Well, I was hoping for pelvis-shaking goodness in Memphis, and … well … not so much. A little bit, maybe. Most of the shaking was kinda disturbing really. Especially the lovely montage of contestants butchering my beloved Elvis’ song, Burnin’ Love. Many large people were jiggling the poundage, but were more like hunks o’ burnin’ lard, not quite burnin’ love. At least not for me. But some people like that … so, whatever.

Anyway, the show featured a disproportionate number of stinkers again this week, and only 5 of the 22 who actually made it to Hollywood. Of those 5, I was digging 2 of them: Melinda Doolittle, the pro background singer who looked like she was about to shit her pants the whole time, but was very sweet and had a great voice, and Sean Michel from Arkansas. When I initially saw Sean, with his bizarre long Amish beard and Fidel Castro-inspired cap, and heard he was from Arkansas, I was convinced I was looking at the next Uni-bomber. But then he opened his mouth and out came a soulful rendition of a gospel tune by Johnny Cash. Hmm. Rather impressive. And he was doing a nice little backbeat with his hands and feet at the same time. So he also has good fine motor skills.

I was less impressed with the other 3. Sundance shocked me with how much he looks like a fatter version of my friend Tim, but with a horrid goatee that looks like he’s wearing a vagina on his chin. Hey, some guys would like that. His version of Stormy Monday did sound great, but I just couldn’t get past the chest fur fluffing out from his half-unbuttoned shirt. I also believe there was a gold chain buried in there somewhere and that’s just wrong. Unless you’re Italian.

Danny McCulloch was the chick with the weed-whacker hairdo. Her Aretha song sounded okay, but I agreed with Randy and thought she was blah, blah, blah. Just another boring, blond, white girl. Yee hah. Phil also made it through … while his wife was giving birth to their second child. What? Wife is in the hospital, in labor, pushing and shoving a squirmy six-pounder out through her cooch and this guy’s hanging in a hotel, probably having a few cocktails and chatting up the sluts at the bar? Fuck that. Unless he makes it all the way, which I doubt, that will be fodder for guilt-trips and bitch-slaps for the remainder of their marriage. Hope it was worth it, baldy.

Of course Memphis would not be well-rounded without its share of psychos and there were ple-en-ty. Not being able to speak properly seemed a staple of the Memphis crazies, with Timika Sims singing that Ashanti song like she had a wad of dirty gym socks stuffed in her cheeks. I swear, she’s the real-life incarnation of Mushmouth from Fat Albert. If that cartoon character knocked up a five-buck hooker, Timika would be the result. Robert Lee Holmes was also speech-challenged, but it’s probably the result of a hankering for the crack rock. Because one could only believe that he sounds “just like Elvis” if he was high as fuck. Oh, and he writes stories about himself.

God awful appearances were also a theme. Alexis with the braces and gums like a goddamn horse. Wandera with the sculpted red hair and lipliner darker than the lip gloss. When, oh please when, will people realize that wearing lipliner darker than your lips makes your mouth look like a huge butt hole? And when will people realize that bleached out straggly blond bowl haircuts, like the one on Chris Rivera, only look good on heroin junkies? And they have to be pretty damn hip heroin junkies at that. Not some suburban jackass like Chris.

Finally, the most freakish pair of the night had to be Janita Burks and Topher McKay. When Janita walked into that studio, it was Holy Boobs! Like, BAM! Hello, Tits! And she shook her shit singing Disco Inferno to the point that I was certain one was gonna flop out. And it would flop. Not pop out, flop out. Those were low-hanging puppies.

Topher, I initially felt bad for. I mean, if your name’s Christopher, why the fuck would you call yourself Topher? He’s a fat, ugly guy who really should be working as a dorky IT guy in some boring company that makes file folders or some other bland product. But he irritated me, calling his ex-wife a bitch cause she left him. Maybe she’s not a bitch, maybe she just got sick of fucking a fat, ugly guy. Good for her. Maybe she just couldn’t take looking at his weird, hairy-neck beard day-in and day-out. His shimmying and shaking to Footloose didn’t make it any better. I could only imagine the horror his poor wife suffered every time she let that beast mount her. Ugh.

Okay, now I feel like I’m gonna puke, so I must wrap up. It was interesting, Memphis. No one like the King, but lightening doesn’t usually strike twice in the same place. Oh, well. Tomorrow night is New York City and I’m sure it’ll be ripe with weirdos and idiots. Can’t wait!