“Thanks,
Mrs. A!”

I got a breathless e-mail from model pal Elyse two weeks ago, just as the last Project Runway recap about dying of denim barfness was being posted. Subject line: "oh shit I hope you get this on time."

She's a busy model, lady-posing globally, so I don't mind if her commentary is late. Fashion isn't a hobby, it's work. So I understand. And because it's a plain fact that everything this woman says about living stylishly is totally true, except for when I disagree with her, I'm going to give you her entire e-mail about blue jeans right now. That denim challenge episode may be stale, but the fact is, it was stale when it aired. Therefore, take it away, Elyse:

"If you have any jeans in your closet with a 'whisker wash' (fake wrinkle lines around the crotch), you must throw them away. You are no longer allowed to have those. The same thing goes for those tassely Balenciaga handbags: They were faked so thoroughly and persistently, you may no longer carry ANY iteration of this bag, fake or real.

"Oh, fuck it, denim is, like, SO out. The outest incarnation of denim is the jacket. I shudder to think of it. I'm wearing a dotted swiss dress right now, happily denim-free.

"I've noticed they're trying to bring back flared jeans. I wholeheartedly condemn this trend. Keep it straight-leg. Keep it tight. Keep it for at least another year, then we'll talk. Oh, but all that 1998-style 'embellished jeans' nonsense, with, like, rhinestone butterflies and fake-leather tassels sticking all over the place? Keep that at the mothafuckin' WIPP site, OK? Bury it half a mile underground."

Now we can all move on to the gorgeous ladies of wrestling and their needs for garments that give. Also, that "display the fake tits to maximum antigravity roundness." That's this week's challenge, and I must say I'm all for it. The same way that I was for the plus-size woman challenge from last season and the Tiki Barber menswear episode. Force these people to do something that proves they can make more than another dubiously sexy party dress.

"Sweet P..." begins Jillian.

"What?" says Sweet P, who was all set to scream, "MY NAME'S NOT KIT!" until she realized that she'd been called by her correct self-chosen moniker.

"I don't want fashion week to be all boys. We can't let that happen. We have to rep -- present," says Jillian. Sometimes it's like Jillian's iron-poor blood won't even lend her the energy it takes to say multisyllabic words in one breath.

Of course the producers don't want it to be all boys either. And that's why it's kind of a sad fact that Sweet P will most likely be going home soon, leaving, I predict, a final trio of Jillian, Rami, and Christian. The residents of my home -- that would be me, my husband/partner/whatever, and our good friend Xtreem Aaron -- and the nonresidents who are seemingly always wandering in and out are uniformly afraid for the future of Sweet P on this show. We all love her and want to give her a lifetime of cuddles, hugs, and homemade pies and cakes. But we think she's going home soon.

Just not this week. That honor belongs to Ricky.

And it's about motherfuckin' time.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Oh, wait, no, I'm not. Because here's Christian and Rami to shit all over Ricky.

Christian: "Ricky's dress had ruffles attached to the bottom."

Now, to properly explain Christian's delivery of that sentence requires video. But failing that, and I am failing that here right now, I'll tell you that after Christian said, "Ricky's dress had," he paused for just enough of a split second and tilted one eyebrow and gave his head a little shake before huffing out the word "ruffles." It's the perfect smoothie of disbelief and mocking disdain and it's just one more reason I love him. I've encountered a lot of anti-Christian sentiment out there lately, people who can't believe that he's my favorite contestant. They don't like cockiness. They don't like attitude. They don't like tiny, queeny men. Those people don't actually enjoy television excitement, either. They fail at watching this show. Just look at Rami's delighted laugh. That's the proper response to Christian's bitchy superiority complex.

Ricky, for his part, is wondering why he's getting no respect for his denim win. If only he'd come over to this house and watch an episode, he'd understand that the reason he's getting no respect is because he's annoying. And he sucks.

The six remaining designers gather at the runway with Heidi. Heidi's wearing a gleaming, textured bronzey cocktail dress that looks like something Laura the Glamour Mom from last season would have designed. It's pretty great. Out come two models.

"Models?" says Heidi (and I call you models because I don't know your names). "This is a competition for you as well." (And I must explain this each time because everyone, including myself, cannot seem to remember this not-meaningful, consequence-free, excitementless fact, ever.)

"Ricky, you were the winner of last week's challenge," Heidi continues (I know, I feel ridiculous even saying it, yes?). Then she lets Ricky evict a model. He keeps his Amy Winehouse look-alike and sends the other one packing. Jillian expresses dismay ("that felt bad") but can't seem to get the departing model's name right, pronouncing it differently, a "Jaclyn" to Heidi's "Jacleen." Again, I can't believe I'm even spending time typing about this part.

Heidi wants to know if the designers would like to know about their next challenge. When they wearily acknowledge that, yes, they'd enjoy information, she does her favorite thing: withhold. "Too bad!" she says, smiling, her eyes bright with the fervor of punishment, before telling them that they'll meet Tim Gunn tomorrow for the details.

