The Amazing Race, Episode Eight:

THERE IS NO GOD by Wheezy

Instead of listening to the recrap of last week’s show, which was two weeks ago, I roasted a chicken. From freezer to Dutch oven to plate. It was a good chicken. Buttery, velvety, shiny chicken. It took that long for Phil to give the longest freaking recrap ever. For your own sanity, I suggest reading Diamond’s summary, which is funny as hell and will take you less time.

Also, instead of commercials, I bring you an alternative learning program, called FUN FACTS, most of which will bore you to tears, but that’s what this show is all about.

AND, in place of the never-ending recrap, I offer you my insightful brakage (you know, Landru invented that word). So here. You should not skip this part.

WHAT WHEEZE KNOWS ABOUT TAR

I know nothing about this cultish show. I don’t understand Yields or Detours or the proper use of them. I don’t understand why people wear underwear on the outsides of their clothing. I don’t understand why these people go to all these lovely places and don’t actually look at the scenery, and instead they search frantically for a little metal box on a post next to THE FREAKING GRAND CANYON. Why don’t they just do the whole thing in, say, Siberia or Greenland or Northern Canadia or something, so hotpants Weaver really has something to complain about?

Anyway, as I understand it, the show is boring as hell if nobody gets booted. So if nobody gets booted today, I’m not writing this. It’s pointless. Shove bark under my toenails. Drown me in a scummy, leech-filled pond in Frozen Fuck, Minnesota. Sing Cyndi Lauper’s version of The Star-Spangled Banner while tap dancing on my head. Give me the labor of birthing a thousand Dutch thirteen-pound square-headed babies. Do them all at the same time, and it would STILL be a vacation compared to writing this piece of shit.

As I see it, we have two (read: 2) basic teams left. The Bleevers, and the Unbleevers. But for the sake of clarity, we shall refer to the various sects of UnBleef as follows:

The Unbleevin’ Beavers – This thong-wearing foursome is a serious match for Monica

The Unbleevin’ Cleavers – Wally and the not-Paolos.

The Unbleevin’ Coneevers – Manly brilliance and cunning, the brainchild of which dresses in girl clothes.

And let us now have a moment of silence for the UnBleevingest of the UnBleevers, The Skeeviest of all Skeevers, The Acheevingest of all who should never have Acheeved, a.k.a. my favorite team ever, in all the hundreds of episodes I’ve never watched. Give it up for the Paolos, whose Italian charm, screed, cussing, name-calling and obnoxicity won my heart over and over again. Oh, to bathe in the luxurious, comforting words of Mama. Oh, to be incessantly berated to tears by DJ. Oh, to be married to...nope. Can’t do it. Dear Jesus, may this most entertaining team rest in utter unrest, which to them would be like the powdery gunshot residue of homicidal heaven. I’ll never forget you, Paolos! Amen.

Before we begin, I’d like to confess something that not many of you know. I am, as it were, a professional psychologist. Yes, you should be calling me Dr. Wheeze, but don’t – please – I’m way too modest for that. And no, I know what you’re wondering – I don’t have a so-called “degree” in Psychology. But my adorable mother, who crowned herself an armchair psychologist many moons ago, has handed down the profession to me. Kind of like a shoemaker, or a...mafia...bandit thingy, teaching the craft to the next generation. Get it? So that makes me an expert in The Bleevers and their stink. After much consideration, evaluation and deep thought, I have determined that their problem, in fact, is painfully rooted in their adherence to their favorite Bible verse, found within the depths of that ever-popular book of Deuteronomy (25:11, chapter and verse). Which says, 11"If two men, a man and his countryman, are struggling together, and the wife of one comes near to deliver her husband from the hand of the one who is striking him, and puts out her hand and seizes his genitals...”

STOP. Where was Mrs. Weaver’s hand when her husband was killed? Unfortunately, not on his killer’s testicles. She feels responsible, don’t you see? It’s HER FAULT he’s dead, she didn’t save him, and I’ll be cut and hung out to dry if she and her offspring are not trying to make up for their fatal error by seizing the genitals of every other player in this game. And those of few passersby as well, it seems.

