In my efforts to better acquaint myself with the quintessence of the modern day couch potato, those Joe Lunchboxes and Sally Homemakers of this glorious, reality-tv suckled nation, I reclined amongst the burgundy pillows and rich, maroon velvet of my Oriental seatee and, eating pork skin flavored pork skins, watched the latest episode of UPN's reality serial, "America's Next Top Model."
Wow. Tyra Banks is one psychotic, yet genius, bitch!
The jest/jist of this much loved series, now in it's fourth season, follows a Los Angeles loft filled with mediocre young girls from all walks of life: a waitress, a homeless girl, a Christian, a wrestler, etc. These delicate kittens pose and cat-fight for a myriad of glamorous gifts including photo spreads and, ultimately, an exclusive modeling contract. The dainties dish and "experts" (like tangerine orange art director, Jay Manuel) give them not very constructive criticism ("be fierce gurl" "just be like rrowrl" "it's not 'uh', it's 'uh') and expect these PYT's to produce Glamour worthy photo-spreads, all the while taking junior-college-worthy theatre courses in makeup and acting and like, modeling stuff.
Let's cut to the chase and talk about poor little Tiffany. (Here she is disguised as a lobster secret agent). Clearly the underdog of the series, Tiffany has been beaten, bruised and tattoed. She's kickin' it from the Miami projects and her granny had to go without power so she could buy Tiff a bathing suit for the show. Tiffany sleeps on a mattress with her baby and her baby-daddy, and this show is the only way she'll ever get out of the gutter.
Girlfriend, I know it. Just two weeks ago I was sleeping on that mattress with your baby and your baby-daddy and I was like "Clarence, pass me the crack pipe. It sho' is cold in this here house with no electricity. Maybe I'll dress like a lobster and get a modeling contract too." He just beat me with an empty 40 ounce, called me pathetic and went to buy some scratch-offs.
BUT MOMMA I LOVE HIM! OH GOD I LOVE HIM!
Enough bout Clarence, let's talk about the beating Tiffany got at the manicured mandibles of omnipotent, bobble-headed Tyra Banks. I'd suspect after four seasons Mizz Banks has gotten a little big headed, make that big foreheaded (granted a useless jab as she mocks her Pacific Rim sized head almost weekly). All my suspicions were confirmed during the final moments of last night's elimination ceremony when TYRA BANKS FREAKED THE FUCK OUT.
I mean the girl snapped. Her head spun around. Her weave grew snakes and hissed and spit. Tyra's eyes shot flames and five chanting men in black robes disembowed a screaming newborn in honor of her exalted wickedness. They smeared the blood from their curved daggers on her boiling skin, and scarabs erupted from her wounds, devouring the eyes of her unholy worshippers as they joyously laughed, lest they look upon her evil. After witnessing her rancor my pork skin flavored pork skins had the taste of ashes, of death. Sobs. And I so love pork skins.
It's awfully fun to watch. Pass the pork skins and the crack-pipe Clarence. Your woman is getting bitch slapped again and again!