A Heartfelt Goodbye to Simon Cowell

Thank you for the lascivious glances cast at comely female contestants; your leer was our leer, and your unsubtle biting down upon a bendy straw as your eyes scanned upward from pedicured toes to pneumatic cleavage was always a sure ticket to Hollywood, mediocre vocal be damned. The Bikini Girls of the world owe you a cut of their nightclub promotional fees, and shoutouts from garish MySpace pages playing deafening loops of original songs involving an obvious reference to their brief, boner-enabled Idol tenure.

Thank you for feigning playful sexual chemistry with Ellen DeGeneres, whom we all know is not your type, nor you hers, and whom you know has absolutely no chance of saving the show you've doomed by your departure. While not as charged as your exchanges with Ryan Seacrest (really, what could be, other than a pillow fight in Ryan's feather-walled tickle-dungeon), these light moments were nonetheless enjoyable for reasons we don't completely understand. (Possibly because we lost interest in the contestants about six weeks in.)

Thank you for going along to get along this season, for not physically leaving the judges' table long after your enthusiasm had departed, because you at 50 percent is still far better than a flailing Randy, an overmatched Ellen, or a guesting Shania giving their all.

And lastly, thank you from releasing us from the obligation of watching Idol next year. Sure, we'll check it out once or twice, maybe try to guess how much cocaine Jamie Foxx needs to endure a two-day Indianapolis cattle call: a child's sand-bucket's worth, or a plastic keg-bucketful. But that's it. Our loyalty is to you.

Goodbye, Simon Cowell. We'll miss you.

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