Ah, but you’re wondering how I know her hand wasn’t there, seizing, aren’t you. Well, verse 12 is our proof:

”...12then you shall cut off her hand; you shall not show pity.”
Does Mrs. Weaver have both her hands? Indubitably.

ON WITH THE SHOW

Finally our families leave the country (woo hoo!) and go to Utah, which is one of those cool third-world countries in South America or Africa or something, and surprise! The whites have taken over, thank the Jesus.

FUN FACT: For our northeasterly friends, driving from Phoenix to Salt Lake City, a mere state away (11 hours, 17 minutes) is about the same distance as driving from Bangor to, oh I don’t know, Orlando. So this is no wimpy, 53-minute, state-to-state, Boston to Providence gig, where the airports are practically interchangeable.

Of course, the racers are in Lake Powell, AZ, which shaves a good five hours off the Phoenix – SLC journey, but I wanted it to sound really far just to impress you and make you east coasters feel inferior, since size equals greatness.

FUN FACT: In the opening scenes the sun rises over beautiful Lake Powell, and we see a shot of Saguaro cacti.
What is wrong with this picture? Well, I’ll tell you. There are no Saguaro in northern Arizona. The only place Saguaro (say it with me: Se-HWAR-oh) grow in this entire world is in the Sonoran Desert, in which I live. The Sonoran Desert covers extreme southern California, southern Arizona, and a bit of Northwestern Mexico. If you’d like to know the age of any given Saguaro cactus, please contact Flat Stanley, c/o Databoy, offspring of Ilse, who would tell you it takes forty years to grow one limb.

Many are hundreds of years old.

Moving swiftly on. The Beavers are first to depart Lake Powell.

By the way, did you notice how light it was at 5:45 a.m. when the Beavers opened their clue?

FUN FACT: Arizona does not conform to daylight savings time, so when the sun rises at 6 a.m. on a summer day at your house, it rises at 5 a.m. in Arizona. And on July 4th, fireworks start at 9 p.m. because it is QUITE dark by then. Which makes it much easier for the firefighters to spot all the freshly sparked wildfires.

Teams must now proceed to stunning Monument Valley, Utah, where they must locate an area called John Ford’s Point. We see the Beavers climb into their boat, and they start harping on the loud sister. Noisy Sister becomes increasingly annoying throughout the show as she strives to reach her quota of words for the day, her voice grating on our nerves like an ol’ John Ford western train putting on the iron brake to avoid hitting the woman tied to the tracks. Hey, there’s a thought…

The Coneevers are next to depart, and they tell us they want more, more, faster, faster, harder and harder.

FUN FACT: Always get gas. Always. Do you SEE any signs of life anywhere? This is the DESERT southwest, and tumbleweeds ain’t gonna push you and your big-ass camper. Get gas.

The Bleevers leave next at 6:06 a.m. They begin the day with Praise Time, wherein they praise themselves for the way they are not crude and unkind, like the Unbleevers and the World they live in. Ma Bleever says, and I quote: “It’s just so against our beliefs, just to keep being treated so rudely.” So I looked up that belief, and I’ll be hornswaggled! There it is, in Hezekiah 47:1-2; “Thou shalt not believe in being treated rudely, yea verily. If an Unbeliever treats you in such manner, thou shalt not turn the other cheek; rather shalt thou put on the pink hot pants of Jesus, and tell the offender to go bite the big one.”

The Bleevers hop out of their boat, find their camper, and they’re off.
Meanwhile, the Coneevers keep talking about being first.

FUN FACT: When Wheezyboy was a toddler, he would throw a fit if somebody went up stairs in front of him, because he ‘wanna be the front!’ In my expert opinion, the Coneevers have a similar OCD.

The Beavers find an EZ-IN, EZ-OUT gas station, and they all agree that’s perfect.

The Bleevers have seven seconds of insanity, where they say zero bad things about nouns, and decide to just have a nice day. But all good things must come to an end, and they finish off with a “We don’t know what the other teams are doing,” followed by repeated whines of “We don’t wanna know! Yeah! Go team!”

