Don't Even Ask About the Devil's Jello*

My last 60 minutes of conscious free time this week was spent on the couch with an hour of "Project Runway" and a bag of Sea Salt and Vinegar potato chips.

(Eating carbs? What?)

Well, almost my last 60 minutes. Now I'm blogging and after that, bed awaits. But I digress. My larger point is that, hour by hour, minute by minute, I am working my ass off at the J.O.B., and holy Christ, is it nice to take an hour off to watch somebody else sweat it.

Nothing wins my heart faster than Chris March's marvelous blend of competence and humility. First, I love that leopard print shirt he wears to one challenge after another. Love as I have not loved something since Jay's use of olive green fatigues and shocking pink polos have I been more smitten. He's sweet, honest, forthright and laughs at himself for winning "the tackiest challenge," but then, of course, nails it to the frickin' wall. His outfit was Gaultieresque. Yum.

I know there is some violent anti-Christian sentiment out there. (Clarification: I'm speaking of a deep hatred of the diminutive Project Runway contestant with the inexplicable peacock's fan of hair coming off his scalp, not certain late Roman Empire lion feedings.) He doesn't trouble me, for some reason. He might be gifted -- honestly, I'm not qualified to judge -- but it's baldly apparent that he doesn't have the people skills of a loofah. He can't read a room, he doesn't understand the use and application of tact, and he's magically self-absorbed.

Okay, that I will admit. I don't know where Christian's egoism is coming from. I mean, duh, he obviously thinks he's great. But he's just a tiny pointy-boot wearing imp, and from what I understand of the laws of thermodynamics, something can't come from nothing. So from whence does he find the energy to be so relentlessly pro-Christian and still breathe, walk, and complete challenges/win arm wrestling contests.

I am not, however, a saint. I can be enraged, and people who know me will back me up on this. This week's biggest outrage, by a long, long, long shot? A piece of chocolate cake that, I swear to God, tasted exactly like a taxi's cherry vanilla air freshener. How is that even possible? I don't know. And I don't want to know.

But how is it possible for scientists to find a way for me to eat a bite of cake and feel like I've gargled a Checker Cab and yet every sponge I've ever owned smells like ass after seven days?

*I refer, of course, to raw sea urchin. Out, out, vile jelly!