Dancing with the Stars is one of those shows that covers my soul in question marks—tiny, irritating details that always pester me while I’m trying to write recaps for you fine people. “Why is that guy’s crotch covered in sequins?” one might ask. “Why does Ralph Macchio always look on the verge of a squeaker?” another might query; and yet another: “What is up with all the exposed labia on the stage? Isn’t this a family show?” But the biggest question I have is this one: Why must every single episode have a theme? Are we hosting a string of baby showers? Can we not just sit back and watch them try to out foxtrot each other without worrying about everything matching?
Hell no, we can’t because this is America. America loves themes like Mark Ballas loves Chelsea, in that it wants to fuck it stupid can’t keep its hands off anything theme-related and is always trying to grope themes when it doesn’t think themes are looking. In any case, we sat through an hour and a half of Patriot Week on Monday, which seemed less about patriotism and more about making sure everyone wore red, white and blue (except Petra, but we’ll get to that in a minute). There was so much flag action and beloved redneck patriotic music, that no one even noticed all the stars and stripes hitting the floor.
You know we have to set her on fire now, right? It’s the law!
So first off, I feel we have to give Maksim credit for being cool with Bruno essentially calling him a whore. Do you think he had to dodge him later when Bruno came creeping into the dressing room, waving a handful of cash, or so the dancers pretty much ignore him when he does that by this point? Kirstie is happy that she didn’t fuck anything up this go-round, and Hines relives the magic of his triple nines, then gets weird by revealing that that he almost slipped Kym the tongue when he got caught up in the patriotism of the moment. Did we really need to know that, Hines? Do you believe it will enhance your appeal if you present yourself as that guy?
Anyway, we move right on into the first elimination, Kirstie and Maks vs. Kym and Hines, and Kym and Hines are definitely safe—no surprise there. Kirstie and Maks are in jeopardy, and I’m frankly surprised that it’s taken this long for them to even be within shouting distance of elimination. Actually, what really surprises me is that the show saved the whole big dramatic jeopardy moment for the week where NOTHING went wrong. Sit on the floor in mid dance to replace an escaping shoe? Safe. Crash landing on the fucking floor? Safe. Nothing untoward happens, dance goes well, Maksim is shirtless, everything is hunky-dory? JEOPARDY.
She does look rather done with this bullshit, no?
Len wants to see Romeo and Chelsie perform again, which is a nice departure from all the Romeo-hatin’ Len’s been doing all season. They twirl the hairpins right out of Chelsie’s hair, and Brooke promises us a tribute to the American Dream. Steady employment? Avoiding foreclosure? Indoor plumbing? Nope, it’s TOBY KEITH. So old Toby Keith starts wailing away, the dancers do their thing, and I’m hitting the forward button. We don’t need this. Why, oh why, is country music considered the most “American!!!” genre? If I hate Toby Keith, does that mean the terrorists win?
You are not my America, Toby Keith.
During her pre-judgment interview, Chelsea lets us in on next week’s theme: Guilty Pleasures. Oh man, is that a loaded one. Cue Kirstie with the food, Mark with Chelsea’s cooch, etc. Does Bruno even have guilty pleasures? He seems like a pretty laid back guy when it comes to being happy. I mean, he’s already propositioned a dancer for paid sex on a live national broadcast, so I’m thinking he’s more the type to let it all hang out as opposed to letting guilt harsh his fabulous mellow. Mark is eye-fondling Chelsea the entire time she speaks, and you can just read his mind. He will hit that before episode seven, mark my words.
Bruno is actually more subtle than this guy. Ponder THAT.
Romeo then gets real, threatening to go Scarface on Hines’ high-point-scoring ass, and everyone laughs at how gangsta Romeo is in his top hat and bowtie.
The Omar Little of DWTS.
