I can’t decide if ANTM is running out of money, or they are cheaping out on the short cycle. First there’s no foreign trip. Not that Hawaii sucks, or anything, but it’s the first time they haven’t gone abroad. Then Tyra photographs not one but two shoots, saving money on a professional. Now we’re booting two girls at once, the second double elimination of the cycle. Did they not want to waste video next week shooting three CoverGirl commercials? Not to mention all the money they are saving by ordering clothes form Gap Kids.

Ah well, budget issues aside, we are down to the final four.: willowy and vaguely weird Nicole, who replaced her bloody eyeball necklace with a lovely pearl necklace (a real one, perverts); spastic Jennifer of the wonky eye; castration-enthusiast Laura, who retains her glorious sunburn; and Erin the bratty albino, now a three-time veteran of the bottom two. In fact, none of the other girls have ever been in the bottom two. I’d start packing now, Erin, or at least get my WalMart shoving arm back in shape, because you may have to push someone off one of the many scenic local cliffs to survive.

“I blame the scratchy sheets for putting me in the bottom two again. Damn you for making stay in this mansion, producers!”

Laura reflects that just a short time ago she was castrating bulls back on the farm. Now she has a chance to castrate bulls in the big city and provide for her family. Maybe give Grandma Wanda Sue that shot at Project Runway.

Kicking things off, that damn Tyra vault beeps or shrieks or emits whatever hellnoise it does to signal the latest Tyra missive has arrived. It reads, “Let’s not skirt the issue – this competition is getting fierce!” It’s hula, obviously, unlike the vague messages of last episode, there’s no mis-interpretation involving turtles or dead bodies, although how awesome would a zombie-turtle-hula be?.

The girls are shuttled off to see a group of women performing some hula-esque moves before abruptly switching over to hip hop moves. Nicole is appalled at the thought of another dance challenge. So am I, although for totally different reasons. She’s worried because she has the grace of an gazelle, if said gazelle were forced to dance a hula. I’m appalled because there is not, nor should there ever be, such a thing as hip hop hula.

One of the women introduces herself as Ann Rita Sloss, “hip hop hula instructor.” O RLY, Miss Sloss? You’re an instructor in a dance genre that didn’t exist until five minutes ago? And I can say with confidence that it doesn’t exist because the routine itself doesn’t blend hip-hop and hula, it has some half-assed hula followed by some hip-hop moves that would get you booted out of a So You Think You Dance audition before the elderweiner even has a chance to sexually harrass you. There’s even a little record scratching noise in the middle to emphasize the difference in dance styles.

Anyhow, for no reason than my increasingly irrational expectation that this show be rational, I expected the hula instructor to be , I don’t know, Hawaiian. Crazy! Thus for a moment I was puzzled by why Ann Rita was talking so funny before I realized she has a New Zealand accent. I should probably be reassured that actual Hawaiians refused to participate in this.

The girls, of course, will have to learn the dance. Why? Because they have time to kill and have run out of anything better to do. No one bothers to bring up even the most tenuous connection to modeling. I think it’s just a test to see if the girls will do whatever they ask, no matter how moronic, although the blackface should have proven that beyond a reasonable doubt. In addition to the hip-hop hula, the girls will have to improvise a solo using traditional hula moves that signify various emotions like bewilderment at why they are dancing on a modeling show, or humiliation at having to wear flats during judging so they’ll look shorter, or fear that smizing will really make their face freeze like that.

Playing the role of Ashley this dance competition is Erin, former cheerleader. Wow, the catty immature girl was a cheerleader? Shocking. She’s feeling very superior, signaling her inevitable downfall, according to the immutable laws of reality television. To her credit, she does try to help the other girls. To her discredit, she does it such a petulant and bossy manner I fear the other girls’ solos will be the story of Erin’s murder.

Nobody in the known universe cares about this dance competition, at all, not even the Hulahiphopians on the planet of Idioticmodelcontestia. There are times when you really long for a giant sentient fart monster to storm though the proceedings and liven things up. Sigh. Miss J, having drawn the short straw back at the motel, shows up to help judge. The winner gets a Hawaiian vacation! One without Tyra! Even Erin is excited about that.

Unlike the equally stupid Australian aborigine dance challenge, there’s not even a gaggle of kids around to provide an audience. Then again, perhaps it’s for the best to leave the more impressionable of society out of this. It’s just Miss J, who rolled out of bed, slammed down a couple a mai tais, finished embiggening his sleeves for the next judging, heaved a big sigh and drove the rental Taurus over to the set. Needless to say, they all suck, especially Nicole. But then again, who gives a damn how good any of them are – nay, how good anyone on the entire planet throughout history is or was or ever will be at hip hop hula, even if such a thing were to exist? At any rate, Laura, with the aid of some surprisingly bootilicious rump-shaking, wins. More importantly, Erin loses.

