Dear Santino...

Da fug, guy?

What's wrong with this picture? The past three weeks have found you sweating your immaculately shorn scrotum off as one of the bottom two designers on P.R..

You're better than that, brah.

You got the fucking rocket-sauce to toss designers out of your way like the cow-catcher on a locomotive from hell, like something off a fey version of a Meatloaf album cover.

There's no reason for you to schvitz under the kliegs while Kors purses his lips at you week after week. You gossa tone it down and concentrate on the task without making fucking Phoenix-kimono-jumpsuits for your model. There's no reason that Kara Janx, she of roux-complexion and bursitis-charm, is finishing ahead of y'all every week.

You've worked your way through Andrae and Nick, and you know you have to destroy that little Samberg-looking rent-boy Daniel V. on your way to ultimate burnination. Then, it's on to a fair fight with the estimable, rackalicious Chloe Dao -- knives out, mano-a-womano, winner take all. Don't screw this up, you Mick Fleetwood-looking motherfucker.

Just a little friendly encouragement,

Bill Scurry