So who can spot the hidden sins?
By the way, Bellen has ended, but its author Box Brown has started a new webcomic Everything Dies (I know, cheery title isn’t it). Still, you should still check it out.

So, we join The X Factor in the Mouth Breathers rounds. I usually like to wait till they’ve at least whittled down the window lickers to the 12 they consider capable of managing in the larger community with sufficient support.

Dannnniiii is off in Ausland. If you can miss her, you can catch up with her extraordinary range of kaftans on the inaccurately named ‘Dannniiii Minogue: Style Queen’. A style queen to the Golden Girls, maybe. Does Disco Dan realise that most of them are dead?

The result of this – the being in Aus, not the alarming poolwear – is the dreaded Guest Judge. To kick off, we have Geri ‘Turkish Gameshow Host’ Halliwell. One might expect a good pound or two of full crazzeee value from Ginge, but she overdelivers when she kicks off by cutting Chezza down to size and reminding us that The Nation’s Mozzie-Infected Sweetheart was herself found on a similar show for the IQ-challenged. ‘It was between her and another girl – literally the point of my finger,’ smirked Gez. Its OK, Minger – I mean Ginger - we know Chezz is a talentless but exceptionally lucky oxygen-thief. But so are you. So get on with it.

AAAAANd – first up – we have a house husband! I wasn’t really listening to what this entailed, having sadly already lost interest in him as he clearly isn’t going to win, but he seemed to be describing the life of an unemployed person. Apparently he is inspired by Tina Turner (musically, rather than in his life as a house husband) and he sings Disco Inferno. House Husband takes up a dramatic sideways stance, at which point we can see that I was unfair. He is not unemployed, he is just on maternity leave as his baby is due any day. Despite the swollen ankles HH gets so into the dancing that he actually forgets to sing. When he does, though, it’s a triumph of love, enthusiasm, passion and pure camp excitement. Any victory, however, involves a defeat for the other side. In this case, talent and skill are the fallen.

Dear old cuddly Syco kicks off the comment. We’ve missed him while he’s been away, right? What’s that you say? He hasn’t been off our screens what with BGT, American Idol and general hagiographic Si-worship programmes on five? Oh. Well, he’s back yet again, demonstrating he is a nutter by saying HH’s voice was good. Giving a final gay wave, HH totters off the stage with four yeses. Is it only August? A whole 4 months till this madness is over? God no.

During the break ‘Homes from Hell Dubai’ – apparently I am really interested in people who tried to make a killing in Dubai and now can’t sell their vastly over-priced flats after all – sucked me in, and when I turn back the next act is ‘G&S’, the classic skinny nerdy bloke and fat girl combo that’s pretty much clogged up the charts for the last 5 years. Or do I mean horribly crashed out in the audition round of The X Factor?

G&S stands for Gay and Straight, which is probably something we didn’t need spelling out for us. It’s a less innocent age than the one in which George Michael could prance around on stage looking like this:

and still have people wonder which way he swung. G brilliantly comes in half a line too late, then continues inventing his own rhythm and notes. S has a reasonable voice, but no one is paying any attention, because G has taken hold of his moment in the spotlight with both hands and is throwing it around the dance floor like a drunk uncle at a morning christening.

Pleasingly, S looks like she had roughly the same prior awareness as the audience that G was going to bust out his moves. Gezza gets her to sing on her own and she’s pretty good. Louis decides on the strength of half a smile that S – known to her mother as Caroline and who is clearly a shy, unconfident girl – has a great personality. G kisses Chezza, giving her malaria. Chezza tells G he is a very good friend for stepping back and making way for S. Look people, I watch CBeebies when I want to know that sharing is good, or that friends don’t slap each other. I watch The X Factor for information on bullying in the workplace, or how to sink teenagers into the mire of despair, or to learn at the hands of the mistress of aggravated (non-racially motivated) assault.

Too soon the Glasgae audtitions are over, leaving us not hugely enriched in any way, but intrigued to know that fake Uggs are still in fashion in Scotland. In London, Jahm – that’s with an H, to make it more Jahm, they explain – are promising something special.

Two girls and a guy, the bloke assures Dermy that they are different “from other girl bands, like The Saturdays, Girls Aloud or JLS”. And, in true X Factor style, they are different. Very, very different. Even at their worst, JLS were never this unbelievably, outrageous, phenomenally, spectacularly, stunningly awful.

