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In France, Jeffrey's arch-nemesis Angela learns that "Bonjour" sometimes means "Goodbye"

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Let's talk more about the big September issue of Elle. As with this month's Vogue, the focus is on the dark, somber tone of the clothes for fall and the exaggerated, oversize silhouettes. Here's the difference I've seen so far. Vogue alludes to things such as the way the whole world is at war and how the somber international mood has resulted in an aggressive, blackened state of doom on the runways. Elle, however, just wants to let you know that the oversize trend will not make you look fat. Well, that's good to know. I was worried for a second that people might be thinking fashion is more than just expensive frippery. Who cares about politics and death. Let's buy awesome new outfits that make our butts look cute.

I'll complain more about this later. But first, three things that aren't ridiculous in this month's Elle:

1. The letter to the editor complaining about all of fashion advertising seeming "so sordidly narcissistic" and where are the feel-good We Are the World-ish Benetton ads of yesteryear? Good question, I say-- even though I'm totally entertained by the sordidly narcissistic ads. They seem more honest to me.

2. The gigantic doctor's bag purses they're pushing. Wouldn't it be great if they came with stethoscopes designed by whoever made the purse? Your heart beats to the rhythm of Olivier Theyskens.

3. Creation A.H.R. because their concept is "monsters invade a dress." There should be more dresses in the world that are monster-themed, if you ask me. And you're reading this recap, so you kind of did ask me.

On to the show:

Morning has broken over Atlas New York. With no warning we're introduced to a big fleshy close-up of Kayne The Flaming Lisp's armpits and nipples as he stretches for the camera. Kayne's armpits are modest, really, most likely topiary-trimmed into a perfectly gay oval shapes. And Kayne's nipples, on my TV at least, are the size of silver-dollar pancakes. Big and round and red, the non-lactating man-ducts of a formerly "everyday" guy shrunken down and beaten into submission. And the pointy bits? Not yet turned into the distended thumb-size extra limbs favored by so many 60-year-old leather men who forgot that there are moments in life when it's OK to take off the suction cups and clamps. I give Kayne's nipples an 8 out of 10. He says, regarding the loss of his BFF, Robert Gay Arms. "...I'm sad. But, you know, I am excited that I'm here, not to be selfish." That's right. Friends, schmiends.

Corky's [Vincent's] chest is also on display, though not as much as Kayne's. At least he's wearing a shirt. He's so happy that he won the last challenge. That makes one of us. Cut to Laura Glamour Mom and Uli, Heidi's German Pet, my new favorite comedy team. Laura crouches down to comb her hair in front of a mirror that sits on their dresser.

Uli: Now I can tell you are pregnant

Laura: So you don't think I'm just making it up to get attention?

Uli: Yeah, I thought at first, but now I can see.

Can these two have their own show, please? It'll be Uli moving from Miami to Manhattan and becoming nanny to Laura's half-dozen kids. She'll chaperone them, hungover, to play dates and wherever, teaching them to swear auf Deutsch, leaving them behind to fend for themselves on the streets while she goes off with her newest girlfriend, Ivanka Trump, to party and then to sleep it off and then to lunch and then to shop for more fabulous clothes.

Cut to Jeffrey Christ complaining about Angela, Headmistress of Jubilee Jumbles, wanting to come to the guys' room to smoke a cigarette. I'm not sure I get this. Is the guys' place the only one with a balcony? No one's making this clear, so I don't care about the blah blah blah complaints. But then Corky says something logical: "So you just tell her." And Jeffrey responds with a hurt-feelings/the-world-is-out-to-get-me/doesn't-anyone-understand-me face. Easy does it, Friend of Bill.

Oh, wait! Here's more! He complains about Angela trying to get him eliminated last week. Uh, dude, you did plenty of footwork toward that goal all by yourself. Then Angela complains about Jeffrey being an ass. And he was. But so was she. Look, you're both pretty irritating. It's a draw. Can you live with a tie?

The final seven sit by the runway and Heidi pops out, sporting sheepdog bangs and a top by Tits-On-Parade, looking rad as always, keeping the brand tight. The models come out. There are nine of them and seven designers. That means two models have got to go. "Vincent," says Heidi, "You were the winner of the last challenge [they're inside a studio, so we're not privy to the thunderstorm of blood, frogs, and locusts happening on the Manhattan streets as the result of this turn of events], so you get the first pick."