No comment from Hines at this point, though Chris Jericho is not interested in fucking around; he just wanted his eight from Len, and he got it, so he was happy. And let’s not let a week go by without someone making pervy remarks about Chelsea’s ass, okay Bruno? Between your pervy old man comments and Mark practically tearing a hole through those blue-collar 70s pants of his, I’m amazed Disney Chelsea hasn’t filed a lawsuit. We then get a nice long close up of her shaking it for the camera. Chelsea, you seem cute and all, but it’s sort of hard to defend you from the overt lust when you doesn’t seem to want defending, so don’t come crying to me when Mark “accidentally” lets slip a digit.
In the showdown between Chelsea, Chris, and Romeo, Chelsea and Mark are safe, so they get to be each other’s guilty pleasure next week. Romeo and Chelsie are also safe, and Chris Jericho BETTER BE. But he’s not. That’s just mean. If ANYONE is American, it’s the WWE man.
Look at that smile. It practically spews stars and stripes.
Oh look, it’s Mike Catherwood. It seems he just can’t stay away, and is there to present a scandalous little expose that features…Hines ripping a god-awful loud stinker on Kym, in the middle of a pose. I truly wish I was making that up, but Hines is just that classy, I guess. Then Chelsie’s chicken cutlets fall right out of her shirt during rehearsal, and Romeo nearly shits a brick of disbelief. Maks is being a cocky ass, and Kirstie is just about to get all indignant when he calls himself a stick that’s been dipped in a boiling pot of sex, and Bruno had to run backstage and change his pants. There’s also some footage of Carrie Ann and Bruno fucking with Len, and he is bleeped as he tells the pair of them to fuck themselves (I think). Then Mike himself shows us his ass, which I could have done without, but thus ends Mike Catherwood’s attempt to stretch his 15 minutes. Run along home, now, there’s a good boy.
The entire stage is then commandeered by an ode to product placement, as Macy’s shows us their interpretation of the American Dream, set to Tightrope This. It’s big and it’s grand, and hey, isn’t it great to be an American? Not that I’m crapping on my birthright, but I know one thing for sure: Not too many Americans can afford to shop at fucking Macy’s right now, so maybe Macy’s American Dream is that people start getting some cash together to spend on their overpriced sheet sets? Also, are you telling me DWTS can drive a taxi onto the studio floor, but they can’t get a shoe to stay wedged on Kirstie Alley’s ample motherfucking foot? Priorities, people.
Yeah, this looks like America, alright.
Back to the dancers and the next round of stay-or-go. Petra was sort of turned on by Maks’ speech, and Brooke glosses over her without comment, because really, she’s not doing much but panting and winking those peepers over her shoulder at the sex-dipped stick boy, or what have you. Kendra is a bit more comfortable this week, and it really showed in her dance—even though she’s far from the best of the bunch, that shit was night and day from the last week, when she took a giant waltz-shaped crap all over Louis’ best efforts. They’re probably still trying to get the stink out of the parquet.
Poor My Schnookums…he was given the most redneck song and dance of the night: He and Karina had to dance the Samba to Sweet Home Ala-fucking-bama. Can we say rigged for failure? They scored sort of low, but he seems upbeat. That’s the way to chin-up, Schnook! We get to see Petra take actual criticism for once, but she still smiles through the pain, which is part and parcel of the supermodel thing.
They can smile through a full Brazilian while wearing Vivienne Westwood platform shoes. That’s why we pay them the big bucks.
Bruno needs to stop humping the air and requesting My Schnookums “bring the sex.” No, he really does, because hands OFF, Bruno! Even if I hadn’t laid (teehee) claim, I will not have you insult My Schnookums by offering him Maksim’s sloppy seconds. Speaking of which, this week it’s Kendra with the hiked up-to-the-crotch dress, yankee doodling her dandy all over the creation. Of those three, My Schnookums is safe! Yay! Go America! You granted him asylum, despite the awful dance, dumb belt buckle, and sequined cowboy shirt. This is a great country, is it not?
What is UP with that thing?
Also safe are Kendra and Louis. HOLY SHIT, THIS MEANS PETRA IS IN JEOPARDY! The gold leaf is flaking off the angel’s wings! Don’t be mean to Petra, America, she so much loves it here!
