DWTS: Let’s Get This Bitch On The Road

***And now, please welcome BlueCanary, who is partnering up with TheNooch for this season of DWTS!

Well, it’s Monday again. Those of us who bore down and muscled through the toe-tappin’, knee-slappin’, glitter-crusted ego-fest that attempted to pass as a thrilling season opener are now being punished rewarded for our efforts by being treated to what is essentially the exact same episode a week later. The costumes are different; the awkward footwork, melodramatic fear-tears, and body issues are hauntingly familiar. All the bitching in the world won’t inspire a lick of pity for the “stars” and how stressful it is coming into their own on the dance floor; I have to sit through this mess. And I have to pay attention. I’d say I’m on the losing end of the tradeoff.

This evening’s focus is on the second dance, which will not only determine who is eliminated in Tuesday’s episode, but will showcase the insecurities of each and every contestant and exploit them for our amusement. We begin with much pageantry and fanfare in the form of an excruciatingly drawn-out introduction, wherein everyone has to trot down the longest, glitteriest staircase in the history of network television, and it takes forever. I assume the intro segment gets shorter and shorter as dancers get eliminated, Right? Maybe it gradually gets whittled down to an hour, or maybe even a half hour? Right? I’d love to believe it’s so, but my guess is they just cram a bunch of filler in the gaping holes left by Mike Catherwood and Sugar Ray (What? Come on, it’s not like we need to resurrect Nostradamus for this shit).

Before we begin, I really just have to ask: who watches this show? Who on earth is the target audience, and when did ballroom dancing become Middle America’s idea of cool? I feel someone needs to address this, because there’s more horseshit packed into each two hour episode than was mucked out of all the stalls at the close of the World Equestrian Games, yet DWTS is somehow one of the most popular shows on TV.  As far as the audience goes, there seems to be plenty of footage of the studio crowd (hello, filler), and they’re all waving at the camera like they’re on The Price is Right. We’re informed that 23 MILLION people tuned in last week, so I can only deduce that, essentially, 23 million people are so bored on Monday nights that they choose to cuddle up with this bedazzled turd in lieu of literally any other activity. Wow.

So apparently, the stars went wild in the season premiere. Does going wild mean the same thing to Announcer Tom that it means to Joe Francis? I think we can all go happily into the great beyond without a nipple flash from Wendy Williams, thanks, so let’s hope not. I, for one, am all about getting to the end of this as soon as possible, so on to the dancing.

Oh, Sugar Ray Leonard, how could you? You are by far the most classic participant involved in this mess, and I, for the life of me, am unable to figure out how hey talked you into it. I’m pretty sure if I managed to time travel back to 1977 and inform a young Sugar Ray that he would one day be attempting to make a comeback via a televised ballroom dancing competition, he’d have dropped old BlueCanary with a haymaker to the jaw, commandeered the time machine, and traveled to the present so he could beat the ever-loving hell out of his withered old Fox-trottin’ self. Meanwhile, I’d be trapped in 1977, out cold, probably causing a paradox. The moral of this story is: Do not tangle with young Sugar Ray, but feel free to have your way with the current embodiment, as he’ll be too busy trying to keep his purple sequined vest spic-n-span to bother throwing up a block.

So they dance, and I don’t know, I wasn’t watching because the picture suddenly went black and white, then morphed into some crazy, blinding color-fest, and I’m so busy wondering if my TV has opted for suicide as a form of protest that I missed half the routine. Was that the point? I’m already convinced that ABC is just toying with us, and now we have to listen to the judges blow smoke up our collective ass. The wrinkly one, Len, basically says he’s going home, then drags out “talk to the hand,” as if we’re still in the 90s. Bruno makes a stupid joke about punch in the feet, and Carrie Ann basically tells him that he sucks from the neck down. Brooke then grills them, and he doesn’t seem to give a rat’s ass. He gets a combined score of 17, with Wrinkly Len being the wet blanket low scorer (as seems to be par for the course) Sugar, you don’t need this.

