Yoanna's up next. How endlessly brilliant -- and yes, I do mean brilliant -- that EVERY TIME one of those girls does something, the other goes next to highlight the building drama. It's so effortless yet effective. We're reminded that Yoanna has lost some forty-five pounds in advance of the competition, and she cops to being "nervous" weighing in. But if we really want to get inside the mind of how Yoanna's feeling, it's best to throw the confessional to...Camille. Cam-me-me-mille tells us that Yoanna was making a big deal about her weight loss, and that she seemed very "conscious of her image" and "not secure within her own skin" getting on the scale. Thirty-five and a half for the waist, and 138 on the scale, to which Schlocky Bal-Snow-A tells us he's added a pound because Yoanna jokingly messed with the scale. He chides her, "An extra pound for cheatin'!" I didn't know it worked like that. Will good deeds make me taller?

Oh, hello, Shandi. Whatever her measurements across the top, mine are approximately the same in a lot of ways. Catie somewhat ungraciously offers, "I thought I was incredibly thin until I saw Shandi." To which I say two things: (1) the world can have more than one thin person in it, and (2) well then, maybe you're not that thin after all so nah nah pee poo.

Schlocky Bal-Snow-A has apparently spontaneously decided to open up a "Guess Your Height And Tit Size" booth at the St. Rose Bazaar in Massapequa, because rather than employ Tiny's crackerjack measuring skills, he takes one gander at Breastany's rack and predicts, "You gotta be thirty-six." Well give that girl a plush Snork doll for fooling the master, for she's only a thirty-three and a half. And there's another word besides "magic" for what he just tried to do, particularly when it's coming from a male who, I'm conjecturing, is a straight male. And it's called "sexual harassment." Other acceptable answers for what it was include a "guesstimate."

April is the first on the, um, boob train, and it's a bumpy ride through those mountains, y'all. From the back of the room, she screams that she's a thirty-three and a half, so there's no way Breastany is the same size. From the passive-aggressive safety of a confessional, Breastany snarks that other people just couldn't leave talk of her breasts alone, continuing that her desired response, if she could have said anything, would have been, "Shut the hell up!" Good one. Maybe from now on she should just let the tits do the talking.