You’ve seen Dancing With The Stars and Skating With The Stars.  Now we take the concept a step farther.  Presenting Auditioning With The Stars, the show in which popular celebrities will audition before a panel of judges to see if they would have what it takes to break into today’s music scene.

Simon, Paula, and Randy are sitting at their table, wondering what musical treats are in store this day.  The door opens and a disheveled young man with curly dark hair enters the room.

Simon:  Good morning.  Your name is…?

Bob Dylan: Bob- Bob Dylan.

Simon: Fine, Bob.  What are you going to sing for us today?

Bob Dylan: It’s an original song that I wrote.

Simon:  Good.  Let’s hear it.

Bob Dylan:

I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more.
No, I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more.
Well, I wake in the morning,
Fold my hands and pray for rain.
I got a head full of ideas
That are drivin' me insane.
It's a shame the way she makes me scrub the floor.
I ain't gonna work on Maggie's farm no more.

(The camera pans across the judges.  Simon’s brow is wrinkled, Paula’s mouth is hanging open in shock & awe, and Randy is stifling laughter.)

Dylan finishes the song.

Simon: What on earth was that??!!!

Dylan: What do you mean?

Simon: Do you think you sing OK?

Dylan: I sing just as well as I play guitar.

Simon: Poor guitar…

Randy: Whoa ho ho!  Dude, that was bizarre.  It was just so…so… nasal, no tone.  Whatever key you were in, you only used 3 notes from it in the whole song.  

Paula: What do your friends say about your singing?

Bob Dylan: They say it’s pretty cosmic.

Simon: Cosmic?

Bob Dylan: Yeah, when we’re sittin’ around toking up they think I sound pretty good.

Simon: Well, that explains a lot.

Paula: Do you have a sinus blockage or something?  They can correct that with surgery.

Simon: It will take more than surgery to correct that singing.  OK, let’s hear it.  Randy?

Randy: Sorry Dude, but nobody is going to pay money to hear that voice.  Paula?

Paula: I’m sorry, Bob, but I just don’t think you’re right for this competition.

Simon: And I make three strikes.  You’re out.

Bob Dylan: Looks like I have to go back to workin’ on Maggie’s farm.  (Walks out dejected.)

Simon: Next!

A tall, gaunt, undernourished young man walks in.

Paula: Name?

Mick Jagger: My name’s Mick.

Paula: Hi, Mick.  Any time you’re ready.

Mick Jagger: (Starts high stepping and waving his arms around while he sings)

I was born in a cross-fire hurricane
And I howled at my ma in the driving rain,
But it's all right now, in fact, it's a gas!
But it's all right.  I'm Jumpin' Jack Flash,
It's a Gas!  Gas!  Gas!


Simon’s head is on the table, Paula has swung her chair around so Mick can’t see her amusement, and Randy is in tears.

Simon: (Holds up his hand) That’s enough!

Randy: Wow.  You sure were…animated.  What was that?  Some kind of dance?

Mick Jagger: I just let the music move me.

Simon: It was a movement, all right.  You looked like an epileptic chicken flapping around.  The good news is that this is a singing competition, not a dance contest.  Then again, the bad news for you is that this is a singing competition.

Mick Jagger: Wot’s that s’posed t’mean, mate?

Simon: It means that you can neither dance nor sing, so if you expect to earn enough money to eat and maintain a healthy weight, you’ll have to find a job that doesn’t require singing and dancing.

Mick Jagger: That’s a bit harsh, mate.

Simon: Knock it off with the “mate” stuff.  I’m married.  You can forget Hollywood.  That voice won’t even get you a ticket to the other end of the block.

Mick Jagger: Well, you’re a #%@*&%!  So take that mate!  You’re a putrid pile of #$!@$ and you wouldn’t know %$#&^*ing music if it bit you on your-

Mick collapses and lies twitching on the floor.

Simon: I just love these Tazers.  Wonderful inventions.

Paula: I can’t believe you just did that!

Simon: I can’t believe you expect me to sit here and take that abuse.  Somebody should have zapped his butt a long time ago.  I have a feeling that was way overdue.

Paula: It’s a shame, though.  I loved his cheekbones.

Randy: Did you see those lips?  It’s like he stretches them around a soccer ball when he sleeps.

(Janitors drag Mick out of the room.)

Randy: Send in the next one…

right on!

I thought that would make a good SNL-style skit.