ANTM Cycle 14: The worst word in the whole English language is Romper.

Once upon a time, I wanted to write a book that came with a soundtrack, and calibrated the songs to come in at average reading times, so that everyone just about heard the same song while reading the same part of the book.

What I'd like to do now is apply that idea to ANTM. However, I don't have video skills or programs, so you're going to have to use your imagination. And hand eye coordination.

First, start the show and this video at the exact same moment:



Alright, now Anslee is crying about her baby, and some girls no one knows are talking about the relationship of pickle juice and bodily functions. Blah Blah. I hate babies. They should put more babies in pickle juice. Which is more heart killing, coroner or model? They both involved sucking liquids out of bodies and cutting open into the hidden spaces. The girls get all dressed up and go out to a tram, but like a city tram? Which seems horribly unsafe. I had a classmate that fell out of a ferris wheel once and that tram makes me think of that. Where is the tram going exactly? Are they going to throw them out of the thing one by one? Oh, only metaphorically. Miss Jay, Etiquette Queen, is there to teach them about chemistry. He's going to throw them into a tram with some unknown male model and teach them how to be real ladies.

1. Also ask about him. Talk about him. What does he like?
2. Be funny, makes jokes. It's your job to make sure he's entertained.
3. Hold eye contact. Hypnotize your prey, move in slowly.
4. Make him feel comfortable. This is your job. Do it.

Oh Miss Jay, surely you don't mean to imply that the 1950s is back, do you? Cause I seem to recall that being a time of hardship for, well, absolutely everything you embody. So I know you wouldn't want to thoughtlessly teach a generation of girls that taking care of their man is a solely one-sided proposition, and thereby ally yourself with those who would beat you senseless in a cow field and cut off your dick? I know you would never, right?

Then they get to meet their male model. Cue:



That's right, Nigel Barker. The teach is to flirt with Nigel Barker. Who is suddenly claiming to not be married and have no kids? Which I seem to remember from past seasons as being a complete lie? It is creepy and sad that all of the girls act like they were just told to dance with Uncle Albert at their aunt's wedding.

Some shit happened where the girls had to pose with some flamingly gay comedian I've never heard of in sexually suggestive positions, and it's also weird and creepy. Some of them are dressed up like chorus girls. Nigel shoots them from outside on the street, through a window, so it's all peeping tom like? This whole episode is making me squishy inside and also a little bit righteous. There should be some Barbara Streisand happening here.

Then the photo shoot.



Jay Manuel feeds us some crap about feeling bad for all the poor underage kids in China who lose their jobs when horrible evil poor people like us buy designer knockoffs. Then the girls get dressed up like 90's Dance vocalists and pose like broken dolls on the most uninteresting section of New York street ever. Anslee proves she is the worst kind of person in the makeup chair.

makeup artist: "Don't cry"
Anslee: "No I've already done that all morning."

That, my dear, is why no one likes you.

While we've got this song going on, let's talk Tyra's jumpsuits. There was something in the credits about this whole season being dedicated to Alexander McQueen, and I'm wondering if that's the jumpsuit thing? Did he do jumpsuits and rompers? If so, I'm kinda glad he's dead. No, that's mean. But you know, if he's responsible for this, I don't care, I'll say that to his cold dead face. Fuck jumpsuits.

Of course, with Talley in his 60th Level Zen Crystal Warrior robes, maybe Tyra's just being converted to the Scientologists.

Finally, Judges Panel:



Tats goes home. Where she will no doubt start her own funeral home with some nice guy who collects butterflies. When she is older and examining the bags under her eyes, she considers how the botox in her face might react to the crematory fires.

Then, as the girls stand in their accepted row, they slowly recede into the walls, sealed in pressurized chambers, turned off. The lights dim and Tyra stands alone in the darkness while her minions light candles behind her. She raises her arms slowly, eyes reached to heaven. Her earrings start to sputter and roar to life, miniature rockets that propel her toward the ceiling, which opens silently, and out out out above the lonely darkness of the city lights. The huge and sprawling concrete organism that lives off tears.