Cars jet by in supah-fast motion on the street in front of the Prat-otel, ostensibly in an attempt to underscore the wild, undulating pulse of the city, but instead acting as a stark reminder that, working with a UPN-devised seasonal production budget commensurate with roughly fifteen minutes of Survivor's, even the best-laid attempts at some camera jazz are reminiscent less of pulse-pounding gritty urban drama than olde time-y shots of Babe Ruth running a little too fast after a homerun because that was the longest sentence...ever.
Up in the Tokyo Room, Adrianne combs her weave and sits, lost in translation, slurring, "Even though Giselle could be annoying sometimes, when she wasn't, she was actually cool." Straightaway and we're already discovering that Adrianne's pliant mind allowed her to get conned into thinking that Giselle was anything less than eighteen, pubescing right before our very eyes, and jam-packed with gooey gobs of creamy, nougat-y Giselle. She's brainwashed. Giselle ate all the cereal but it was our fault we drove her away! Giselle never helped clean up but she always apologized later! Giselle wouldn't have taken advantage of me after the prom if I hadn't been wearing that totally short skirt and been totally asking for it! Poor Adrianne. Date raped by the ghost of Giselle's annoying tendencies.
Elyse joins everyone in the universe, from you to me to the Sunshine Band's KC, in tossing back a look of sheer incredulity. Instead of favoring Adrianne with a response, Elyse picks a morsel of food out of a plastic container -- all of which must have been added in post. Did you people not see last week's episode? The girl has a problem. What does the evidence think it is, messing with the editing in this insubordinate way -- and kicks it to a confessional. "I think I want the prize a little bit more now than I did at the beginning of the competition," Elyse shares over a shot of her very nearly getting eliminated. One last shot of Giselle serves as her final seeping from our collective memory, as she fades from the public consciousness like Marty McFly in the photograph while he tries to finger his way through the chord changes in "Earth Angel."
"Oh, my God," Adrianne muses from the bed, her alacrity indicating that she's finally had another breakthrough in her scholarship on the philosophies espoused in the lesser works of Proust: "If they move people in here, who's gonna wanna sleep in the bed that got farted on constantly?" From a deep chamber in the research room of the New York Public Library, the word "rhetorical" leaps from the OED and through the window of the No-Fat-otel, pinning that sentence against the nearby shag rug before the world has a chance to ponder the true, answerable horrible-osity of the question. Meanwhile, Honey Bunches of Oats issues a brief press release apologizing for failing to list its side effects on the sides of its boxes. Because Giselle ate a lot of cereal.