homemaker

You all saw the riot in front of the Tyra Banks’ Studio when she advertised for new model contestants.  Wow!  Imagine, thousands of wannabees throwing mascara wands, hair weaves, push-up bra pads and binkini wax strips at each other.

Six people got hurt.  Did they get extra-long, artificial nail stab wounds?  Did some slip on several tubes of hair gel?  Were they burned with a battery powered curling iron?  I hope no one was blinded by a punch of lip gloss.

Three participants were arrested maybe for stealing combination, dual-sided blush and concealer sticks.  Did someone stab another with an eyeliner pencil?  Did a prisoner snap a skinny hopeful with a new body shaper?

This was a scene out of an old 1940’s movie, where hundreds of crazed females were grabbing bargain basement house coats in Filene’s Basement.

After watching the debacle, I’m so glad that I didn’t decide to be a model.  Oh, wait a minute; I’m only 5 feet 4 inches tall!  I don’t meet the height requirement anyway!  And, I weigh over ninety pounds.  Goody!  Now I can eat that box of Yodels without worrying about losing my job, my boyfriend or that coveted spot on national, talk T.V.

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