Amazing Race: Manson Family Edition Episode 4: My Dinner With Landru
by Gothmog

Ok, here were are again, me writing and you reading another one of my efforts for Circle Of. Odd thing, this summary writing/reading bit. We’re doing this together, you and I—right now we’re both focusing on THIS WORD right here, except I’m doing this a day (or a week or however long it takes me to finish this damn thing) before you. So we’re sorta in a time warp kinda deal here, images from the past and present coming together, intersecting at odd places.

Landru: Dood! What are you doing?

Uhmmmm...trying to write a summary. Duh.

What’s with all the philosophical bullshit? We’re not paying you to go all Spin-fucking-oza on us, now.

Well, technically, you’re not paying me at all.

Don’t get cute, Parochial Teacherboy. We know that you obviously aren’t motivated to do things just because of money. So search whatever serves you as a soul and find some lame-assed, altruistic reason for why exactly you’re going to take one up the sphincter for the team and like it, dammit, and get back on task, k?

All right, already. Geeez. Previously, on the Amazing Race, the teams....

Dood. DOOD!

Now what?

When we asked you to summarize the show, we meant the WHOLE show. Don’t be skipping parts on us now.

????? Whatcha talkin’ bout, Willis.

So, SO lame, dood. See, this is why you need my help here. You need some better material for our more sophisticated readers.

Sophisticated? What about Dweeze?

Hmmm. Good point. But irrelevant. You skipped the announcement. The “This episode was filmed before Katrina and is dedicated to the victims and survivors” part.

Oh, right! That would give me a chance to talk about my time-warp/converging images bit again.

Nimrod! Have you learned nothing from me? No, this gives you a chance to announce that next season, we’ll see some of those same survivors in “The Amazing Race: Katrina Victims Edition,” in which the sensitive and Emmy-winning Jerry Bruckheimer will help them deal with their PTSD by having one of the roadblocks involve Mike Brown holding them under raw sewage in a 100 mph wind tunnel, using what will become known as their innovative “Weaver Family Therapy Technique.”

You know, this would be a whole lot easier if you would just write this summary yourself. If it would help any, I’ll watch Ilse’s kids for you while you work. I’ll even change Bam-Bam’s diapers without having to write an ode commemorating the event.

What am I, your monkey, you oxygen-wasting speck of a Fuckeye turd? Do you think I have nothing better to do than attend to your whiny-assed problems, just because you were thinking about getting laid by some talky-talk doctor instead of paying attention in summary-writing class like the rest of us geeks? And stop hitting on my GF before I stuff your pointed-headed pea brain so far up Phil's ass that he'll start lactating you through his man-boobs. Just get on with the “previously-ing.”

Ok, Ok. Previously on Amazing Race, some shit happened, teams yelled and screamed at each other, brak brak brak

I invented that you know.

Quiet, I’m on a roll. There was some Bubba Gump thing, some other thing involving mud but not bikinis (because this is TAR, and they win Emmys, unlike that other Show that uses mud as an excuse to show pixelated rear-ends; nope, we don’t get that sorta thing here, uh uh, no way.), a centrifuge that spun Phil right round, like a record baby, and...aw hell, why don’t you just read TJ's most excellent summary for an better overview. How was that?

Better, Dood. Points for the brakage and the mud. But the Dead or Alive reference doesn’t count for your corpse-fucking, you know. And, as I had to point out to Ilse not long ago, it’s: spin you right round, baby, right round (like a record), which I didn’t know until some 22-year-old who was working for me lectured me on precision lyrics.

Question, as we head to commercial: Why do I always seem to follow TJ in our rotation?

Answer: It’s all Dweeze, baby. And what, you’ve never heard of sloppy seconds? Now you go on, I’ll be here if you have trouble finding your inner Landru.

Commercials: Flashback to TAR: Season 4—please tell me how a reference to two gay men feeding fruit to monkeys can possibly NOT be code?; GMC managing to say “fuel-efficient SUV” and keep a straight face; Outback steakhouse, because nothing says “Australian” like American football; Jergens for something involving legs and a slit skirt; Verizon with a horrible and hyperbolic metaphor for their network, and even worse, still using that horrible “Can You Hear Me Now” man, who, even though he’s no longer the centerpiece still can be seen in the background, when he should be better spending all his energy getting off my fucking planet YESTERDAY if not sooner; AOL, trying to convince us that they don’t totally suck; and promos for a couple of CBS comedies, which is an oxymoron if I ever heard one.

