Dear Daniel Franco:
We hardly knew ye. Again.
Your appearance on the premiere season of Project Runway was so brief, I can't even remember it. You were the first designer cut, but you redeemed yourself during the reunion episode when you called Tim Gunn a "hot bitch." Truer words were never spoken.
Then, lo and behold, you showed up for season two. Whether your return was due to moxie on your part or shrewd underdog casting by the show's producers, we all loved it, and we were rooting for you.
Until the lingerie challenge.
True, that Santino guy is a total schmuck, and his stuff looked unfinished, but you...I mean, seriously, what were you thinking? Did you go rummaging through Rue McClanahan's armoire for inspiration? Those three pieces weren't lingerie, they were foundation garments.
But never mind that momentary lapse in judgement. Design concepts aside, you'll be happy to know that a room full of fags and one sassy lady screamed in horrified unison when Heidi Klum called your name hier soir. You looked so sad, so disappointed--but you pulled it together (not like that stupid, annoying Andraé) and walked away with your head held high. That's gotta count for something. Not, like, a job or a fashion spread in Elle magazine, but something, surely....
Anyway, the gang and I want you to know that if you ever need a change of scenery, there's a room down here with your name on it. New Orleans may be a bit small right now, but we're growing--and we're certainly in the national spotlight. Plus, Carnival's just around the corner: you could probably score some ducats making last-minute ball gowns and such....
Wherever life takes you, Daniel, just know that, like Sandy Bernhard once said, as long as I have a face, your chubby little ass will always have a place to sit.
All our love from the New Atlantis,
Richard
