With only a few weeks left to go until discovering singers with an exploitable tragic backstory, American Idol is still without a full roster of hackneyed grossly made up talking mannequin judges. Brought back from the dead by ABC, the show paid through the nose to secure Ryan Seacrest as the smirking emcee and Katy Perry as a headliner panelist, now they’re lowballing anybody with a platinum album from before 1985 to try and fill seats.
Currently, they’re haggling with Lionel Richie who wants ten million and they’re only willing to offer five. Country singers Luke Bryan and Keith Urban remain as contract holdouts. Other names of Top 40 music are refusing to sign for ten cents on the Perry and Seacrest dollar. Any fantasy football manager who overbids on a few top players understand this position. You blew your team budget on Dak Prescott. Now you’re wrangling for a tight end with a worrisome shoulder MRI.
The requiem for network television is being sung in bits and pieces along a slow trail of diminishing content. If Netflix or Amazon were running Idol, they’d have Angelina Jolie, a re-animated Amadeus, and The Pope locked down in those chairs. Contract dollars wouldn’t even have to be aired publicly. This is legacy television circling the bowl while Katy Perry spits out nine hour long anecdotes about her historically oppressive hair braids. It’s not pretty, save for Seacrest, who could only do better as a featured item in a prison yard bitch auction.
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