chid: While the rest of the country watches a bunch of “unpaid” student athletes shoot 33% from the field, we’ll watch the greatest program on television—Project Rubway All Sitars. Welcome back! It’s barbecue cooter week!
hS: Since you were out last week, chid, you’ll notice that there are no new Xs through designer’s faces in our header image. That’s right. They were all safe.
chid: WHA?!?!?!?! How fucking long are they gonna drag out this shit pile?????
hS: Until Sam puts it in Alyssa.
chid: I used to find her attractive. It was the 1990’s and I had erections that could (and frequently did) paralyze dogs.
hS: Double Dragon Alyssa Milano in denim short shorts, amirite? Wow, that memory scratched a lot of sore spots coming up. Ouch.
Shame you didn’t go into the canines for cancer abuse research business like someone else we both know. Have you seen him running through his verdant fields of grant money between his mansions? A truly beautiful sight of no fucks given in slow motion.
chid: It’s the story of my life—I go into the wrong career. I miss the episode where the models are naked. And still, I have the dissolve and spearmint Stone Cold Steve Austin’s ghost.
hS: OMG. Alyssa on a horse. She is not naked on it, though. It’s couture week featuring broke fashion. Last week was woke this is broke. Alyssa is taking heads this week.
chid: Right cooter barbecue week. You ever have sex on a horse, ‘Suity?
hS: I...I...um, you know, I don’t know. Maybe. Solid maybe column.
chid: Not enough people have sex on horses. On trains? Sure! Planes? You bet! On top of a pile of sleeping sheep? F-U-C-K YES YES YES. But on a horse? I’ve never heard of it.
hS: There’s a thing about centaur fucking in the fetish community, but like the whole men tapping foot thing in bathroom stalls, there’s many secrets best kept out of the mainstream. I’ve already said too much. Off with my head.
chid: Remember when the guy who is the Republican Presidential Candidate took a bunch of D-listers to Medieval Times on his NBC show that no one watched? Pretty sure the Incredible Hulk and that lady from Staten Island who just got out of prison got into a fight. What a time to be alive.
hS: Sam said he was going “to pick up some trim” at Mood. Ha, ha, good one Sam. Maybe behind Mood’s dumpsters in the alley, but not in Mood. It’s a family fabric and notions store, you pervert.
chid: I hope Sam is making a tablecloth with that fabric.
hS: According to the shade-of-it-all in the work room, someone else is making Sam a ready-to-wear tablecloth with that fabric. Prêt-à-porter perfidy.
chid: I missed Nina Garcia being the guest judge? She’s the only one I love anymore. She’s needlessly cruel. THAT’S how you critique. Imagine having a three way on top of a horse in front of her! Oh what feedback!!!!
chid: Dom suggested Sam not make a horrible piece of shit, and Kini is not thrilled about it!
hS: Per Kini’s earlier illustration, he’s making a “couture” version of his inverted umbrella dress from his non-all star season. He should mind his own business and stay out of Sam and Alyssa’s affairs.
chid: That AARP commercial is proof that I’ve made the right choice. This is my Thursday night and I Live Mas!
hS: I’ve got OxyClean White Revive. There must be a lot of shitstains happening in the greater area of Boulder, Colorado where I am this week. JK. This is very much a non-shitstain town with Whole Foods on every street corner, and very serious people who bike in the snow. Denver, however? Shitstain city.
chid: Someone was just hammering their garment. I don’t know fuck all about assembling clothing, but probably not a lot of hammer work goes into it…?
hS: I guess someone is punching grommets into leather. Oh yeah, the couture Baroque era was all about grommets and leather. Couldn’t get enough of it.
chid: Ken’s look is more tree bark than gold. I’d agree with that assessment. But you know what they say—bronze is the second runner up and it’s Christmas time in the city or something. I don’t remember all of the lyrics to that song.
hS: Zanna’s here. Thought she’d take advantage of the theme this week and wear something edgy and gorgeous but she’s slapped on the dirty jeans she wears while painting her kid’s room. Missed opportunity, Zans.
chid: Zanna is in straight up middle-age mom wear this week. Major disappointment. She better come back in a dress made of fish bones next week.
hS: Everyone’s mad that Dom designed Sam’s dress. I missed that part where she actually did that. Did you hear that part where Dom designed Sam’s dress?
