The Women Tell All (Season 3)

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Recapping the Recap

A busload of tourists from Cheyenne, the really pissed-off assistant to Mike Fleiss's publicist, Anne-Michelle's manager who also just happens to be her first cousin, six English-deficient Swedish backpackers (who spend the greater part of the next hour under the mistaken notion that they're watching Jerry Springer preside over a Spice Girls reunion), and a crack team of professional seat fillers together make up the studio audience for "The Women Tell All" at a familiar L.A. soundstage right between Melrose and pointlessness. They clap with forced, look-at-me- I-have-headshots-too- you-know glee as the camera swoops past the paid (er, I mean "live") studio audience, around a podium on which sits two long-stemmed red roses (doubtless the result of the show's set dresser taking a trip to The Podium Depot, slapping down the Next Entertainment platinum card, and asking for the most shocking! Podium! Ever!), and comes to rest on the grand entrance of Chris "Hostess Ding Dong" Harrison. Chris is wearing a sky blue shirt that will help him blend, chameleon-style, against his new background when a strong gust of wind hits his overly giant collar and causes him to take flight. But don't worry about him, y'all...he's got a speech prepared: "America has been watching the newest Bachelor, Andrew Firestone, search for his one true love, the woman who will become his wife." Oh, is that what "America" has been up to? No wonder it hasn't been returning any of my calls. But wait, there's more! Chris continues on, cleverly conning me into recapping a commercial for the next episode, adding, "This Sunday night, Andrew will make the most difficult decision of his life." Man, and just when he thought that nothing would ever trump his endless quandary that finally resulted in the ultimately painful resolution, "No, Jeeves, I believe I am too full to enjoy any more of this delicious foie gras. But thank you. Really." God, I envy his strength. "Tonight, we'll talk to the women who left without a rose. Please welcome...our bachelorettes!"

And back through the season we go, traveling in ascending order from the not-at-all-fake-famous to the totally-fake-famous, as we're reintroduced to the twenty-three women who forced the OED to add an eensy-teensy #2 to its definition of "fame" in the first place: Tiffany (la!), Stephanie (y'all!), Amy (who?), Rachel (der), Kerri (who?), Brooke ("I'm a man!" "Well, nobody's perfect"), Ginny (who?), Amy (again?), Angela (ew), Courtney (who?), Jennifer (who?), Shannon (run!), Tina ("I'm a man!" "Well, at least you're not Brooke"), Christina S. (who flashes a Sarandon-esque peace sign...doesn't she know the war is, like, over and stuff?), Anne-Michelle (well, she didn't have far to travel, did she?), Elizabeth (meh), Heather (zzzzzzz), Audree (I'm so out of Mormon jokes), Amber (sister, have we missed you), Liz (is she winking at me?), and Christina (kick it down a notch, pastry-fish breath). "And, of course, as we all saw last Wednesday night, the final girl to leave without a rose...Tina." And out walks TinaFab, looking poised and rested and appropriately tanned for just having flown in from Wisconsin at any point between the months of September and May. She instinctively takes the hot seat in that effortless watch-your-back-Ripa kind of way, and Chris indicates a giant screen behind them and suggests, "Let's take a look at how you went from Tina to Tina Fabulous." Never in my life have I seen a group of people so intent on repeating a played-out name over and over and over again like this. Well, at least not since a kid named Gaylord transferred to my elementary school in fourth grade. Heh. "Gaylord."

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