Speaking of undignified behavior, we are treated to Kendra Wilkinson smelling her own underarms and discussing leg stubble. That sound you just heard was the wilting of approximately 4.8 million boners, as the show loses its straight male viewership, aka all the dudes who tuned in specifically to watch her shake her Bunny maracas all over the dance floor and maybe throw out a labia shot or two for the hell of it. Of course, if that’s all they want, they can skip this monstrosity and hop on the Google, because it’s not like she ever took a whole lot of pains to hide that undercarriage in the first place. We’re talking about a girl who is famous specifically for rubbing against a certain pajama-clad geezer old enough to be her grandpappy, and disrobing for his cameramen. Let this be a life lesson to all young girls: think nothing of giving your body to a geriatric multi-millionaire in exchange for notoriety, a puppy, and a frilly pink bedroom, and you, too, can be famous (or, at least famous enough to land in a reality show dance competition with the likes of Mike Catherwood). Sure, she got to live in his house for free, but even she admits that it was likely her rack that made that possible. She does look pretty good for having recently had a kid, but she seems very self-conscious, and has a nervous breakdown because she feels like a boy. I wonder if I’m the only one connecting this massive lack of self esteem with the whole Playboy Bunny thing. When you spend half a decade competing for the attentions of a dude with more wrinkles than Harry Dean Stanton’s scrotum, it’s bound to take a toll on your psyche, right?

Dancing commences, and she’s decent, I guess. I predict she’ll make it pretty far, unless the same teabagger voters who allegedly got Bristol Palin to the end last season band together to vote her off in protest of her sinful former lifestyle. Bruno thinks it’s tough being a lady. He says she messed up, but I didn’t notice, mostly because I was mulling over the fact that we’re on couple number two and I’ve already reached my limit. Carrie Ann saw some elegance, and of course Wrinkly Len had an issue with her posture, and did he really just say “chesticles?” Chesticles? Really? He looks a mite withered for a 12 year old. To be fair, her boobs are large and do not appear to move, so she couldn’t really do much about them thrusting forward. Brooke is unsuccessful at making Kendra cry again, and they score a 19. Which means nothing to me. Moving on.

Chelsea is wearing a truly awful dress, with a skirt that looks spun from the night terrors of a unicorn. And I’m given my first real challenge of the night when she says her brain doesn’t get compliments. Will I be able to pass this by without mention? Is she congratulating herself for being a troglodyte? She doesn’t seem too bothered admitting she’s stupid, especially when she follows that up with a remark that her partner likes that she’ll do “whatever he asks.” Huh. These double entendres are writing themselves, so I might as well see what else is on, right?

They are doing the Jive in mime outfits, for some reason that is a total mystery to me, unless its intended as an homage to that Panic! At the Disco song, which is bad enough an entity in its own right, and worse when spewed from the bowels of that awful live band. Carrie Ann hates the choreography, but I don’t see how that’s Chelsea’s fault. She doesn’t make that shit up, that’s her douche partner’s job, right? Len thought it was entertaining but didn’t have enough Jive, and the door props irritated him (so I wasn’t the only one). Bruno like the “weird and wonderful side of it.” Summary: they all thought it was great except for the Jive part, which was the entire point of the thing. Tough break. Do not care at all.

Why do we have to look at the audience every few seconds on this show? Is this why this mess takes two hours—because we’re treated to a full 28 minutes of strangers clapping? What horseshit. Anyway, they score an 18, which is low compared to last week, but better than Sugar Ray and his purple sequins.

Is it just me, or is Bruno asking for a beatdown by comparing Chris Jericho to the Village People? I don’t know, I may even refrain from making a sport of this fine young man, as he could likely clothesline my happy ass into oblivion using only the overhang of his slight belly paunch. Unfortunately for him, that screaming blue shirt is doing exactly nothing to quash whatever closet rumors the leather daddy duds from last week may have sparked.