chid: Wait, did DOM design SAM’S dress?
hS: Ken says so. This show is fracturing into Gangs of New York and is taking just as long. Sam on the side of the dead rabbits. Kini as the guy with the wood eye, tall hat and meat cleaver. Sure hope Cameron Diaz will be judging soon. She isn’t getting enough work these days.
chid: Something happened to her face. This plot line is almost a guarantee that Sam wins. I’d bet my right index finger (which is swollen and infected and will be amputated soon) on that.
hS: Where’s that finger been? This is the part where you expect me to say “No, I don’t really want to know”, but this is me you’re talking to so I really want to know. And pictures. From many angles. Dress it up. Make me want your infected finger.
chid: Well it’s just like, if you stop showering for 6 weeks and you constantly play with other people’s feces and the ingredients at your local Chipotle Mexican Grill, it’s only a matter of time, you know?
hS: I am quite conversant about infections, disease vectors, reservoir competency and zoonosis. Did you know my Dad was an epidemiologist?
chid: I didn’t know that. I used to work with an epidemiologist and he refused to shake hands with anyone. Also, he’d always tell everyone to take showers and improve their personal hygiene. What a WEIRDO.
hS: My Dad was strident in his views about personal hygiene, too, but what would you expect from a man who traced whipworm outbreaks in Sulawesi, rickettsia in Tunisia, and the impressively virulent Bolivian Machupo.
My warmest childhood memories of him were of him tucking me in at night. When I’d brushed my teeth extra hard to his cross-armed satisfaction, he’d tickle chase me to my bedroom, my footie pajamas mashing small prints in the shag carpet. I’d whip back the flower printed duvet and slide between the cool sheets always mere moments before he pounced, tucking the duvet under my chin and my favorite Ernie puppet under my arm.
“Tell me a bedtime story!” I whined.
He sighed. “Which one, and don’t say the Ku—”
“KURU! South Fore Kuru! Again! PLEEEEASE!”
“No, you always interrupt and spoil the ending. How about the unfortunate Truk islanders who died from balantidiasis after a hurricane?”
I chanted and clapped my Ernie puppet hands together. “Kuru Kuru Kuru! We want Kuru!”
He’d then squeeze himself into my Alvar Aalto wooden chair, his knees scraping his chin. “All right, so once upon a time, there was a tribe of people in Papua New Guinea called the Fore who once practiced a death ritual—”
“Where they’d eat the bodies of their dead after they’d been buried for weeks and they were all covered in maggots and they’d also eat the brains because they were ingesting the dead souls so they could live forever and ever but they’d get Kuru which is a prion that’s already in you, but you shouldn’t eat them because it makes your brain swell and then you laugh and shake and then you die and then you get eaten all over again!” I gasped between giggles.
My Dad pretended to bury my head in the pillow and would give me a little shake. “You little scamp! You get me every time. Now good night, my little dropsy, don’t let the bed bugs bite. You know why?”
“They stay with you for life!”
“That’s right. We’d have to burn the house down, and your mother would be very mad about that.” Struggling and groaning to get out of the chair, his worn down knees popping like my cap gun. “Now, go to sleep.” He turned off the Big Bird streetlamp on the nightstand.
“Nightlight! Don’t forget my nightlight!”
One last sigh of the evening. “Yes, yes, I haven’t forgotten your nightlight.” He stiff legged to the bookcase across from my bed rolling the coarse dial on the power cord to the rotary shade nightlight.
Twisted ebola strands squirmed together with ink spot coronaviruses all chased by the duckbill Marburg in soft blue green light. Rogue teams of Lassa. Q fever. Enterobacteria. Spirochetes. My eyes slowly closed, weary of identifying the plagues multiplying and invading my bedroom’s walls.
chid: What a childhood!!!
Here’s the thing about Chinese Laundry providing footwear for Baroque Couture week — that’s like wearing dollar store jewelry to the Oscars.
hS: Don’t bad mouth the Oscars. Dollar General sponsors the celebrity’s grab bags. Everyone gets the white Tic Tacs and a fun gummy bracelet.
chid: I liked watching you struggle to name a dollar store there. Shows me how baller your life is, Suits. Just be careful about who you hire to be your housekeeper!!! We elites are a soft hostage target for the poors!!!!
hS: Ballers be ballin’. Can you believe the rental car agency gave me keys to a Ford Focus? I was shocked: “Tom Ford designed a car and called it a ‘Focus’? So unlike him, but lead the way, sir!” Just between you and me, chid, Tom’s Focus is just okay.
