Bob Odenkirk, Simon Cowell.. Need We Say More!

We stumbled across this over at Filter and we can't pass up reading anything by Mr. Bob Odenkirk. After all the Mr. Show DVD collection goes with us on every trip we take. Anyway read below for Bob Odenkirk's - Simon Cowell Reviews Evergreen Elementary Spring Show

Courtesy Of Filter Magazine

“What…the hell…was that?”

I didn’t need to look to know exactly who was offering this stone-dry assessment of my children’s school’s song and dance tribute to spring. We live in Hollywood. The school is on Hollywood Boulevard. Why was he here? Maybe he’d just stumbled in, drawn by the smell of innocent blood. The mad post-show applause began to die down as he heated up.

“I mean…come on. First of all, this is supposed to be a talent presentation, yes? Where was the ‘talent?’ Dismal, top to bottom. Where do I begin? First grade? The costumes? Rags from a tie-dye experiment gone horribly wrong. The dancing? Like watching epileptics on roller skates. Utter chaos. Surpassed in awfulness only by the third grade. That girl in pigtails—was that a solo? I thought it might be a cry for help from a child who finally came to her senses.”

A mother huffed, “Well, I thought it was…musical.”

“It wasn’t,” he snapped.

One confused grandfather went on the advance, insisting, “The kindergarteners were cute.”

“The kindergarteners, dear sir, were crap and they should not be encouraged. Let this be their final performance. Don’t have them back. What were they supposed to be anyways? Dancing tampons?”

“I think they were supposed to be flowers…or cat-tails,” said a mother.

“No. No. They were tampons. Appropriate as it was bloody hell up there.”

With that, people headed for the door, but our man sprang to action, blocking their path and carrying on. “I’m not done. Am I the only one who teared up out of sheer pain during the ‘Small World’ finale? I want to say ‘poor choice of material’ but I hate to blame the material, dreadful though it may be. I mean, this is a song one would think is impossible to make more grindingly annoying than it famously is, but my dears, I tell you Walt Disney is vomiting in his refrigerated chamber. Are the parents of any sixth graders here? I see no hands. Understandable. Distance yourselves. That little playlet they performed about changing the world? Nothing has ever made me long so for an apocalypse. It’s just a bit too late now because we all had to suffer that. Your children have no style, no presence of any kind; they were thick lumps of carbon held together by fatty-fat-fat cells emitting some sort of strained yodel. Their trite speechifying about recycling and solar power was ear-numbing and the expressions on their pasty faces put me in mind of a donkey who’d been beaten into a permanent state of shock. Taken together I found the show cringe-inducing and overlong by about an hour.” Gander On for the rest.

I looked at my watch, “But it was only 45 minutes long.”

“Exactly,” he smiled. “Can someone answer me, what was the point of all the flashbulbs and the non-stop video-ing? Are you all intending on blackmailing your children if they ever threaten to take the stage again?”

A teary-eyed grandmother could hold herself back no longer. “Those are for relatives who couldn’t make it.”

“You could just as simply have phoned them up and said, ‘You lucky bastard.’”

With that, he turned to allow the downtrodden to scuttle toward the door.

I remained behind, watching him. He seemed deeply content, like a maharishi talking to Charlie Rose, or like Charlie Rose talking to a maharishi. Then something occurred to me: “You forgot to mention the second grade. What did you think of them?”

His expression softened. “The second grade were absolutely, without question, bafflingly…superb. They had it all, from the paper elephant costumes to the dancing flags of third world countries—spot on. Simply…the reason these shows exist.”

“Are any of them, by chance, related to you?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I’m just curious.”

“Yes…well…the little girl who did the cartwheels is. . . a friend of a friend.”

“’Friend of a friend?’"

“Niece.”