And we’re back in Huntsville, Alabama, home of the Space Shuttle Pathfinder. Evidently, they had already scheduled this pitstop before they learned that Christa McAuliffe’s family was pulling out of the race. As with every episode, we begin by learning something about the teams as they embark on their Epic Journey into the Cultural Heritage of whatever foreign country they’re about to desecrate with their ignorance and stupidity. In this case, that foreign country is the Deep South. But let’s review the teams, shall we?

Team Three Babes and a Man (the Old Fart’s sole function being to remind us, by contrast, of the babeage he’s surrounded by.) What’s your assessment of this team, L-boy?

Well, they certainly don’t any of them have the fine ass of Miss Gilead, the absence of which is the only thing we regret about her family’s elimination from the show, but I’d probably do them in groups of two or three, provided they keep their collective mouths shut. Hell, I’d probably do their doofus father too, under the same conditions.

Thanks for bringing up their asses, L, but we really don’t need help in the foreshadowing department, as the show is more than capable of doing that for us. The Old Fart allows that he’s been tired every leg but that he seems to be holding up. You’d think he would have kept in shape chasing horny guys off his property, but from his behavior on this show, it seems like he’s the sort that would rather just have a beer with them. After they’re done, you know, banging his girls.

Next up: Team Dimz. Four idiots from Ohio who have never left their university Frat-boy days. From my home city, no less. *sigh* I’m not kidding when I swear to you that I can tell exactly when they were away filming TAR last summer, since the increase in our area’s average IQ during their absence was palpable. And you can tell from their gangsta apparel that they’z from da ‘hood of Zinzinnati—well, that part of the ‘hood that sends their kids to exclusive parochial schools. The “X” you’ll occasionally see one of the Dimz wearing is preceded around these parts by “Saint,” not “Malcolm.”

Ok, Next. Lessee here. We got a dim-witted dad, married to a women way past her prime. A spoiled, sleazy, equally dim-witted daughter and her sexually repressed brother. Yep. Welcome to Team Bundy.

I’m sorry to have to disagree with you, G. Kelly Bundy had the IQ of a pebble, but she was not without charm. Stasi could just possibly be the most vile 17 year-old ever, and there really isn’t a punishment for her that would adequately compensate for her having consumed any of this planet’s precious resources over the course of her whiney existence.

Right. Well, at least she says that she comes in first in everything, and that they expect to win it all, so we can at least look forward to her elimination this episode.

G, unless that elimination involves seven kinds of Ginzu knives, I’m not gonna be happy.

For a non-violent person, you scare me sometimes. Moving on to Team Premarin —known for their squealing, crying, bitching, woo-hooing, and general hysterics—are as indistinguishable to me as the Babes and the Dimz. One of them is allegedly quite a bit younger than the others, which has to be a bitch when your older sisters are so menopausal and you act just like them. They reveal that they’re starting to get on each other’s nerves. Which I suppose catches them up to the rest of America.

Next, there’s Team Roadkill. The family that, mid-season, suddenly found themselves one dad short of Newcular. When they signed up for this show, they thought they were going to be on the Amazin Grace, and it sounded sweet, poor wretches. Little did they know that the good Mr. Bruckheimer was saving them for their own li’l psychomological experiment, while America watches and passes the popcorn. Mama Roadkill says they feel great now that they’ve gotten through their traumatic experience and have the strength to face anything, come what may. Heh. You really have no clue about the purpose and function of Reality TV, do ya, hon.

Next we have Team Lyleneric (little Lord of the Flies nod for Kimmah, there), and this TV show won’t be the last time they’ll be in the news, I’m betting. I wish this particular picture were a better one, but I think you can tell (the two of you that recognize this photo and know where I’m going with this, that is) what their future will be. Eric comments that Lyle and his mother are the exact same person. Yeah. Slap a wig and some tits on the boy, and I’d think the exact same thing, wouldn’t you?