Chris and Cheryl have a Johnny/Baby this-is-my-dance-space moment in their rehearsal, and he gets very dramatic about his frame, bringing Vikings into the conversation and everything. Chris, I’m pretty sure whatever Viking ghosts are tuning into this show don’t want to be associated with your spangles and Quickstep, so raise up off the Vikings, if you please. At least he looks like he knows how ridiculous the whole thing is, judging from the big theatrical grin…or maybe he just looks like that normally. I’m not a fan of the WWE, so for all I know that’s his regular game face. He puts his fedora on Len, and anyone else pulling that would probably have drawn back a bloody nub for daring to invade the judge’s breathing area, but it’s Chris Jericho and he could snap Len’s old bones with a mere flex of his powerful hands, so Len lets it slide. Len, clearly cowed by the fedora incident, kisses some WWE ass and praises his frame. Chris asks about his chesticles, and gives me the first sincere warm feeling for anyone on the episode so far. He squeezed a laugh from the audience while subtly calling out Len for being a pompous douchebag, and Len doesn’t say shit, because it’s Chris Jericho. Bruno goes for a really creepy BDSM discipline joke, and Carrie Ann needs a wet wipe for her seat, apparently, so let escape via a commercial break.

There’s the goddamn audience again, and the back of someone’s head. Way to keep things interesting, ABC. Chris and Cheryl score a 23, with Len pushing his luck with the low score. Chris kisses Cheryl’s ass, and his fingers drift toward her blue sequined booby. I’m not saying it was on purpose or anything, just that they were really close. I’m sure it was unintentional.

Petra Nemcova is very worried, because the Jive is for short people, so of course the producers give it to the supermodel in heels. You can sometimes tell when they just start to fuck with the cast members on these reality shows. They get to practice on a fun-looking trampoline (which I will hog like crazy when I someday strut my stuff on this show), and during their dance he rips off the lower half of her dress before yanking her through his crotch tunnel. Is that supposed to distract from the whole tall thing? More distraction techniques emerge, in the form of her ass in Len’s face, then a crotch shot ender. That was very awkward, but it could have been worse—it could have been a crotch shot with Wendy Williams at the other end, is what I’m saying.

Bruno throws a gay-spazz, and praises her a little too much. I thought it looked sort of sloppy, but the judges all are dazzled by her beauty. They say she needs to work on her core. Then Len lays it out: Short skirt, long legs, bad technique. And the viewers do NOT appreciate this, though I sort of agree. He does praise her beauty though, so let that be a lesson to you, American girls: You can fling yourself all over hill and dale, fumble around, fuck up the steps, and barely land on the right end of your ass at the finish, and as long as you look pretty and tear your clothes asunder, you will garner praise. Also, smooching all over the judges probably didn’t hurt. Petra ensures her return by being bouncy and lovely, even though they get an 18. Form before function, ladies, if by form you mean unachievable standard of beauty.

There appears to be an unexplained table lamp in the audience, but we’re not going to get into that, because we have to hear some more about Kirstie Alley’s body issues, and it’s only a two hour show. She’s been given the Quickstep, in a mean twist similar to foisting the Jive on the tall girl. They do this on purpose, I know it, and so does Kirstie, because she asks if skinny girls have the same problems as she’s having with the routine. Then she discusses being fat for about a decade, because god forbid we have a moment where she isn’t calling attention to her weight. I’ll bet no one would notice it half as much if she didn’t make such a big deal out of it. Christ, she’s thinner than some of those audience members (and I’d know—I’ve spent more of this show looking at them than the dancers). Anyway, the costume department stuffs Kirstie into a long, flowy dress, which makes no sense because I can’t see her legs. I can tell they’re doing something fancy under the country mile of pink, but I don’t know what. Could it be production is sending a message about what they consider an acceptable leg size to the viewership?

Carrie Ann freaks the fuck out and heaps on the praise. And yes, we know Kirstie is aware of her body—it’s literally all she talks about. Don’t encourage that. Len uses the word fluffy, which is just in bad taste. He says the dance was good, but not great. I think I’d be in a better position to confirm or deny that, had I caught more than a fleeting glimpse of cankle during the performance, but whatever. Bruno starts babbling about talent, but points out that she lost her energy halfway through and never regained it. I’m thinking that’s what the producers had in mind with the Quickstep thing.. They get a 20. AND AGAIN WITH THE WEIGHT. Apparently she wants to lose 40 pounds, and the only way she will achieve that is by staying on this show until the end. Take note, America: if Kirstie gets dismissed early and then dies of a heart attack, it’s on you. And is that the dumbest way to spell Max, or what? Maks. Please. I know it’s short for Maksim, but give me a fucking break.

