Project Runway’s Suede: Neither Hip nor Hop

Suede was eliminated after last week’s disappointing music-inspired episode of Project Runway. That day refused to come fast enough for me.  He grated the nerves. Like a cheese grater.
                                                                                                                                                                    Suede is gone, thank Goof. 


Someone get this man a folding Chinese Fan!

Someone get this man a folding fan!

Suede was stomping on my blue suede shoes with all that “Suede this Suede that” talking-about-himself-in-third-person thang.  If only he’d had some real talent I could’ve stomached it ( or sorta somewhat managed to keep my din-din down.)  If not talent, then at least a freaking fan like Karl Lagerf$#k.  A fluffy boa of violet feathers perhaps. Or better yet a real slithering boa coiled around Suede’s neck, threatening to strike at Tim Gunn should he question Suede’s quite questionable taste. SssssssKKk.  Platform shoes sloshing with electric eels?  Big blink-a-blink eyelashes?  A giant chest tattoo of Cosby’s face on a pudding pop?

A gargantuan tick-tock like Flava? 

No such luck.  Nothing, not one thing, except for his oh so fauxhawk (but we’ll get to that…)  

I s’pose I should make a couple disclosures: I have a life long seething irk for people who don’t use “I” when referring to themselves EXCEPT in hip hop.  Which put me in a funny predicament when I was given a hip hop nickname (“Plush D”) that blossomed into a full-fledged hip hop alter ego (“Plush D: The Most Poodlefulest Thing in the World“)  Now, while shopping with my bitches, I may come across, say, a pink rubber mini-dress or rhinestone-crusted booties that cause me to coo “Plushie likes.” Or if McCain appoints a brainless twit as his redonkulous running mate, I’ll karate kick the TV with a “Oh hell no! Plushie don’t play that!”  Ah, the cursed hilarity of never say never.  It’s a joke, I get it, I’m in on it. I squeeze my bountiful boobage into that pink rubber dress and take the bling bling boots for a sassafras strut.  My pink afro gives me the cheeky right to bust self-referential rhymes.

But Suede don’t have no fro.  He ain’t hip, he ain’t hop.  Or even Pop.

Despite pretense, he’s not even punk rock.  That blue hawk is so faux it’s fake. 

Alphabetfiend is Dia VanGunten — a writer & wanna-be circus freak living in Austin, Texas.

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