Elimination Night - By Anonymous Page 0,38

fake birth certificate) whose first appointment after leaving her mom’s birth canal was probably an audition for a diaper commercial. Hipster chick with tattoos and flapper outfit who sounds exactly like every other hipster chick with tattoos and a flapper outfit (about three per season, mainly because they tend to show a lot of flesh, of which Len approves). Here they come, every size, shape, race, musical genre, dress style, and personality you can think of. Sweet hula girl from Pacific military base with nice voice but nothing to say. Mouthy rocker chick with beer breath and ashtray complexion. Rapping ex-Amish kid. Chinese American football player who’s big into Johnny Cash. Acrobat from the Houston circus who can perform any physical feat except sing on key. Beauty queen from Idaho—just turned eighteen yesterday!—with a hot pink T-shirt that reads, “I Da Hoe.”

There’s a twist to all this, however. Before any contestant is allowed into the room, they must first be screened one last time by Len, Maria, and Ed, who form a kind of decoy panel, a psych-ops team, whose aim is to confuse and demoralize. The strategy might not be complex, but it’s effective: They tell the singer the very opposite of the truth. The bad ones are informed of their greatness, their limitless potential, and, yes, their Gift (“Darling, you’re a tonic for our weary, cynical ears!”) And the good ones? They’re torn into a thousand bloody pieces, informed with a concerned, ever-so-sorry frown, of their obvious, multiple failings, and the unusually high quality of the competition this year. If they don’t want to go any further, Len tells them, that’s okay. No shame in quitting. He understands.

The purpose of all this? Drama, of course.

Take contestant number three: A terrible, terrible singer. As pleasing to the ears as a rock stuck in a vacuum cleaner—but he’s been told by Len & Co. of the great talent he possesses. His “instrument” is truly a Gift from nature, they enthuse. He must respect its power. So in he goes to the audition suite to torture the panel with twelve bars of River Deep—Mountain High. It’s atrocious. A musical homicide.

When it’s over, JD shakes his head and goes into one of his “oh, man,” routines.

Bibi can’t even look at the podium because Teddy has ordered her never, ever to sneer. “Oh, sweetie,” she coos, trying to sound maternal.

A difficult silence.

Then—

“THAT FUCKIN’ SUCKED ASS!” blasts Joey, who for reasons known only to himself has taken the desecration of Ike and Tina Turner as a personal insult. “Seriously. You should be fuckin’… [sighs] just get the hell outta here, man. This ain’t for you.”

In the contestant’s eyes: disbelief. Only three minutes ago, he had been compared favorably to Otis Redding; he had been asked to give “serious thought” as to who might produce his first album. He had been told to respect his Gift.

“No, no… this can’t be right!” he says, remembering that he’s signed a contract agreeing never to disclose any “private discussions with the producers,” especially not on the podium. “I know I’m good. They told me! Let me sing you another—”

“Duuuuude,” says JD. “Joey’s right. This ain’t for you.”

“But it… is!”

Bibi: “It isn’t, sweetie.”

“But… but… [beginning to whimper] my instrument!”

Close-up on face. Len’s voice in my earpiece: “Are you getting the tears? Are you getting the tears?”

The contestant throws his orange ticket on the floor, stomps petulantly, then storms out in a rage. Only we’ve directed him to the wrong door, and it won’t open. He rattles the handle. He’s burning with shame. Humiliation on humiliation. A handheld cam in his face, pushing closer, pushing closer. He swats it away, finds the right door—this takes some time—and practically throws himself through it, anything to get away from this horror, this travesty. But there, on the other side, is none other than the Evil HostBot himself, Wayne Shoreline.

“This must be the worst day of your life, right?” asks Wayne, chirpily. “Wanna tell me about it? It’ll feel good to get it off your chest. Tell me why you feel so betrayed.”

Now the contestant falls to his knees. He’s forgotten all about Len & Co. now. He simply knows the truth. His Gift is a fact established beyond any question. It has nothing whatsoever to do with what was fed to him a few minutes ago by a trio of manipulative television producers. But this Gift, with its great power, and the great responsibility that comes with it, has not been recognized.