Back at the EZ-IN EZ-OUT, Noisy Beaver blathers on about what a great gas station visit that was, and the nice map they got as payment for such quick services rendered. Middle seat sister says, “Noisy, just…stop talking. Gas station visits make me sleepy and I just want to cuddle right now.” Noisy pouts and scootches over to the far edge of her seat, facing the window.

At 6:27 a.m., the Cleavers finally depart from Lake Powell. Wally insights much like the well known superhero, Captain Obvious, observing that there are fewer players in the game now and they’ll have to work harder. “We’re jus’ gonna,” he blushes, “be a lil’ bit more aggressive,” he says, bashfully. Oh, pshaw, Wally!

Known for their minor mistakes, the Coneevers pass a brown sign and shrug. I didn’t read it, did you read it? Naw, not me, didn’t you? Nope. Well, it’s probably NOTHING then, boys. Just keep going. You and your giant tagalong camper can always turn around in one of the abundant GAS STATIONS along the dusty trail.

Skunkhead Bleever cackles as their vehicle approaches the Beavers, while the bonehead Coneevers point fingers at each other and turn around.

FUN FACT: Isn’t it pretty out there? Wow, Utah is gorgeous.

Everybody else misses the Monument Valley Visitor’s Center sign too, and I wonder, how the fuck do these people survive without the eagle-eyed Carissa?
We get the typical SUV-hauling-a-trailer-middle-of-a-two-lane-road turn-around. Noisy Beaver screams instructions, drowning out all the other families for miles.

FUN FACT: Sound travels further in wide open spaces and canyons and stuff.

Finally all three families turn around in their own special ways; some of them (read: Bleevers) deface the roadside by driving over its rare and precious scrub.

FUN FACT: I made up that ‘rare and precious’ bit.

A Cleaver female waxes on in her vehicle about the tensions between the Coneevers, Beavers and Bleevers, and hopes they will benefit from the others and their snark. Meanwhile, I want to shout: DON’T MISS THE DAMN BROWN SIGN. Wally declares the contents of their vehicle to be Switzerland. A-hahahaha.

The convoy of three finds John Ford’s Point, and the sneaky Coneevers coneeve: They turn their wide load around before they get the clue, so they can escape more quickly. Hey. Let’s see if that works.

FUN FACT: Why can’t they drop somebody off to get the clue and turn around at the same time? Is there a rule? Like I said, I don’t watch this show.

Bleevers arrive to the post first and take a number. They are smart enough to take number 1. Go Bleevers! God gets a point. They also take a clue which says, “Take a helicopter ride to the summit.” Sadly, Ma Bleever’s first hubby was killed by a helicopter, so she demands compassion from the state of Utah. By the way, did you ever notice that the TV screen calls the Bleevers, “Widow and kids,” but the Cleavers are “Dad and daughters?” Blast that right-wing manipulation media machine. Skunkhead, also by the way, looks particularly sausage-like in her two shades of pink, skin-tight undergarments. Oh my heck, I feel a spontaneous prayer coming on. Please God, if this is a non-elimination leg and the Bleevers are last, let Sausage be wearing more clothing. Amen.

Two family members must take a helicopter ride to get the next clue. Aha, says me. Finally, we get a real challenge. Do they have to fly the copter themselves? Will they be forbidden to eat during the ride? Is it extremely windy? Perhaps an obstacle course, or hanging from the runners in mid-air. My mouth waters in anticipation. Who will win immunity!? Robin Leach chimes in with the information: a pilot will take them to a massive tower of rock, a summit of vast proportions, mysteriously named Elephant Butte. Oh, Sausage, honey. Now even Phil is calling you names.

Two teams at a time will take rides to the BUTTE, first come first served, blah blah blah, find the next clue. I’m sure it’s hiding in plain sight on the top of that completely flat, bare summit, Phil. Phil? Where are you, Phil? OH! You’re wearing your clever butte-colored camoshirt today, silly man.

And look out behind you, Beavers! The Coneevers are sneaking past you on the way to the number board. The Coneevers grab their clue and, they think, the honor of traveling in a sealed compartment high above the earth with the Bleevers. But Coneeverses are not known for their grasp of southwestern terminology. They read their clue and think they are going to Elephant Butt.
.