Model selection. Yawn. It comes down to Kayne, who ditches two other young women in order to stick with Yappy-Yap-Yapping Amanda. Amanda, for her part, is extraordinarily pleased with this turn of events. She is, in fact, the only model who seems to give a flying fuck about any of it. As she enters the waiting room, she's happy to the point of nonsense. Three of the other models give the best "get a load of her" faces ever.

Cut to Lindsay. Yes, Lindsay. Why don't you know that name? Because Lindsay is one of the other models. She's here to talk shit about Amanda. She claims that Amanda is "consumed with this competition," a competition that is almost entirely out of the models' hands. They know this. The audience knows this. The producers have to know it. It reeks of someone taking Amanda aside and saying, "Look, obnoxious equals airtime, dig?"

Heidi explains the challenge. "You will be designing an outfit for a hip, international jet-setter." Jeffrey thinks it's him ("Just kidding," he lies), but Kayne, bless his tacky heart, thinks it's Tara Reid. "She's the only jet-setter that I can think of that was hip. She had that show, Taradis. She always took off her tops and showed her boobies." Just when I think I have nothing in common in Kayne, he comes out with this, an ode to my favorite member of young Hollywood, Tara Reid. I watched in agony the other day on, as paparazzi footage of Tara being denied entry into hip nightclub Hyde rolled on for the whole Internet to witness. Then the evil Paris Hilton waltzed right in and Tara's crushing humiliation was complete. But did Tara skulk off? No, she bravely stood her ground and waited until someone noticed that it wasn't just anyone they were shutting out; she, Tara Reid, was being treating this way. When will our government get involved to put a stop to the Tara Reid crisis? Send her body armor. Something.

OK, wait, where was I? Oh yeah, Heidi continues, "There are benefits to winning that will be revealed in a future challenge." Huh?

The designers meet Tim Gunn in the workroom. Tim tells them that they will be designing the outfits for... themselves. But, OK, besides Uli, who counts as both hip and international? Cut to Uli, who announces straightaway that she is an "international trendy jet-setter, so I'm really happy about it." Tim continues on to tell them that they are all going to model their own clothes. Angela is beside herself, jumping up and down and hollering, of all things, "Yay!" She has the enthusiasm of the woefully underprepared. And finally, someone will want to wear her clothes.

Off to Mood they go. Obviously they've all seen the fall collections by now. The shows were this spring. They all know that this fall is about how "international" now means "concerned" and "pessimistic," and how that's translating into clothes that look like battle gear and/or giant swaths of material shaped into cocoon-like fear-pods. So naturally, instead of going straight to the section where they keep the Teflon-coated bolts of black wool, Kayne selects a wacky print that, I believe, is called Mariah Carey's Headache. He's going to layer it over another shirt. "Gor-geous!!" he trills, in the folksinging style of his people, the inverts who wear glittery International Male blouses out on a Saturday night to the gay bars in midsize American cities from coast to coast. I know these blouses because I was there myself, weekend after weekend, for years. I've seen 'em all, the puffy sleeves and fringe and bedazzlement and packs of Mores making miniature rectangular lumps in breast pockets. I've smelled the vodka & cranberry fumes they all sweat onto the dance floor. They were all the gays who looked at me and my poseur-like, ostentatious, punk rock T-shirts, faces contorted into "I smell something and it's you" scowls, asking "What's a Mekon?" Thank goodness I escaped your provincial dumbness, my homosexual brothers. Have fun this Saturday night.

Jeffrey calls Kayne's taste in fabrics "tacky" and says it will be like Liberace when he's done. Tim passes Angela in Mood and gives her advice in his best pay-attention-to-what-I'm-saying warning tone, "Remember, hip. Hip. International." She gets wide-eyed and says, "Absolutely."

Translation, Tim: "I see the Jubilee Jumbles in your eyes, and I want to shake them all out of you like a piggy bank. Good God, woman, look at these colors!"

Translation, Angela: "I'm right! I know where I'm going!"

Back at the workroom...

Here's a question I have for Laura. Honey, when did you become a viewer, hurling commentary at the show before it even airs? Because she says, of Uli's mad print mixing, in perfect Uli-inflected Englisch, "It's an OOO-lee ex-PLO-shun!"

