Beastly-Zombies of Tusker.

I am perplexed.

The judges of Tusker Project Fame are slaves of Tusker, if not Tequila. Instead of promoting ambitious singers, some of the judges, if not all, were the loudest mouths seeking the "fame" at the Sunday episode of the show.

They made Paris Hilton and O. J. Simpson look like pillars of virtues as they falteringly tried to trivialize achievements of some of our notable, already established singers.

I am going to dwell on theircharacter, not skills, which was also questionable at best. Unmistakably, during the show, they came out as people keeping alive the traditions of dismembering and torturing the reputation of the umpires – judges -- seat.

With inflated egos, they showed off their inexcusable ignorance while striving to display absent high-street “understanding of music.” They acted like remorseless “mass murderers” of Kenyan artists struggling, against odds, to put a mark on the crowded, talent-starved African art scene.

Even though I am no supporter of the show, I’m inclined to toss around comments about those annoying socialite judges guilty of “product tampering and some sort of organized crime.” On Sunday, they behaved like Tequila-guzzling zombies: the undead equivalent of the migrant workers. Not sexy. Not indestructible. Lacking free-will and impartial judgment and ultimately under-qualified.

Some of made embarrassing comments -- leaving presenters speechless -- that even newcomers in music might think they can Judge God and get away with it.

At the show, heckler-in-chief, Ian Mbugua, behaved like a hapless show-off, eager to over-shadow everybody for some reason that remain undiscussed. Watching his tantrums, one concludes that the moderately-endowed actor should stick to what he thinks he knows better: Cramming theatre lines, thinking he can sneak to the Broadway.

Just like the rest of the judges, Mbugua was the biggest squeaker from the Blues. His unsavoury character, at least at that moment, portrayed what kind of person he is, or thinks he is. An unsavoury bedfellow he is: advancing personal agenda at the behest of the young wannabe “singers.”

He not only succeeded in displaying his “clueless ness, expressionless and unintentional petulance” in his assessments of the performers, but also came out as a man keen on using the platform to pursue a woman. Or girl friend or … He was like an high school drama teacher.

“We are looking for the voice … we are not looking for mediocrity,” Mbugua said snidely, going on to unleash a torrent of inexplicable outbursts, befitting a death-row crook in mitigation before a conservative judge.

But the girls in the House could and did not take crap, not at all. They were up for the task.

They aimed at him, carefully shot their barbs, without missing and the target was subdued. Courtesy of Mbugua, the show degenerated into a tag of war between the questionable judges and the erudite panel of teachers. If fellows like Mbugua have learnt to fly without missing, then girls like Sheila Mwanyigha (presenter), Achieng Abura (teacher) and Regina Re (teacher) as well as Teddy Josiah (producer) have known to aim without missing.

And they did it, with a dash of dignity peppered with a know-how of their stuff. For keen observers, the losers were the judges. Therefore, they should be changed. They are hopeless. Talentless. And they are a pain in the neck lacking the basics of sitting in the panel.

Mwanyigha, herself, a well-endowed singer started the assault on Mbugua, throwing in a carefully-worded rejoinder: You can say something to the students, she said with her usual smile, adding: “… without being crude.”

Like a feminine relay race, Abura took the button on time, mercilessly undressing the bloke. “I think they (students) are working extra-ordinarily hard … Music is not an easy thing. And I can’t wait to see the judges bring their thing on the stage …” This salvo that sent Mbugua sprawling to unknown ground. His ego balloon was deflated.

“We are looking for a star … ” another judge, David, blabbered, like a robot, again unwittingly “… a star of what singing …" Gimmi a break. Does this man know Tinsel town granddaddies Clint Eastwood, the Hollywood big boy who just grabbed the first Oscar recently, despite having directed and featured in several big-budget productions and Jonathan Alterman?I doubt if he knows them beyond reading entertainment rags.

Challenged and apparently petrified at the fury of womanpower, Mbugua, in yet again another medieval tantrum tried to rationalize his “bullshit,” only ending up plunging into another round of bloodletting and recrimination.

“I haven’t entered the competition and I will have you know that I can sing!!! (gimmi a break) In Kenya and East Africa, we have so many one-hit wonders … I want you to tell me who has released more than five albums … “ he said, apparently his ego bruised by well-intentioned women.

Another judge called Carol shamelessly blabbered: “You can’t be a star if there is nothing different about you…"All we needed were judges sitting quietly, making their assessments in the privacy of their seats and just make decisions as per the performance, not to try to sneak in their armatures standing and weak setting.

While the show in itself is dirty marketing plot by brewing big-daddy, East African Breweries Limited, the judges who – on first impression or by record appear bright – have done a damage to the reality TV genre in Kenya, by behaving like “unremarkable crackpots” trying to revive their flagging careers of occupations.

Well, I can just conclude that the judges behaved like Marilyn Manson, one of the sickest artist in the mainstream record industry. Or even worse.

Or, is a crime committed by all not a crime or a sin committed by all not a sin... just democracy … over to you judges. The jury is out there.