Welcome back to America's Got Talent, the show with the longest running audition season of any other reality show on television, now or ever! Obviously, six weeks of auditions criss-crossing the country is not enough, not when there are this many talented Americans simply dying to have their shot at a million dollars and a Vegas dream. This show aims to personally ensure that every single American with even the vaguest soupçon of talent or the whiff of talent upon them or, heck, if they once stood in the same room while someone who has talent farted, this show wants to make sure they have the chance to perform in front of our esteemed judges and their (less esteemed) producers and (not even close to esteemed) interns. Sure, it's a lot of auditions, but this is America. And hasn't it been worth it? We found that singer. And that other singer. And that other singer. And the man who is not Terry Fator. And Bendy Barbie. And Fake Elvis. Totally worth it, right? Right? This show has had so many auditions that they ran out of auditions and had to make up some more in order to have more audition shows. This week: auditions culled from the dank reaches of MySpace. Send thank-you cards to Rupert Murdoch.
While the MySpace audition process is never fully explained, there is no doubt that these people truly are MySpacers. For example, our first contestant clearly has a MySpace page. He is a magician in red Chuck Taylors, leather pants, a leather top hat that was made by either a really stoned "craftsman" at a Wolfmother concert or by a blind gothic milliner, and eyeliner that was most likely applied by a drunk six year old. His name is Michael Trixx, he is 37, and he does rock and roll magic. He also exemplifies why I never go on MySpace. I don't want to hang out with people like that, even when we're only virtually connected via several hundred miles of fiberoptic cable. Mr. Trixx blasts some metal, prances in a very un-rock and roll like fashion, and performs some very cheap magic. He is quickly buzzed out by Piers and The Hoff. Sharon calls him a little Hobbit and he runs back to the safety of his cyperspace Shire. By the way, Hasselhoff, nice vest. Jerry Springer points out that the final audition show is off to a bad start. As is Jerry's commentary, in my opinion.
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?