There’s a lot of innuendo this week. Sam picked up some trim, and that dude we don’t really like can’t get it in. Way to go limp dick.
chid: Idiot Boy’s zipper broke. I think he’s going home. I don’t remember his name.
chid: See, but Idiot Boy worked fine too.
hS: I’m good with it. Idiot Boy it is. Did you notice how everything is bad this week, chid? Yeah yeah, I know that we say this every week, but it seems extra extra bad. Like, the forecast called for bad, but it’s just so much worse. If the designers had just draped their models with the thousand yards of hate they have for Sam, we’d have something attractive. If you’re going to hate someone that much, all star knuckleheads, use chintz.
chid: These back-to-back Soma and Dial featuring a woman doing yoga commercials are really an internet-less 13-year-old’s jack sesh dreams.
hS: Just wait til they shoot their load to this Hepatitis C ad. Those women are real and very hot. Like, fever hot which can be a mild to severe symptom of Hep C—
hS: These are weird commercials, and I’ve lost my fashion hard on. Alyssa has nice hair this week. She could serve a mean mead at the Ren Fair with that hair.
chid: I’m working blue this week. I’m tired of being the clean livin’ chid everyone expects me to be. Dick balls slit cock ears asshole shit motherfucker balls balls cunt mouth moth face cock balls tang watch collection shitty cunt balllicker fartnose twat waffle dillhole.
hS: I have a frenemy that has Tourette’s Syndrome. We play softball together. You wouldn’t BELIEVE the zany words that come out of his mouth at the most inappropriate times.
chid: I would believe the words. I believe all words. CHEMTRAILS.
Valerie’s dress looked like one of those $110 Halloween costumes.
hS: I’ve been to that Halloween party. Ended up holding back Rapunzel’s hair while she barfed up 10 Cosmos and then sat on the curb listening to her blather about her UTI until her cab showed up. Thanks for #thetriggering, Valerie.
chid: Sam’s dress that he didn’t design looks good.
hS: I’ll say. He shouldn’t design his own looks going forward. If he goes forward in this competition, I mean. I hope he does just to jab yet another symbolic seam ripper in these jelly designers’ eyes.
chid: Ha. Dom’s was very Formation-video outtake.
hS: Alexander splattered pearl drops all over his. Hired that 13 year old watching commercials, huh, Alexander?
chid: Mitchell’s is very Rhythm Nation-video outtake.
hS: Kini’s is Chinese Bond vamp girl vs. umbrella ella ella eh eh eh cough cough gasp. If the crazy flounce was the collar it’d be Baroque AND couture. The look you’re wanting is on Pinterest, Kini. Google it.
chid: At least it looks like he could charge more than $200 for it. Asha’s is like if a prom dress from 1992 was made out of velvet rope and cardboard.
hS: Remember petting the velvet rope waiting in the bank teller line? Soothing and reassuring? I’ve had a really bad day, and now I’m waiting in the bank, but ooo, touching the velvet rope. Yeah, well, Asha’s is none of those things.
What the fuck do I know about Kini’s gown? It’s safe. Gah.
chid: Alexander’s is not couture at all, but his model is a total babe in it and it’s cute. Judges will reprimand the shit out of him though.
hS: None of these dresses and gowns are actual couture except Dom’s and maybe Kini’s if you squint hard enough to blackout. Actual couture is really more than just made-to-measure attire rich in fine detail and fine fabric and fine craftsmanship. It’s also supposed to be grand and visionary and over the top. That’s completely lost here. You know who’s doing good haute couture nowadays for both men and women’s looks? Thom Browne. These all stars think they’re a Thom Browne, but they’re showing Thom Yorke.
