Here we are, faithful readers: After nine weeks of tears, heartbreak, intense passion, dedication, douchery, and diva bitching, we have at last arrived at week ten, the final competition episode of the finale of Dancing with the Stars! Did you ever think we would all make it here (much less through that last sentence) in one piece? I always had faith in us.
What a show they must have in store for us tonight! After the dismissal of My Schnookums, I expect nothing less than perfect tens across the board from the sumbitches left. Hines, Chelsea and Kirstie had better bring it, and this episode had better be rife with the meltdowns, danger, and drama that define DWTS. Sure enough, it looks promising: they’re starting right out of the gate with the dramatic music, montages, and clips of the final three, sweating it out for that trophy. Based on how badly they all seem to want it, the mirrorball must be something special. I’ll bet it’s molded of purest gold and jewels, crusted with fairy dust, and shat from the bowels of Zeus himself (whose anus is infamously shaped like a mirrorball trophy. True story).
Really? That’s it? I expected more from the Father of Gods and Men.
We are informed that tonight the finalists will perform their MOST IMPORTANT EVER dances! As per custom, those bitches traipse down the staircase, led by the exposed nipples of Mark Ballas, which I personally could have done without, to be honest. Hines is dressed for the Royal Wedding, and Maks is, unsurprisingly, wearing one of his many colorful pirate shirts, unbuttoned to the waist. The ladies are all a-sparkle, as if they themselves are paying tribute to the mirrorball trophy. DWTS is nothing if not riddled with reflective surfaces.
And stupid facial expressions. They know the camera is set to “on,” right?
We kick things off with the Judges’ Choice dance. The finalists were assigned their dance style at the end of last week’s elimination episode, based on the elements the judges want to see them perform. But there’s a twist! The judges themselves invaded the rehearsals this week to nitpick critique and make suggestions for improvement. Carrie Ann busts in on Chelsea and Mark, just as he’s trying to figure out how to work a subtle ass-grab into their Samba. Cock block achieved, she tells them to tone down the perky elements and try to up the maturity factor. Carrie Ann wants Chelsea to show everyone the woman she’s become, which I guess means she wants to see evidence of Chelsea’s menses? I don’t know, but the acknowledgment that Len and Bruno are eagerly awaiting proof of her womanhood takes us straight into the creepy zone.
Chelsea is going all out with her efforts, because that’s what real women do. They take the stage and she throws down like only a real woman can. Speaking of women, Mark is looking waaaay too happy in the unbuttoned glitter shirt, flashing his teats and continuing to shake his thang even after the music stops! That’s how you do a samba. I think. Len badly quotes The Police, apropos to nothing, but though they did well. Bruno calls Chelsea an ultra sexy bombshell, and, unable to cope with the idea that he only has two more episodes worth of opportunities to thrust his junk at the camera, proceeds to take full advantage of his air time. Carrie Ann says it was HOT HOT HOT, and exactly what she wanted to see.
“My nipples, right?" Mark squealed. "You meant my nipples, I just know it!”
Chelsea tells Brooke that it was awesome to get “a woman’s perspective” on the dance, because there are certain things Mark can’t teach (like how not to be a dickbag?). You can see Mark’s grin turn to a sneer, as he totally fails to appreciate that little factoid. Ha! They are scored: 10, 9, 10. Brooke says Mark has been pushing the boundaries with his choreography, and I say those are not the only boundaries he’s pushed. Decorum, sportsmanship, and picky little bitch also come to mind, but maybe that’s just me.
We check in on Kirstie and Maks’s rehearsal week, just in time to see Bruno flounce through the door! Oh, were that I was a fly on the wall for that! Maks sneers jealously at Bruno’s partially unbuttoned blouse, but Bruno is too busy mincing around, dancing his little footsies off before they even get to that part of rehearsal. Bruno wants Kirstie to focus on her moments, to harness the intensity of an extended arm, and make her gestures clean instead of just flailing around like a spastic octopus. She sticks a few moves, and Bruno and really seems to see an improvement.
I guess you can call it that if you want.
Can they bring it to the floor with their Samba? Wait, why are two of the couples doing the same dance? Is it to more easily pick one of them off, i.e., whoever does the better Samba will get to move on to compete against Hines (because we all know he’s not going anywhere tonight except backstage for a post-show beej)? Again, judges, if you’re going to claim impartiality, at least attempt to maintain the façade. You only have two more episodes, so don’t get all lazy on us at the last minute.
If Kirstie can summon the energy this late in the game, you three can damn well follow suit.
