Last night on Larry King Live, a female viewer phoned in to ask the vivacious but wheezing 60 year-old Liza Minnelli one very important question: “Are you a Christian?” Liza smiled, flicked her four inch-long lashes and said simply “Why yes! I’m Episcopalian.” And that was that.

A dead silence followed. Larry became tight, frowned — like he was trying to pinch one off. And Liza, well, some chemical seemed to have peaked — so she sat there and beamed at the camera. Even more silence. Tick. Tock. I imagined the head of the woman caller exploding.

Poor thing, she couldn’t merge the crazy contradictions: Liza (with a Z), daughter of a homosexual father and substance-abusing mega-Star mom. Liza, married (at different times) to several homosexuals herself — abusing drugs and alcohol like Mama — and making decadent movies like Cabaret and The Sterile Cuckoo. A Christian? Too much, simply too much to imagine.

On the surface we are a Christian tribe. Or at the very least we advertise One Nation Under God™. But admit it, in our heart of heart’s we’re lusty pagans. Our real spiritual center is Hollywood, with its Academy of Oscar. We quote prophecies from Box Office Mojo.com and contemplate the mysteries of the Trinity: Jennifer, Brad and Angelina. We have many idols before us — some true (read: gifted and talented performers), some false: (hookers, hustlers and Anna Nicole.)

But which witch is which?

Well, to solve this dilemma we have the spectacle we call American Idol — where wheat is separated from chaff. A temenos where the Glory Note is sent skyward, freed from the ho-hum of terrestrial melody and rhythm. Yes, to everything there is a season — and once again we’re on to our fifth bacchanal of all things Idol. And just like Al Pacino in The Godfather I’m here to declare:

“Just when I thought that I was out — they pull me back in!”

And most likely they’ve sucked you back too.

So join me in the Pope’s box, children. Let us part the viels and study the entrails — augur who is to remain after last night’s sacrifice: That quick but firm dismisal of Melissa McGhee (no relation to Bobby). Poor Melissa, she made the mistake of flubbing the sacred text of a Stevie Wonder ballad. Alas, when Ryan Seacrest yanked the rope of the trapdoor, not a single tear was shed. Finally, the first of Idol’s 11 catafalques was taken. Honey, church was officially on!

Let me begin this year’s report by pinpointing the two Idolettes that must be obliterated as soon as possible. I think you dick-hounds will be surprised by my choices:

First: Ace Young. Ace’s narcissism is innocent enough, I suppose, but coupled with his grating falsetto, I — well, I simply can not abide it.

Hues of black bloomed in my heart last night, feuled by malicious glee, as I watched Ace’s face drop after Ryan informed the pretty boy that he’d hit the dreaded Bottom Three. Homos and young girls in the audience hissed like vipers while hair-product moguls — having bet heavily on Ace’s ascendancy, shook their fists. And then he was safe.

Fuck.

But there’s always next week. Perhaps another Michael Jackson or George Michael karaoke song holds the key to his demise. We can only pray — and prick the voodoo doll harder.

Next to fall (in my imaginary, perfect world): Chris Daughtry. My rabid turn against Chris surprised even me. From the start I rooted for him. The bald beauty worked a shitty job somewhere offering phone support to befuddled customers. And AI was to be his ticket out. Fair enough. But then Chris started singing: Creed-like power ballads and droning Eddie Vedder stadium tunes. I snapped. Suddenly someone had infiltrated the show and brought with them the spores of a plague. A style of mimicking that’s destroyed rock and roll and forced aspiring male vocalists, nationwide, to sing in bellowing monotones. So, Chris — despite his sexy-thick bullneck and all that manhood stretching and rippling beneath it — Chris must go.

Let’s appraise the rest, shall we?

Paris Bennett. Rootsy, funky, Eartha Kitt-spry — with equal sass and showmanship. But shit, look, we have a feral Fantasia already — the first vocalist to really put the id in Idol. Paris will go home, probably right after Bob Seger’s godchild Bucky Covington and …

The disconcerting mystery of Kevin Covais. Yes, little Kevin, who Nightcharm’s John Calendo described as looking like one of those “gender-neutral lesbians who always wear loose overalls and t-shirts so you’re never sure about their actual sex.” I’d say Kevin has one or two weeks left, buoyed up by his 11 year-old fanbase.

