Well, America. There it was. Your Top 12 Idols. What you prayed and voted for, what you made happen. I hope you were happy. Because, thanks a frigging lot, that was some bullshit.

Well, OK, it wasn't that bad. But did you, like me, find yourself wondering what Lily, Epperly, and Carol Brady would have sung? There, flickering dimly in the crumbling Aztec theater that is my sad and addled brain, was Alex Lambert doing a crystal-croony version of "Wild Horses." There was Epperly doing a slo-mo piano "Angie." And the Worst Witch? Well, I don't know. I don't really know any more Rolling Stones songs. I'm honestly sort of skeptical that anyone in this world actually sits down and listens to the Rolling Stones. When is that occasion? OK, maybe if you're hanging out with Tim Allen and John Travolta and they're like "Wanna take a motorcycle ride?" then maybe I would listen to "Start Me Up" or whatever. But then and only then. Otherwise, forget about it. Give me my Justin Bieber and call it a motherfucking day. Heard?

The Good
 Thumperstacks did good. We all love Thumperstacks. Her performance last night was absolutely her worst so far, but it was still basically miles ahead of everyone else and her little pre-song package about her Ohio daddy cryin' and carryin' on was pretty nice, so Thunderpants wins this round.

Or does she? Siobhan Magnus, the last of the Starchildren, is trying to sing her way back to her home planet of Songtasia and lemme tell you, I think she might get there. Nothing about her "Paint It Black" made any cognitive sense in terms of a human person trying to record and sell music in the year of our Lord 2010, but other than that it was good! She sang it interestingly and was reminiscent of a male Adam Lambert and that is nice. Plus I liked her intro package about being from Cape Cod, because I always imagine that growing up there is like living in a lighthouse. Just a sea of lonely lighthouses that inevitably house creatures like Siobhan Magnus. Why her skystreamer crashed here three hundred years ago we'll never know. Why all the other Starchildren are gone — not dead, just gone — we'll never know either. But what we do know is this: Siobhan and Blisterknickers are the two top favorites of this, our god-awfulest season of American Idol since the last season of American Idol.

Paige Miles finally showed some trace of the voice that Simon's been yammering on about since Day 1, so that was interesting to see. I still think she's confused about what this show is and should probably be escorted home, but she didn't totally embarrass herself last night as she has in weeks past, so good for her.

The Bad
 Do you guys mind talking to me for a second about Lacey Brown? Why is she on the television? I factually know at least ten people who are much better, more interesting singers than her. People I know in my real-ass, theater-ass life. And yet there's Lacey Brown, gurgling along up there on stage, heinously mangling... wait, what was that? "Ruby Tuesday"? Arguably Lacey picked the prettiest of Stones songs (it's so pretty it sounds like the Beatles) and then she walked up to it and strangled it. That was some cold blooded gangster shit right there. She was all nice to it, saying sweet things to it, and then she got behind it and slowly strangled it, saying "Sshhh, sshhh, ssshhh," stroking its head as it slumped over and died. Lacey is a tough-cookie song murderer. Goodbye Ruby Tuesday indeed.

A leather shirt. As if this season didn't have enough avatars of awfulness in play already — the sex troll that is Tim Urban, the teef of Boomerslacks, the Carol Brady haircut — last night we got yet another artifact that will forever stand as representative proof that American Idol season 9 was indeed the groan and whimper that ended the world. That sad-eyed kid from Texas (I really sincerely can never remember his name) came out wearing what I thought at first was a fetching, Ryan Gosling-esque fitted caramel leather jacket. Oh how wrong I was. The camera then panned back to reveal all his makeover glory and I realized that this kid wasn't wearing a leather jacket. No ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. This rat-like fellow was wearing a leather shirt. A collared shirt, made of leather. Remember denim disasters (how can we now think that JT is cool? just look at that) and how those were bad enough? Well, this was worse. It was a shirt made of brown leather. This is post-makeover, guys. That the only thing I can say about this kid — who, if he's not pulled out of this competition immediately, is going to be giving out nickel blowjobs at the bus station pretty soon and really needs to be rescued — is that he wore a crazy leather shirt last night should give you some indication of his singing ability.

I'm pretty sure there's a guy on this show named Phil Dweezy who's been pretty much whiffing it every night for weeks. Am I right about this? He's like David Cook's stoner cousin who wore Vans and cargo jeans to Thanksgiving and no one could really figure out what happened with his parents, how they raised wrong-side-of-the-tracks kids when everyone else in the family was firmly right-side. I don't know. I like the tone of his voice sometimes but it's never consistent. One shining moment of surprise on the first night of semifinals does not an Idol career make, friend. Nor does one shining Paula Abdul-graced performance during Hollywood Week. Yes, Andrew Garcia, I am looking in your direction. What happened to him? He really is the Chris Sligh of this season. All faded, growly promise. Too bad, so sad.

The Whiffenpoof
 So I'm watching Idol last night with my dear friend Cathy, a Latin teacher who never watches the show but was tolerating it before we turned on Lost, and we were watching Tim Urban and she was like "I just don't think he should be on this show. He looks like he should be a Whiffenpoof or something." And after I'd stopped cackling and got myself back up on the couch I asked her, "What, dear friend, is a Whiffenpoof?" Because it was the most accurate description of Tim Urban I'd ever heard and I didn't even know what it meant. Turns out it's one of Yale's prestigious a cappella groups. A Whiffenpoof. That is Tim Urban. Tim Urban shall forever be known from here on out as Whiffenpoof. Gratias tibi ago, Cathy.

But yeah, Whiffenpoof is a total dinkins and sang dreadfully, as always, but of course he will linger on forever. He really could win this thing. He really could. It's those dimples! Oh and didn't you weep soft humanity tears last night while watching Whiffenpoof's package and seeing his brother, who sort of looks like him but clearly is not as attractive and isn't that sad when that happens? Also, 10 kids. Ten kids. What's the story behind that?

I Can't Anymore
 With the Katie Stevens. I just can't. Did you see in her Let's Meet... video when she was like all robotic "I was very shy!" and then her mom was like "No, she was a total ham"? That was such a treasure. I hate how models or beautiful actors are always like "I was such a dork in school!" because that's supposed to make us like and relate to them somehow. "Ohhh they were a dork way back when just like I am a dork right now and always will be. Connections!" Well it's the same thing with the Stevens Machine saying "Oh I was so shyyyyyyy." No you weren't and the lie will not make us like you any more. And good for Mom for being honest. I also could not believe that people who were that young when "From This Moment" came out are capable of walking and talking now. Years.

And did you see that picture of Katie as a little girl that was hanging on the wall? That picture? It was like Thomas Kinkade highjacked an Anne Geddes photoshoot. It was a young Katie sitting in a white photo studio wearing a jaunty chapeau and grinning. It was basically an outtake from the opening credits of a never-aired 1994 TGIF show called House Rules, about a weary referee, his sassy-smart wife, three precocious daughters (who he just doesn't understand, because he's a man!), and his one horny teenage son. It was supposed to air after Step by Step but was canceled immediately for mysterious reasons. That was Katie's photograph and it was just so telling. So very telling. Anyway, Katie's "Wild Horses" was predictable and boring.

And that's that!