We return from commercial to see that an audience member has given Len a Grumpy Dwarf mug, and Len seems to be enjoying it, even though Tom is giving him endless amounts of shit. Good God, here we are almost at the end, and we’ve only heard ONE Toby Keith ditty! No worries, America, DWTS is ON that shit, and I’m skipping forward through the entire second song. The US of A will just have to enjoy that one sans BlueCanary.
Are we finished here yet? Because I have this dump I’ve been meaning to take.
Now it’s time for the bullshit montage that euthanizes about four minutes of every results episode. This week, the judges advise the stars on how to put an end to their personal angst and fuckery, and just DANCE, for the love of Christ! Don’t you want the scores? The field is starting to narrow! Things are serious! Only the strong will survive! Your technique will actually count for something, unlike every single dance in every previous episode up until now! If you fuck up, you might go home!
Kendra’s problems are mental, a statement that pretty much writes its own joke. Petra is beautiful and lovely, but can’t transition for shit, which literally translates to: is a terrible dancer, despite the origins of her birth (FYI: she is what sprung to being when a fairy child made a wish on a feather dropped from the wing of the angel Gabriel). Hines is so goddamn amazing, y’all, but he needs to take risks instead of skating by on his natural talent. Chris is a great performer, but lacks musicality. Chelsea is a big risk taker, but needs to blend tradition with her risks. Ralph makes you believe that he’s good (which is an asshole thing to say, Bruno, even if you did mean it as a compliment), but they can see past that to his jerky movements. Kirstie has grace and elegance, but has zero fucking stamina and can’t maintain her energy. Romeo has heat, passion, and presence, but is unrefined and lacks control. Who can overcome their flaws to win the mirrorball trophy? Holy shit, don’t you want to know, like, right now?
I know MY flag panties are all aquiver!
All the jeopardized folks are lined up, and suddenly the shit is for real, because this is the first lineup where there was no clear throwaway (sorry, Sugar. Sorry, Wendy and Mike. You know it as well as I do). All who stand before us have been beloved by judges and audience alike, and all have collected their share of high scores. If it was me, I’d say send Kirstie based on sheer performance, but she is LOVED by everyone….but so is Petra, who is also sort of a crappy dancer, but wins hearts with her pretty, pretty smile and teeth. Chris is hot and masculine, and I don’t want to see him go…and he’s also probably the best dancer of the three, in my limited opinion…but can he trump the girls? Anyway, let’s get to it.
First safe are… Kirstie and Maks??? Whaaaa? OK, Kirstie, I have to hand it to you: America has embraced you with its long, long arms. Awesome. This actually works out for me in the long run, too, because if she keeps up with the tomfoolery, these recaps will be somewhat more interesting. Len actually agrees with me that none of these couples deserve to be on the chopping block, and he seems upset that one of them will be buggering off any minute. Thems the breaks, Len, but I’m curious to know who you’d send in their place at this point? My Schnookums? Sorry, no dice. Romeo, maybe? Leaving now is….
American: Not you.
Aw, it’s sad to see her sad. But hey, this is motherfucking PATRIOT. WEEK. Do not think America will send a WWE star home on Patriot Week, just because you bat those long Czech lashes and bare those long Czech legs. I’m sure plenty of red-blooded Americans will still masturbate to your underwear ads tonight, but they’ll do it after lights out, faces turned shamefully to the wall, as God intended, not up in the middle of PATRIOT. WEEK.
Petra mentions her charity, Happy Hearts, again, and they show some clips of her and Dmitry’s journey to the final rejection dance. She does seem sweet, and Dmitry is proud enough to say some very nice words—but Tom pulls a dick move and steps on his speech in order to send them out for their swan song.
Oh well. Petra was nice to look at, but I think I’ve been saying for weeks that she’s been skating by on her looks and personality in lieu of her dancing. And yay, more Chris Jericho for me! Next up: the aforementioned Guilty Pleasures week. I wonder which songs they think I’m ashamed to admit I love. Rest assured, Toby Keith, you are not on that list.
So how did you like Patriot Week? Now that the stragglers are gone, who do you think will be next? Thanks for reading!