Cut to Uli, talking about how she does, in fact, like to jet off to places and always carries her "pahh-tee" dresses "vit" her. They're great to half "even if you get vasted. So I pick cray-see cuhh-lahs." And here is the secret of her designs, I just figured it out. She creates garments that camouflage vomit. Get Tara Reid on the phone.

Cut to Angela, feeling adrift in the land of international jet-setters, "In terms of... the luxurious lifestyle in Europe, to me that's just really foreign." That's why it's in Europe, Angela. It's the same reason Uli's mom has a "European air" about her. Because it's Europe.

Cut to Corky in his drawers. He's got his own pants on the work table, designing around them. And he's walking around in his boxer shorts and flip-flops. Why, oh why, must we close-up on his feet in those nasty flip-flops? Who's operating the camera? Knock that shit off. He goes on to say that he'd go to work in his boxers every day if he could. "I wouldn't be surprised if it doesn't become a trend." I wouldn't be surprised either, you double-negative doofus. But again, here's where his smarmy, baby boomer-ish, '70s swinger-'80s cocaine-binge aesthetic comes into play. He's Austin Powers. And I've spent all season wondering when he would begin saying, "Do I make you horny, baby?" Any second now.

Jeffrey can't resist taunting Angela with comments about sending the worst dress he's ever made down the runway--the one he made for her mom--and still not being kicked off. She says, "Enough is enough already, dude."

But it's not enough. It will never be enough. Ferris Bueller says so.

Laura, in interview: "Jeffrey can't seem to let go of the issues that ensued with Angela's mother. But Jeffrey's often being an asshole, so I'm not surprised to hear it."

Back to Jeffrey and Angela fighting...

Jeffrey: "What are you so pissed off about? That I had a hard time with the challenge? Or are you mad that you and mom couldn't manage to get rid of me because of the shit you talked onstage?"

Angela, sitting down and being gentle, giving hurt feelings face, the same passive-aggressive stuff she clearly learned from Mom: "Jeffrey, if you couldn't tell that--"

Jeffrey: "Don't gimme those weird sad eyes."

Cut back to Laura, in interview, who's glad not to be involved: "We don't have time to dick around with everyone's personal problems."

Commercial time: Here's a promo for the very show we're watching. This one's all about Tim Gunn. It's Tim Gunn's greatest hits. "Make it work!" he snaps. Will he survive having a catchphrase?

Back to the show:

Kayne explains the challenge for those tuning in late. "We're going to be designing an outfit for a hip, international jettt-ssssetter." Hey, Kayne, the University of Oklahoma's linguistics department just called me and wants me to tell you that they're about to offer a course in the sibilant s, and will you be the entire semester's lab credit? He continues, "So we've got to make a complete outfit with ssseventy-five dollarsss, from 2 o'clock in the afternoon til midnight. So that's like...10 make... an outfit." That's very good, Kayne. That is 10 hours.

Tim Gunn inspection:

Tim Gunn says to Jeffrey: "It's rock and roll, all right. It's not boring."

Tim Gunn says to Laura: "Good."

Tim Gunn says to Kayne: "This is looking very Elvis to me."

Tim Gunn says to Michael Knight With No Talking Car, after Michael tells him that he'll be wearing a simple T-shirt under his jacket: "That worries me."

Tim Gunn says to Angela: "So tell me what you're doing." The camera immediately cuts to Angela jutting out her lower lip. That would be pouting, Tim Gunn. That's what Angela's doing. That and making something gross that no one should ever wear. Tim Gunn says, "This looks so... junior... don't you think? Kinda looks Holly Hobbie?"

"Yeah, but that's kinda good," says Angela.

"As long as you can stand by it," says Tim Gunn.

"I like Holly Hobbie," she says.

And you'll have plenty of time to like it when you get yourself shipped back to Ohio or wherever it is your farm is. So listen up and pay attention, all future applicants to this show. Watch this scene over and over again. Notice how when Tim Gunn says, gently, ever so gently, "This sucks," to Michael. Then what does Michael do? He gets on the case and fixes it, that's what. And what did Angela just do? She told him that she knew better than he did. And this will be, I predict, her undoing. Cut to her pouting again.

