FlipitTypes TV - Recaps, Gossip, and Trash Talk

Another season of Top Chef has come to an end, but there are still lots of questions left unanswered. Why did Cliff get so violent with Marcel? Why did Frank drink so much? And how in the HELL did Ilan win this thing? Wait. Sorry. That was last year. There wasn’t too much drama this season, just a lot of passive aggression and, gasp, cooking. Don’t worry, though. This cast may not have given us fireworks, but it’s the most sensitive group to date which means there are lots of hurt feelings that need to be (quietly) talked out now that all’s said and done. God, please let me see Baldhawk cry. Love, Flipit.

Aw, Dawson. Let it out.

It’s finally that time! This season, we’ve had weeks off, a filler episode starring Ilan (still haven’t forgiven you, Bravo) and an unfulfilled double elimination. I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted!
This week, Top Chef taught us you should never let a caveman touch your food, being really high changes everything, and a grandfather who escaped Vietnam trumps a boring old French grandmother any day.

Game on!!

This week, Top Chef taught us trout isn’t a fish, too many patterns are a bad sign, and if you wanna win a reality show, ya gotta have heart.

I vant to eat your zoul.

This week, Top Chef taught us that imitation isn’t always the sincerest form of flattery, personality can carry you way further than actual talent, and French grandmas are liars.

Eh, a chicken’s a chicken.

This week, Top Chef taught us when in doubt, blend, New Jersey’s not Manhattan, and Congress is responsible for sucky airplane food.

Scar gives props to the Bunny.

We’re past the half way mark and now it’s time to see our Chefs really shine! Right? RIGHT? Get your life vests, this is gonna get ugly.
This week on Top Chef, we learned all the drag queens in the world can’t make Smurf Village a classy place, “beautiful people” can sometimes mean fat bald dudes and the hags that love them, and when in doubt, use puff pastry. Unless your Judge hates carbs. And excuses. And sweat.

Why you little devil!

This week, Top Chef taught us you can’t lose if you don’t play, wine can taste Tuscan and not be from Tuscany, and if you sucked the first time, you should probably change your game plan.

Get me a straw.

This week, Top Chef taught us that the best chef in the world isn’t the Kentucky Fried Chicken man, Men’s Warehouse suits don’t breathe easily, and there are no winners in WAR.

Stud alert!

This week, Top Chef taught us that Howie’s a big stupid asshole who is never going to leave our TVs.

Can’t cook? Try being a horrible person! MMMMMMmmmmmmm. Yummy!

I went to the freezer and pulled out my dinner. As I unscrewed the top from the bottle of Sapphire (come on, I’m on a diet!) I stared at my powered off TV with disdain. I am still pretty upset about last week’s Watch What Happens When A Bunch of People You Didn’t Like Very Much the First Time Get Together and Make You Miss Tim Gunn More Than Ever Special. I’m still having Bobblehead nightmares. Damn you, Bravo!
Well, it turns out my favorite show came back in top form. All is forgiven. Still, MISS YOU TIMMY G! This week, Top Chef taught us that Botox shouldn’t just be for the ladies, IQF isn’t a shopping network, and if you want a big stubborn lug to hear you, hit him on the head with a pan.

Don’t cry! You’re totally pretty!

Previously on Big Brother, Mike was evicted for being a dumbass, Kail was saved by the hairs on her chinny chin chin, and Dustin won the HOH. Will he be a kind ruler, or an evil dick? Will he stop acting like a stereotype and get his paws off the drama queen? Will he ever change his shirt? I’ll give you a hint. The answer to all the above questions is NO. Boooooo!!

Yeah, no shit, Amber.

On tonight’s very special episode of Top Chef, zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…

This week, Top Chef taught us that it’s not safe to run with knives, France and Argentina are two different countries, and if you aren’t very pretty or worked out but you still want to act, learn Spanish.

Micah Crazy Pants was sent home in the last episode, and I was seriously worried that I’d be bored not having that psycho energy around anymore. Well, shame on me for not having faith. If there’s not a fire, Bravo will light a match and start one. Did they reinduct Betty for another round? Nope! Did they bring suicide guy back for a final nudge off a bridge? Nope! Even better! They delivered the season’s first team challenge, which turned normal, sweet players into complete wrecks in less than an hour! Burn, baby, burn!
This week, Top Chef taught us there’s a club for everyone, bikinis can’t cook, and you only have to be married for three years to get alimony.