Finally, Team GagMe (which could also be named Team Pleasantville, if you prefer. But it’s longer to type, and I’m lazy. So GagMe it is.) The team that reminds you of the families you see in picture frames when you buy them. They’re distantly related to show host Phil, both being members of the “-ghan” clan. I’ll bet they get together at family reunions and discuss ancient ancestors Ghengis and Agha.

You’re letting me down, G. You have the perfect opportunity to tell us just how miserably the GagMe parents deserve to die because of the way they’re whoring their cute little Kewpies in front of America, and you go for the “-ghan” joke? For shame. For. Shame.

Sorry, I’m under pressure here. Leave me alone and let me get back to the Race. Teams set off in search of the world’s largest office chair in Anniston, Alabama. You’re probably as amazed as I am at the cultural locations they find for this show. They’ve already visited the world’s largest shoe-house; next week, I suppose it will be the world’s largest boob (I was going to insert a good visual gag here—picture of a giant inflatable boob, similar to one seen in a Woody Allen movie that I can’t remember the title of. But I couldn’t find it. So use your imagination. Or just concentrate on Phil’s man-boobs. They’ll suffice for now).

One of the Three Babes—can you keep them straight? Me neither—thinks Alabama is ugly, while the Old Fart does a bad imitation of the Deliverance banjo theme. Well, either that or the Kyrie from Bach’s Mass in B Minor; I always get those two confused. Team Roadkill starts their leg with a prayer, of course; they come from a denomination which requires them to insert the word “just” into every sentence of their prayer. (And I’m betting exactly half of you just got that joke while the other half have no clue what I’m talking about.) Meanwhile, Stasi and her brother Gestapo are trashing the Roadkills. I can’t quite make out what they’re saying, can you, L?

Here’s a rough transcription: “brak brak brak White Trash, brak brak brak fake, brak brak brak wicked mom, brak brak brak, imabitch imabitch imabitch BRAK BRAK BRAK (I invented that, y’know).

Thanks, bro. Over at the GagMes, Lil Caressa lets us know that she’s smart, cute, and doggone it, people like her. Her family races to pass Team Lyleneric, since Eric is busy screaming at his mother for giving him a paper cut. Say, L? Even though Lyle is the one who mostly argues with his bovine mother, Eric looks like he’s got a bit of pent-up rage there. We all know that holding things back ain’t good for your mental well-being, so what do you think ol’ Eric should tell his Mother, if he ever grew enough cajones?

How about something along the lines of: “You're a goddam Nazi control freak, Mom, why don't you just Fuck the Fucking Fuck Off and worry about your own Fucking Shit for a Fucking change, BITCH!”

Wow. Well done, and so neatly prepared. You don’t happen to have issues with your own mother now, do you, L?

Dood. Dood!!

Sorry, low blow, I know.

DOOD!

SORRY. Geez. Ok, Team Three Babes has reached the Big Rusty Chair and we learn that the next stop is Talledega, home of a racetrack and the Motor Sports Hall of Fame. For the few viewers who have been in a coma for the past few episodes (don’t laugh, I understand Phil has that effect on people; there are several lawsuits pending), the Old Fart reminds us that this won’t be a good stop for Team Roadkill, whom we immediately cut to, as they pass a Talledega sign. Of course, the producers have been looking forward to this, as have we. Let’s watch people squirm as they face their worst nightmares. It will be good therapy for them. So says the show’s consulting psychologist, H. Lecter.

Team Dimz have also reached the “big-assed” chair; evidently, they’re into big asses, as well.

Stop with the foreshadowing already, Goth.

Ok, Ok. One of the Dimz now knows what he wants to do with his life—build a bigger chair. Evidently the mousetrap idea was already taken. His bro (yeah, I can’t tell them apart, either—except I think one with the long hair and the boobs is their youngest brother) comments that that would make him the biggest dork in the world. Yeah, I know. The material they’re feeding us is just way way way too easy.

The Bundys also find their way to the “lame-o” chair, and the Premarins are right behind clucking excitedly. Team Babeage has reached the Hall of Fame and learn they have to head to the speedway to complete lap around the track in a racecar, all the while trying to miss Phil as he picks up debris from a wreck. Haha, no, we kid. That wouldn’t be nice for team Roadkill, and we’re all about the nice on TAR. Instead, they’ll ride a bicycle built for four once around the track, 2.6 miles. Which travels slow enough so we’ll be able to get good shots of every single sob on the Roadkill’s faces.

