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There was only one good way to watch the final, interminable, two-hour American Idol karaoke contest last night: with TiVo fast-forward, those three little right-pointing arrows delivering an A Clockwork Orange-quality montage of Ryan Seacrest's mindless banter, Simon Cowell's military-stockade haircut, and Paula Abdul's pharmaceutical-powered gesticulations. Crackpots from the past singing off-key. B-listers' shit-eating grins beaming up from the audience. Hall and Oates' inexorable transformation into a lite-rock Siegfried and Roy. By the time TiVo delivered us to the climactic moment, our testicles had safely retracted into the body cavity, and all urges to rape and murder had melted away. The final moment was here.

And unless you've spent the previous 18 hours slowly marinating in a cannibal's kettle in Uganda, you already know the outcome. The almost-hot-but-not-quite-hot Carrie Underwood will be afforded every opportunity to make music that won't be appreciably worsened when stripped of its vocals and converted into the vibraphone version that will haunt the nation's elevators for years. Bo Bice, the "rocker" unexpectedly propelled to the finals by viewers' fascination with the dusty records moldering in their grandparent's basements, will tour the red states in the most kick-assingest Allman Brothers tribute band you ever did see.

Fox will collapse in the corner, waiting for the high from the Idol ratings crack to dissipate. Paula Abdul will attempt to seductively raise a come-hither eyebrow for a Ralphs bag boy, but instead activate a wave of uncontrollable facial tics that negate any amorous intentions, sending her scrambling back into the store for a handle of five-dollar whiskey, the most tender lover she's ever known, Estevez included. Ryan Seacrest will continue to respirate.

Goodbye for now, Idol. We're just going lay here and press your pillow to our face, hoping to catch a hint of your musk until you return.