Heya! It's me, Joshua David Stein. I'm back briefly to talk about Bravo's study in sartorial mediocrity dubbed "Project Runway." We're now deep in the heart of Season 5. Some of the people—term loosely used—on last night's episode were familiar faces. Other faces we saw were strange and stranger. Laura Bennett was a familiar one. The once-pregnant redhead from last season (the season with Hung and Marcel and Capricorn) was a guest judge. It was nice to see her Paltrowian mug. Then there was this thing called a RaytchillZoh (sp?) who was also a guest judge. Earlier in the episode we met a funny-talking cargeigh named Christopher Webb. Where was he from? HE WAS FROM SATURN! And by Saturn of course we mean Torbay, an east-facing bay and natural harbour, at the western most end of Lyme Bay in the south-west of England. But more than a cavalcade of stars and seams, the show was about one thing, a thing with four doors and an EPA estimate of 32 MPG Highway: SATURN. The contestants—idiot sheep people they are—were invited to go to rooftop. This caused confusion and hope. Blayne thought perhaps it was some exclusive celebrity and they had to go "rooftop style". Mariah Carey was mentioned by Korto. [BLAYNE WALKS LIKE A FUCKING KEEBLER ELF! WATCH VIDEO!] Even when they arrived at a parking garage, that sneaky bitch hope still filled their eyes with stars. They got on a freight elevator. Only Joe, the man from Detroit, remained unfazed. You could see in his eyes he'd been through this shit before. Anyway, Mariah Carey wasn't waiting for them. Only a fleet of affordable yet chic hybrid vehicles [NB: Saturn, please email me my car at email@example.com".] They had to use car parts and upholstery to make their outfits. To skip over the boring bits quickly: Keith, the whiny ex-Mormon, bitched, moaned. Terri made a shite Jeepers Creepers joke then rolled on the floor. Jor-El redeemed himself when he said, "Don't trust the bitch" referring to Terri and then flashing a false smile. Korto wove this fairly beautiful mod dress out of seatbelts. Everyone used seatbelts. Suede didn't use suede. Jor-El did. Cat Power stuffed her models panties and made a great dress. Stella calls her sidekick on a Sidekick. His name is RATBONES. He has an iron cross tattooed on his forearm and his motto is, "if you don't like it get the fuck outta here." Ok, ok, I'm on my way out. On to Judgment Day. Is guest judge Rachel Zoe the Montauk Monster? Rachel Zoe from what I pull from the cultural ether, is a celebrity stylist for Lindsay Lohan and others who reportedly drugs her charges into skinniness. Is that fairly accurate? She's a girl-version of Blayne but brined, a deflated doll, a beige tarp thrown over a tower of bones all bungied together and animated by greed. One of those Godzilla dolls you get from Archie McPhee. She also has her own ill-fated show called the Rachel Zoe Project. From the flash of previews, it involves the small raisin woman yelling at other people and occasionally crying. She seems horrible. The show seems horrible. I bet she doesn't even drive a Saturn. Keith's outfit was by far the worst. Stella's was also pretty bad but Keith's was just inexcusable. Of course he made excuses. He blamed the model for sitting down. He blamed the critics for not appreciating him enough. He was pissy on the runway. Of course he was eliminated. Most or our tireless live blog commenters seemed to agree with the choice. And they have impeccable taste, so sorry Keith. He left, muttering "no worries" through red eyes on his way back to SLC. The voice of reason last night belonged to 5 percenter Michael Kors who advocated personal responsibility. Rachel Zoe, a woman who perhaps could learn something about personal accountability, scowled like an uncomprehending demon. When the television lights were dimmed, the spark left her eyes too and a PA snuck up behind her, opened the rubber nipple and let out any remaining air.
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