Have you ever had one of those really bad nightmares, the kind that is so horrifying it wakes you up multiple times during the night? And even though your subconscious is trying to offer you escape, each time you manage to get back to sleep it picks right back up where it left off, victimizing you until the alarm clock finally goes off and sets you free, exhausted and enervated, for the day?

That's what season 10 of American Idol feels like. Each time I come back, it renews its assault on my fragile psyche. And like the unfortunate sleeper, return to it I must.

And the next two weeks are brutal: two-hour episodes last night and tonight, and three nights (!) in a row next week, consisting of two 90-minute episodes and a two-hour reveal of the season's finalists on Thursday.

The worst part is, this thing doesn't wrap up until June, so using nightmare mathematics, it's only 1:00 AM Idol time.

And last night was the chance for the remaining 61 hopefuls to butcher the Beatles. I am officially not getting paid enough for this.

The challenge -- their "toughest yet," according to the never hyperbolic Ryan Seacrest -- was to learn a Beatles song in just 24 hours. It didn't sound tough, then again, several of these little shits have never even heard Rubber Soul all the way through (which should automatically disqualify them from the music business).

There's an old Bloom County cartoon that I feel pretty well represents the problem with younger generations and seminal rock groups like the Fab Four:

This generation's is all about the exploding porpoises.

The front-runners for the drawn out "final selection" became apparent early on. Naima Adedapo (she's like Erykah Badu without the batshit) is going to be in this thing until the end, as is Julie "Go Go" Zorrilla, that Jovanny dude, and just about anyone who's performing when Steven Tyler goes "Yeah!" or "Woo!" So they'll likely keep Kendra Chantelle and Paul McDonald, he of the breathy voice and bad comb-forward.