.

.

Yes, Elephant Butt.

Fun Fact: A street in our town is called Signal Butte Rd. Except on one sign, it says Signal ButteR d. Isn’t that cute? Signal Butter. Much sweeter than Elephant Butt.

HOWEVER, in a surprising and unbelievable twist of events, the Coneevers stupid sister (it’s ALWAYS her fault) didn’t pick a number, and it’s her turn to burn from the scorn of the spurned. The Beavers grab the number 2 spot, take a clue and send Noisy and Somebody to join Rolly and Sausage Bleever in copter ride number one.
Once again, our racers, instead of looking at the beauteous buttes (not to be confused with Diamond’s gorgeous gorges), focus instead on spotting their loved ones down on the ground. “There they are!” They wave. Love you. Miss you guys. So much it never stops. Mwah, mwah, mwah. Oh bloody hell, here we are already.

When I get good and angry at myself, I like to replay the next three seconds over and over again to punish myself. ‘Tis Noisy Beaver, in her search for the Grail, screeching into her microphone something that sounds like, “THERE’S THE CLADDAGH!!!”

FUN FACT: We might be in Ireland.

The helicoptered racers rush from the hold, dash to the clue box, and rush again, tumble bumble, pell mell, back to the copter, forgetting perhaps that the Pokey Little Puppy doesn’t get it wrong EVERY time. To wit: the last ones in the copter will be the first ones out.

Back at the red trailer (where the heck did that come from?), the waiters wait. Team Coneever commiserates with the remaining two Beavers at their bad stroke of luck in missing the turn on the way to here. “Whoever gets there first,” wink wink, “will take care of the others,” assures the more experienced Beaver.

Whispering behind the clue card, Ma Bleever of the Pray Team Bleevers says the Home-coming Quee-ee-ee-eeens (apologies to Toots) and Coneevers are corpse-fucking Satanists.

Helicopter ride number one is over. Rolly and Sausage plop out and the Bleevers read the next clue. The Beavers huddle together and read as well. “Make your way to Moab, Utah and find Gemini Bridges, a distant cousin of the late Todd Bridges. Good luck, suckers! This be Utah, so it’ll be like finding one red bean.”

Fun Fact: Nuh hunh, it really says that.

Team Bleever turns and rolls their DC-10 out of the parking lot while the Beavers can’t get their lodge-on-wheels to move. They make female drivers look like tards. The Bleevers head to Moab, which is located somewhere in the Middle East, like maybe Israel, near the Promised Land.

Fun Fact: I am eating homemade apple pie. Made by me, and coincidentally, it’s really flakey too. Would you like the crust recipe?

Since the Cleavers haven’t shown up yet, two Coneever brothers (the coneevingest of them) get to ride without them. Hey, this would be a great time for the two on the ground to turn the freight train around in the parking lot so it’s facing the right way...oh.

To make the game really exciting, the two brothers race against each other to get the clue. Without much ado, they return to earth and head to Moab, whooping and pounding each others heads.

Finally, the Cleavers arrive, and are the first to really appreciate the surrounding beauty. But sadly for them, I’m bored of this task now. They don’t crash. They turn their yacht around. They go in the direction of Moab.

And now, for today’s highlight, the sparkling darlings of this show.

Skunk Sausage: I am not digging Utah right now.

Prissy: Whoever says the world is overpopulated (read: I hate abortionists) should come to Utah.

Rolly: It’s like hundreds of thousands of miles of nothing. At all. God must have spent a little less time with this state.

Ma: *giggles*


WHAT? Are you completely out of your boneheaded minds? What is wrong with you people? If you believe in the creation theory as your testimony implies (and even if you DON’T), you Bleevers, how can you not MARVEL at the sights you are seeing? I’ve seen Florida, and while the beaches are breathtaking, it does.not.compare. As for you, young Rolly, who before today was the most decent of the bunch, I’d like to wash your mouth out with soap and give you a wedgie that will change your religion. Plus, you’re stupid. Or does your religion teach that God put state borders into place, too? I’d like to put you in your place, you smart-assed cocky sonofabitch. An old lady I may be, boy, but I could still take you, you scrawny, pimply-faced, slimy assed, towheaded can of garbage. I’d want to throw you out the fucking window, if not for to mar the unadulterated grandeur that rests on the other side of your gas-sucking, pollution-making, environment-ruining, contaminated SUV door. You lousy shit.