It’s difficult to tell exactly where the worst noise is emanating from. They finish to a dead silence. Jahm request the opportunity to sing another song, and the audience hastily applauds when Simon says no. For once, I find myself in the position of agreeing with Simon Cowell’s judgement: I too think Jahm go straight to the top of the charts of worst X Factor Band Evah. Happily, the TV audience gets a shot of Jahm suffering ‘creative differences’ and ripping a strip off each other backstage.

Chezza puts a girl group through with the wholehearted recommendation ‘You don’t offend us or annoy us’. A note for non-Geordies – Chez is not daring to speak for King Simon or Court Jester Louis. Like the Queen and Prince Charles, Geordies refer to themselves in the plural. It’s like the Royal ‘We’, but not referred to as the Geordie ‘We’ because, as everyone knows, the Geordie Wee is something done in a doorway round the back of the chippie in the Bigg Market on a Saturday night.

Next up is some girl dressed as Fake Madonna. She is, of course, bigging herself up. “What’s the dream?” asks Dermy. Like everyone else, she wants to win. No-one ever, when given the Dream question, ever says, ‘I just want to not shame myself on national TV’, or, ‘Thank God you asked, Dermy. It’s the one where I ‘m running late for a train and it’s really important I catch it but it’s always pulling out of the station – oh my god Dermy will I ever catch that train!?!!’

Fake Madonna is a full-on high-maintenance little strumpet. After Simon gets her to change her song she false starts ‘We are the Champions’ (after bigging it up, naturally). After some tiresome and princessy begging she promises to blow Louis away with ‘At Last’. Brilliant! The viewing audience waits with bated breath. Sadly, Louis remains in his chair during a very mannered performance, and at the end says she’s style over substance. What’s with Louis? Apart from the S comment – and really, we forgive him, there wasn’t much else to say to her about apart from ‘you could do with losing a few pounds and picking your duets more carefully’ – he seems to be pretty much on the ball. But Fake Madonna is through to bootcamp with the rest of those deemed capable of licking windows.

The ads remind us that Blockbuster still exists and that ‘people who eat low fat breakfast cereals tend to be slimmer than those who don’t.’ Seriously. Those things are practically public service announcements.

Accustomization, acclimatization, familiarity – a problem in so many worlds. As a heroin addict searches for a new high, as the autoerotic aficionado seeks a finer plastic bag, as Tiger Woods desires an even grubbier waitress, so do we sigh at the antics of G&S and examine our nails at Fake Madonna. We are over-exposed to this run of the mill insanity and self-belief. We yearn for a whole new level, much as Tiger Woods might yearn for a grubby waitress at a pub with crazy golf. And god bless Dermy, he might just be babysitting the offspring of just such a person.

Enter Shirlena Johnson, a woman of such amazing crazy levels I wouldn’t put it past her to be manufacturing an entirely more addictive form of smack while moonlighting from her waitressing job at Ye Olde Crayyyyaazee Golf Pub and concurrently testing the breathability of a new form of polyethelene.

Shirlena, who tells us she is ‘trained in the opera style’ by ‘George Michael’s vocal coach’ is the second auditionee tonight to be performing an ‘original arrangement’, in this case, Duffy’s ‘Mercy’. Well, she says original, but a viewer suggests they recognise the piece from the soundtrack of the kind of movie you don’t get in your local Blockbuster. She also says ‘arrangement’, but again, this is kind of code for ‘banshee like improvisation’. Shirlena promised us something different and she was, for the record, NOT LYING. If Simon is looking for something new, he has FOUND IT. We have all received a GIFT.

It does not seem impossible that Shirlena in fact an alien sent to Earth to infiltrate the planet via the X Factor, which, if you think about it, is a pretty sound plan for interplanetary invasion. “It was like you were making it up as you went along, ” says Louis, who is in danger of squandering a whole series worth of perspicacity in one week. “Oh, I was,” admits Shirlena. If Shirlena’s consignment wackjobnuttiness had to be delivered somewhere it would require a supertanker.

Supertankers of looniness are mother’s milk to the X Factor audience, and Shirlena is duly rewarded by 3 yeses. ‘Do you know why I said yes?’ asks Simon. Blatantly, it is because he wants to see her writhing around in leopard print cycling shorts to a porno soundtrack again. ‘It’s because I want to see her do it again, ‘ he reveals.