Let's listen to other designers talk shit about Angela's outfit. Laura laughs off the rosettes. What else can you do about their regular appearance? The ubiquitous fleurchons will not be denied. Even Michael, who never mocks anyone else, can't stop himself from cracking on the giant three-dimensional flowers Angela has created for each buttock of her jet-setting pair of baggy brown shorts.

Now, I've personally been waiting for a repeat of Season Two's "muthafuckin' walk-off," and this is as close to one as I've received so far. Michael teaches Kayne how to model. The stance, the cool swagger, the presentation, the turn-around moment. "You walk like you mean it," he says. Kayne says that it's easy for Michael because he's ghetto. Kayne isn't sure if that's racist or not. Michael doesn't seem to care. He knows Kayne's going home before he is, anyway.

Runway show morning:

Angela gets up. She's been sleeping in what can only be something she created herself, a flowered chenille bedspread cut into the shape of an oversized nightie--clothing that's meant to be worn with the lights out.

They get to the workroom and Tim Gunn tells them they have one hour in the TRESemme Hair Salon and the L'Oreal Paris makeup room. Michael skips it. He barely has any hair and his skin is perfect without any of that stuff.

Suddenly, the Nude Bomb strikes Parsons, and everyone is running around in their unmentionables. Laura's got what appears to be a slip on under her dress as it slides over her head. Of all the women in the world who would still be wearing a slip, and probably having a philosophy about it to back it all up, it would be Laura. Corky slides his black sack top over his bare chest. Kayne's still sitting at the sewing machine, lamenting his lack of time to complete Mr. Presley's travel ensemble and showing off just a hint of mood. Then up he stands, and we've got black low-cut briefs happening.

Jeffrey says, "I was a little afraid of Kayne's outfit. It really was just an absolute bungle." And maybe I've watched too many episodes of Queer as Folk, but for a second I think he says, "bunghole." And I nod my head. Yes, it is a bunghole.

Commercial time:

Friends With Money, the latest chatty Nicole Holofcener movie about a group of rich white people in Los Angeles and the issue of class struggle in that circle of friends--a movie that's also about women's relationships and how they function--is coming out on DVD, and the TV spot makes it out to be that Maid to Order remake everyone was asking for. That's how you do it. Trick people into watching it. They'll love you for that.

Next spot: Now you can be the judge and vote for your favorite designer, one of whom will eventually be crowned "Fan Favorite." Tim Gunn says, "Great!" Then everyone crowds around Heidi, like they're all friends, even Stacy Whatsherface who got voted off first, even the ejected Keith Michael, and the announcer says that "the one with the most votes gets a $10,000 prize."

Heidi's response to this? "Ha-HA!"

Tim looks concerned, Nina flips her hair for the camera. Yeah, Nina. Flipping hair. Heidi runs toward the camera. She's running from Seal, whose life's mission seems to be about keeping his woman constantly pregnant. We find out who this fan fave is at the reunion show. To enter, you just text in the designer's name. Now, do they text you back? Even the ones who've been "auf'd?" I would like to read one from Alison Supernice Supercute: "Fucking Vincent. Fucking judges. I just ate a whole cake by myself."

Back to the show:

Heidi comes out and talks to the judges. This week it's Kors, Nina, and some guy from Calvin Klein. Heidi explains that the designers will be wearing their own creations. And the runway show begins...

1. Corky trudges down the runway in black Viet Cong pajamas and flip-lops, head down, ashamed of himself. Good. He should be.

2. Jeffrey is representing Hot Topic today. His idea of "rocker" is the one where Rob Halford looks at you and goes, "Yeah, it seems kinda gay to me. But nice package you got there, mate." Then he gives you a wink and a nudge and an invitation to his dungeon after the show. Jeffrey has literally decorated his crotch zone with dangling bits of metal. And straight men think we're obsessed with the penis.

3. Some Guy From Calvin Klein can't believe he's witnessing Angela's flower-assaulted brown walking shorts with the elasticized ass she sewed in, taking her cue from Huggies Pull-Ups. And her top is a burgundy wrinkle with straps. Tim Gunn, right again. If this outfit were on any celebrity who dared walk outside the house, would smell it, pounce on it, and maul it to death.

4. Laura is showing a little bump in the belly area. Her fetus is thrilled to be wrapped in something that looks like what would happen if Diane von Furstenberg had designed a cocktail dress in plain Crayola "flesh" tone.

