Each girl gets roached. Danielle, whose roach rests on her collarbone, sees this challenge as her chance for vindication. Furonda has her arm straight out, which is weird. Brooke is too fast. Sara swishes around. Nnenna, whose roach can't wait to get to her little bald head, needs to move it a little bit. Jared says that each model is maintaining her composure pretty well. Cue Jade taunting Gina by telling her to kiss the roach. Come on, now. Gina interviews that her hatred of roaches has given Jade yet another opportunity to intimidate her. Mollie Sue's roach makes it around to her back. Kari walks too slow, but at least she doesn't trip. Jade takes the roach in her hand, and when she gets to the end of the runway, she fondles and kisses it. Suddenly, I am writing a soft-porn Harlequin romance for bugs and/or paraphrasing Bill Clinton. Jade says that the judges loved it. Yes, but what about the roach? The only way to know his true feelings is by looking under your stove and finding his tiny roach diary. Some call it a violation of privacy, but I call it "research."
Oh, where to start. The day began like any other. Well, better than any other, really, given the delicious feast of toenail clippings that I foraged for breakfast. Satisfied with my meal, I sat the children down for their afternoon story. "After the holocaust, there will be only cockroaches and Cher," I told them, as I always do, and it appeased them mightily to know that should the day come, we will be in good company and have fine entertainment. "I do believe in life after love," I thought to myself, and waved my glow stick around, much to the children's delight. I left our cozy under-stove for a while and crawled in the toaster, and then walked across the cutting board and onto an empty can of black bans that had the most delicious, gluey label. My repast made me drowsy and slow, and before I could find a nice crack in which to settle, a man with a pasty face and a pin in his head scooped me up. I thought I was headed for the land of Raid, but alas, my fate was ever worse. The man took me to his under-stove, where several of his relatives -- who looked like they might have been exposed to the salmonella I tracked across the toothbrushes -- held me down and tickled me mightily with an instrument called "The Bedazzler." From which fresh hell that object came, I do not know. I was then connected to a chain and felt that either menial work or deviant torture awaited me next. I am sad to say that it was the latter. A horrible-looking creature -- I have been told it was a woman, but I am in doubt -- grabbed me in her hand and walked with me down a long plank. When we reached the end, she...she...I can barely say it. But I must, for truth is the only way to overcome our oppressors. The creature sexually assaulted me in the most brutal fashion, her waxy lips pressing down on my shell and feelers until I was beaten into submission. What happened next is a blur. I wondered if the sparkly jewels placed on my shell had provoked her into the action, or if something else I had done indicated that her behavior was welcome. Then that well-known voice popped into my head. "It's not your fault!" said the voice and suddenly I knew that my only recourse was to call Detective Olivia Benson for help, guidance, and a comforting shoulder. I shall do this first thing tomorrow, or as soon as I get the feeling back in my feelers.