Man, say what you will about Maks being a hardass or a dick, but he can dance the varnish off the parquet, that one. He is a joy to watch, whether you’re facing the front of his open shirts or the back of his form-fitting pants. Hey, don’t judge—I need something to keep me busy now that Schnook is gone. Bruno says Kirstie’s dance full of womanhood (ew), and quite rich, but she still looks at the floor too much. Carrie Ann loved watching Kirstie and loved the ooze factor of the dance. Way to bust out the professional jargon, Carrie Ann. Len liked the natural elements, thought it could have been crisper, but loved it overall. Brooke asks Kirstie what it’s like to be compared to Chelsea, and Kirstie gives the stupid question the duh non-answer it deserves. The judges raise three nines to the sky. Thanks for playing, Kirstie! Give yourself a nice pat on the back on your way out.
Maks will even help you if you have trouble.
Hines and Kym, the perfect, perfect dancers, are next! Now, in this week’s minicap, I promised to reveal a douchey detail about Len Goodman, and as we watch him travel to the rehearsal space, we see his car tags read DANCMSTR. UGH. Even if he didn’t pick it out himself and it, say, belongs to production, if I were him I wouldn’t want to be seen getting out of a car with such stupid vanity plates. I mean, I have a reputation to maintain, people. Anyway, Hines and Kym will be dancing the Quickstep. Len says Hines has had shitty footwork from the get-go, which begs the question of how he made it all the way to the finals as a favorite with barely a mention of said shitty footwork. I know I’m new to this whole ballroom dancing thing, but feet are kind of important in the grand scheme of it, right? For the dancing part of things?
That and a gleaming, wooden smile. At least he’s consistent.
Len walks in waving the yellow towel, and we see Kym has added a neck brace to her practice ensemble. Jesus, woman, you won’t be happy til you’re living the in ICU, will you? Len feels up Hines’s deltoids and remarks that it’s a good thing Bruno isn’t there. I have to agree, since ejaculate tends to make for a subpar dancing surface. Hines equates dancing to scoring a touchdown, and someone, somewhere, echoes the sound of his NFL contract being fed into a shredder. They hit the floor (not literally), sans neck brace, and they Quickstep their little hearts out, with the same frozen grin as always decorating his face. Yet for some reason, I see an abandon in him I have not seen before. He seems to have relaxed his colon just enough to let slip the stick, and it agrees with him.
Or it could just appear that way in contrast to Kym’s “owgoddamnitfuck” face.
Carrie Ann spouts a bunch of gibberish about touchdowns and audience connection, and says Hines makes her forget she’s supposed to be judging. Yeah, that explains quite a lot, actually. Len says Hines is not quite there yet with the feet, and that the competition is anyone’s game at this point as far as he’s concerned. Oh, bullshit, Len. You know damn well that Hines will move on to the final two, so don’t act like we’re supposed to wait with bated breath. Bruno compares the performance to watching a mega production on Broadway, and I wonder how many Broadway productions he’s been removed from because he couldn’t refrain from pressing his genitals against various people and objects. I’ll bet they don’t take kindly to lithe, shrieking men attempting to dry hump the heads of fellow theatergoers, especially the ones who paid for the good seats. Brooke asks how Hines feels about never having to dance again after Tuesday night, making it sound like he’s been forced through this season at gunpoint. Hines says it will be bittersweet. I’m sure he can get one of his fellow Steelers to do a few steps in the locker room with him, just for the sake of morale. They score two tens and a nine from Len, which leaves them tied with Chelsea and Mark at this point.
Hold on to your seats, folks, because it’s time for the Freestyle! Chelsea and Mark take the stage, clad in sequins and light-up sneakers that look straight out of a Leon Neon commercial. Mark wants to show off their youth, and says they must go all out. He informs us that he must prove that Chelsea is the best by reflecting her efforts off the shining surface of his talent. Wow, I hate him. Chelsea is scared of his choreography, and maybe I’m just a bitter asshole, but all this looks like is a sloppy performance at a junior high talent show. I know they’re going for the whole YOUTH thing with the light-up sneakers, but my son (who has still not yet learned to shit properly outside a diaper, for the record) has a pair of those he’s already outgrown, so I think they might be aiming a little TOO young.
But here’s a final flash of her womanhood to make up for it. Also, bonus dumbshit face from Ballas, so all is not lost.