And that’s it for another week. We can all get back to reality – actual reality. And remember, next time you see a pudding-loving teenager with a popcorn complexion who looks like they got dressed by falling in a skip out the back of Oxfam, don’t feel sorry for them. You think they are a hideous loon, but they think they are the next Lord or Lady Gaga. And until the Actual Simon Cowell has told them that they aren’t, they’re going to go right on dreaming about their world domination. Bless.

The Warehouse has got to be one of the silliest webcomics out there. Check it out if you like your humour daft as a brush.

1. Eligibility

Firstly, let us address the eligibility issue. Some haters, who probably don’t even like Fu-Gee-La, have suggested that Mr Jean does not meet the minimum requirements for eligibility.

Although the rules governing eligibility for contesting the Haitian presidency are not as strict as those attendant on the US presidency, it is a requirement that candidates have five years residency in Haiti. As Mr Jean himself states in ‘It Doesn’t Matter’:

“I was raised in Brooklyn, but did my studies in Jerusalem,

The New Jerusalem yup, that’s short for New Jersey”

Mr Jean left Haiti at the age of 9, frequently referring to himself as a ‘refugee’ and suggesting he fears becoming a ‘deportee’ from the US. However, in ‘Haitian Slumdog Millionaire’ he intimates that his decision to leave was in fact motivated by a desire not to become the female J-Lo:

“Some don’t like me ’cause I left the block

I can’t be about 40 still on the block.”

This should certainly ensure that any Haitians who sat through ‘Maid in Manhattan’ are inclined to vote for him.

2. Finances

Funding is a vital part of any presidential campaign. Mr Jean has shown himself to be a successful fundraiser through his ‘Yele Haiti’ campaign, which has so far garnered $9.1m for the beleaguered country. It’s more difficult to assess the financial status of Mr Jean himself, although he does tell us, in ‘It Doesn’t Matter’:

“I got fifty Bentleys in the West Indies

I got a pocket full of cheese and a garden full of trees”

The value of the Bentleys as an asset is somewhat dependent on their usage. Sadly, Mr Jean did not go into detail, so we can only hazard a guess. Should the Bentleys form part of a fleet of luxurious taxis in, for instance, the Bahamas, then the income stream provided could be quite substantial. Alternatively, should Mr Jean have simply been keeping them in a garage in Haiti, then he may have already been forced to lodge an insurance claim against them.

The pocket full of cheese and garden full of trees are even trickier to assess. If the garden of trees is not large enough for commercial logging, then perhaps it can provide a pleasant location for wining and dining potential backers. The cheese itself depends on the currency and denomination, not to mention whether the pocket in question is a substantial one (as might be found in a cargo pant) or one of those tiny inner pockets in a pair of Levis.

However, these are not Mr Jean’s only income. In the same song he tells us that he has also had some luck gambling and invested the proceeds sensibly in property in an emerging economy:

“What? I just won the bingo, bought a crib in Rio.”

Diversification of investment of this nature, with a portfolio encompassing cars, property, currency and land, shows an admirable caution and variety that can only be beneficial to Haiti’s treasury.

3. Character

Many a potential political career has been derailed by tales of youthful misdemeanours in the arena of drugs. Handily, Mr Jean details his views towards drugs in ‘Something about Mary’:

“I don’t sniff cocaine ’cause it mess up my brain

For sexual stimulation I never did no ecstasy, I don’t pop pills, I never did no LSD, but I wouldn’t mind a kiss from Ms. Mary.”

These levels of flirtation with drug use are perfectly acceptable. Former US President Bill Clinton, for example, admitted to having actually experienced a kiss from Ms Mary, although he claimed no tongues were involved.

Far greater is the threat of having his nascent political career curtailed by an unsuitable liaison. In ‘Perfect Gentleman’ Mr Jean comments:

“We going to the disco

We gonna elope to Mexico Called up my mama, said I’m in love with a stripper, yo.”

Mr Jean might do well to contact former NY Governor Eliot Spitzer, who was recently forced to resign over a similar event. Although in Ex-Governor Spitzer’s case the stripper was a prostitute from New Jersey, there are enough commonalities here to serve as a warning to the potential President Jean. On the other hand, these kind of antics never bothered Silvio Berlusconi and the Italians.