Katharine McPhee is a piece of work. She is attractive, has large, natural breasts and is seductive in a self-effacing way, and she knows how to sing. If anyone has deserved Paula Abdul’s hackneyed praise of “well-oiled machine” it’s Ms. McGee. I enjoy listening to her, watching her, but I fear for the Nation of Showbiz, should she take The Prize.

Katharine comes as a package deal, with vocal coach Mama McPhee. I imagine Mama M. joining the ranks of other Machiavellian players in Hollywood, while her daughter becomes a zombified commodity who will most likely rebel, move in with the Olson Twins and eat only shredded wheat and smoke only Camel Lights — destroying her glorious vox in the process. No, this is story I don’t wish to read about in the tabloids. Plus I hate it when Katharine reaches for the high-power notes that are way beyond her range. All the car alarms in my neighborhood go off. Not good.

Kellie Pickler. Simon has already pimped for her (and Chris) on The Tonight Show, telling Jay Leno that those two Idolettes are his favorites. Kellie has that gut-buckety Tammy Wynette sound that makes me koo koo in a good way. But two minutes into a song and her twangy range starts to grate and scrape. Kellie makes me miss Victoria Jackson (before she was born again) and she’ll most likely (surprisingly) make it to top four, so we best get comfy with her. Not such a bad deal.

There’s a creepy Tiny Tot Pageant fog surrounding Lisa Tucker. A vapor that fills the air when she takes the stage and her little arms go up in those Eva Peron-like salutes. Watching Lisa makes me feel that we live in a dirty world that condones child labor and forces 12 year-old girls to wear make-up and Versace just to go shopping at the mall. Cue Karen Carpenter singing Bless The Beasts And The Children. I’m not surprised Lisa made bottom three last night. That creep factor was rising too high.

Mandisa, you are my plus-size queen. With each performance you ingite something in my core that generates faith and annoints me with with joy. Take me higher, my gorgeous, serenading Venus of Willendorf. You are, indeed, Every Woman. Sadly, you have about five weeks left — make the most of them, doll.

Taylor Hicks. Hmmm. Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don’t. I’m glad Taylor is in for the ride. But then, I can’t wait to see him go. Call my therapist. It’s a whirl, it’s a swirl: Michael Bolton. Michael McDonald. Michael Douglas. Make it stop. Six more weeks I think.

You can’t read about Elliott Yamin without some shallow, dimwit blogger riffing on his teeth. Big fucking deal, he has a crooked grill. He’s also partially deaf in one ear. And he wears an insulin pump for his diabetes. Oh, and there’s another niggling fact to consider: He’s got the chops to blow every other contestant light years off of the stage.

When Elliott first performed, three weeks ago, I actually started watching the show. His voice busted through a stupor that theretofore had me twisting hangnails or figuring tax deductions while hopefuls brayed. His rich, round tone, sophisticated phrasing and easy command of his range floored me. “Mother fucker,” I thought,”American Idol has finally found an artist with the potential to reposition the male vocalist bar in pop music.”

Yamin has that “x” factor that Simon keeps harping about. Unfortunately he’s disconnected from his own allure. And that’s what’s maddening about watching blowhard performers like Ace and Chris work the stage: they have blind faith in their limited talent. A delusion that works in their favor. If Elliot can’t master his nerves, and come to revel in his talent, he’s a goner.

I am so weary of whinning, Emo-ish, cerebral-driven male vocalists that I’ve almost ceased listening to contemporary singers. I find myself, more and more, going for the antiques in my collection, vocalists like Donny Hathaway, Wilson Pickett, Stevie Wonder, Lou Rawls and Frank Sinatra. Men who actually used their gonads when they sang.

Singers like Sinatra leave me feeling glad that I’m a guy. They jack me into the poetry of the masculine. A place where strength and vulnerability buzz with swagger and energy. When he’s “on” Elliott Yamin generates that same sort of magical effect. I wasn’t surprised when Simon announced, several weeks ago, that, “potentially” Eliott was “the best male vocalist” he’d heard during the last five seasons of the show.

So, the Grand Oracle spoke.

I’m in agreement. Yamin — I mean, Amen.

On with the show.