I don't know about you, but I'm looking forward to the two-part season finale of "American Idol" that begins tonight and ends Wednesday.

Save the angry Talkbacks -- that was not a typo.

I am well aware that what will transpire over four hours the next two nights on Fox is the season premiere of Idol's sixth season and not the finale.

So, why did I mislabel it? Simple -- I only watch the show for the bad singing.

To me, the genius of "American Idol" occurs in the early phases of the audition shows. The shows tonight and tomorrow will feature a handful of talented people, some of whom may stave off elimination long enough to enjoy their 15 minutes of fame in our celebrity-obsessed culture.

For trained professionals, singing A cappella can be daunting. For the hack, it can be hilarious. Watching the auditions has a voyeuristic, guilty-pleasure quality to it and I revel in it the way my older relatives hoot when people get hit in the nuts on "America's Funniest Home Videos."

Watching the parade of bad singers is like walking around State Fair - you feel better about yourself instantly. You can almost hear Daily Affirmation's Stuart Smalley's evil twin saying "I may be stink, but that poor bastard is really bad."

But, that's not why I watch.

I watch for the train wrecks; the people who couldn't carry a tune in a wheeled suitcase. I watch to see Simon Cowell roll his eyes and crush people's dreams. I watch to see completely talent-less, clueless singers become defiant when the smarmy guy with the British accent tells them what their friends should have told them weeks / months / years ago - that they shouldn't be allowed to sing in the shower, much less in the presence of amplification.

Bottom line: I want to see if they find another William Hung.

You remember William, don't you?

He was the Berkeley civil engineering student who became a cult hero when he performed a comically horrible version of "She Bangs" accompanied by some of the most awkward dancing I've seen since they stopped selling quarter drinks on Thursday nights at the old Attic West on Silver Spring.

Before the song that made him famous, Hung told judges Cowell, Randy Jackson and Paula Abdul: "I really like music. It is very good. I want to make music my living."

When he started, Jackson and the normally reserved (and usually heavily medicated) Abdul could barely stifle their laughter.

"You can't sing, you can't dance, so what do you want me to say?" Cowell asked Hung.

Hung took the news bravely. "I already gave my best, and I have no regrets at all," he said.

A star was born -- one with puppy dog eyes, bad hair, bad teeth, imperfect pitch and no rhythm. Hung's performance spread on the Web like wildfire and producers of the show had to have more.

And so do I.

I'll be watching tonight and tomorrow (they say some of the people in the Seattle group were especially bad). When the freak show ends, I'll let my wife and young daughter enjoy the rest of the show and cheer for their favorites. When they whittle it down to the final two, I'll probably watch to see who gets the big prize.

Millions of others will watch, too. The show, which I thought would be overexposed and ultimately euthanized in the same way "Who Wants to be a Millionaire" was by ABC, continues to feed the pop culture machine.

The first Idol winner, Kelly Clarkson, is a major force in the music industry. The second year's runner-up, Clay Aiken, was the undercard for Rosie O'Donnell before she went after Trump. I couldn't tell you what Season 3 winner Fantasia Barrino has been up to, other than singing the national anthem at sporting events televised on Fox, but Season 4 winner Carrie Underwood, in addition to having a pretty good country career, is dating Dallas Cowboys quarterback Tony Romo from Burlington High School.

The winner last year was a guy named Taylor Hicks. I've seen him in a few car commercials, but he always struck me as a poor man's Huey Lewis. Maybe this year's winner will be a poor man's Mel Torme, David Hasselhoff or William Hung.