Mike Catherwood is next, and he kicks off his pity party from the bottom of the heap by giving his partner an apology bouquet, presumably for stinking up the dance floor last week. Cue them fondling each other for awhile, and him acting all zany, as befitting his edgy, disc jockey persona. Here’s the thing about Mike: he will likely get sent packing (and he will get sent packing, make no mistake) based not on his admittedly shitty dancing skills, but because no one knows who he is. His resume reads like his life goal is to essentially be the poor man’s Adam Carolla. Now don’t get me wrong, because I love Adam Carolla, but…is there even a demand for a poor man’s Ace Man? Does there need to be? If so, rest assured Mike has it covered: radio DJ, check; Loveline with Drew, check; this dancing bullshit, check. Next thing you know he’ll be stopping in the middle of the Foxtrot to scream about left turn lights and carpentry, starting his own podcast, and pretending he shat a football at Jimmy Kimmel’s game day party. Stop trying to be Adam Carolla, Mike Catherwood, and concentrate on not scoring lower than poor Sugar Ray.

Anyway, Mike and his partner grind against each other an awful lot during rehearsal, more than any of the other pairs. They commence to jiving, and I’m not sure why they have him messing with a guitar. Props seem so unnecessary on this show, yet they’re all over the place. Lacey seems to be missing the front of her skirt entirely. Assuming Wardrobe didn’t just run out of material, I’m guessing it was probably another tear-away number, and Mike jumped the gun on it backstage. As far as I can tell, their dancing has come a long way since last episode’s routine, and Len seems to agree. So does Bruno, even though he likens Mike to a fly on flypaper. Carrie Ann throws a bit of bitch into the mix with her comments, but if they’re voting Most Improved, Mikey has that superlative locked in thus far. They score a 17, which is low, but much better than last week, so he can’t complain too much. The audience seems to like him, despite his obscurity, and his partner sure doesn’t mind him getting personal, it seems.

Romeo is next, and at this point I’m considering watching this with the sound off, because I can’t handle any more contrived banter and emotional issues. She’s trying to teach him to be a gentleman. Well, good luck with that, I guess. I’m sure he’s a very nice young man, and I’m not sure why I think that, because I know of this dude only peripherally. Incidentally, Romeo and his dad randomly bought a video camera from my mom’s workplace back in the day, when Romeo was Lil, and she recognized them. It’s sort of shameful that my mom’s pop culture knowledge surpasses mine at times, but I digress. Romeo should tank me, because my trip down memory lane might actually distract me enough that I refrain to mention the black-framed contraceptive on his face.

Their dance theme is 70s prom, and sadly that balloon arch is looking far too familiar. I’m pretty sure we had one like that at every prom and homecoming dance I ever attended—in the 90s. He’s one of the only dudes on the show who can actually dance, and the routine looks easy. Bruno loses his damn mind over the thing (insert hyperbolic arm waving here), and dubs Romeo “the one to watch!!!!!!!!!” Carrie Ann agrees and strips him with her eyes, while Len calls it the best dance of the night. They score 23, and methinks Chelsie better keep an eye on that hand, because it’s getting sort of wandery-friendly.

Next up, the trainwreck that is Wendy Williams comes chugging into the station, and my only hope is that she doesn’t spend half the damn show crying again. She does mention her rack, though, and riddle me this, Wendy: if “no one needs to see all that,” what in the name of Hephaestus possessed you inflate your chesticles to those proportions? Did you lose a bet, or just get carried away? Anyway, she seems a bit happier this week, or at least is putting on a show of confidence during rehearsal. Alas, the end result is more painful than anything else: the music is awful, the dance is boring, and Tony’s sweater vest is not helping.

Carrie Ann is enthusiastic. Len dubs it an improvement, says something about laundry, and Bruno blah-blah-blahs away. I don’t care. At least Wendy isn’t sobbing into her weave again. There’s some huge, convoluted explanation behind their theme, which I feel should be unnecessary. It’s a dance piece—if it’s so complex it requires a follow-up soliloquy, it didn’t work. They score 17, and I still don’t care. Moving on.

