Alrighty then, I'm done with the season. See you at the finale, bb.

Seriously. Few sights on TV are as entrancing as that of Paul McDonald launching himself all over the stage, those magnificent legs aswing. Musical taste ain't bad either.

Paul McDonald. Paul McDonald's legs. Oh, you mean there are other contestants?

I hate myself for fancying Casey James. I'm SO EFFIN' PREDICTABLE.

Lots of eye candy among this year's Top 24. Me approvey.

Oh, man. I got home, turned on the TV, and lo - a kid who looked like a cross between Daniel Radcliffe and Freddie from Freddie and the Dreamers was singing one of my most favoritest songs ever, "Love Grows (Where My Rosemary Goes)". And just like that, my crappy day had turned magnificent.

Well, there goes the last interesting contestant of the season. Now I really don't need to watch this show anymore.

Well, that was easily the worst Top 12 guys ever. Now I remember why I don't listen to commercial pop.

At some point during Osama bin Castro's audition, a voice in my head went "That's it - that's my guy." Thus it was decided: this season, I'm rooting for Sean Michel.

In other news, I never thought I'd see the day when Rafa Nadal got pummeled in straight sets. Feds v. Gonzo FTW!

And so it begins: the new season of American Idol. Nice knowing you, clients. *cough*