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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!"

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Posted in Celebrity Circus by T.Vo at 11:31 AM | Permalink | Comments (6)
Last Comment: trainedgorilla on Jul 8, 2008 11:59 AM.