Ken’s is a “tall glass of wine”. Wine doesn’t go in a tall glass, Ken. Champagne goes in a tall, slender glass. Do you mean champagne, Ken? Why didn’t you send down a baroque mimosa, Ken? I’d drink that, not your skunky wine gown.
chid: He beats to the beat of his own beat, Suity. All I’ll say is that bronze color just looks like a giant turd on TV.
hS: Ken says it’s a “bold power bottom pieces”. Georgina agreed. Isaac didn’t. Coca Rocha was 50/50. Project Runway: Detente.
chid: Don’t love Emily’s. Think Layana’s looks like the expensive and high fashion version of something you’d find on Mod Cloth.
hS: I want Layana to be the winner even though it’s not good. I want to feel things again. Emily’s is fine, but it’s not enough to make me put down this razor and get out of this warm bath.
chid: As usual, Isaac and I are on the same page. He also did not care for poop dress. But Ken is obviously in the top. There were some really awful looks this week.
hS: Ha, ha. Sam got kudos for his drapery, but Georgina says it’s not couture. No fucking shit, wife of Harvey Weinstein and bestie with Keren Craig, but, who cares?! This draping done by Dom made Ken’s eyes roll back in his head, and now I understand why we are here. This show’s not about the fashion. It’s about the irritation. Namely, Idiot Boy’s hem irritating his model’s delicate calves. Let’s have fun with that one!
chid: Mitchell is out of here. This week would be a fine week for them to eliminate three people at once.
hS: He is so Gone, Girl. Let’s sew up NPH’s throat and slice it again and again. I watch that movie’s scene in my head whenever I’m feeling low, by the way. My favorite moment in my whole life. Don’t tell anyone that, chid, especially Mr. Suitcase. He thinks it was our wedding day. No, it’s NPH death scene and Rosamund Pike clutching his baby juice deep in her while goose stepping to the bathroom. Oops, I’m sorry. Spoiler alert.
chid: Baby juice poop mouth dinofuck spitting horseback sex.
hS: They hate Layana’s after all. Isaac backed me up about how couture should be out there, but he says “weird” because he can’t use his words. Georgina said someone else’s looked weird. Alyssa did, too. We’re all locked on the word “weird” this week. Weird.
chid: Who do you think is winning? I’d say Sam, because, you know, this whole episode was edited around the Sam drama.
hS: Oh, if there is a goddamn lord in heaven, please let Sam be the winner. We’d lose half the designers to heart attacks thus a shorter season.
chid: Who do you think is riding the sex horse in the sky?
hS: Michael Chiklis. I wouldn’t ask further why I’m thinking Michael Chiklis if I were you.
chid: Cereal commercials always make cereals look so good but then you wake up in the morning and pour a bowl and eat it standing up next to your refrigerator and your hand gets cold because of the milk and you just have to like chew a ton, you know? And it’s like, whatever, cereal.
hS: I know someone who eats cereal with water. He says it’s no biggie.
chid: Is water cold?
hS: I didn’t ask him that question as there were so many others. Let’s assume it was. I think it was ice cubes in his cereal so yes, it was cold.
chid: That sounds extra crunchy. So who do you want to kick off?
hS: I want to kick off the premiere of “Mommy’s Little Girl”. Lifetime’s new little girl serial killer.
chid: KEN WON? KEN?
hS: Holy fucking fuckballs—Ooooooo, Sam is safe and has to walk in the other room with him. Please, cameraman, hurry and follow them! What? A side hug, smile, and relaxing on the couch? No drama? Fuck this show.
chid: Mitchell is finally eliminated. Thank god.
hS: Bye, Idiot Boy. You know he won last week’s naked challenge, right? He put a nude man in some knockoff Kenneth Cole Reaction wear and shocked everyone. Apoplectic.
chid: WHA? I’m not going back to watch it. Even though it’s chock full of blurry trim.
hS: It’s not worth it. Naked people putting on clothing really isn’t exciting after all. Sweet christ, how many guest judges do we have next week? Boy George! Ke$sha! Nina Garcia! Debra Messing! Barbra Streisand! Cher! Yanni! PSD! Mako! Topol!
chid: Ke$ha is on next week!! Also, Ken and Sam get into a fight! That looks exciting. Can’t. Wait.
hS: I can’t tell if everything is going down next week or if they just previewed the rest of the season. We’re this much closer to being done with these weirdos, chid! I’m juiced like a 13 year old spanking it to women in Dial and Hep C commercials!