Some inane conversations ensue.
Babe 1: I feel like a clown!
Babe 2: These bikes are probably used in their “halftime shows.”
Yeah, right you are, hon. At these motor speedway event thingies, they stop the action so the cars can break for the locker room, while the clowns come on as soon as the band finishes marching across the infield.

Team Gag Me has reached the chair and they’ve finally arrived at something they can let Caressa do, cheering her on as she climbs. Give her about 10 years and we’ll see if they’re still cheering for her to mount things. Team Roadkill also reaches the chair, and it suddenly dawns on them where they’re heading. Team Lyleneric arrives arguing. What else is new. Oh, and Eric screams that his mother gave him a hangnail.

Back to the racetrack and the peddling. As boring as it is, the Dimz are having a blast and think it’s the bestest, most funnest thing ever.

Keep in mind, G, that up in your parts, people think Cornhole is exciting.

Tru dat. The Babes finally finish and will head to Hattiesburg, Mississippi and look for “The Southern Colonel,” which turns out to be some Trailer Home dealer. Rusty Chairs, Motor Sports, and Trailer Parks—yeah, so glad we’re getting out of Southern stereotypes here and showing some Cultchah, yessereebob. At the track, Team Bundy, in a stirring moment of sensitivity, looks forward to Team Roadkill’s impeding arrival so they can engage in some major pointing and laughing. The Roadkills have a plan: get in, do their business, and get out as quickly as possible.

Kinda makes you wonder about the Flanders’ sex life, don’t it?

‘Xactly. They learn that the Fates and Jerry B have other ideas in mind. Will Team Roadkill be able to make it out onto the track, in this Very Special Amazing Race? Naturally, we have to wait for the answer until after:

(Y’all know there’s no way in heck I even thought for a second about the Flanders’ sex life, right?

We’re not fooled. Now quit interrupting)

Commercials: Bewitched, exhibit A for why the next person to propose a movie based on a nostalgic TV show should be hung, drawn, and quartered; K-mart with some music that sounds like a country love song but I’m not sure, because it doesn’t mention the words “cheatin” and “double-wide”; Verizon with another awful hyperbole; Disney, celebrating 50 years of making people reach for the insulin; some child prodigy for Tyson that’s about two minutes away from wedgies on the playground; Capitol One for the pillaging gag, which was old two years ago already.

And we’re back for Therapy with the Roadkills. Landru thought it was an inspirational moment. Yep. He told me he was inspired to carve a swastika in his forehead and get a bunch of followers named Squeaky and sacrifice Rolly Roadkill to the Altamont branch of the Hell’s Angels. Mommy Roadkill reminds them that “Your daddy liked racing,” and that this triumph over the clowncycle was a victory for the family. They’re leaving the sadness behind and it will help them in their moving on. She’s proud of them. Gag me. Or her.

Say, G. You’re seeing a psychologist, what does....

Wait, what do you mean? I’m not seeing a psychologist.

Well, by “see,” I meant “dating, banging, marrying”—though not necessarily in that order.

Oh, right. I thought you meant “paying for therapy,” because I’m not.

You keep telling yourself that. It might not be monetary, but there is indeed payment. Oh yes there is.

Did you have a question?

I’m just curious as to what she thinks of this whole “therapy in front of national TV” deal.

She thinks you’re a tortured, monomanical freak, Landru, with delusional and sociopathic tendencies. And she’s not liking the forehead tattoo at all. Oh, and she asked me to ask you if you could please stop sucking out my brain now.

Stasi woofs at her Daddy: “You’re a pain in my ass!”
Well, Stasi, that’s actually the bikes—don’t you see everyone walking funny after they dismount?

Erm…I have a confession to make, here, G.

What?

Erm…the asspain thing?

What? Awwww, dooood

I’m sorry, man. I’m really jonesing for Miss Louisiana Assfuck.

