dear santino rice: don't go breakin' my heart

ohhhh, santino, you brilliant, beautiful, bratty son of a bitch. you very nearly killed me last night on project runway, burdening a figure-skating outfit with a five-inch-deep carpet of plumage. some feathers can be intriguing, but those feathers were gertrude mcfuzz on a pill-berry bender.

what? what? we get it, already: you're a visionary. how about you suck it up and prove that you are also capable of being a competitive businessman, and construct any one garment with someone besides yourself in mind. this is a contest, honey. you have to play to win*. the pretty little skater girl told you exactly what she needed, and you gave her none of it. bad designer, ignoring your client—even if i did like your idea, and why was everyone so excited about chloe's turquoise? she uses that color in every single design. turquoise and beige, turquoise and beige, dull as rocks, smother me with a bolt of chiffon. whatever. i know the producers have as much, if not more, say about who stays and who goes as the judges, so how could you not end up going all the way, being the charismatic instigator that you are… but i don't care about sports, so this is my superbowl, and your attitude is fraying my nerves to such a degree that it resulted in an honest-to-goodness anxiety dream. wrote a song about it; like to hear it? here it goes.

in the next competition, the challenge was to design a formal gown for hillary rodham clinton to wear to a fundraising gala, and you whipped up this crazy blood-orange-and-espresso affair with an asymmetrical skirt hiked up over the knee on one side and brushing the floor on the other and, like, cattails or something sticking up over one shoulder, and michael kors and nina garcia rushed the runway and beat you with their chairs, and you fled and went into hiding in a mud hut in a mountainous region of asia, vowing never to handle another shred of fabric as long as you lived. but john galliano** sought you out, and when he found you he revealed his secret identity as the master of a little-known meditative art that centered on the endless sewing of tiny stitches, all identical in length. through his dedicated teachings you learned to gain control over your opprobrious egocentricity, and after what played out like years but must have actually been about eight hours, you went back to project runway and presumably wiped the floor with everyone else's refuse (i can't say for sure, as i was awakened by my alarm before things were allowed to play out fully).

rock.

but it'll only be one girl's glorious dream if you haven't stopped being an abrasive, narcissistic jerk. have you stopped that, baby? i bet you have. well done. and not that i'd have to say it, but really, darling, you don't belong at banana republic. they're prudes. just, you know, keep your rational, intelligent, calculating eye on the prize. and if you've already lost, at least nicky hilton's got your number.




* unless you are playing against me, in which case you could probably just slap some glitter glue on a scrunchie and tell me a story about the first time you saw a fish, and i'd throw up my hands and forfeit, 'cause, um, you're fucking fabulous. but snotty. but fabulous.

** the dresses in john galliano's most recent autumn/winter collection made me simultaneously weep and ovulate.