Erin takes it as well as you’d expect, mostly as a lesson to never help others, or at least bitterly resent people who don’t appreciate your unsolicited advice. Laura picks Jennifer to share her Hawaiian vacation, making Erin even bitterer about the the whole altruism thing. Jennifer immediately proves her worth as a traveling companion by explaining that the hotel they’ll stay at, the Four Seasons, is one of them fancified hotels where you can castrate grass-fed Kobe beef. Classy.

“And you don’t have to put quarters in the bed to make it shake. You just ring a tiny bell (made of real gold!) and a team of professional bed shakers comes to your room and shakes it for you.”

The new arrived Tyra mail arrives, begging for an “In my pants!” punch line, to whit: “Is the pressure making you feel like you want to explode? Not so fast … timing is everything.” Sadly, none of the girls share my or copygodd’s adolescent sense of humor. They just look at each other dully before wandering off to bed, shoulders slumped. What’s the point of having eighteen-year-olds on the show if they won’t snicker at double entendres? Kids today, man.

“Is the pressure building like hot molten liquid begging to spurt forth? Do you feel ready to erupt in an earth-shattering release?”

Well, if there’s one thing that lends itself to heavy sexual metaphor, it’s geology. Err, I mean volcanoes, specifically. They meet up with Mister Jay who explains that they will be portraying Pele. Yay, soccer! Oh no, he means the volcano goddess. I suppose that makes more sense in Hawaii. Although after the whole hip hop hula thing, I wouldn’t be surprised if they combined the two.

The Jay drops the bomb. Not one, but two girls will be sent home. As usual, no reason is given. It’s simply the will of the most important goddess, Tyra, the idea emerging from the strange chemical soup that swirls around her synapses and bounces off the inside of her skull.

“The scissors represent the double elimination. The douchebag V-neck symbolizes what a dick move this is. The shorts just show off my legs.”

I had high hopes for the Pele motif, but it turns out kinda meh. There’s not even a lava lamp in sight, much less a volcano. So instead of a fiery primal goddess in all her glory, we get vaguely annoyed looking models standing around the beach. Life’s hard out there for a deity.

Jennifer steps to the fore with many wrong-headed ideas, like making prayer hands and standing on her tip-toes. The former makes her look boring, and the latter wobbly. For a model constantly battling drunk face, that’s not a good thing. In the end it looks like the photographer caught her on her way out the door, and she’s annoyed he asked her to pick up some Pringles as long as she was out.

Nicole plays Pele as a giant banana with grapes hanging from her ears, at least as far as the costume goes. She does her usual fabulous job; Jay practically orgasms. Her photo is definitely the best. Given what she had to work with, she at least captured a little mystery.

Laura struggles throughout her shoot, to the point where she’s positively teary in interviews. Poor thing, no one warned her that she’d have to become an expert on bastardized world culture in order to model. First it’s Mexgreekican black face, now it’s volcano goddesses made into tarted-up beach bunnies. No wonder she looks terrified.

They’ve managed to make Erin even more monochrome than she was before. Beige hair, beige skin, beige dress and a giant beige doiley around the neck. Erin tries to get into the spirit of the shoot by looking wrathful. Wrong! Actual wrath is so unsexy. The photographer wants her to flirt more. You know, like Pele, that little minx. They’ve managed to reduce powerful female deity to the personality of a Hooters waitress. Erin does the smart thing – she empties her mind and thinks of inane pop music. For her next trick, she pulls a scarf from her ass.

Let’s get right to the judging. All that happened at the house was the usual angst, heightened by the threat of double elimination. Let’s face it, Nicole is safe; Erin is toast; the only tension is who will leave with her: Laura or Jennifer.

The ability of the fashion industry to foist patently ugly and unflattering clothes on the general public remains one of life’s great mysteries. In addition to high-waisted shorts, the return of leggings (shaking fist at Lindsay Lohan), I must also wait out harem-panted jumpsuits. Behold.

If they make a supermodel look this bad, they should never be unleashed on the public.

Besides adding several pounds she does not have to her hips and thighs, the gathers on the sleeves make her arms look collapsible, as if at any moment they might shoot out, extending across the studio to yank off any errant clothing by Wanda Sue that Laura might have smuggled in.

Now that we’re down to the wire, Ann Shoket arrives to guest judge and try to minimize the disaster. Not that it makes a difference, given the financial state of magazines these days. Might as well put together an edition using mole-people as models.

The judges lurve Erin’s photo, blotchy make-up and all. Miss J, for reasons unknown, wants Erin to look happier, leading Nigel to snark the models can’t always be smizing. Ooooh, a little smizing backlash from Nigel! Me like. In contrast, Tyra complains Erin looks sleepy, a much more valid criticism. A volcano goddess wouldn’t look so zonked out, not unless the lava set some of Hawaii’s illegal crops on fire and she inhaled the smoke.