Len thought it was fantastic, which I guess means I know shit (big surprise). Bruno says it’s electrifying! And he’s out of his seat! He likes the Latin (hump) interpretation (hump) with a contemporary (hipswivel) twist (hump). Carrie Ann can’t find the words for what she’s thinking, because I guess it’s too much to ask she gird her loins and fulfill what’s literally the only element of her job, so she gives her own hip thrust, in pale imitation of Bruno’s majestic trademark. Brooke remarks on how difficult it must have been to continue their dance during the blackout….and does she really think the lights went out by accident? I thought that was to show off the shoes. Either the tech crew screwed the ultimate pooch by tripping a circuit during a live broadcast, or Brooke is completely, irrefutably, colossally stupid.
I’m going with Option B.
After the beloved Chelsea collects her trio of tens (further emphasizing that I know jack squat about any of this), Kirstie and Maks step up for their Freestyle. Maks is apprehensive about lifts and tosses, with good reason. He then says the meanest thing in the history of the show: “We have a very young Chelsea, a very athletic Hines, and the complete opposite of all that in Kirstie.” Maks then asks her if she wants to look old and wack, and I think she’s probably just going to kill him as soon as they get kicked off tomorrow. Imagine those words spoken in his condescending accent: no jury on earth would convict her.
See? Even now she hones in on the jugular.
Because we all miss Stevie Nicks from last week, Kirstie has been dressed in her cast off Druid robes. She is rocking bare feet, because they aren’t about to let a faulty shoe fuck things up at this late date, and all seems well. Then, surprise! She rips of her dress, revealing a cat suit! With a sequined belt, no less! Who needs youth when you have gigantic, geriatric balls?
See, Maks is actually trying to launch her across the room like a javelin, but her GIANT BALLS are snagged on his wife-beater.
The audience loves it, and I am pretty impressed, myself. Bruno is still seated, but he says he would never have thought of her attempting what she did tonight, and is impressed by the effort. Carrie Ann says Kirstie is the poster child for life lived at 60. As far as I’m concerned, the presence of life, period, is an achievement at that age (sorry, Mom and Dad). Len loved the lift, liked that she took risks, and thought she was great. This won’t be enough to win, but they are all proud of her, and so am I! Go Kirstie!
The audience boos at the judges and their stingy nines, and we move along to the final dance of the evening, performed by none other than Hines and Kym, who are dressed like they just came from a pep rally. They’re trying to make this the halftime show of the performance. I don’t watch any a lot of football, but halftime shows, to my knowledge, usually don’t include grinding your crotch against a baton, do they? Maybe I’m wrong, but thanks for that anyway, Hines.
Knowing that the judges prefer Chelsea’s womanhood to Kym’s, Hines blocks that shit with his head and throws the world an apologetic side-eye. Always the gentleman.
Then Hines reveals the secret behind his stellar performances: he envisions himself scoring the touchdowns, then scores them; now, he’s envisioning the mirrorball trophy, so beware, Chelsea and Kirstie! You have been envisioned out on your asses. I’m no Hines fan, as you all know, but theirs is the most fun performance of the night, even though she’s tearing his uniform off him piece by piece. I guess they need the deltoid vote. The yellow towel wavers are going wild as they finish, and Carrie Ann says that, though it was risky, it wasn’t a halftime show…it was the whole damn Super Bowl! She babbles about loving this and loving that, and then she pulls out the nastiest bitchface when someone talks over her. Ha! Len says they gave it their all, and Bruno nearly decapitates Len with his enthusiasm. Brooke asks if losing the Super Bowl will motivate him to win DWTS. Because that’s so comparable! Dumb. 10, 10, 10. Surprise! Hines and Kym are so cute when they’re pretending to be shocked.
“You mean we’re the best again? Heavens to Betsy, I’d never have guessed!”
Hines says if you want to learn to dance, call Kym Johnson. Just don’t fall on her fucking head, m’kay? Tomorrow they will have one last dance, which will be scored by the judges only, then Kirstie will be kicked off the mirrorball will be presented to Hines and Kym the winners! Don’t miss it!
And if you don’t like the outcome, you know whose tires to slash, right DANCMSTR? Audience vote, my ass.
Before I conclude my final recap of Dancing With The Stars, I’d like to say thanks to TheNooch for her awesome recaps, and to all of you who’ve been following us down this glittery path. I’ve read and enjoyed every single comment, and have had a blast getting sucked into the vortex of this show with you guys. TheNooch will bring us the recap of the FINAL finale later on this week, and we can all bask in the glory of the predictable outcome.
And, in case you think you’ve seen the last of BlueCanary, never fear! I will be sharing recapping duties with Medusa on the upcoming season of Hell’s Kitchen in July. See you then!