Whoa, Xiomara. Whoa! "You walk like you on crack," J. offers. Nigel calls her "possessed." And the eyes really were bugging. There's simply no question about it. ["Quoth Glark: 'Who let Grace Jones in here?'" -- Wing Chun] But her photo shoot, in which my fear of her morphed into a certain kind of "nice shoes" freakitude, had to be good for something. And she is eleven feet tall. Which is a full nine feet taller than Jenascia. And a full ten feet and ten inches taller than the delightful sylph Lulu The Fashion Elf. Long may his lavish affairs fail to take up any significant screen time.

Catie's walk is nice, but her photo shoot, as Tyra helpfully points out, is mall trash.

The judges love Camille. "You're a showgirl," Tyra says. "I'm a drag queen in a woman's body, and I feel like you have a little drag queen, too." Her picture kicks ass, too. Bitch.

Wow. They love Yoanna's walk. Tyra gives it an "A+." As is Camille's reaction shot. Her photo is really weird, though. It looks like she could climb inside her own enormous shoe and bake chocolate cookies for the rest of the forest dwellers.

And that's all we get. In the judges' private talk, Janice loves Mercedes and is on the fence with Yoanna. They worry about Shandi, talk about Jenascia's shortness again, love Camille, wonder who the hell Heather is, and so on. Bethany is up for consideration, J. thinking yes, Janice thinking she needs to cut the hair and the pound count, and Tyra point-blanking, "I'm just not sure that fashion girl is inside of her." And...well, she's the executive producer.

Ten headshots left, Tyra tells them, each one representing each of the women who will continue on the journey to being America's Next Top Model. Catie. Yoanna. Who could possible be next? Camille. Hee! April. Mercedes. Sara. Xiomara. Heather. This leaves Shandon't, Breastany, and Jenascia. Jenascia gets in under the wire (and barely even has to lean down!), so Shandi and Bethany are called forward. Reeeeeeally? This is a surprise. Even more of a surprise is when Tyra calls out the last name and Bethany gets the boot. She weeps in slo-mo and leaves without a goodbye, telling us in her final confessional that she has a lot more talent than a lot of the other girls here. And, luckily, millions of men will continue to enjoy her work, hidden behind brown paper wrappings and stuffed surreptitiously into suburban mailboxes, until she retires from the life at thirty, a certified billionaire, and decides instead to go into modeling.