5. Michael is Diddy-ish in his strap-intensive cargo pants and crispy white open shirt. It's an outfit in which to get arrested with Jennifer Lopez.

6. Animatronic Kayne glides out in black pants that flatten his entire male "area" down to Ken doll-smooth. Not that he should be pointing sharp metal objects at his dong like Jeffrey, but the effect of no bulge is just as disconcerting as those guys who pack their jeans and show off which side they "dress" on. "I think it's very cool. I loved it," he says. "And I felt comfortable in it. It's totally something I would definitely, definitely buy." Well, yeah, the rhinestone belt buckle spells K-A-Y-N-E. You'd better be buying it.

7. Uli creates yet another print mash-up. So she's one-note. So what. The note sounds awesome every single time. Some Guy From Calvin Klein glances over and down in Nina's direction. Hey, Some Guy From Calvin Klein, no notes-copying.

The judges scribble. Heidi wants to ask the designers questions. Uli's first. She parties, that Uli. The party starts on ze plane. Kors says he wants to go to those parties. Uli just smiles, like "No way, Kors--pick on someone with a penis." Some Guy From Calvin Klein thinks Uli's dress is a bit over the top. Thanks, Some Guy From Calvin Klein. Now shut up and go back to making all those dreary, minimalist, monochromatic, charcoal-gray evening gowns your stupid sweatshops churn out for women with no imagination. Suddenly, Nina and Kors are harshing on Uli and want to see something besides her signature print stuff. Now, excuse me if I'm wrong, Michael Kors, but don't you have a signature style? And Calvin Klein? And Ralph Lauren? Don't they? How about we get Missoni to ditch all those prints of theirs too? Or make Vera Wang get out of the wedding gown business? Or force Kate Spade to knock it off with so many handbags for ladies who summer at Martha's Vineyard? While we're at it, let's tell Roberto Cavalli, Uli's closest commercial cousin, to stop making slutty outfits for Jessica Simpson too. Leave Uli alone, I say! Start picking on Corky more!

Cut to Heidi, smirking, next to Kors, also smirking. Heidi says, "Angela, where are you going?"

"Jubilee Jumbles!" says Angela.

"And how will you get there?" says Heidi.

"On a big jet airplane that will fly across the big, big ocean all the way to Europe, France, and on the plane we'll all have ice cream!" shouts Angela as she leaps into the air and shouts, "Yay!" for added jubilee-making emphasis.

OK, that didn't happen. But what she did say was more embarrassing than what I just wrote. She talks about adding "Angela Fun Details" and turns around to show Kors her saggy, flowery diaper-shorts. Kors pulls a face. A sad, repulsed face. Angela, you are about to make a grown man cry bitter orange tears. She says, "Signature Angela" to cap it all off.

Nina likes Laura's dress. Calls it "chic" and "smart." And if Nina says it, that settles it. No one else says anything.

Jeffrey defends his typical rocker gear. The judges like it. But it's tired. It really is. A skull T-shirt says nothing new to anyone. If he wins this challenge, it will be because of execution.

Some Guy From Calvin Klein likes Corky's black top and pants. Big surprise. Nina says it doesn't look "impeccable." Kors says, "I don't see any attitude or twist." And because he's Corky, he says, "I'm the twist." He must think he's the lovable, goofy Taylor Hicks of this show.

I know that my dumb nicknaming process involves Uli being the "pet," but since all you kids like to "keep it real," let's talk about Michael. Kors and Nina and Heidi are hypnotized by him. Look at their beaming faces when he starts talking about his garment. Everyone I know is in love with Michael too. He's been edited into being nothing but kind and gentle, not full of back talk or sass. His own neck tattoo, nothing to rival Jeffrey's but there all the same, and his smoking and even his sexual orientation, whatever it may be--I vote gay, but you never know. I mean, just look at Lance Bass. One moment with that straight-acting fellow, and anyone would have been fooled, right? With Michael, none of these things are ever acknowledged on camera. He doesn't seem to have a beef with anyone else on the show. He likes Angela and defends her when there's a fight. His designs are safe and pretty and well-considered. He treats Tim Gunn's every cocked eyebrow as secret "here's how you do it our way" code. And as he talks about his outfit being a pass to a bling-intensive hip-hop weekend in the Hamptons, the camera cuts to Corky and Jeffrey with annoyed looks on their faces.