Stasi whines that “One minute makes the biggest difference!” because Daddy isn’t moving fast enough for her taste. You’re right, there. One more minute of listening to you whine, and I’m liable to come after you with a nailgun. Can’t wait to see what kind of a man you attract with those charms.

Lot like my…

Shut up, Landru. You know this stuff goes on the Internets.

Dimz finish, then Bundys, Roadkills, and Premarins. Everyone on the GagMe team wishes Caressa had longer legs. Again, give her about 10 years. They hop off the bikes and Caressa says she doesn’t hurt at all. The Lylenerics are disappointed they don’t get to ride a car, and argue. Eric cries that his mother won't change his diaper.

Well, now we’ve reached the point in this show were JerryB has said to himself, “Self, I’m tired of all the Emmys. It’s time we catered to the Groundlings and give them some pixelated assses.” The Babes are only too happy to comply, and uses the Dimz’ catching up to their car as an excuse. Old Fart is so proud. Naturally, the Dimz with the best view, the one who appreciates it the most, is the brother with the boobs and the long hair. Another Dim decides to pull up his shirt, wanting to see the same from a Babe. Tit for tat. Though I didn’t see any tats. Yep. Cincy’s finest, right cheeear.

I think I need to explain something about Cincinnati, here—something I didn’t discover until I had moved here about 10 years ago. They make jokes about Kentucky here on our side of the river, but let me tell you, this has to be one of the most in-bred places in America. People from here never move away, and haven’t for generations. You can’t insult anyone, because everyone is related. Case in point—the Dimz are from the other side of Cincinnati, and already I’ve heard from a number people who know them or are related to them! Frightening, in an area of a couple million people. So think about the Dimz and their unforking family tree as you watch. Maybe Old Fart wasn’t too far off with that Deliverance thing.

I’ve decided I like Old Fart and his three babes.

Yes, L-boy, but you watch the show from a slightly lower perspective than the rest of us.

Did you just call me a groundling?

Yes, and not the funny kind.

The Lylenerics finish the bike thing, as a storm heads in. Now we reach what has to be the dimmest segment of a dim bunch. We all know that Team Lylenerics comprises four people who can’t run, think, or get along; you would think this would mean they are toast, no? But watch as the idiocy of the other teams allows this group to overtake them one by one. Team Babeage finds the trailer homes, and they have to look for one of three departure times: 7:20, 7:40, and 8:00 AM the next morning. Papa Bundy, refusing to consult a phone book, scoffs at the prospect of “Southern Colonel” being the trailer park, amid sneering looks from Stasi, who just doesn’t understand her future very well. Team Premarin gets some advice at an internet café that does not involve enlarged genitalia or Nigerian banks.

The Babes and the Dimz get a 7:20 departure, and retreat for a night of Truth or Dare and Spin the Bottle. The Roadkills and the Premarins arrive. The Premarins get a 7:40 time, while the Roadkills take an 8:00 as Mama wonders “Is this good?” I dunno, Einstein, maybe you could tell if you try LOOKING in other rooms before you grab one, huh? Stasi screams at her dad to just shut up, just shut the fucking fuck up, because he is upsetting her.

Wait, that was what you were screaming at Stasi. Who is yummy, by the way.

My bad. And you? Are a sick fuck. They arrive at the trailer home, learn that the Roadkills are leaving at 8:00 and they look around for another time—not because they want to leave earlier but because (and I’m not making this up) they DON’T want the same time as the Roadkills. The GagMes also just take an 8:00. What, don’t they ever shop around? What’s with this taking the first room that suits their fancy? It’s not like they’re in danger of not getting a room. Caressa doesn’t like the trailers, they’re evil. Later on, she’ll listen to the snow on her tv and wake her parents up, saying ‘They’re heeeeeere!!”

I would have really liked her for pointing out that trailers are evil if she hadn’t spent all that time telling us how adorable she is.

I don’t think anyone wants to think about that, okay?