4. Statesman-like mien

In ‘War No More’ Mr Jean casts some doubt on his ability to inspire respect from others:

“What’s the problem in Manhattan

Every ten men they look like Bin Laden So I have problems when I go to the airport First thing they do they wanna ask me for my passport The said Wyclef we love the Fugees the score But did anybody give you any strange package to bring on board I was like ‘no’.”

Happily, should Mr Jean accede to the presidency, diplomatic immunity will allow him to take whatever the hell he likes on his own private jet, thus bypassing this particular problem. However, if Mr Jean fails to garner respect from Port Authority workers, then this must cast doubt on his ability to rub shoulders with the great and the good of the G270 and beyond. Although there is no direct evidence as to the esteem in which he is held by a luminary such as ex-bodybuilder turned movie star turned Governor of California Arnold ‘Arnie’ Schwartznegger, Mr Jean has luckily provided an excellent substitute in the form of ‘It Doesn’t Matter’, which sheds light on his ability to command respect from ex-wrestler turned movie star Dwayne ‘The Rock’ Johnston:

“Yo Rock I sold like seventeen million records (It doesn’t matter how many records you’ve sold!) Alright I’m with you, yo check it out, you wanna go get diamond rings? (It doesn’t matter if The Rock wants to go get diamond rings or not!) Man listen, listen, I just got two new Grammys man (It doesn’t matter about your Grammys!)”

This does not bode well.

5. Policies

On women’s rights:

“Just ’cause she dances go-go

It don’t make her a ho, no.”

(Perfect Gentleman)

On the potential for developing Haiti’s international trade in agricultural products:

“Marijuana, Marijuana

She said that She’s homegrown and you can grow her in her backyard. She’s homegrown, she said “‘Clef, I’ll kiss you in my backyard.”

(Something about Mary)

6. Commitment to Haiti

Raising $9.1m for Haiti is certainly an impressive feat. However, in the song ‘Heaven’s in New York’ Mr Jean suggests that he has a marked preference for New York City over other locations.

“Heaven’s in New York

Oh oh oh oh oh oh oh Heaven’s in New York oh oh oh oh oh oh oh Welcome to New York City.”

This can be easily solved by recording a cover version which substitutes the words ‘Port Au Prince’ for ‘New York’. On the other hand, this is not one of Mr Jean’s greatest hits, and a cheaper solution might be simply to style it out and pretend he hasn’t heard should anyone challenge him on the matter.

Despite being a multi-million selling rap star, Mr Jean also has empathy with the needs of the more ordinary person.

“All I ever wanted was a fancy car

A crib for my mom and a MasterCard.”

Actually, these sound like the desires of the average X-Factor contestant, but with some extrapolation we can easily assume these are also the desires of the average Haitian. Just above water, housing, and vaccinations.

7. Unfortunately high likelihood of having campaign utterly derailed by Kanye West’s INSANE TWEETING

In ‘Fast Car’ Mr Jean acknowledges Kanye West’s 2002 near fatal car accident:

“I heard a man say ‘Jesus Walks’

Me myself I heard Jesus talk, ’cause when I heard this beat I felt Jesus’ force, I heard it through the wire that he made it out the coma from a fast car, it was a fast car.”

Whether Mr Jean is personally acquainted with Mr West or not, this pretty much guarantees that Mr West will feel he has a deep interest in Mr Jean’s campaign, an interest that will no doubt be evinced through constant tweets of deep, unknowable nutjobbiness, lengthy ALL-CAPS blog entries of mind-blowing insanity and possibly Mr West’s interrupting Mr Jean’s opposition candidates’ speeches to pontificate on how Mr Jean has the best speech of all time. Of all time.

So there we have it. In summation, by his own words Mr Jean is a financially astute Haitian who believes ‘if you ain’t sharin’, you ain’t carin’. The fact he gets dissed by transport workers and The Rock can be worked on. But overcoming the Kanye thing might be as difficult as procuring a Persian rug with cherubs on it.

This week’s webcomic tip is Luke Surl (one reason why I don’t attempt too many puns in my comics is that this guy has already done most of the good ones).

If you like your religious humour even more blasphemous, then direct your eyeballs towards the scandalous Jesus and Mo.