America's Next Top Model
The Girls Who Go To Milan

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Djb: B | Grade It Now!
Fellini Meeny Miney Mo

The angry grunge soundtrack on loan from the Smithsonian for America's Next Top Nirvana Bassist has been reallocated to fill some holes in the action, not to mention some holes in the hearts of the rest of the top model candidates, still in mourning over the heartbreaking loss of -- wait, what was that girl's name again? -- Sara. That's right. Sara. Such a sad passing is commemorated with the usual sepia-toned flashbacks of last week's Domo Arigato Mister Eliminato (still casting around for a good nickname for that right of passage), where -- wait, what was that girl's name again? Oh, yeah, Sara -- tearfully hugs the other girls while they wail and beat their chests like extras at a Khomeini funeral street scene.

Up in the ZoLoft, the girls continue their difficult slog through the post-death ritual, following the rigorous strategies and methodologies of other cultures that have experienced loss: Christians attend a wake and a funeral. Jews cover the mirrors and eat a brisket. Yoanna does leg lifts on a yoga mat. Well, I guess it looks like everyone is better. Hey, you guys? Let's never grieve again.

"I recently lost a lot of weight," Yoanna tells us in a voice-over after we're conned into thinking she's still crying about Sara in a confessional where she's clearly crying about being called a big fat hoss when she was twelve. "I might feel a little uncomfortable with my body, and I don't want that to be a reason that I would ever get eliminated." This admission is accompanied by a few snapshots of Yoanna, whose progression from a not-so-fatty (source: The World) to a not-so-skinny (source: Nigel Barker) also appears to have taken Yoanna on a journey through several other ethnicities, and at least one picture that indicates that she might, in fact, have spent some time as Janeane Garofalo.

Meanwhile, patching up old plot holes like old John's jalopy with a puncture in its tire, we revisit, like, a hundred weeks ago (oh, fine, three), when the girls were visited by a hippy-dippy psychic who, like, told them that they all liked being pretty. Oooooooh! If you were to ask my Ouija Board if I were totally amazed by her brilliance and acumen at accessing the ephemeral whims of the spirit dimension, I would not at all manipulate the direction of the pointer as it made its way over to "Yes." Camille remembers Dr. Fake Science and her Notes From The Otherworld, noting in a confessional, "The psychic who came to our house told us, 'Camille, you're not going to win this competition unless you open up and you become friends with people.'" To which, at least until this point, Camille had really stuck to her talking points of "Yeah, not so much going for the America's Next Top Buddy Wrangler thing, thanks." But I guess the oddly edited time elapse between the visit of the psychic and the revelations of right now really gave Camille some time to think. About herself. Ah. How she has grown: "I've never been a person to take up a friendship with anybody, but I'll do whatever it takes to win." At least, that's what I think she says. Other mumbled variants include, "I've never been a person to make up a friendship," "I've never been a person to take off my friendship," or "I've never been a person with an Easy-Bake Oven." If it's the last of those, my dear, I pity you. Because those cupcakes? Are ice cold. In a good way. Not in a cold way.

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America's Next Top Model




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