Team Lyleneric arrive. Team Bundy is stuck with (horror of all horrors) the same departure time as the Roadkills, and Stasi explodes. She reiterates that every minute counts—more foreshadowing as we head to:

Commercials: BP: advertising clean restrooms, and you know you want a gas station whose first priority is picking up all the soiled condoms; Eminem and “Lose Yourself” in his often litigated, never dupicated infamous iPod ads; DiGiornos, starring Pinocchio, who lies just so he can satisfy two women at once; local spots for the ‘Gals (not to be confused with the ‘Girls, whom our Washington friends like to mock); something forgettable for Ford Trucks; Rupert from Survivor, who is more popular here than Lil of the Granny Panties, even though the latter went farther (nope, absolutely NO code there), and some local news spots.

And we’re back, and Stasi is still spewing; any minute now and her head will spin. Meanwhile, Lyleneric get the only remaining trailer—with a 7:40 departure time, and the producers missed a wonderful opportunity of showing the Bundy’s reaction when they learn that the Lylenerics arrived later and leave earlier. Teams leave the next morning in search of some product-placement gas-station and Les the mysterious gas man. The Babes and the Dimz trade lusts as they leave, and Old Fart decides against joining the pixelated ass club. That wind you just felt? America’s sigh of relief. Les the Gas man gives them a clue (when he’s done handing them out, will he be clueless?) which directs them to a park in the Pelican State. Ooooh, we’re going to be trickish, and make them figure out which state this actually is! Just in case they have trouble with this, the next sentence gives them a hint: It’s in the state of “LO_ISI_NA.” Let us pause for a moment of silence in remembrance of a time when this show had some clues that actually required more than a 1st grade education.

Team Premarin commits dumbass move #2, as they drive right past the gas station, allowing the Lylenerics to move up another notch as Eric complains that his mother sold him to gypsy carnies. The Premarins wonder why the Lylenerics pulled in, thinking “maybe they went to pick up something.” Uhm, that would be the CLUE you twits. Geez. They head back to find Les has More clues. The Bundys stop for gas, as Stasi whines again about how “one second makes the biggest difference.” Ya think? GagMes and Roadkills are right behind, Caressa singing “Lucky Pen” like Madonna.

The Bundys have trouble locating the state park, even though they’ve lived nearby for freakin’ ever. Ma Bundy wonders if this is the kiss of death? Ya think? Papa Bundy says to Stasi “You’re being nasty and looking ugly.” To which she responds: “I know you are, but what am I?”

He’s rubber, she’s glue, infinity. Although come to think on it, she does look a bit bouncy.

Just stop, dood. One of the Premarins (yet another team I can’t be bothered to learn who is who) needs some validation for being an idiot as her sisters scream at her. Papa Bundy can’t read a map to save his life. He’s surprised to learn that state park is five minutes from where he worked for a year. Young Gestapo has a shirt over his head. You and me both, kid.

Dimz and Babes hit the park, Detour: Work or Play. Work is slicing a log. Play: Blackjack against professional dealer—all members must win over dealer in same hand, three times. They must also put on appropriate period clothing, no matter which detour they’re taking. One of the Dimz looks great with his period orange ‘Gal’s Bandana and his period lifejacket over his suit. Lylenerics and Premarins find the park. A Premarin thinks “12 inches” can’t be that big. Heh. Dimz and Babes struggle over 21. It does involve numbers, after all. The Dimz give up and decide to saw.

The GagMes decide to do the cards, giving them a chance to dress Caressa up like a tart.

Dood. Dood

Yeah, yeah, push comes to shove, you’re just as censorial as any Web site management, huh L-Boy?

But they get nowhere with cards. Lylenerics are finished sawing—yes folks, the other teams have allowed this family, which put the “fun” in dysfunctional, to pass them all by. Eric does complain that his mother tore his teddy bear limb from limb and baked the stuffings into the holiday pumpkin pie.

The teams are headed over Lake Pontchartrain to Nawlins, home of jazz and floating bodies. Babes finish and offer encouraging words to the GagMes. Dimz finish as the Roadkills arrive. Premarins finish. Roadkills quickly get two hands as the GagMes try to figure out if they should keep playing. While they ponder, weak and weary, we have time for some:

Commercials: Travelocity gnome, which ranks second beyond the Burger King as the fantasy commercial figure I most want to chase after with a hammer; Buick with “promises” that ring as true as “Sure Babe, I’ll call” and “No, those are just cold sores”; Verizon network again. Duracell, with Indiginous Persons using their traditional Indiginous Person GPS device; Mastercard: discovers what parents have known for years, that the box is better than the toy; Outback again; CBS whoring programs I have no intention of watching. Local news: man shot his teenage daughter, then himself—which makes me wonder if the Bundys moved here after Katrina.

