloy Rendon who is performing spoken word, poetry-slam style. He is rapidly buzzed off by all three judges. It wasn't that he was bad per se, but it was entirely wrong for the show. The Hoff and his vest agree with my assessment and Mr. Rendon heads back to Texas to motivate some cattle or oil or Stetsons or something. Del Hampton is a 42-year old factory worker who demonstrates why adults should never venture onto MySpace. He is yet another animal sound emulator who has focused all his talents on one animal: The Chicken. He clucks around on the stage, bobs his head, flaps his little flightless wings, and even has an egg before Piers asks him to "Cluck off." Then David Deeble plans to set off fireworks in his pants, but the judges buzz him off before he has a chance to send even one little cherry bomb down his drawers. I don't know about you, but I would totally spend money on that act. That may be overstating it, so let me rephrase: I'd be more likely to spend money on that than to see those cheerleading dance strippers they've sent through. No one would pay to see that when you can go to Hooters and see it for the cost a beer and a bucket of wings. And really, judges -- you'll let a woman buzzgrind her private bits, let a man kiss a cobra, let another swallow swords, and you, Hasselhoff, will go tap dance on a naked man's chest on top of a bed of nails, but you won't let me see one measly M-80 set off in a pair of chinos? Killjoys.