(WARNING: If you have not yet watched this week's Drag Race and do not want to know the identities of our top three, read no further.) At the end of our final-three-narrowing Drag Race episode, when RuPaul graciously proclaimed, "I want to hear from you, the fans" and popped the question — "Are you Team Adore, Team Bianca, or Team Courtney?", encouraging us to hash it out (ba-dum-chhhh!) on Twitter — it finally dawned on me, frankly, how little I cared.
Not "none," of course; I still tuned in, after all, and eagerly so. But I didn't come into this week nervous for a prized queen's fate. I have no comment-section axe to grind — whether arguing tooth and nail that Raja's punky camp beat out Alexis's pageant glam or Sharon Needles' spooky schtick was worth crowning over Chad Michaels's showgirl finesse. Yes, despite my mounting affection for Adore, my increased "YAAAS"-ing in Bianca's direction, my jaw severely bruised from hitting the floor most times Courtney appears in drag, there is still no one contestant about whom I'm positively rabid. However, I would nonetheless be très miffed if Ru & Co. chose unwisely come finale time...
And that is why I'm backing Bianca Del Rio.
I'll admit, I wasn't on Bianca's team from day one — hell, even Day 7. Though I always appreciated her self-proclaimed "clown realness" — at once glamorous and a little goofy, i.e., the very personification of drag, in my humble opinion — toward the start, her attitude had me down. I found her tone grating, her jokes flat. Even Monday night, my eyes rolled ever so slightly when she made yet another "Hurricane Katrina" quip — not even because it's offensive, just because it feels about as incisive as "airplane food." Give me a good "Hurricane Lolita" reference any day.
Still, the more screen time she got — the more her personality was afforded more than a stray sound-byte — the clearer it's been that she's not Triumph the Insult Queen, she's just salty. No nonsense. The kind of gal who picks a dress type that works for her and sticks with it, because fuck you. Whom you can count on to dispense unsolicited but necessary advice. Who's long since mastered opening a beer with a lighter — and if everyone's misplaced their lighters, she uses her teeth. My new fantasy afternoon consists of sitting roadside with her at some sidewalk café, sipping Bloody Marys in wide-brimmed sunhats and relentlessly mocking passing pedestrians. Because it's not all piss and vinegar with Bianca — see: her helpful tips to fellow queens and her adorable letter from home ("Roy-Lady"!), proof that there is some real well-meaning personhood behind those ubiquitous statement lashes. But, in the mean time, it's vinegar all around, and deliciously so — see (again, and again): when she called out Santino.
Also, plainly put, I am on #TeamBianca because I don't think either of the other girls quite deserves the crown. Adore, while undeniably entertaining, has a ways to go style- and demeanor-wise before she fully hones her evident star potential. Meanwhile, Courtney, while undeniably stunning, has crazy Stepford eyes and the demeanor of a Ritalin-addled speech team captain. (Plus, she's already got plenty of prestige in Australia, apparently — it's time to let someone else have a turn, says I.) In short, on the polish meter, these queens fall precisely Goldilocks-style: Courtney is plastic, Adore is "Polish remover" (c. Episode 1), and Bianca is, you guessed it, just right.
And if that didn't convince you, please kindly feast your eyes on this small piece of brilliance by Season 5 runner-up Alaska Thunderfuck, which lampoons Adore and Courtney to a T:
(Wait — revise — can I pick Alaska? Pretty please? No? Okay, fine — Bianca it is.)
So, hopefully, by now you agree, and are thus ready to flood the Twittersphere with #TeamBianca support. And if not? Well, we can at least agree that by far the best thing to come out of last night's episode was Darienne Lake's coining of the term "Muppet Drunk," right? Okay, cool.
Plus, to be fair, we all have a whole two weeks to mull this over: Next Monday's Drag Race is one of those commentary-cum-clips shows that does nothing to advance our suspenseful narrative. Sigh. Indeed, in the words of my illustrious frontrunner: "No one is safe. Get your perishables."
Can I get an amen (and a few knocks on your nearest wood)?