Kayne thinks there's a universe somewhere in the cosmos in which he'd step out of a paparazzi-smothered limousine wearing this piece of shit. He's even borrowed one of Corky's creepy pendants to accent the midnight madness. He's so happy to be wearing it. So happy.

That's when Heidi lays down the surprise of this episode. "One of you will be named the winner. And one of you will be out. But not tonight." As she tells them that they're all going to go get on an actual jet and go somewhere, and that they have an hour to do it, Angela can barely contain her open-mouthed glee. Heidi says, "And your hour starts now, so you better get off that runway NOW! FAST!" C'mon, Heidi, give us a "Schnell!"

Everyone's back at Atlas New York running around packing blindly for the mystery trip. Laura says, "We didn't know what to pack, what to bring, for how many days. It was wild." I hope she brings the riding outfit. I want a horse waiting for her when she gets off that plane.

They get to the airport and discover that they're going to Paris. Kayne says he's never been out of the country before, which helps explain why he thinks his outfit is something a jet-setter would wear. They also find out that the show has commandeered all of first class for them as if they belonged to the cast of Snakes on a Plane. And Tim Gunn is their Sam Jackson. Champagne for everyone!

Accordion music accompanies their arrival in Paris. How come I didn't get accordion music when I went to Paris for the first time this summer? Anyway, I have a confession to make. I'm feeling for Kayne and Angela right now. She talks about how this is a dream come true for her. Both of them are hicks suddenly plunked down in Pah-ree, and I know the sensation. I walked around for three days pointing at the Eiffel Tower and saying, "Holy shit, I'm in Paris!" I think it's just what you do when you're country like that. Damn you, Project Runway, for making me feel any twinge of empathy and solidarity with this woman. Stop messing with my mind.

Tim Gunn takes them to Parsons Paris, where they find themselves in a new workroom. The workroom has six tables. There are seven of them. YEAH! Someone has to turn right back around and fly to New York! Tim Gunn brings in designer Catherine Malandrino, who says, "Bonjour." Hey Angela and Kayne, that means "hello" in French. She's here to judge how well the outfits traveled. And so everyone has to make the 15 feet between the back of the room and the front of the room into a runway. Each designer walks awkwardly and death-row slowly toward the verdict-filled scoring pen of Catherine Malandrino. Tim reads the results this week.

Laura is in.

Corky is in.

The winner is Jeffrey. Finally. Now he can stop his endless whining. And, of course, he takes this is a Supernatural event. "God is alive and well and definitely working in my life. He isn't drunk today like he was the day that I was given Angela's mom." Speaking of that, someone here is acting like a Dry Drunk, and it's not Angela.

Michael is in.

Uli is in.

It's down to Kayne and Angela. Catherine Malandrino says, "Kayne, I'm sorry, you look ree-dee-culous. You look like a fake pop star. And you, Angela, you are just coming from another world. And you are not a jet-setter. Angela... you are out. Kayne, you're in."

Why do I suddenly feel a twinge of sadness for Angela? I must be getting soft. But we still have Jeffrey to rely on, a man whose hate extends all the way to Europe, France. "I'm ecstatic Angela's gone. She's not even a clothing designer. She's sort of an artsy-craftsy macaroni gluer."

Michael says he's sad to see her go. He likes her smile. He says, "There's so much about her that's really, really good." None of which we got to see in the final, edited product. So au revoir, Mme. Fleurchon. That means "goodbye" in French.

Oh, and P.S.: A friend of mine says he spotted Angela walking a dog in our neighborhood recently. I don't know how that can be, since she lives with Eddie Albert out in Hooterville, but maybe she's just visiting Los Angeles. If I spot her I plan to go up and thank her for allowing a reality TV show to shape her footage into a very satisfying vessel on which to project my own petty life grievances. Because you know she's probably no more and no less a pain in the ass than anyone else you already have in your life. But someone had to take the fall. And it can't all be about Corky and his crazy ass. And who knows? Maybe it wasn't Angela my friend saw. Maybe it was one of her groupies, like the Durannies or the Ring-lettes from back in the day. That would be funny. An Angela Army of flowered-diaper wearers, demanding to be taken seriously, pouting their way to fame.

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