And then there were two! And soon there will be none and we'll be done. Yes, two more episodes of this withered Idol season to go and, remarkably, we've ended up pretty much exactly where we were supposed to.

Final Two-wise, I mean. I mean this is, basically, the only Final Two we could possibly have had without putting our heads in our hands and actually feeling bad for Simon Fuller and company. Imagine a Katelyn Epperly/Alex Lambert showdown. Or a Didi Bikini/Michael Lynce thrilla in vanilla. I guess it could have been kind of fun to see Siobhan Magnus shriek-rattle the Winner's Song, but only for about three seconds. Basically the two we have are the only qualified two. And of course "qualified" is a fairly relative term for this crippled season, but at least we have small justice. Anyway, the show.

It's sort of funny how teeny-bop this episode was considering we had no teeny-bops left in the competition. I guess Phil and Casey are cuuute to some goils, but mostly they are growly adult-types. There was no Adam Lambert glee explosion or Kris Allen pantie-changers. No David Archuleta Mormon moaning. There was just Phil the soulpatched Paint Store King, singing for a new pair of Airwalks. There was mature mama Crystal, singing old barroom songs with her odd, melancholy amber glow. And there was Casey, all kind of mom-sexy and bedroom-eyed. It's not exactly the ready-made stuff of teen girl fantasia, and yet the episode built around it totally was.

Because of Justin Bieber. And because of a creature named Trevor Warbler or something. Travis Winehouse? What is his name? Trixie Belvedere, let's call him. Ohhh Trixie. Trixie is a lanky oak twig that Perez Hilton found in his front yard one shambling morning and decided he loved. Oh he loved little Trixie so. He polished him and held him and taught him things about the world. He knew someday that Trixie would leave, but he enjoyed the time they had together. And then when it was time, Perez called the Idol show and said "Have I got an act for you. He sings, he dances, he sweats profusely." (Seriously, did you see that dude's sweat at the end of his whisperjam? Damn.) The Idol people figured that this act could fit well with their pre-planned Bieber evening so they booked him and that night as he was putting him to bed, Perez stroked Trixie's hair and kissed him on the forehead and said "Tomorrow everything is going to be different. I hope I have taught you well." Trixie looked sad for a moment, confused. "You have, Papa. You have." Perez smiled and teared up and said "Oh you're just saying that. And, please, don't call me Papa. It makes what I'm about to do pretty creepy."

So that was that. Trixie Belvedere was making his big debut and it was make it or break it. No one had ever heard of him, so he had one shot. He had spaghetti on his sweaty already, but he would not let that stop him. Ryan introduced him and out he ran with his dancers doing some sort of couples dance narrative. The beat thrummed and the synths whined and then it was finally time for Trixie Belvedere — Lady of the Sticks, Lost Last Scion of the Roundhouse Gang — to open his mouth and show the world what he"s made of. So his jaw opened, his lips parted, and out came... "tinkle tinkle tinkle, xylophone." Seriously, considering all the buildup, was that not the most underwhelming thing? "Hi-Hi, I'm Trixie / Singing a song about gurrllssss / Hiiiii, I'm Trixie / Comin' into your wor-world..." ("A freckle faced red head girl, you oughta know!" Don't you wish? Oh don't you wish??) Was it not miked properly? Was he supposed to be singing a different song? Was he just doing a strange Mimi Riperton impression? Nobody knows. But no matter what the case was, I think it was a failure. Sorry, Truvy St. Barnard. You're just not ready.

But then it was time for a real fuckin' pro. Oh man, have you mooks hoid'a this Bieber kid? Kid's got talent comin' out his ass in the shape of gold records. He's not even Backstreet big. He's Monkees big. He's gonna be 'uge. Love this kid. Love him. Look at the way this expert singer and dancer does little sways and only occasionally screws up his lip syncing? It's fuckin' impressive, and I seen a lot in my time. A lot. Kid even plays the drums! Holy fantastifucks is this little pecker-head a talented sonuvabitch or what? My daughter? My daughter could marry a kid like him. My daughter, she's a fuckin' angel, love my little princess, I want her to marry this little fag. Justin Bieber. I'm tellin' ya. Watch out for this fruit. He's gonna eat the world.

So that was that. We also got to go home with the Idols, which is always fun. We didn't really get to see much of the dumpy lean-tos they crawled out of, but we did see some other things. Mostly we saw cheering and crying, crying and cheering. Boy does Phil Dweezy like to cry, huh? I don't know why they had him in Chicago instead of Allentown, but that's OK. It was still nice to see him cry and stuff. Crystal cried too. So did Corbin. What was his whole health scare about? Was there a motorcycle accident or something? I can't remember. But he seemed pretty moved about that whole thing, so good for Corky.

Nothing else remarkable happened, and then it was time to see who picked the black egg out of the jar. Of course it was Cerwin. It could be no one but Clovis. I'm glad that shirt-hating women the nation over didn't vote for him because of his bulbous daffodil beauty. I'm glad that quality won out over looks. Teef before swine. Or something. So who will win now that our lackadaisical troubadour has Texas-walked out the back door? Well, it looks to be cousin Phil's game, don't it? I think he probably just inspires a little more lust and love and stuff. Crystal's talents are a bit colder, a bit more polished. Phil has the American Idol scratch, he leaves claw marks everywhere he goes. People like that. People like an underdog. Women just also have a hard time winning this show. Sorry to say it.

So for now we wait. Crystal and Phil try to catch their breath amidst the crush of photos and interviews and screaming that will soon go silent, likely forever. Simon starts to pack up his dressing room, putting old photos in boxes, stopping once in a while to gaze wistfully at one, feeling the whoosh and rush of years traveling through him like comets, galaxies born and dying, the universe ever expanding. He carries a box out to his car and his phone rings. He balances the box on a knee, fumbles for his phone, answers it. "Hello?" A garbled, slow voice comes on the other end. "Heyyyyy ish... me.... Just! Hey. Saying... Lunch? Who wants LUNCH? Hold on, hold on... dog's caught in the screen again... hold on..." Simon chuckles and says "Hey Paula, sure, I'd love lunch. I'll swing by Del Taco. You'll have the usual, I take it?" He hears a clatter and a thud and then the phone scraping across the tile floor. "Heyyy isss me again. Hey. Heyyy. Yeah, fifteen tacos and a diet Slices, as always my friend, as always...zzzz....." Simon smiles and hops in the car. To Del Taco! And to other places, too.

Carvin sits in the back of a limo, winding up into the Hollywood Hills. Eventually the car stops and he gets out. He stands before a giant stucco mansion with a huge, heavy dark wood door. He approaches it, knocks with the gigantic copper knocker. He hears feet approaching and then the door groans open. Kara stands there in dim candlelight, the orange and yellow flickering off of her nude body. "Come in, come in," she coos, her voice thick with wine and libido. Celvin is hesitant so Kara grabs him by the belt buckle and pulls him in, slams the huge door behind him. After a while there is a loud piercing wail that comes from the bedroom and then there is silence.

And Tim Urban lies languidly on a giant, dark-sheeted bed. He flips lazily through a copy of V Man until he hears the car in the driveway. He puts the magazine down, leans back and waits. Finally he sees Ryan in the doorway. Ryan turns and whispers to someone, unseen, "Come on, it's OK." And a timid looking young man with tall hair appears in the doorway. "This," Ryan says, placing gentle hands on the lad's shoulders, "Is Trixie Belvedere. And he is a present for my Tim." Tim grins and claps his hands. He looks wickedly at Ryan. "Well, turn out the lights then."

And Ryan does. And it is dark. And we'll see you next week, one last time.