It's JDS. It's Top Chef time. Both AIDS and Christmas came to town during last night's episode.

I can't say I remember it much for I had gone to the ASSME (American Society of Shitcanned Media Elitists) party before and wasn't sober. And now, sitting in some second-rate bombshelter of a Bushwick cafe called The Archive, listening to a long hair tell some poor girl over the phone, "All this emotional stuff, I can't hang with it. I'm sorry if you don't like my honesty" while the box of Zen Tarot cards with which he attempted to pick up the barista sits in front of him, the episode retreats even farther into the blurry dissolute past. I do remember some things though. Let's reminisce.

First, the "Handy 39 Word Narrative Recapitulation" Quickfire; Martha Stewart judged one pot dishes. Aryan won. Anger! New Jersey! Hosea Dad cancer but ok. Elim. Chal. Advent. AIDS. Harlem Choir. Weird. All Bad Food. Tits!"

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Secondly, note to Sidekick. Great product placement early in the episode. However, now every time I see a Sidekick, I'll think, "Oh yeah, I wonder if Hosea's dad is okay" because the logo of your brand is now wed mentally with the time you forced a reality show contestant to call his sister on speakerphone on a Sidekick to enquire whether his father was okay because he is suffering from cancer. It's like Clockwork Orange—subbing cancer for Beethoven and Sidekicks for disturbingly violent scenes of rape. OMG! Eugene sliced off his ear! Someone put it in a Glad bag so it stays fresh! Glad! Ear! Blood!

Also, no disrespect meant to the Harlem Gospel Choir, but what the fuck with the melisma? The phrase "a partridge in a pear tree" should have seven syllables. Not 84. I counted!

So the main challenge was, again, catering, this time at an AMFAR benefit, hosted by Natasha Richardson, an actress with truly the most underwhelming IMDB page ever. The most noteworthy thing about her was the strangeness of her bosom which was illusory and intriguing. Head on, the woman's breasts—huddled masses yearning to breath free—seemed almost negligible in size. But from the many overhead shots, those same breasts seemed to protrude, jut forward like Nurse Ratchet's "outsized badges of femininity." How did they do that? I also am not being perverted, sexually. I am genuinely curious. First correct answer, gets to marry Padma. Ha! [BTW: Anyone who is wondering, I actually don't have the power to marry off Padma.]

Then this bullshit about Christmas. To anyone with two giggles and a brain, it was apparent from the beginning they weren't going to send anyone home. After all, it was "Christmas." Instead, they had Tom Colicchio, who is clearly just going through the motions at this point, yell at the contestants. "Do better," he says in his mean papa way. Then he goes and perverts natural selection and allows the weak beasts to slow down the herd. Bad for everyone.

To sum up, Carla continues to beguile in her mix of herky jerk Urkelness and dorky avian Big Birdiness. Fabio has fallen from favor and I am not looking forward to watching his crisis of confidence. Aryan's narrative arc must climax soon for her downfalls—a cataract of tears, a torrent of Jersey-tinged sobs—will be delightful to behold. Stephen continues to be my favorite, despite attempts to villify him. Padma is perfect. Christmas is coming. And now that the barista has taken a break and is having her cards read by the hippie heart breaker ("You're a sadge," he said, gazing into her eyes.) it's time for me to pack my knives and go.

[Thank you to Max Silvestri for the video footage (and letting me watch at your house) and Mike Byhoff for editing it.]