Week 274 of Ameria’s Got Talent, and the ten remaining acts audition again, for your votes.

Well, either your votes, or else the approval of the goat’s entrails which the judges seem to have been relying on these past few weeks to tell them which act gets their discretionary nod.

If you, like us, are getting a little tired of this season’s judges’ decisions – which they apparently make by asking themselves “Which of these acts is worst at delivering the one, simple, specific thing which they claim as their whole reason for being here?” – then take heart! After the jump, we introduce you to the awesomely majestic mighty magnificence which is… the AGT Drinking Game.

Yes, it’s been an odd season. Despite being humiliatingly told off on an aeroplane by Simon Cowell – sat, sulking, like naughty toddlers being denied their playtime – the judges have still continued with their ploy of putting contestants through based solely on their astrological chart, mother’s maiden name or extremely homosexual facial hair (at this point, please indulge yourself with a little Susan Boyle gag).

How else, after all,  to explain Tony & Rory getting through a couple of weeks ago? You remember them: the man who sported the very dictionary definition of “that moustache what is worn by middle-aged gay men” threw frisbees for his insane dog, which decided that its job was to headbutt them into the audience and then stand at the front of the stage, menacing the crowd with its mad, mad eyes.

Well, we’re sick of it. And how do we deal with that? Why, just like everything else in our lives which annoys or depresses us: by pouring alcohol down our gullets until the hurt goes away.

It’s an AGT drinking game, and here are the prescribed doses for various scenarios:

Hoffisms: each time David Hasselhoff clumsily replaces a syllable from an everyday English word with Hoff – Hofftastic, Hoffnificent, Hoffaleujah -  the drinker shall chug one half pint of beer.

Special Circumstances: if the Hoff is inserted in an uncomfortably jarring way – Hoffazing, Unbehoffable, Hoffcredihoff – then the forfeit shall be one whole pint.

Osbourneos: players shall maintain careful vigilance of Sharon Osbourne‘s tightly-strung facial muscles. Any participant observing the tiniest of movements between the hairline and the lips shall drink a Lemon Bacardi Breezer (Tia Maria and Coke is an acceptable substitute).

Special Circumstances: if there be an act which Sharon deems to have performed less than “stellar”, “amazing”, or “absolutely fantastic”, then all players shall consume an amount of gin sufficient to render them less coherent than Ozzy.

Morganites: players should pay close attention to the sounds formed by Piers Morgan‘s lips during each show (Safety Note: in order to accomplish this without mental distress, we recommend three fingers of strong rum be consumed prior to start time). If at any point an observer believes they have heard an actual human language word emitted – which does not, of course, include the sounds made by a melting snowman, a gurgling baby or The Elephant Man speaking through a toilet-paper tube. Underwater. While chewing a marshmallow – then they should…

Actually, the rules are rather unclear about this. We suggest seeking psychiatric assistance as soon as possible after flushing the ears with bleach, hydrogen peroxide and gunpowder.

Special Circumstances: should a gamer spot the thin line of drool beginning to emerge from the corner of Morgan’s mouth before the show’s producers manage to cut away, they shall be allowed to retire from the game (Mental Disturbance Rule, outlined in Rules, 3.1.5).

What’s that? You also want to hear about last night’s winners?

You perverts.

Drew Stephen: man who can’t sing, but who looks a bit like Ryan Seacrest somehow mated with Brad Pitt, and will therefore go further than he should.

Barbara Padilla: woman who sings opera really rather well. So, a bit like Neal E. Boyd, last year’s winner. Only female, somewhat-physically-attractive, and doesn’t-look-like-a-sculpture-of-The-Thing-from-The-Fantastic-Four-made-out-of-biscuits-and-butter.

Erik And Rickie: two dancing kids who you’ve probably accurately summed up by looking at how they spell their names. Unintentionally hilarious homepage seems to reveal the pair as being a horribly inbred little smugwad, and an alien’s attempt at being a human girl but with the head on backwards.

Recycled Percussion: Now then. We’ve spent many weeks mocking America’s blobby little phone-pokers and their absurd choices of acts to send through.

This one, though, was beyond our ability to compute: Recycled Percussion, a group of alarmingly ugly blokes who use bin lids and discarded syringes as drums/drumsticks, go through instead of the sexy, charming, delightful, sexy, loose-limbed, sexy, SEXY Ishaara?

You wanted literally rubbish, and grotesquely hideous, drummers instead of massively talented, and sexily sexy, Indian dancers? Hey, America: we’re a bit miffed.

We shall see you next week, when…oh, God alone knows. It is revealed that there will be a special-mystery-surprise-celebrity act in the final, which turns out to be David using his nose to push an errant hamburger around the stage?

We live in hope.

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