Celebrity Circus: Can I Has Cyanide?

And now he’s in me, always with me, tiny gangsta in my hand…

Dear juddfan and mullymoon (No doubt LeeH has stopped reading to do something productive like watch Paula Deen on Food Network),

Congratulations! You are the only two people to ever read this. I am so glad I didn’t apply to grad school so I could earn a Ph.D in English and spend six years on a dissertation that perhaps three people will skim. Because it would cost a helluva lot more, but feel vaguely similar. I could be stuffing my face with delicious babyback ribs and Shiner Bock, since I am in Austin for the first time ever. But I love you kids and I have a hard time kicking that ingrained Asian work ethic, so I am ponying up $9.99 for hotel wireless and relinquishing the shreds of my dignity to give you…Celebrity Circus!Now that I think about it, mullymoon probably went out of town this weekend, so I’ll have to pin all my hopes on you, juddfan. I promise to choose wisely next season. But first, an important announcement from Pudgy Fatone.

“FINE, I ATE ALL THE COOKIES IN THE COOKIE JAR! WHAT OF IT?!”

Also, Peter Brady had some technical difficulties.

Remember how there is absolutely no net? Well, a camera caught everything and rehashes it for us in slow-motion, complete with Brady bouncing on the hard floor and sound effects to make it that much more bone-shattering. Our favorite self-immolating clown has re-broken his arm (the one that was previously busted by the German Hamster Wheel) and has to withdraw from the competition. Boo. Just when it was starting to get good.

Kidding, kidding. It doesn’t get better than this.

No teary, doctor-endorsed farewell would be complete without a video montage of Peter Brady’s greatest moments. He explains to the concerned contestants that the doctor’s pulling him out of the competition and that he’ll have great things to remember for the rest of his life. Or at least till tomorrow, when he remembers that relaxing and eating delicious foods and swimming around in a pool full of money from royalties is infinitely better than life-threatening stunts without nets and crotch-suffocating harnesses.

Never mind.

The judges say some obligatory words of pithy positivity (“You brought fun! You overcame so many obstacles! You are so gracious, inspirational to old men and younger men, fabulous at fifty!”) and Peter Brady pumps his fist and proclaims that old guys rule. Should’ve stopped at the fist pump, mister.

Also, there will not be any elimination tonight because they’d have no contestants left. Pudgy tells the celebs that they’ve gotten a new lease on life and some more airtime because Peter Brady wasn’t going to be eliminated tonight. Ouch. I’m guessing Rachel was going to be sent home. This isn’t how ANTM works at all – Tyra surely would’ve sent another girl packing!

First, Wee Man attempts some manhandling and balancing with Vlad the Impaler, his trainer. Vlad’s a guy you want to please, because he turns into the Hulk when pissy.

In Soviet Russia, T-shirt wears you!

Ideally, your handbalancing partner is roughly the same height and weight as you. Wee Man comes up to Vlad’s balls. Their first attempts are trying, to say the least. So who does the circus bring in for inspiration and positive reinforcement?

All this does, in my opinion, is make it seem even more impossible for Wee Man to pull off the act with Vlad, since balancing his new homie, Romeo, is a walk in the park. The guy weighs like three MacBook Airs. However, Wee Man and Vlad have done some intense bonding, like shaving each other’s heads.

To the smooth crooning of Gavin DeGraw, Wee Man attempts some homoerotic lifting and cuddling with Vlad. It truly is impressive given the disparity in their sizes and weights. Half of the poses look like Mother and Baby Panda snuggling. The grand finale boggles my mind and turns on midget fetishists everywhere.

“I don’t have to be anything other than a prison guard’s son!” How apt.

Louie’s been shilling McDonald’s this week, because he keeps repeating, “I’m lovin’ it!” Aurelia channels Princess Leia this week in a gold corset and a cuff on her bicep. She’s losing it because she bows to Wee Man and proclaims that she loves it too. Mitch mutters something blander than a stale rice cake. Let’s skip to the scores.