Time for fireworks, swimming pools and weenies! July 4th? Nope. Tonight my friends, Bravo brought us loyal fans together to celebrate freedom. Not from Great Britain (that’s old news), but from another psychotic, neurotic, discombulatic freakshow. I’ll celebrate The Declaration of Independence next Wednesday. For tonight, The Declaration of Pack Your Knives and Get the F Out will do just fine, thank you.

This week, Top Chef taught us that conch shells are a sign of doom, family dinners made you the fat ass you are, and if an old person gives you no reaction, they probably hate you.

Family barbecues can be wonderful. They can also be bloody hell. I guess it depends on your family. Mine chooses to go to restaurants. If we’re gonna spend uncomfortable time avoiding each other’s gaze, we’d rather do it with air conditioners and waiters. Stress and confontation is easier to deal with without sun and burnt weenies. This week, Top Chef taught us not to copy loozahs, if you suck, compensate by being as loud as possible, and for chrissakes, follow instructions!

The first episode of any reality competition is a bear to recap because there are so many new faces to get to know and rag on. The Season 3 opener of this show is no different, and as usual, the lessons are aplenty. This week, Top Chef taught us to always be on time, don’t drink at work, and before you go on TV, make sure you see a shrink first because daddy issues have a way of manifesting themselves at severely inopportune times.

It’s time for another season of Top Chef! Wait. No, not yet. First, we have some unresolved bs to hash out. How in the hell did a wack hack like Ilan WIN this thing last year? My blood is still boiling. And what ever happened to Tiffani from Season 1? Did she recover from her loss, get her freckly, bitchy butt back on the horse and try again? This show has produced some of the most immature apes I’ve ever come across, and I want…no I NEED to know what happened to them.

Call Domino’s, cuddle up with a bottle (or 3) of the finest (2 buck Chuck) vino, and binge like Nicole Richie without double doses of Trim Spa and massive amounts of coke. What? It’s my free day! Welcome home! It’s time for Top Chef: Miami!

When I was a kid, we had a maid named Romana. She was sweet, charming, and pretty cute, but she was nothing special in the cleaning department. My mom had been hearing stories from her friends about this amazing cleaning woman named Sofie and wanted to try her. Sofie could get wine stains out of anything and even had a magic, super secret technique to make sink fixtures look like new! Some called it voodoo, others called it brilliance. Either way, my mother was intrigued.

When Romana went home to her family one weekend, Sofie was snuck into the house. The stories were true. She insisted on being alone in the room while she worked, so all I can tell you is that in one day, she had our home looking like a shiny palace. And then she started talking. On and on in a tiny squeaky voice she went, only pausing to giggle like a little witch. She told me I was too fat (ok she was right) and she told my sister she had thin hair (sorry, but true again). She called my Father baldie and my Mom Anciana, which is Spanish for “ancient”. She was teasing us, and I think it was her misguided way of trying to build camaraderie. It was sweet, in a way. Come Monday morning, Romana was back at work and we were forbidden to ever mention Sofie again. It didn’t matter that the windows were so clean they weren’t even visible. No one calls my mother old.

This week, Top Chef taught us it doesn’t matter if you’re good enough and smart enough. People have to like you.

When I worked as a busboy at Applebee’s in the early 90s, I became friends with a newly reformed stripper named Eve who worked as our hostess. Eve was what you’d call “porn star pretty”, which means without strip club lighting and bare boobies, she was kinda busted. She knew this (she taught me the term) but she didn’t care. She was gonna be an actress, natural beauty or not. She believed in herself, so I did too. I took her to audition after audition and ate pity cone after pity cone with her when she got rejected. Lots of ice cream was consumed.

One day I accompanied her to an audition for a local carpet company. Eve had been all out of sorts on the way there. The rejection was starting to wear on her. She was pissy at best, and I smelled booze on her breath. She cried a bit before we went in and I told her lots of cliche things like “be all you can be” and “honey! Just be yourself!” As she entered the audition room, she tripped on the rug. And didn’t get up. Five to ten seconds of silence. Then, suddenly, she started rolling around on the rug drunkenly giggling and squealing. “This is the most comfortable carpet in the world! I LOOOOVE THIS CARPET!”

The other girls in the waiting room were prettier, smarter, and sober, but in the end, that’s what made my friend a carpet-rolling icon. She’s been El Paso Carpet’s spokeswoman for sixteen years now (”I LOOOOVE THIS CARPET!”) and every time I see someone trip on a rug I get choked up.

This week, Top Chef taught us you gotta get a gimmick, chemicals are good, and the only sure things in life are death and taxes.