(Kom—d-gär-'sOn) Michael Kors nearly got it right, had he not pronounced Comme as comb. It’s French Mikey; ce n'est pas Kors-ican.
Uli’s mom’s German wasn't interpreted for us as was Michael Knight’s English last week.
Jeff’s mom, Jeff, Angela, and her mofo: why do they always have to murder the innocent yardage first? No more lamé should be spilt for Jeff’s oily everything.
Uli was cheated; worstly, Robert’s been robbed, which means we’re stripped of witty gay banter for the remaining season. ATTENTION PROJECT RUNWAY! You try watching a Bravo show --- with chicks kissing on an Orbitz commercial --- sans homosexual innuendo for an entire hour! Ugh. It is a fit as ill as Angela’s Best Little Whorehouse in Texas madam git-up. (FYI, Kors, that’s 'ma-d&m.)
Born in a Big Easy brothel, my mom had an economical amount of boyfriends named Jon who helped us pay rent. Okay, that’s not true and mom would kill if made aware of her son’s sordid sobs. The temptation to autobiographically fish-tale is great, but I can brag a luxuriously colorful life.
Just the facts: I am a handsome male and the ladies treat me well. The Mrs. is not pleased by for my aforementioned popularity --- a light cross I carry, moon walking. My hide currently hosts many hours of blu-black ink. Why currently? Because an uninsulated power line electrified me, blowing out the back of my left leg and taking with it twenty minutes of arm tattoo (litigation pending). Epidermal modification unearthed by desire to attract attention, then to prove, finally, I am really, really cool. Narcissistic --- never a truer adjective dubbed me by English majors.
A trio of half-brothers are the balancing, humbling force. My youngest older brother is a junkie. Fun at parties, good when backaches need relaxing. Another mid-brother is a Rush-Limbaugh-type (not in drug-use, but politics). Though not nearly rich enough to be Republican, scared by pre-Katrina New Orleans, he sought protection in the GOP. Multinationals gathering in one, bra-free city to bear bosom? A horrid event, in his psyche. I love it. Until recently, eldest-brother taught Hungarians English. As of last sighting, he smelled very Hungarian. Among my four European nieces it is agreed that his smell is puzzling; they swear that his is not the national scent.
Since high school, I’ve dabbled in hundreds of hobbies, a favorite being gator-wrestling. I am the Louisiana Gator Wrestling King of Mardi Gras, 2001. A disputed title, oui, cher. According to local opinion, just because one gets drunk and anoints oneself a title after wrestling a fat broad that looks like a gator from a piece of king cake.. Well, that doesn’t make you the first second millennium Louisiana Gator Wrestling King of Mardi Gras. Non, I say. Oh, and I am still a Saints fan.
The Beauty Tale: In ancient times, Japanese gals employed searing metal implements in making flippy lashes. My eyeball. Beauty is pain. (Sizzle.) Eyeball sssssssss’ing. Heavy onomatopoeia. Gangsta’ that I am, I touched the oven-roasted butter knife to my tongue. Tongue sssssssss’ed. Temporarily blinded, then healed by Rx antidote, Gentak brand, Gentamicin Sulfate Ophthalmic Ointment USP, 0.3%. I kept tha’ eyeballs, this anecdote, and accidental Jackass-like shame.
My lashes weren’t even that curly.
The Guilty Parties: Most recently the heated-utensil-as-underground-Far-East-stylist-tool fable wafted among friends in bars. My obsession stemmed from the Nordstrom sparkle-dealing blondazons. The glamazon story of hardcore ancient Japanese bitches and modern contemporaries with plug-in eyelash permers was paired with heartless sales pressure. 
These Nordie wannabe’-mid-life-crisis-trade-ups were selling the Japonesque. The mini-heated curler that gently warms eyeballs like love. A love and a heat reminiscent of the $1 Tejas stripper boob-facial sparklizer. But less dangerous. Pony up to the tip bar, folks, it feels that good, and it lasts that long. Asian battery-operated toy-time is a short run; so, if you need that eyeball tan and a flashing green light, trade up to the $10 cheaper equaline version pictured here (Albertsons). The crimping action is intense for a heating curler, and the handling is safer than the more weapon-like name-brand designs.
The Post-Script: As per my Japanese-American pal, Mary, Asian lashes can be course and difficult to curl, hence the hot action.
Pretentious moron Michael Kors said something about a trump lloyd belt (sixth episode, third season). At least that's what his pronunciation sounded like. I think he meant trompe l'oeil (tromp-'l&-E, trO np-'l[oe]i). He likes to use big words!
I.e., "That looks like a brioche." We get it, Kors; you're gay.I also like how Angela keeps trying to boisterously hug contestant Michael, and he disses her in new, innovative ways every time. That's quickly getting to be the best part of the show for me.
Even though Michael won again this time; I think he mostly lost.
No. 2 'Cuz Jeff said that Michael's clothes have no flavor. Ooo. He's not black enough for Jeff. Jeff is more black, as he has India ink tattoos and dark-colored clothes. And his hair is noire, too!
No. 1 B/c the film editing staff interpreted Michael's speaking by writing his (perfectly clear) words on the bottom of the screen after he spoke. They should be doing that for Michael Kors' French!
