Fourteen-year-old Drew Ryniewicz loves Justin Bieber like Charlie Sheen loves ladies of the night in the night

(CBS) You might not have reached the stage of your human development where you appreciate “The X Factor.” However, what you have to understand is that this show is all about human development.

Not in the superficial, “American Idol” sense. No, this is all about watching a particular stage of human development exposed historically for our future alien masters to, one day, 충청북도출장마사지 examine, marvel at and, ultimately, adjust their notions of what it is to be human.

We began, blown on the winds of fame to Chicago.

What would the little green men make of the first auditioners – a nice blond 18-year-old boy and a 21-year-old blonde girl? They’re “just friends.” And yet, because the producers know how to tease stories out of teenagers (for teenagers), we soon discover that the boy is secretly in love with the girl.

Why would he say this to the cameras, an alien might ask. You see – a human would reply – that’s what makes us human in the 21st century. It’s something to do with the need to tell people our secrets. It all started with this weird thing called Facebook.

“Are you dating?” Simon Cowell the couple, with all of his deeply embedded innocence. You want to know, don’t you? Even you, my alien friends. And you see, dear men from the Planet Zogoropia, I haven’t even mentioned whether these people can sing. I haven’t even mentioned their names. It’s Makenna and Brock. (Brock’s the boy.)

They turn out to be a younger version of Brooks and Dunn. If Brooks was desperate to buy Dunn a candlelit dinner and then slide his hand gently down Dunn’s hair, not stopping for permission to stroke his brows, his nose, his lips and the nape of his chest, .

And, yes, Makenna and Brock can sing.

“You just made my day,” L.A. Reid told them.

You want to know more, don’t you? Well, lucky for you, they got four yes-es from an enthralled judges’ table. When they get to boot camp, you just know they’ll start making out and then feel guilty about it.

Here’s the thing, though, my new large green masters, the whole direction of human development is one step forward, 10 steps back. So you’ll have noticed that we were then subjected to a barrage of the ill-dressed, ill-conceived and just plain ill-making – a financial analyst who sang as if a squirrel had embedded itself in her epiglottis; a male model who made Cowell’s buttocks twitch with discomfort and his lips twitch with disdain; an interior designer who sang as if her vocal chords had been designed by the same person who designed the menu at the last place to offer you listeria.

“What the bloody hell was that?” muttered Cowell to the interior designer.

This was shortly before someone came on stage not to sing, but to be a judge. Pointless? Yes. Interesting television? Oh, perhaps.

Skyelor Anderson came to bring relief. A 16-year-old black country singer from Mississippi whose music track died. He brought the crowd to life a cappella. So much so that he impressed Paula Abdul.

“I so love your uniqueness,” said Reid. Uniqueness is really something to be loved in our formulaic world.

Then we had a Doctor of Philosophy, whose mantra was not so very Wittgenstein: “I just want to be a musician and destroy the Top 40.”

My fellow green people of the Planet Zogoropia, when he says “destroy” the Top 40, he doesn’t mean wipe it out with lasers. And the Top 40 is not a rival planet. It is merely a list. To destroy it, in this context, merely means getting to the top of that list. Yes, we humans are a little odd.

J-Mark Inman, Doctor of Philosophy, sees his life as an algorithm. Please, don’t ask.

“What bring you to his audition?” asked Abdul. “Money,” said J-Mark.

You thought he was going to be terrible, didn’t you? But, no. J-Mark’s version of Radiohead’s “Creep” was creepy, but pleasantly so. The last words he sang: “I don’t belong here.”

Oh, but you just might, J-Mark. Did you see the crowd stand up to applaud? An algorithm didn’t make them do that. Google didn’t make them do that.

“You are other-worldly,” said Abdul. Is J-Mark a Zogoropian, perhaps? An advance specimen?

“It sounded so bad, but felt so good,” purred Reid. Which might just describe large elements of “The X Factor”.

And then a lady came on stage to talk about aliens, mythical creatures and unicorns. With “The X Factor,” you see, you don’t have to make anything up. Not even the fact that host Steve Jones declared that this particular lady was from “Planet Paula.”