Fun Fact: Ilse said I had Rolly hair.

We join the Coneevers, who are back to having fun. Out their windows we can see the Mexican Hat Rock.


Rolly, why don’t you go try it on. Maybe it will crush you like a bug.

The Coneevers catch up to the Bleevers, whose speed slows to 50mph on the hills. When the road becomes a temporary 4-lane (where slower vehicles are SUPPOSED TO MOVE TO THE RIGHT to allow others to pass), the Coneevers kick the Bleevers buttes a little bit by passing them handily. Driver Coneever growls a testosterly growl which the Bleevers don’t particularly care for. Sister Coneever sings a little dance ditty, “They’re – so – pissed – off,” and they all make Oz jokes, the funniest of which refers to Ma Bleever: “Somebody’s going to come and drop a house on her head.”

Back to the Cleaver posse, where things are calm. The daughters would love something risky and adventurous at the next stop. Wally prefers tranquil and boring, and the girls all smile. A warm fuzzy moment, indeed.

Noisy chatters away in the Beaver vehicle and the others pretend to be asleep, even the driver. The Coneevers shock us by not missing the turn to Gemini Bridges, and they arrive at the next clue: Drop Down or Ride Down.

TAR-baby Phil? He ain’t sayin’ nothin’.

No, actually, he explains that a Detour is a choice between being gay and staying straight. One has all the plusses, one has all the minuses. (Raise your hand if you read ‘plusses’ as ‘pussies’).

Fun Fact: You can read about Uncle Remus’s Brer Rabbit and Tar Baby here.

In Drop Down, teams rappel down 270 feet of rock. In Ride Down, they ride mountain bikes on a six mile path downhill. Once at the bottom, they follow a path to the next clue box.

Coneevers choose rappel, telling the age-old ‘if you die, we’ll do the other’ joke. Har har.

Bleevers hate Utah, part the second:

Prissy: I never even heard one thing about You-taw.

Ma: I have.

Prissy: You have??

Ma: Mormons.

Prissy: For REAL?

Ma: Uh-huh. Utah is the Mormon State.

Prissy: *gasp* No wonder!


No wonder? No wonder, what? No wonder you are all sick little bastards? No wonder that teacher Beaver doesn’t know her state mottos? As most Mormons would term themselves Christian, I’m afraid you are dissing yourselves.

Fun Fact: Utah is the Beehive State.

The Bleevers get to the Detour and choose Ride Down. How easy it will be to take a little family bike ride. Down. Seems odd that gravity isn’t helping our bulbous little Sausage any. Maybe it’s the Rapture, and she’s pulling against a greater force. Dear Jesus, please whisk them away if it be your will. Amen.

Sausage hates the bikes. “Heggh-tah!” As my grandmother would have said. She can’t do it. She’s crying. Sausage turns bright pink all over. I think she’s gonna bust her casing. She needs a thorough pricking, stat. Rolly offers to help, but Ma slows down to ride with her. It seems Sausage is slow-cooking in too low a gear. She adjusts the gears and seems to do a bit better.

On the rock wall, the Coneevers are nearly finished, and sister bear receives high praise from the brothers. They all continue to encourage each other.

Rolly, king of the bikers, is getting frustrated because he doesn’t yet have the family sausage to carry around, so he doesn’t realize how hard it can be. “I don’t think Lance Armstrong could make it through this,” says Sausage.

Fun Fact: Mrs. Weaver apparently already seized Mr. Armstrong. That he lived to ride again makes them hate him all the more. I predict they will take his name in vain again soon.

Arriving at the Detour is the Cleavers. Girls want to rappel; Wally wants to take a nap. They get to the rappel station just as the Coneevers finish. Wally shares his fear of absolutely everything, including being alive, as one of the daughters heads down the cliff. But Wally’s an ‘oh shucks’ kind of guy, and he’ll go along with anything if it’ll give the daughters an experience. In fact, tomorrow they’re all trying meth for breakfast.

