“Ouch, Simon,” Ryan Seacrest retorted, playfully. “A little harsh. Don’t worry Whitney. He’s just a little intimidated. You have more talent in your pinky than he’ll ever have.”

Randy hopped up for a standing ovation, “Whoop!” Paula giggled. Simon quickly raised and lowered his eyebrows, and smirked, the clear sign that he thought he had something brilliant to say.

“Ryan, why don’t you stop flirting with the girl, I’m sorry what is her name? Whitney. And give the people the number?”

“I was just about to do that, but first. Whitney, how do you feel about the sharp criticism from our judges?”

“First of all, Randy. You have a rather large ego for someone who rode Mariah Carey’s shirttail to get famous. And we know you did this because you mention it every five seconds. Paula, you’re just beautiful, girl. That’s it. Your talent dried up long ago. And Simon, if I wanted advice from a no-talent-ass-clown, I’d ask Bobby Brown.”

Seacrest managed, “If you would like to vote for Whitney, dial 1-866-idols-01.”