It's the next day. Tim leads them to a room. From inside the room comes shrieking and screaming. So Laura is back and those are her 13 sons inside all beating the shit out of each other? I can hope.

Jillian thinks the sounds are violent.

Sweet P thinks the sounds are murderous.

Christian thinks it's people having sex.

I can understand that. But then my understanding that comes from my experiences as a DJ at the Eagle on the weekends. Sometimes a scream of that sort is just some guy being flogged on the chain-link spider web to the right of the DJ booth. Yeah, it happens. But now here's my next question. If that's his idea of sex noise, then why haven't I seen Christian out at the bar on "Oink" or "Meat Rack" night?

Inside the doors is a wrestling ring. Inside the ring are six WWE women flipping and bouncing and kicking and body-slamming. But Christian is right too, because one of them looks like she's riding the other one cowgirl-style while holding onto the ropes.

Tim Gunn climbs into the ring and says, "Grandpa has difficulty with these ropes." Good one, Tim Gunn. The six women introduce themselves and give little sound bites about what they consider to be their personal style. One thinks she's "rock glam." Not glam rock, mind you, because something itching in my doubting mind tells me she has no idea that there was ever a thing called glam rock. But rock glam. It's totally different. One of them says she's the "epitome of the all-American good girl" -- if the all-American good girl had big hard fakeys and performed lesbian-scented body slams on basic cable. One of them says that she's known as "the sex kitten." And speaking of kittens, these kinds of women are like catnip to most gay men because they're cartoonish and whorey. They are as much like everyday women as a Real Doll and are therefore not threatening to the fag. It's the inverse of the relationship that lots of hetero females have with flamboyant, feminine gay men. Men like that are for shopping trips and makeover days. They don't come over as rough or dangerous or needing sex. It's how we neuter each other to keep everything friendly.

The clients and designers pair up. The wrestlers talk about their PG-13 slut-centric outfit needs. Conceptual expressions like "classy sexpot" and "tranny stripper" are tossed around. Sweet P expresses dismay at her inability to get behind the Frankenhookerishness of it all. Cut to Christian talking about making a "chap." Is this something all designers do, de-S-ify everything that regular people make plural? Because today I'm wearing pants and shoes. Tomorrow will I be in a pant and a shoe? And the next day will I put on other clothe? Can some designy person clue me in, please? Follow the links at the end of this recap and you'll dig up my e-mail. I'm not that hard to find.

Then the designers go shopping at someplace called "Spandex House." Everyone buys stretchy, sparkly material. Then it's back to the workroom for a Blockbuster Total Access product placement moment. It's Blockbuster's new Netflix-ish thing, the corporate giant playing catch-up and being way less cool in the process. Jillian draws the short straw and is forced to watch a wrestling DVD with the Blockbuster envelope placed next to the little player, logo side up for the camera. Intrigued, I go to Blockbuster.com to see what sort of titles they offer. Oh, look, I can't get Shortbusor Showgirls. That's because Blockbuster thinks it knows what's too naughty for you to watch. So they don't offer NC-17 titles. Eat it, jerks. I got Netflix.

Christian tries on his own chap(s). "Ohmuhgodihwuzzofierce!" he slurs. Then Sweet P asks him what he thinks of her fabric. He laughs in her face and says, "It looks like tranny ice cream." Or ice queen. Can't figure out what he says there, really. Either one works. Everyone thinks this is funny except Sweet P, who's stressing and throwing a feather boa onto her model form. Oh...

But she's not too panicked to stop what she's doing and arm-wrestle Christian. It seems to wind up close to a tie. They end up hugging. Oh, fashion people, don't you know that arm-wrestling is supposed to end in either a fistfight or a make-out session? Anyway, it's all interrupted by Tim Gunn with a surprise. He sends in the "Divas," as the show's been calling the wrestlers for the entire episode -- so I guess I'd better get on board -- for a fitting. All the ladies are excited about their garments. Except for Sweet P's "Sex Kitten," who says that it all looks like something she could just go buy at the stripper store. Tim Gunn nails Sweet P's Vargas-Girl-by-way-of-Mylar-balloon nighty-nightgown with, "It looks like she's going to the WWE hospital." "For bigger implants" is the implication floating Hindenberg-like in the air. Time to add cascading rhinestones and opponent-blinding-lasers and ass-baring star shapes cut out of the butt check area and miniature cannons that shoot lemon-lime Pop-Rocks into the crowd. Now guess which one of those items she really asked for before telling Sweet P she didn't want it to look "clownish."

Tim Gunn continues his consultation with Ricky, who ignores everything Tim Gunn says, and boasts about taking the garment "to another level." Of suck.

It's nine hours until the end of the day...

"Hey, Christian," says Ricky. "Do you happen to have a snap?"

Christian sits and sketches something. "Mmm-hmm."

"Thanks," says Ricky. "I owe you one."

