I received a present following last week’s A-List affair – a pack of mints in a Stoli-sponsored container promoting the show. They’re in the shape of little dollar signs. I tried not to take offense both as a gay and a Jew and ate them everyday after my morning egg white omelet and then again following my salmon sandwich at lunchtime. I even subbed them for my regular afternoon snack of a mini Milky Way and Diet Dr. Pepper. Could it be possible that these mints were helping me cut calories and wash the nastiness out of my mouth that comes with each passing episode? Needless to say, for this week’s installment, I came armed with the few pieces of those delicious breath-saving sweets I had left.

Austin faces facts about being fat

A lighter, leaner Austin (we’re told about 8 pounds) meets with modeling agents to review the results of his Sears meets soft-core porn photo shoot, and the product isn’t pretty. There, on the gayest gadget of the moment, the iPad, we’re treated to an un-Adobe-ied Austin. Hot dog rolls and all. Thankfully, he’s horrified enough by his own performance, and to his credit, it’s the truest realization anyone on the show has had to date. The judgy model agency queens, who by contrast weigh just a smidge over a circa 1992 Tracey Gold, suggest Austin take up acting since his face may be good enough to handle that. I almost felt bad for him. Saying anything more about this might make me seem inhumane. And then without a filter or a shred of class, I could risk being cast in season 2.

Ryan gives the best blow job ever

After the blowout at Derek’s Pride party, Ryan decides to give Austin a blow out of a different kind complete with a cut and color at his very own eponymously named salon. Although Austin would like to let bygones be bygones, Ryan warns that T.J. isn’t ready to let go of his tiny trail of fuckups. At that point, I wondered: who the hell is T.J.? Oh, right. He’s the one that isn’t pretty enough to have his name in the credits. So, basically, no one cares.

Reichen lays down the (labor) law for Rodiney

After two whole months of living in New York, Rodiney still has no job. Now, I’m neither an economist nor a career advice counselor. But I do have several friends who, unlike Rodiney, have Ivy League degrees and a full command of the English language. And they’ve been out of work for far longer than that. Still, Reichen is all over Rodiney’s lazy ass for not contributing to his narcissistic empire. Karma is a bitch though, because Reichen quickly finds himself unemployed after being “released” from his ill-fated attempts at singing, dancing, and acting in the off-Broadway blunder My Big Gay Italian Wedding. Solutions, according to Rodiney, include producing a 2011 calendar featuring 12 months of his very own fur-dusted abs and promoting an unspecified party for a nameless nightclub. Perhaps as a young boy in Brazil someone told Rodiney that America has streets paved with gold. And, of course, not being the sharpest churrascaria skewer in the barrio, Rodiney believed it.

Derek says “Fill’er up!”

During the dog days of summer, Derek does what any normal gay boy in the city would do: throw a last-minute drag party for himself and 50 producer-selected friends. In addition to a white dress, Derek needs collagen injections to fully realize his potential for transforming into the late Marilyn Monroe. Poor fag hag assistant Gina gets stuck with tasks that make the near impossibilities of those in The Devil Wears Prada seem almost sane. Like shaving Derek’s spray-tanned chicken legs and icing his newly pumped up chops. She also needs to set up the joint and constantly compliment Derek for being the prettiest girl in the room. And though Gina dutifully complies, it’s quite obviously a lie. Derek’s nylon novelty wig (which seemed odd considering so much thought had been put into everything else) couldn’t measure up to Reichen’s getup assembled care of the hair and makeup team from his pitiful play. He was a real-life chick with a dick. Rodiney was turned on supposedly because he’s bisexual, and strangely enough, I found myself slightly aroused too. I think I can only be made better by a double dose of therapy, some extra Lithium, and a few trips to the gym. And maybe some A-List mints.

Mike gets douched deep

I usually look forward to my two minutes of weekly wisdom from Mr. Mike Ruiz. It’s all his busy celebrity-studded schedule will permit, and frankly, I am thankful he can even spare that. But this week, all we learn is that Mike is into colonics. In fact, he admits to getting one just before meeting Ryan for a light lunch. And with that tidbit of knowledge, I can undoubtedly say that my lunch today will be even lighter.

The gang floats over to Fire Island

I was reminded this week of why I haven’t been to Fire Island in three years. As much as every cosmopolitan queen from the West Village to Williamsburg will tell you that their share house is all about close friends, Oprah Book Club gatherings, and moonlit potluck dinners, it’s really just a bunch of bitchy queens with a now legitimate excuse to do coke poolside in neon yellow tank tops. Not surprisingly, Derek demonstrates the full meaning of the island’s name when he spits flames at an “uncouth” Austin for shedding his Speedo before taking a dip in the deep end. Ironically, I had far less of a problem catching a glimpse of Austin’s boy boobs than I did with Derek sunbathing on a giant blow-up swan. Both wish each other bouts with skin cancer, and after enduring the brief altercation complete with T.J chipping in his pasty-assed two cents, you’ll only hope that their dreams actually come true.

I’ve never quite been excited for my next dose of this decrepit mess of a show. But I think I’m due for a brush-up on breaking an entry into my non-existent boyfriend’s iPhone. And the coming attractions have led me to believe, dare I say, that Rodiney is just the guy to show me how to do it.