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.
We're up by Grand Central now, the ladies entering an industrial steel door to a place called The Show. It's a weird living-room space with a lot of orange. Mercedes (definitely growing on me) tells us that they're going to meet J. Alexander to learn "how to walk." The phat beats kick up, and through a curtain, J. strides out wearing nothing but a t-shirt emblazoned with a woman's body in a bikini on the front and the back! Oh, and high heels. Oh. And nothing else. His parents? Just flipped to Fox.
"Surprise surprise surprise," J. says by way of introduction, though no one seems that surprised. "Welcome welcome welcome welcome welcome. Gather round gather round gather round." Is he okay? Why is he repeating everything? He seems to be...skipping. Ladies and gentlemen...a man gay enough to master the dual arts of catwalking and skipping simultaneously. Yoanna reminds us from the comfort of what must have been The Longest Confessional Ever (unless she wore that same pink scarf and sat in front of that "Madison Ave." background décor every time she engaged in direct address) that J. trained all of the best models blah blah blar blah sashay chantey. Give us a twirl, J!