Project Gunnway

I’m still loving Tim Gunn, who I fervently believe must be cloned and distributed to every 18-year-old as a Life Mentor after having expertise in every conceivable career path downloaded into his head Matrix-style. We all need a Tim Gunn.

Failing an army of mass-produced GunnClones, perhaps Tim Gunn could be obliged to give lessons on How To Be Gunntastic, because I’m quite certain there’s no shortage of people who want to be Tim Gunn when they grow up. Including me. I’d settle for the improvement in my posture alone.

Although it’s true I primarily tune in to Project Gunnway to obsessively detail in my Big Leatherbound Book of Grievances all the ways in which I am not Tim Gunn (last entry under subhead Disappointing UnGunn-ness: #156 My voice does not have the capacity to nourish nest-fallen baby birds with its sheer soothing cadence), I do pay some passing attention to the designers, too. This season, the focus of what little residue of awareness I have to give to them is largely usurped by Laura Bennett’s sternum, which was prominently on display at her first interview and has remained so ever since.


The Sternum of Doom


Ouch.
Last week, my parents’ minister came to dinner at Parental Manor the same night as Mr. Shakes and I, and he and I had a lively discussion about The Sternum of Doom. While I am quite terrified of it, believing it would likely stab me to death were I ever to be within three feet of it, he seemed more curious about what motivates Laura’s insistence on highlighting it with her trademark plunging necklines. Everything about her says I am glamorous and beautiful and classy and cool (which she is), except for the continual emphasis of The Sternum of Doom, which says, only, I have no boobs.


She really doesn’t.


Crazy Vincent is stacked by comparison.
Which shouldn’t be mistaken for a suggestion that a woman needs cleavage to be glamorous, beautiful, classy, and cool. Laura is all those things—it’s just that they’re even more noticeable on the rare occasions she hasn’t framed The Sternum of Doom as the centerpiece of her outfit. It undermines the overall message just as a huge set of cans constantly spilling out of an indistinguishable series of low-cut garments would. The whole thing perplexes me.

Other than that, I’m pretty sure Uli’s going to win the whole thing. Maybe Michael. I’ll be happy either way. As long as it’s not Jeffrey, whose increasingly annoying antics make me want to shear off his idiotic neck tats with a cheese grater.

And finally, do you think Crazy Vincent and Nutbag Angela will ever realize they’re actually the same person?





Because they are.
(Thanks to EdHill and FourFour for the screen caps.)