The Coneevers reach their next clue: Drive yourselves to Green River State Park, where you will spend the night. Tomorrow’s departure time is determined by the order in which you arrive.

Sausage still hates Utah, this time with a passion. She can’t breathe, which is understandable, seeing how much she’s yelling. Er...I mean, the air is thinner up in the mountains.

Wally’s on his way down the cliff when the Beavers finally show up. The Beavers have fallen into last place because TAR-baby ate their car battery. Man, I bet they’re maa-ad, heh heh. They choose Drop Down. Wally finishes and he and his harem head to the final stop of the day. The Beavers high-tail it down the cliff. One of ‘em tries going down in breech position, which is unsuccessful for most people, including her.
Butte, Noisy talky-talks everyone down in such a fashion that they want to get to the bottom just so they can stab her with a belay.

FUN FACT: There are lots of noisy birds in Arizona. My next door neighbor yells “SHUT UP!” at them a lot. The other day, I looked over our wall into their yard to see where these horrid grackles have roosted, and guess what? The noisy birds are IN CAGES. They? Are pets. Neighbor keeps them outside and shuts her doors and windows because she hates them all wants the rest of the ‘hood to enjoy them. Isn’t that thoughtful?

The teams arrive at the campground without incident. Departure times for the next morning are as follows: Coneevers, 7:00. Bleevers, 7:15. Cleavers, 7:30. Beavers, 7:45.

That evening, the Beavers are determined to stay optimistic, the Coneevers play paddle ball, the Weavers feel sorry for themselves and eat some worms.
They’re not going to be rude, they say. They’ve tried so many times to be nice, but no one reciprocates. Everyone is against them and they hate this. I think we need to call them the B.A.leevers.

Fun Fact: The Butterball Hotline number is 1-800-Butterball. Sausage questions can be directed here: mphotline.fsis@usda.gov

Morning comes and the clues are stuck like spam mailers to the windshield of each truck. Alpha Male Coneever reads the clue: Drive to Heber-haberson...ity.

FUN FACT: What?

Just go, and find Bart, goddammit.

We are tricked into thinking it will be difficult to find Bart because he’s a BIG GIANT GRIZZLY BEAR, not a human, ha HA! Let’s see if anyone can figure it out. I hope they don’t think it’s THIS Bart the Bear, because he is way dead. Pretty sneaky, Phil.

Can you believe they all found Bart without so much as a lick of trouble? Well, all except the Coneevers, who overshot their pissing contest once again. And on the way to Bart, more pretty things to see. Rolly Bleever compares today’s sights to pimples.

Coneevers ask a lady for directions – er, that’s a dood, dood. They find Bart with their clue in his mouth, and it’s a cool moment until one of the guys does a Yogi Bear imitation. Don’t they know that Yogi is no Grizzly?

Incidentally, Bart is reading the script for the part of the bear in Scooter Libby's novel.

The Bleevers stop at Krispy Kreme and get directions from a guy there. I have no further comment at this time.

Bart waves bye-bye and the Coneevers continue on with their slimy clue, which tells them to go to Park City, Utah, to the Olympic Village. There they’ll find their next clue. Caution: Yield Ahead. That’s code for something, I’m sure.

Bart comes out running at the Bleevers when they arrive, but the trainer stops him. It’s okay, Bart. We understand. Ma Bleever gets her bark on and starts ordering the kids around. (Methinks the widow needs some oil in her lamp.) They are afraid they’ll be yielded. Ya think? They come up with the deft tactic of taking the only other road in Utah, which is the wrong one. They turn onto the dinky little road and come upon two bicyclists. Little Shit rolls down the window and mocks, “Neener, neener, you wish you were Lance Armstrong.” To which they reply by dropping their bikes and running away screaming.

Meanwhile, the Cleavers find directional help at a gas station and make their way to Bart and gush, “Oh, what a CUTE BEAR!” Yeah, I’ll bet he’s all cuddly-wuddly. Hey, I bet he’d fit in your camper.

