Sacré Bleu Cheese!: Bravo Washes Mouth Out with Soap

Well, possums, what a difference a week and a little soap make! It appears that Bravo’s editors have tempered the show’s sheer cussedness. This week’s episode was entirely devoid of maternal copulators, and overall profanity use was down 38.8%.

The biggest surprise of all was Andrew D’Ambrosi, whose profanity use was down a whopping 83.3%. Indeed—whether as a result of better medication (Miss Xaxa’s theory is that big-bad-biker-pussy(cat)-cum-“soul chef” Erik Hopfinger either is or should be sharing his meds with Andrew) or editorial “soap”—it was rather a nice touch to have Andrew turn aside after his disqualification during the Quickfire Challenge to utter the simple yet telling, “Poo.” And last week’s number-two curser, Dale Talde, had a mouth that was 33.3% cleaner. Come on, Bravo, it’s time to bring on Orbit gum as a sponsor.

The biggest surprise of the week was the rise of the dirty girls’ club. Last week, the women made up only 22% of the cursers, but this week, 71% of the cursers had two X chromosomes. Defying the overall downward trend, Stephanie Izard was the week’s biggest curser, with a 40% increase in the use of profanity. Well done, possum!

Amuse-Biatch Birth Announcement: Out of the Frying Pan, and into the Biedermeier

We don’t quite know how to say this, so we’ll be blunt. Possums, you gave us the clap.

When the itching first started, we thought it might just be the sound of one hand clapping, but the free blogger STD clinic has come back with the results, and it’s definitely the clap. We’re required to inform anyone who’s ever had contact with us, so there it is, possums.

Oh, we’re also pregnant. And the baby’s yours.

That’s right. As far as we know, we’re the only ones ever to give birth as a result of getting the clap, but it wouldn’t be the first time we’ve been called a medical mystery or a sign of the impending apocalypse, on the order of a two-headed cock or a talking cat.

Possums, don’t preach; we’re keeping the baby, gonna keep our baby.

“And what child is this?” you carol in our ear as you wipe away the tears with your green sleeves. Well, our baby will be a blog about Top Design and other matters of taste, with the same biatchy genes as Amuse-Biatch and the same mixture of no-brow, lowbrow, middlebrow, highbrow and furrowed-brow analysis, observation, and vitriol.

The baby will be called Pink Navy, after Diana Vreeland’s immortal dictum that “Pink is the navy blue of India,” and because, well, who doesn’t like sailors? And possums, just leave the seamen jokes to us.

As we write, our baby is gestating inside Sigourney Weaver’s chest cavity, but we will notify you as soon as it rips through her thoracic wall, announcing that, in a badly decorated space, everyone can hear us scream.

And once Pink Navy is born, possums, you can, as our tag line has it, accompany Amuse-Biatch out of the frying pan, and into the Biedermeier.