Back. As they cross the lake, they are strategerizing. The Lylenerics want to not screw this up. Way to set your standards high, there. The Babes and the Dimz plan to hoof it. Pony up, boyz. One of the Premarins just wants to keep from crying. She doesn’t want to leave her backpack, which apparently offers some form of security against dying old and alone. Guess she forgot to take her pill this morning.

Meanwhile, the Roadkills finish the card thing. We see the GagMes struggling with the logs. Bully bashes Caressa with the saw, and she exclaims, ok, that wasn’t good. We think the same. Next time, hit a little harder, Bully, k?

The departing Roadkills are excited to see the Bundys arriving at the park, although Mama Roadkill reminds her team that the Bundys are from around here, so they can’t let up. No worries, Ma. The Lawd tole Pa Bundy to screw around with the sawyering thing, then to try their “hand” at the card thing—thereby making them pull one of the classic TAR blunders: going from the easier task to the harder one. Buh Bye. The adult GagMes finish the logs by themselves, and head toward Nawlins, closely followed by the Bundys, who scream excitedly “We’re going home.”

Ok, honestly, I like this show, and all, but this foreshadowing ploy? Has. Got. To. Stop. We get it already. We fucking get it. You’ve made the show all artsy fartsy, you’ve discovered a storytelling technique, ranking right up there with irony. You’ve searched miles and miles of footage to find them saying just the right clueless things at the right fucking moments, and WE GET IT. Now just let them make idiots of themselves and leave the show alone. It makes it more enjoyable, really it does. And when you cast teams like you have this season, it ain’t hard.

Just watch what they all say as they cross the Lake. Mama Roadkill sagely informs her brood that they are crossing one of the five Great Lakes. See, that’s comedy, right there, Mr. Bruckheimer. No foreshadowing necessary.

They don’t need brains, dood. The Jesus is gonna give them a million dollars.

The other teams ooh and ahh over Lake Pontchartrain; little do they know that in a few weeks it will double in size and be renamed Lake Dubya. Nor that Preservation Hall, in the French Quarter, the pit stop for this leg, won’t be preserved for long. That, JB, is irony. And not the filmed kind.

Erm…actually, the French Quarter wasn’t hit particularly hard. I believe Preservation Hall is still there.

You, of all people, want to confuse timeless prose with facts?

The Lylenerics “hoof” it around the FQ, as we’re treated to sights of what was once-mighty Nawlins. Eric bitches that Mom subjected him to CBT. The Babes are right behind, and we know we’re in for some real tense editing over the next few minutes. Who will win???

Wait. We need more of the foreshadowing/irony crap. Stasi says “This is kind of unfair that we know our way around.” Gestapo adds: “We’re going home. This is hilarious.” Yes, you are. And Yes it is.

Dimz park and hoof. Babes find it while Lyle yells at his mother; Eric screams that he has a runny nose. Yes, the Babes win a trip to Orlando and Universal Studios from Travelocity, WDW being too family-oriented to house their pixelated asses, I guess. Phil greets them accompanied by a Jazz musician, his man-boobs (Phil's that is, not the musician's; I couldn't tell what kind of boobs he had under that outfit), and his bad haircut. Which I gotta say something about here. When I first saw this show, I thought Phil looked a bit like Sting. And he does. Except Sting knows what to do with his hair.

Lylenerics are so happy to go from last to 2nd that Papa, who has exhibited precisely zero personality or cajones up until this point in the race, proceeds to hug Phil. So excited to finally meet someone whose bosom exceeds his wife’s ample chest, he even slips him some tongue. Papa says they ran a perfect race today. Uhm, no, but thanks for playing. You’re in second place because the other teams are even stupider than you. Meanwhile, Eric complains that Mom had him circumcised.

The Premarins run, sans backpacks, while the Dimz arrive, dood! Phil jokes about the moon earlier today.

He really wanted those Dimz boys to be showing the moon.

You’re really high on things the rest of us don’t want to think about, aren’t you?

