Tila Tequila, You Are This Week’s Most-Improved Player (Recap Episode 3)


Tila Tequila

Finally, darling, you have returned to your senses. Oh, Tila, how worried we were that you’d developed neurasthenia, or a mental fugue, or an Adam’s apple! But, as you happily proved to us last night, none of these are the case. You are hale and healthy and still female, and finally (finally!) you are beginning to demonstrate the genius with which you first seduced us. That is to say nothing of your physical beauty. You were resplendent in your Daisy Dukes. You glowed like the dying embers of a once-great dwarf star in your shiny blue Rayon (or was it polyester?) negligee. Your eyes glittered like hard little dusty black marbles when you were assessing your suitors. Each of them failed you, we noticed. Each of them.

You made your rules clear, Crystal-Light clear, so totally transparent that you might have wanted to affix seagull decals to those rules so that birds didn’t fly into them and mortally injure themselves. What did we find most telling? That you only had one rule: Do not hook up with anyone who isn’t Tila Tequila. Is that a hard rule to follow? Were your words impossible to parse? Do your contestants require a mountain of Q-Tips with which to clean their ears? We do not know, Tila. But for whatever reason, they were unable to follow even this most simple of instructions.

First, however, the sleeping arrangements. You did tempt them. You couldn’t resist, could you, button-nose? Forcing all your potential lovers to sleep in one enormous, Olympic-pool-sized bed.

You are a naughty one. And that bedspread: More ochre crushed velvet than in all the invidious collections of Dave Navarro and Richard Simmons combined! How could they resist touching each other in the sweet bewitching hours of the night? Ashli, your neophyte lesbian paramour, was as nervous as Rebecca was whorish. You remember: Rebecca is the woman whose lips touched your own several times during the last episode. And we do believe that she did lie to you. We are 150% positive that she spent several sweaty minutes massaging Steve in the swimsuit area. And we know she kissed Brandi on the mouth. It was not a “peck,” or however she described it, unless a “peck” now refers to the practice of struggling to taste your partner’s pericardium with the tip of your tongue.

You eliminated Rebecca, Tila, and never have we felt so vindicated. In the words of another headstrong woman, out damned spot! And out she went.

But the men . . . you are too kind, orchid stem. Has anyone ever told you that your one flaw is your selfless nature? You granted the men far too much leeway. We expect better from you next week. To wit: Bobby not only fellated that bottle (see the picture at right), he attacked it like he was Disco Dan in the rainbow era of Studio 54, trying out for a slot in the Village People as a sword-swallower while simultaneously befriending Liza Minnelli and the cast of The Starlight Express. We saw drool, Tila. In other words, we suspect that Bobby might not be the droid you are looking for.

You kept him.

Domenico, or Little Italy as he is more affectionately known, wore a T-shirt that read “Vagetarian.” (Given his personality, we are beginning to think he should buy the one that reads “It Ain’t Gonna Suck Itself,” or, perhaps, “Italians Do It Worse.”) And when one of the women said of the sleeping arrangements, “Bitches on one side, girls on the other,” he laughed. He is a shady, two-faced mole of a man, whose appeal lies in his humor, true. But Tila, haven’t you heard? Some clowns cry on the inside. And some clowns spend their time sharpening knives.

You kept him.

Rob also wore a T-shirt of questionable taste. It bore the slogan “Free Pony Rides” and featured an arrow pointing at his crotch. Charming, my dear. And wasn’t he the one in the confessional who, when you announced that you had another surprise, retorted, “Oh, please God, don’t have a penis”?

Well, we are happy that you are a woman. We are equally delighted that you sent Rob home.

And the pie-eating contest. Yes, the pie-eating contest. The cream, clearly meant to be sexually suggestive, was disgusting. That Dani won and couldn’t even be bothered to clean her face before her alone time with you was also revolting. But we felt for her when you said:

“I like lipstick lesbians.”

How can she compete with that? Moreover, how can we?

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