We're here, we learn, to see how a real supermodel walks. To that end, J. welcomes "Maggie Rizer," whose title identifies her as a "top model." The girls coo and clap appreciatively, and then she disappears. Huh. Not that I was hoping for her thoughts on Proust or anything, but, like, where'd she go?
The girls don wildly unflattering bodysuits and high heels and have to do a runway walk. Shandi is first. And if the first rule of a catwalk is, as we've learned, "walk like it's for sale and the rent is due tonight," Shandi better get J. one of those big, fake handlebar moustaches and tie herself like a damsel in distress to some nearby train tracks because, well, she must pay the rent but she can NOT pay the rent. Her walk. So clompy and halting and less "look at the simple elegance of those shoes/ that dress/ that suit" and more, like, "Aaaaaaah. Monsters. They're coming. Monsters." In a confessional, Shandi reminds us, "I'm completely different from everyone else." Oh, that's not true. There are plenty of other girls who can't hack it, either. Why aren't they clearing the decks, y'all? Monsters. Are coming. And they're collecting the rent.
Suddenly decked out in the most ostentatious clothing this side of every other outfit showcased on this program, Heather (who? Exactly) wipes the hell out like the fashion roadkill she is. Jenascia frets about being short. SeeYouTomorrow isn't strutting enough. Merecedes is too "modeling school." Breastany, back in a body suit, is back in her tits. April has a "funny slide." Catie is really good. Sara makes a fish mouth. Camille needs "just a few adjustments" and then she'll be great. She's wearing a yellow leather jacket, and when she hits the end of the runway, she unzips it. J. gets all incredulous and cries out, "Black girls always have to give that extra." Says the black girl in the lingerie t-shirt and heels. Reaction shot of Yoanna. Big turn by Camille. Eye-roll, all parties. Camille tells the confessional that Yoanna "maybe wished that she could be more comfortable in her skin as I am in mine." Oh, just cut the shit and say, "She wants to be me. All these bitches want to be me." Stop thinking you're an orator of such high order that your ego trips are shrouded in subtext.
"We are gonna have fun," J. announces eleven times as Yoanna strides down the catwalk. He calls her walk "as useless as a flashlight with no batteries in the dark," and then likens her body language to that of a horse. Camille laughs the loudest, because she does not get the joke.