Premarins are team 4 screaming “Crazy women, coming through!” Again, why make stuff up when you've got this material to work with? Roadkills are team #5, and bloviate some brakage about what they learned through their crazy therapy session. Some useless drama ensues, but we know that the GagMes are Team 6. The Bundys are last and Stasi breaks down. They are going home. They offer up some parting platitudes: “We did our best.” No, you didn’t. Stasi says “I could have made a difference, if they had listened to me.” No, you could have made a difference if you threw yourself in front of their car and let them run over you. Well, maybe not a difference for them, but we woulda enjoyed the show more. Stasi continues: “They should have listened to me. Because it’s all about ME! Me, me. MemEMEMEMEMEMEME!!!!!!”

She’s just not part of the archtypical meme.

That? Is the worst joke you’ve ever made.

I know, I just did it to piss off Ilse.

Papa waxes philosophical: “I’m glad to see we can deal with real hardships when they arise.” This? was a real hardship? Just wait for Katrina, pal. Let’s see you deal with that. Oh, wait. It already happened. There’s that time-warp shit again.

Don’t start, dood.

Quiet. I know what pisses you off.

Like I would be askeered of you.

Ok, you asked for it. Two words: Peter Angelos.

That’s Peter fucking Angelos to you, dood. And is that all you got?

Hey, look over there: isn’t that Michelle Malkin?

Ok, that was below the belt.

Just in time for some more:

Commercials: AOL passing out condoms, or some such virus protection. GMC for high standards, which works great with the words “all you want to do is use me” sounding in the background; BP for food and water—don’t they sell gas anymore?; more whoring for CBS.

Next time on TAR: Teams leave the US., Lyle is the next for TAR-style therapy to conquer his fear of heights as he whimpers that Mom took his Big Wheel, and Sharon strikes out.

Dood. Who’s Sharon?

Beats me. But all in all, though I’m happy with the result. How about you, L?

This show sucks. My Louisiana Assfucks keep getting eliminated.

And on that thought, we’ll close. As usual, thanks for reading.

Disclaimer: I have to say, in the interest of full disclosure, that this isn’t how I originally intended for this summary to go. I had a funny little bit prepared, where I’m teaching a class (it’s what I do, for those of you that don’t know) of young, impressionable women, and we’re studying TAR, and my principal, the Little Nun Lady (affectionately dubbed as the LNL) comes in and asks the girls to make sure that all their pussies are cleaned up (and that’s going to sound totally dirty unless you’ve already read about that story elsewhere) because we’re having a guest lecturer come in, at which point Landru enters, proceeding to pass out some KoolAid, verify if any of the girls are in fact legal, get spanked by the LNL, teach my little darlings the many and various meanings of the word “turgid,” and inquire about buying a school uniform for Ilse, all the while berating the TAR contestants as only Landru can do, except this time he would be channeled by me, which I was kinda looking forward too, payback being a bitch ‘n all, after he totally nailed me (ok, that didn’t sound right) in his own summary for Circle Of last week. But it was not to be, because I couldn’t find a way to actually work in references to the show, which would be a shame, the show being what probably brings you to this place over and over again like a crack habit you just can’t shake. Well, that and the corpse-fucking.

So, I scrapped that framework and proceeded with the one you see here, channelling Landru at various and sundry moments to suit my purposes. Except, after a couple of days of this, the channel ran dry, so I had to go begging to Landru to be my monkey and channel himself for a bit to help me get this thing done. So what you see above is a combination—a tag team, if your mental image can handle that—of sorts, where I put words into his mouth, and he put words into mine, and I’m gonna stop with this metaphor before it gets any MORE closer to code than it already is. At any rate, while much of the above is mine, some is his, and it ain’t all clearly divided by the red like you might think. But if you want something to amuse your po’ lil lives, you might try to figure out which is which. It shouldn’t be that hard, actually; your biggest clue is that the funniest parts are probably Landru’s.

All of which is my way of saying, thanks, bro. I owes ya big time. And, as we all know, payback is and will indeed be, a bitch. Gothmog out.

Feh. He funny, the G-man. I just made it more about me. Great work, Goth. Standarsh out.  ¶ 7:21 PM