No running, no screaming is the Beaver mantra and the Beavers are determined to get it right. They immediately run across the road into the yard, get their clue from Bart, and run back. But they didn’t scream. Much. Until they got in the car, and they got into a big fight about Noisy asking too many questions again. The other three? Hate her. And so do I.

The Bleevers are in hell; nature is shoved down their throats at every turn. A tiny glimmer of hope shines for us. Maybe there really is a God, and they will get eliminated. They piss and moan about how they should have taken the highway, and now they’re going to have to sit through a Yield.

Fun Fact: Dweeze made me watch this show. Oh, and I lied. It was really Landru who said I had Rolly hair. But at least he forgot about the cocker spaniel joke.

We arrive in Park City and Phil-baby is still wearing yesterday’s camoshirt. Ewww. He explains the Yield: A Yield is something you do before you decide to become gay.

The Coneevers Yield the Weavers, offering up the transparent excuse of wanting to put more distance between them so they can arrive first and win this leg.

This challenge is a Roadblock. Teams pick one team member to ski down a church roof and land in a snow bank. I was looking forward to this, until I found out they didn’t even have to do any tricks. This show sucks.

The other Coneevers choose Nick to do the task, and they think he’s gonna make a fool out of himself by showing off. Arriving next is the Cleavers, one of the daughters excited to give it a try.

Sho’ ‘nuff, Nick meets and exceeds his family’s desires, does a face plant in the swimming pool and gets his clue. “Drive yourselves to the next Pit Stop, thank God, hallelujah,” it reads. They must go 28 miles to the Salt Lake City Library, where the last family to check in may be eliminated. Dear Jesus, please. Amen. The Coneevers race to the car as the Beavers arrive. Both teams shout exciting news; the Coneevers yielded the Bleevers, and the Bleevers are still not here. And there was much rejoicing in the land.

Noisy Beaver screeches at the chance to do the ski jump and she runs to the task. Meanwhile, the Cleaver girl gets pillaged by neighboring jumpers. She takes off and lands in the water on her back. The Cleavers head to the Pit Stop, and Noisy Beaver takes her jump. For a moment, while she is under water, there is blessed silence. They get their clue and head to SLC.

The Bleevers are frustrated as they wind slowly through foliage. I can relate to this; I hate being lost.

FUN FACT: One time? On our way to Fremont, Michigan, for a week’s vacation, I was driving. The bridge in Grand Haven was up on highway 31, and the traffic was backed up for miles. I decided there just had to be another way around. The kids were crying (they were little) and I just wanted to get there. So I headed east, then north again. After a good hour, I discovered there is no other way to Fremont. (Breezy, are you laughing yet?) The good news is that by the time we got back to Grand Haven, the bridge was back down. Damn slow-moving freighters.

Then, as the Bleever chirrens cry, Ma says the words I long for. “We’re done. We’re done.” HOOORAY! The Bleevers are DONE!

Prissy: We’ll be the last nice family...and we’re gone. The people who win will probably spend the money on a new nose or bigger boobs.

Ma Bleever actually reprimands Prissy, telling her to take a deep breath and enjoy the ride. Good for you, Ma. Keep going.

The Coneevers speculate about the Bleevers no-show. They make bear noises. The Cleavers follow suit. Except for the bear noises. The Beavers just want to see the look on the Bleevers’ faces when they discover the Yield. They want them gone. The Bleevers get sad and eat ice cream. “It revigorates you and injuvenates you,” says Ma. Not.Kidding. They must be hungry, because all they had to eat earlier was a giant hoochie-mamma bag of ‘chato chips.

Prissy says she would cry if she wasn’t holding her Big Mac. Rolly’s eyes roll back in his head and he sees Jesus.

Finally the Bleevers arrive at the Yield, see their own shining faces smiling back at them, and it’s Pretend Time. Pretend like this is the best thing ever. Someone comes out of the building and checks their blood sugar. They sit on the mat and eat, and Ma Bleever says, unabashedly, “I don’t get it. Most people *like* us. I’ve never been in any situation where I’ve been unliked [sic] in my life.” Shall we throw them a welcome home party?