Cut to Christian on interview-cam: "Actually, in all honesty, I didn't really want to give it to him. But at the end of the day, you help people, and their work still is not great. Ricky's outfit is a complete bathing suit. But I wasn't gonna tell him that, 'cuz honestly, like, that's how people get weeded out."

And if that bit of bitchery wasn't good enough, I also like how Christian doesn't seem to be doing much of anything but sketching. It could be some tricky nonchronological editing, but he appears to be in the relaxed "Yeah, I finished first and best again" state of mind he's perfected so far this season. Like, "Yeah, pooped it out. Garment done. Smoked a cigarette. Had a nap. Chatted with Tim Gunn for like an hour. Ohmuhgodimamazing."

Sewing, sewing, sewing...

Everyone's talking about their own Diva alter egos. Christian's is, naturally, going to be known as "Ferosha Coutura," and her signature move will be to blind her opponents with hair spray in the eyes. I briefly consider going around my living room to get impromptu Diva names from the assembled watchers, but all I get is Xtreem Aaron going, "Hey, remember when Madonna called herself 'Veronica Electronica' back in the late '90s?"

I didn't remember that, honestly. All I remember is when she went on Oprah around that time to promote Ray of Light and to make nice after insulting O in Truth or Dare. And then came the red strings around the wrists and I lost interest.

Tim's not into Rami's hot pink disaster of drapey boob-holder and sequined hot pants. He's fine with Jillian's electric blue sports-bra thingy, though. And I just want to say right now that I will step aside and let Tim Gunn adopt Christian. He clearly wants to. The body language is all paternal gesture and daddy-warmth. He leans down conspiratorially to talk to him. Calls Christian's garments "fierce" even before Christian can. Looks like he wants to hug the boy all the time. It's not sexual. It's pride in junior fag made good.

Tim Gunn looks at Sweet P's awful garment and says, "This really worries me... I don't want you to go home... Can you mitigate this somehow?" Cut to Sweet P sewing and crying. SWEET P! STOP MAKING SWEET P CRY! Christian, not helping, asks, "Do you want me to be truthful? I just think it's really ugly."

Thanks, Christian. Why don't you fuckin' get in there and help her? It ain't like you're busy. Be gallant for one second. You gave Ricky a snap. You can give Sweet P some actual assistance. DO IT! IT'S SWEET P!

It's commercial time. Heidi's voice says, "Coming up on Project Runway..." and the assembled voices in my living room chime in to finish her sentence:

"I say things like 'home-sewn!"

"Cheap and dirty!"

"This garment has no point of view!"

"SWEET P!"

The commercials aren't interesting, though. And besides, they put them inside the show now, anyway. No point in watching them.

It's elimination day...

Divas come in, get fitted. Hair and makeup montage. Time for the motherfuckin' walk-off. Richie Rich and Traver Rains of Heatherette are the guest judges. I wondered when that would finally happen. Those two will pretty much go on any reality show. If they could check into Celebrity Rehab With Dr. Drew, they probably would.

The outfits:

Christian: Chap(s) over black lace leggings. Giant boobs under black lace. A terrifying S/M freak-out. She is going to beat up Vanity, Apollonia, Wendy, Lisa, Sheila E., and Kat.

Jillian: Hot metallic-blue American Gladiator garment with her woman's ample butt cheeks on full display.

Ricky: Sparkly bag over orange swimsuit.

Chris: Leopard bondage outfit with shiny black velvet ass, wacky matching hoodie lined with more shiny black stuff, and crazy gloves.

Sweet P: Still the Mylar nightie. Almost as bad as Ricky's.

Rami: But not as bad as this. Hot pink, flouncy, tacky Frederick's of Hollywood car accident. It's like something Brazilian children's TV show host Xuxa would wear.

Kors can barely stand it. He says he's a fish out of water with this challenge. Like "the pope at a sex club." Now I'm thinking about who I'd want to run into at a sex club less than Kors or the pope. OK, obviously the answer is my mom, but still. They're both on that short list.

Judges critique the garments. Nothing terribly interesting is said. It's all, "Wow, those are big tits!" and "Wow, that's sparkly!" and "I hate that pink." The last one, of course, came from Nina. But the Heatherette boys do go down the same Prince road I just did. Copiers. Just because you said it on TV doesn't mean I didn't think of it first.

OK, gotta wrap this up. Chris wins. Christian is a little miffed. My friend Gary on the living room floor yells, "Thanks, Mrs. A!"

Silence.

"Get it? MRSA?"

Oh, yes. Get it. Laughter all around. But even better, Ricky is out. It's time to go back to the Land of Baby-doll Nighties. Look, it's what he's good at. I never said he wasn't. And he denies the viewing audience the opportunity to see him row away in a tiny boat on a river of tears he cried himself. Dang. So if you ever wondered if he could turn them on and off at will, there's your answer. Goodbye, Mr. Shitty-Hats Wearer.