So the contestant who bombed with the judges just two weeks ago is topping the charts this week. Let’s attempt to have some more suspense on this show, as Dionne explains she became so obsessed with being perfect and the best in the competition that she resorted to steroids and blood transfusions from NCAA athletes in the PAC-10 (gymnasts mostly, and synchronized swimmers). Oh, and she’s recently learned to cope with the stress and balance her circus act with family life and roller skating birthday parties. Training can be fun!

After her fall from being the judges’ favorite last week, Dionne will take on the flying cradle, which is a lot like the modified see-saw on the backyard playsets all my neighbors’ kids had. Only it’s up in the air with no net. Plus a trapeze element.

And a man with a bulge in his pants.

And no thinking, says Dionne. She’s going to let Sebastian run things this week. Just lots of “Do it!”

What can I say about this performance? There is lots of posing, clambering up onto the cradle, rocking, and flipping. Also, catching and releasing of Dionne by her partner. It’s basically a static, swinging trapeze with a platform attached, since there isn’t anyone to pass her off to. He’ll swing her by her ankles and they’ll flip her so that she catches his hands with her hands. It’s so fast-paced I couldn’t even get any good close-ups. I am nauseous.

But there is plenty of David Bowie’s leftover makeup.

Hoo boy. All the judges agree. Dionne just didn’t spread enough Diva Dust around, because they are not happy with her overly technical performance. In short, she didn’t shimmy her moneymaker and smile enough. It’s hard being an unemployed actress. Maybe she can get a stint on Flight of the Conchords like Rachel Blanchard (Cher on the TV version of Clueles) did. Also, thanks to selective video editing, the judges can harp on Dionne allowing her partner to take too much control this week.

Aurelia’s contribution: “Relax, you just need to relahhhhhx, enjoyyyyy.”

Scores, plz:

NBC’s averaging calculator is busted, so no tricky numbers, people!

Antonio reveals that he’s still miffed at Aurelia’s lack of constructive criticism for his Chinese chopsticks routine last week. I too, would be miffed, if that were the only performance feedback I’d received in the past six months. ASJ was practicing the trapeze this week, but failed to master it. So they threw him onto the Wheel of Death. No big deal. ASJ reiterates that Wee Man had 8 weeks on the Wheel of Death and he has just four days (I don’t buy that timeframe). Wah. I, too, make Baby Jesus cry with my excuses.

Red pleather pants were harmed in this next performance, and at least two tubes of red lipstick in the shade of Casual Whore were used to paint flames onto ASJ’s naked torso. Unlike Wee Man, ASJ is as tall as the Wheel, so he can hold onto the sides of the top and go upside down as the wheel rotates. He does this three times in a row. It’s less exciting than watching small children recite their state capitals, or watching obese pigeons get even fatter from crumbs strewn outside the local bagel shop. I’m falling asleep. It’s just not the best event to get handed with “four” days to prepare.

Let’s wake up with some Bert and Ernie gangsta rap. Ante up!

Better than the entire episode, which is only half over? You betcha.

Oh, and ASJ does a headstand on top of the Wheel of Death when it’s perfectly still in the center. That last move is death-defying, but it’s not going to be enough to save him from the wrath of Khan. Or that of the judges. Sure, I could never do this in a million years, but the entertainment is just lacking. Aurelia calls ASJ on the repetition, Mitch stammers that well, what ASJ did, he did well, and Louie decides to be contrarian and point out that the routine was difficult for just a few days’ work, and that ASJ would’ve smashed more than just his face had he fallen, and that it was truly impressive.

Sadly, Louie stops short of a full Dionne Diva Flipout, but starts to tangle with Aurelia. Aurelia wants to see blood and to see ASJ rotate without zee hands. ASJ retorts that if he cracks his head and bleeds to death for her, it’s not worth is. She pretends to not hear him. Burn!

ASJ also asserts this truth: “I’m also a human being.” Why thank you, Captain Obvious. He persists in talking and saying that he’s not going to take this from anyone, let alone a Frenchy bitch, because he is a man. Awkwardness ensues.

“Can I get back to hosting The Singing Office now?”

Zee scores:

Way to fuck up the curve, Louie.

As if this wasn’t hernia-inducing enough, we are treated to a video montage of the celebs “cracking” under “immense pressure” and what happens when the music doesn’t fit the choreography and harnesses break your ribs. It’s like being in a pressure cooker filled with boiling oil! Scalding, trans-fatty, delicious-smelling oil!