Jennifer’s review is like watching an epitaph chiseled out before one’s eyes. She’s stiff, not elongated, she’s forgotten her face. Oh, how often I’ve done that too, spending hours hunting around the house, only to find my face wedged in the sofa cushions along with the remote.

Jennifer tries to defend herself as best she can, insisting she tried a variety of poses. I see! Then obviously the problem is with the idiot who chose the final shot! Wait, that idiot was Tyra. Well, then the problem is obviously you, because she, Tyra, in her infinite wisdom, chose the best shot because the best shot is, by definition, the one chosen by Tyra. Case closed. Never question her again. Not that you’ll get the chance, because you are obviously leaving. Go ahead and get that tan that modeling-industry Tyra says you should and that Oprah-wannabe Tyra says you shouldn’t. Smize!

Laura has once again graced us with a Wanda Sue original, this time in the form of shorts. Since Tyra can’t confiscate those — although I’m sure she thought about it — she settles for making Laura hike up her shirt. Behold the tranformation.

Not model.

Model! Or someone who stopped buying clothes when they were in the 6^th grade.

Laura’s pose sends Miss J straight into incomprehensibility. He declares he always thought her the “gold tooth in a mouth of decay.” Huh? Wah? Everyone is confused. Did he just call all the other girls decaying teeth? No, he explains that she doesn’t look like much in person but transforms on film. Hmmm, that comparison makes no sense at all. He covers up his terrible use of metaphor by making up the word “smoze,” as in, “she’s smiling with her eyes and posing.” Tyra high fives him for further destroying the English language. Deep in hell, Satan cackles with delight, kills a puppy and starts organizing Sarah Palin’s presidential campaign.

Laura, by the way, is not smiling with her eyes, at all. Tyra correctly pegs a slight resemblance to Rachel Hunter. Unfortunately, the resemblance is stronger to a blow-up Rachel Hunter doll with a runny nose than actual Rachel Hunter.

And then we have Nicole, who might as well lean over the judging table and grab her photo right now. Nigel’s not so happy with the wide shot, but loves her close-up. Tyra, because she must, says Nicole is modeling “H to T” then explains that “H to T” stands for “head to toe.” Congratulations, Tyra you’ve just bypassed Rachel Ray in annoying acronyms. You see, “EVOO” which Rachel coined as a time-saving acronym for “extra virgin olive oil,” although she too cannot stop herself from explaining the acronym every time she says it thus wasting any time saved, at least has the virtue of actually being shorter than the long form, the same of which cannot be said for “H to T.” And everyone hates Rachel Ray, Tyra, EVERYBODY. Even kittens. They hate her most of all. And now they hate you too. Happy?

Where was I? Ah, yes. Nicole looks pretty and totally smize-free.

During deliberation, Nigel admits he thinks Erin is disingenuous. On the other hand, he thinks she’s got a hot body. Such a dilemma. Sports Illustrated is such a stickler for sincerity. They all love Jennifer’s personality, although I’m not sure why. She hasn’t rubbed me the wrong way or anything, but she hasn’t struck me as especially likeable either. The Rachel Hunter comparison re-emerges with Laura — hopefully this doesn’t mean an impending marriage to Rod Stewart. He’s more Wanda Sue’s age anyway. Maybe they can hook up if she wins. They criticize Nicole’s picture eight different ways, but it’s all misdirection, that girl is not going anywhere.

The penultimate photos! Nicole gets the first one, as expected. Now everybody else has to step up for their rambling assessments from Tyra. She explains that Jennifer has gotten shaky and lost her way, perhaps because of that wonky eye. Erin also lost her way, but took a strong final photo. Laura takes amazing photos, but looks less than amazing in person. The unmentioned subtext is that in person, Laura looks like a customer of ANTM’s major sponsor, WalMart. But thanks for your cash, WalMart! Love ya!

So who goes? Jennifer, duh. The toss-up is between Erin and Laura. And Erin goes.

That jumpsuit isn’t doing you any favors in the rear view either, Tyra

Nicole and Laura are in the final two. The decision was made more on personality and past photos than the Pele shoot. I love Laura, but that last picture is terrible; Erin’s was way stronger. Still, I’m happy Laura is in the final two instead of Erin. Jennifer, that brave little soldier, made it further than any Asian before. To be honest, I had a hard time getting past the wonky eye. Tyra said she could work with it, but wouldn’t something like that be a big handicap in modeling? Or are there lots of wonky-eye models out there? How about short wonky-eye models? Is that a thing?

What do you think of our finalists? Will Nicole sashay right into winning on her short little legs? Or will Laura shine through like a gold tooth in a mouth of decay?

brilliantmistake | 11.18.09 | Filed in America's Next Top Model,Recaps