Ralph sighting! Before we delve into all things Macchio, let me just say that I am ON to the Starz and Encore channels and their nefarious plans. They’ve shown their hand by playing the hell out of all three Karate Kid movies the past few weeks, even the ultra-crappy third one, clearly throwing their support in the direction of Daniel-san. I am also in the Macchio corner, because I have to root for someone in order to keep this interesting, and I don’t know Chris Jericho well enough to back him at this point. Also, I need some justification for the Ralph Macchio Bop Magazine mini poster that hung on the wall of my bedroom in 1984. Don’t judge me, I was seven.

In any case, he shall be henceforth known as My Schnookums, until the time he either takes the grand prize or is sent packing due to an injury he sustained in a slip-and-fall when he got too close to a puddle of Kendra’s tears. In any case, My Schnookums does look remarkably underage for an 89-year-old, and I am further freaked out when they bring in his teen-aged kids. His jacket seems glittery enough to pass muster, but we miss every single one of his opening steps, because of the huge fucking beam of light shining directly into the camera. Way to do your thang, production. Speaking of doing one’s thang, Schnook is all overthis Jive bullshit, and Romeo is probably getting all gloomy in the background because he will no longer be tops of the night. Adding insult to the bespangled injury that is his jacket, it seems someone in wardrobe just said “To hell with it, let’s go Closeted Mafioso. We’ve got a pink skinny tie and some fucking SPATS, and we’re going to use them!”

Then the judges start their hee-hawing, and Len inexplicably tells Schnook he’s TOO energetic. It’s the exact opposite of what he’s said to everyone else, and the Wrinkled One literally has to yell at the booing audience to shut its collective piehole. Bruno gushes about likeability and character, then shits all over Ralphie’s precision. Carrie Ann tells him he needs to be sharper. Well, that may be true, but My Schnookums certainly is more entertaining to watch than the rest of this snoozefest, if only because he looks like he’s having fun. They score him midrange, a solid 21, but I think he’ll have more than enough audience support to carry him through at least half the season. America loves it some Ralph Macchio.

And thank GOD—at long last, here we are at the final dance of the evening: Hines Ward and Kym. Hines seems like a nice enough guy, but I have to admit that I’d never heard of him before this, as I am no fan of the pigskin. The only thing I know about the Steelers is that the entire city of Seattle has hated those bitches with a passion ever since the 2006 Super Bowl, and one of the players might have been accused of raping something at some point. That’s literally it. Anyway, Hines himself might be a ringer, based on his reputation for fancy footwork, but he hasn’t done a whole lot to stick in my memory. I swear to Christ though, if Bruno keeps making perverted sex jokes I really will have to watch this on mute for the rest of the season.

Wow, I am actually astonished and almost ashamed at how little I care about Hines’s back story or emotions, but of course we have to hear all about that junk, and Kym keeps opening her mouth and letting fly some vaguely racist remarks about…crunking? And Homies? I don’t know, this is all starting to blend together for me. Fortunately for him, Hines went from glittery leopard print suspenders last week to the much more muted and masculine black velvet jacket with a red silk lining. He looks like Vlad Dracul’s personal assistant, and it’s not helping that Kym’s lipstick is smeared all over his face. They do their routine and do it well, but fail to wow me. Bruno disagrees, however, and leaves his seat to flail gaily around, screaming about how impressed he is. Carrie Ann calls him twinkle toes. Even Len likes him, and I must have missed something, but whatever. I think the judges are fully drunk by this point and stir crazy from sitting through two solid hours of this bullshit. Hines reveals that the Steeler Nation gave him shit for being a ballroom dancer, and I’m so unsurprised that it barely registers. The judges give them a 23, and I can’t even bring myself to get all indignant on behalf of My Schnookums, because I am DONE with this thing. Tomorrow someone gets kicked off, and that’s fine with me.

I hope you guys stick around and keep me and TheNooch company through this dreary mess, because we may be too damaged by season’s end to lend each other much support. Thanks for reading!