Oh I’m sorry, I thought you asked for a montage of fried foods on sticks.

Frenchy choreographer/director Philippe tries to get us pumped up by explaining that Rachel is performing an act that none of his artistes (yes, they earned that extra “e”) would dare perform. Since they keep yammering on that they only have four days to learn the choreography, I assume this is not death-defying.

So far, the routine appears to be Spanish matador-themed, only there’s no way a real bull would be involved. Real bulls have balls…and pride. Instead, there is a wiry old man barking Spanish at Rachel while pretending he’s a beast. He’s got a strap-on bull, almost.

Pink tights = automatic mauling.

Let me preface this by explaining that the commercials keep teasing us with references to “The Beast” and “Danger.” And then the camera cuts to a medium-sized storage cabinet on wheels. The only danger here is ratings that sag lower than the breasts of Ms. Choksondik from South Park. Unless Philippe’s got a whole kilo of anthrax in the rolling cabinet or some avian-bird flu infected chirpers. Are we going to recreate that scene from The Birds?

Fatone issues a disclaimer before Rachel performs: “No matter what happens, stay in your seats, please!” Hmm, so I should not get up to pee, is what you’re saying. After some dramatic build-up (back-up bulldancers with flair) and cape twirling, Rachel proceeds to tame the beast(s).

Oh, I mean this beast.

It’s supposed to be a comedy routine, but one can’t help but root for the dog (it’s of what I call the “kick-drop variety” because that sort of dog is so tiny you pretty much can do that, although I never would because it would constitute abuse of the worst kind – seriously, PETA, I love my animals, especially the tasty ones for eating) to turn on Rachel because the tough matador bravado falls flat as she pleads for the doggies to obey her. She also removes her top to reveal a frilly bustier. Le sigh.

Bull-doggie spazzes out on the prop cape (which would be called a muleta if it were real bullfighting) and wants to keep grabbing and sitting down, until a desperate Rachel’s practically twirling it around. She hands it off to the trainer and grabs the two “barbed” sticks, the banderillas, using them as high bars for the next doggie to jump over. I wish I were kidding. It works for about two seconds, until the doggie apathetically walks away from her. It has to be shooed back by the trainer for more jumps, much to Rachel’s consternation.

After having a doggie roll over several times, sit, and stay, the grand finale involves an incredibly obvious gag that’s worked for ages. The feminist in me fumes at how I didn’t see this coming. Beggin’ Strips tucked into the pants, plus a convenient cord to tug!

Stupidest Human Trick. Ever.

Aurelia agrees, as she says she ees not sure about zee future of Rachel as a comedienne, and the control with zee dogs was zee leetle crazy, eet was merely entertaining.

“I wash my leetle Parisian hands of you, putain! Zut alors!”

Mitch is blushing because he expected boobs to pop out in an acrobatic aerial feat, not this cop-out joke of an act. He admits he’s speechless. Louie proclaims it the biggest pack of poo he’s ever seen, but commends her for delivering it with pizzazz and real style – he had no idea if she was going to sling the dog or use it as a clutch, or kill it. Basically, it was a car wreck, and because Americans love to rubberneck around a massive pile-up on the freeway and clog up the road by creating more traffic in LA while texting their friends about the accident, they’re totally going to vote for her. Rachel yammers a bit, as Louie reassures her, “You made the witch on the end smile, so believe me! It was entertaining!” Rawr, the claws are OUT. I want to know if Aurelia and Louie have slap fights during commercial breaks, one where Aurelia busts out the vulgar street French and Louie devolves into Cockney like Eliza Doolittle.

Anyhoo, the scores:

The act was clearly inspired by someone in Hell.

Unfortunately, Louie decides to give her an extra point for sheer entertainment, and Rachel’s average is 6.3. Now would be the perfect time to slip me a roofie colada. I don’t know who’s going home next week, and I don’t know if I have the strength to go on. Can Wee Man or Dionne just win already?

I’ll see you next week as I take on Celebrity Circus while in our nation’s Capitol, which rivals the craziness of rabid Chihuahuas masquerading as bulls. Mwa!