There is no Planet Paula, oh Zogoropians. At least, not in the physical sense. There soon might be a Planet Krajcik, though. 30-year-old Josh Krajcik slings burritos. He took Etta James’ “At Last” and slung it to all four corners of the auditorium.

He had driven from Columbus, Ohio with his highly-strung mother. His singing had depth beyond fathoming. I wouldn’t dream of accusing his mom of having had relations with Joe Cocker, but her son took everyone listening to a level of feeling so profound that you’d think he’d done it with a little help from a friend or two.

If you didn’t feel that, you must be dead. Or Zogoropian. (Just kidding, my bright green masters.)

“It just blew me away,” said Cowell. “You’re honest.”

Josh Krajcik wore worn New Balance sneakers. Yes, he’s that honest.

Suddenly, we were in Seattle, wishing that we weren’t.

Not because Seattle is horrible, but because it was time for some horrible acts, disinterred by the producers to make us laugh – or at least feel queasy. Then we had a Belieber. Should you be unfamiliar with this concept, well, being unfamiliar with it is illegal.

Fourteen-year-old Drew Ryniewicz loves Justin Bieber like Charlie Sheen loves ladies of the night in the night. The producers let us bathe in the idea that she was just some sad little teenie who wishes she was Bieber’s queenie, rolling around on her bed with Bieber posters all over her bedroom walls. This was, of course subterfuge.

Ryniewicz wanted to “throw up or pass out.” But she’s courageous. She sang Bieber’s “Baby” to L.A. Reid, the producer whose baby Bieber actually was. She sang her own version, though, packed full of a strangely adult soul and the rhythms of the night, rather than of a tedious lunchtime in high school.

“You are special,” said Reid, offering the obvious.

Not quite as special as 21-year-old, 6’1″ Peet Montzingo. Why is Peet special? His parents are dwarves.

“Oh, come on.”

“No, really.” (That was a conversation with myself.)

When it came to singing, unfortunately, Montzingo fell a little short.

A boy band called 4Shore impressed L.A. Reid with their rendition of an L.A. Reid song – “End of the Road”. So much so that he stood so upright that his trousers finally covered his sockless ankles.

They were covered again almost immediately (in television minutes) when a 53-year-old grandmother called Elaine Gibbs belted out “You’ve Got a Friend” in a manner that would have made James Taylor involuntarily pogo.

Waiter Philip Lomax, 21, channeled Harry Connick Jr. to passable effect, even while wearing a faintly silly trilby. But how could one call it silly, when so many subsequent lady contestants wore hot pants? They were all rejected.

Would this show end on a high note or a hot-pantsed bum one? Would 19-year-old deli clerk Tiah Tolliver give us a story to remember? She with the largely overwhelming lips, the teeth like a white picket fence and no backing track?

Reid wasn’t sure. Cowell was overwhelmingly overwhelmed. He was sure that Tolliver had something extraordinary in her.

“If you can’t see this, you’re deaf,” he said, in a nod to the Planet Oxymoronia.

Nicole Scherzinger insisted on a “no.” Reid and Cowell said “yes.” The tension was of the kind just before a bank vault combination lock is opened.

Then Abdul said she would go with her gut. Her gut gurgled “no”. Cowell threw a balled-up piece of paper in disgust. Would he stand up and, like so many of his fellow Brits, begin to riot?

“This is insane,” Cowell insisted.

Reid stepped in and asked Tolliver whether there was anything she could do to convert one of the Suffragettes. Tolliver took a deep breath. So naturally we went to commercial break.

When we returned, Tolliver sang, still without a track, “It Don’t Mean a Thing If You Ain’t Got That Swing.” Cowell begged the audience. The audience said “yes”.

Like a Congresswoman tempted by the thought of some pork for her constituency, Scherzinger became the swing vote. Abdul pouted like Nancy Pelosi on a very bad day, then spilled Cowell’s nuts on the floor. His peanuts.

So, there, Zogoropians, another day on earth. Another day in the very complex, very human paradise that is show business. With the emphasis on show.

The business comes later.