FlipitTypes TV – Recaps, Gossip, and Trash Talk

THIS JUST IN: NANCY GRACE IS A DOUCHE (more…)

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Today in Trash Talk: Rosie reminds me of better times, Mexico can be one mean bitch, and dogs have feelings too. (more…)

I sit in up in my bed with two fresh packs of Marlboros, a bottle of Stoli, and a six pack of Diet Coke. OK, fine. And a catron of ice cream, a bag of pretzels, and a box of pizza. It’s a special occasion! Mary Jane even promised to swing by to complete the BFF circle for the big night. Judge me later, this ain’t fat camp. THIS. Is American Idol, the END! (more…)

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TODAY IN TRASH TALK: Alicia Silverstone kicks Hasselbeck in the vagina, more about vaginas, and Bushie gets pooped on by a bird. Sorry, but there are only so many vagina stories in one given day. Vagina. (more…)

Tink stands in a dramatic ray of backlight and tries to make us understand the gravity of what we’re about to witness. They’ve seen ONE hundred thousand wannabes and are down to TWO. ONE plus TWO is three. THREE comes after TWO. TWO THREE. 23! It’s the sign of the devil! Someone save Jim Carrey from himself before it’s too late!

Still not grasping it? He snaps his fingers and the lights over the massive audience at the Kodak Theater come on. I have to admit….

If ever there’s a time to size up how big someone’s balls are, it’s tonight. Oh, keep it in your pants. This ain’t a drunken pee at a truck stop urinal. THIS. Is American Idol! (more…)

For the first time ever, I’m shocked into silence. This is your brain.

THIS. Is your brain on American Idol. (more…)

The show opens with the Top Three looking themselves in the mirror long and hard. They’ve beat hos, cake boys, faux rock and pony hawk to get here, but do they have what it takes to be the next Taylor Hicks?

You decide. This is democracy in action. And THIS. Is American Idol! (more…)

BBC Reporter John Sweeney finally lost his shit all over an Elder after spending six months filming a documentary on Scientology. And when I say he lost his shit…wow. Turn the volume down on this one. (more…)

Last night I knew something was amiss when the Judges couldn’t muster up anything nice to say after LaKisha’s version of “Stayin’ Alive”. I’ve braced myself all day, and am now almost in a drug induced coma. It’s like that movie where Sandy Bullock knows her husband’s gonna die in a car crash and she can’t do anything about it. I’m tempted to skip tonight altogether, but I dry my tears and press play anyway. This ain’t a nursery. THIS. Is American Idol! (more…)

“You can’t kill the Boogie Man.” A little girl who saw her parents get murdered said that line on Heroes the other night and I raised my fist in solidarity when she did. You can’t kill the boogie, man. But the boogie can kill you (sorry it got your folks). There are only four Idols left and no one’s safe. Pull out your crucifixes and body glitter, because this is Boogie Night. And this. Is American Idol! (more…)

Tuesday night was one of the best shows of the season, with even the suckiest of the remaining contestants pulling off a good performance. Well, except for Jordin, but her screeching mess was way more entertaining than a home run. I snorted so much TrimSpa powder while I watched that I’m still awake, nervously awaiting the results. Since the two weeks totals were combined, tonight could be a shocker exit. It doesn’t help that last night we were reminded just how wrong the American people can be.

Like it or not, fate is in our hands. This isn’t recess, people. This! Is Amercian Idol! (more…)

In honor of Rock Night, I have a bottle of tequila, lines of crushed up TrimSpa, and a Sharpie tattoo shaped like a heart with a knife in it on my upper thigh. Over doing it a little? Maybe, but the sugar and holy glow from last week pushed me over the edge, and Rock Night gives me an excuse to sin again. I throw a couple back and warm up with a little Guitar Hero until the downstairs neighbor hits her ceiling with a broom. Any normal day I would have yelled “sorry!”, but tonight I’m not taking it. I go into the kitchen and bring back pots and pans to drop on the floor. I hear her baby screaming. My job is done here. This ain’t a nursery, breeder biatch. This! Is American Idol! (more…)