Oh, television, you adorable, fickle, rosy-cheeked, bitch-goddess, you. Just a week ago, you gave us the glory of a size 43 (because we're in faaaaaaaahncy Europe and the sizes are, like, translated into lira or something) boot right up le natiche di Camille, and gave us the previews for an upcoming episode where we'd get to watch Shandi get her so-called "freak on" in a way even white people from the Midwest wouldn't feel threatened by. Oh, television. You promised me the moon, and you gave me a clip show. Oh, television. I thought your reality shows represented reality. But alas, your promises are as much a fantasy as life would be if America's Next Top Model were hosted by a unicorn. You're not real. You only serve to break me down. One montage at a time.
So, with the unfortunate development of this episode's stop-the-show-I-wanna-get-off retread of what's come before, we here at TWOP-LLC have absorbed the shock, brushed ourselves off, stopped crying after UPN cut our hair and made us look like The Fourth Hanson Brother Who Did Not Even Get To Play The Triangle, and regrouped. Did this week's episode need a recap? Certainly no! But an episode it was, and a recap it shall have. But I couldn't very well make you sit through a series of observations about the action that would be merely the second best I was able to come up with, the first, of course, being the glimmering gold from the recaps that already exist. On this very site! So we're going to patch the action together much as they did, and I'm going to excavate (or as we call it in anthropology, "raise from the dead," or as we call it in court, "plagiarize") my old recaps from this season and string them together, per the action I see on screen. In such moments where new footage is aired, I will faithfully recap said moment, and if I believe something should be added to the old information, I shall editorialize upon my old writing in a recapping-the-recapped-recap meta kind of way that will plunge us into a murky wormhole in the attic of the time-space continuum, through which we will fall and fall and fall until we come out bruised, afraid, but finally understanding the temporal theories set forth by the incomprehensible Back to the Future II. And, as always in a well-organized business status report, all changes and additions to the previous developments will be indicated in bold. So rev up your recap DeLoreans to 88 miles per hour, because where we're going...we don't need roads.
The voice-over punditry of Tyra "Singer? I Won't Even Catwalk With Her!" Banks introduces us to the beginning of the season of ANTM with her assertion that, this season, there were "thousands and thousands of applicants. This time we chose twelve." Ah, what a break with a longstanding tradition. As opposed to, say, the 1943 edition of America's Next Top Model, when war rations insisted they only choose eleven, and the 1603 edition of America's Next Top Model, when those who were still in the running to become America's Next Top Model did number twelve but, according to societal strictures at the time, were all played by young boys.