In Salt Lake City, the Coneevers are looking for the library. Sister worries that if they don’t ask for directions, somebody might actually beat them to it. Now you’re thinking! But we knew she was the smart one.

The Cleavers find the library on the map, of all places, and our sweet techno-savvy Wally says, “Well hopefully we’ll be able to zoom in on it.” He must be the Desk Chair Traveler.

The coneevingest Coneever and her brothers find the library after she asks for help, and they run like heck to the roof, yelling sweet nothings as they climb to the tower to rescue the Princess from Phil’s grimy shirt. Upon arrival, the brothers moan, “Miss Utah? Oooooohhhhh, Miss Latin Utah. Even better.” What?

Phil dubs them Team Number One, and says there are no prizes for this leg of the race. Bwahaha! He gotcha, din’t he! They win a trip for four to Jackson Hole, Wyoming. Maybe they will torture the Bleevers by Yielding it to them. The Coneevers are truly excited about the prize, and are more excited about Phil asking them if they feel they can go all the way now. They boys shoot Miss Latin Utah a smoldering, sidelong glance.

FUN FACT: According to the US Census Bureau, Utah’s population is 89% white, 9% Hispanic/Latino, .8% African American, 4% Native American/Eskimo/Asian, and 4% Other. Which adds up to a grand total of 106.8%.

The Cleavers arrive and find they are Team Number Two. The Beavers are hot on their trail, and are declared Team Number Three. Phil asks them about the Yield, to which they cheer Noisily. Phil then notices they haven’t killed Noisy yet, and he takes that as a good sign. “Whatever,” says the domestic short-haired Beaver. Noisy defends herself in a lengthy recitative which is too painful to transcribe. Make her go away now.

Back at the ski slope, the Bleevers finish their healthy snack and watch the last few salt crystals descend the hourglass. Sausage breaks it open and sprinkles it on the remaining fries she stole from her mother the widow. While Rolly pulls off a decent jump, Sausage rummages through the trash. Watch out for beehives, honey.

Prissy wants to get this over with. She gets the next clue, finds it’s a Pit Stop, and says she just wants to get eliminated. They moan about this being the worst day ever. Ma slaps them for forgetting about her baby daddy. They lollygag around the library and drag their sundry body parts up to the roof, begging to be eliminated, and don’t bother putting all their underwear on over their clothes. Besides, that would be raunchy, and they don’t believe in that. Jezebel 3:6 says, Undergarments shall be worn under garments and over chastity belts at all times, thus sayeth the Jesus.

The excitement mounts. BYE BYE, BLEEVERS! Phil puts on his sad serious face. “Weaver family?” (as if he doesn’t recognize them by now) “You’re the last team to arrive.” The Bleevers giggle and cheer. “I’m pleased to tell you, however,” he continues in his sad voice, “that this is a non-elimination race and you are safe.” The Bleevers burst into the weepies and gnash their teeth. Phil seems a little disappointed in the team he’s desperate to keep in the race, for ratings purposes. Just this morning, Bert Van Munster seized Phil by the very balls and threatened his job if he didn’t make for the Bleevers to stay afloat. Phil trembles and says they are the least enthusiastic racers ever to not be eliminated.

FUN FACT: Mr. Wheeze spent a week at Bertram Van Munster’s house once. Mr. Wheeze roomed with Bert’s nephew in college, and I’ve known both Bert’s nephew and also his niece (different families) since birth. We call him Uncle Bert.

The Bleevers whine again. Nobody likes us, us against them, same ol’ shit, different day. Phil gives them a pep talk by taking all their money and possessions, then accuses them for their lack of hunger. Hmmm.

They argue. They love the race, but they can’t handle the personal stress. They are the outsiders and the underdogs, which makes them Sausage and the Outdogs. And that’s just not fair to them. Right Jim?

Phil slaps them upside the heads and throws them a bone. Ma Bleever seizes the moment and turns the ball around for her team. “You’re right, you sleazy sumbitch,” she says to Phil. Miss Latin Utah (that must have been a toughie to win), she jus’ stand there lookin’ wise, but she ain’t sayin’ nothin’. Slyly she hands the Bleevers their last place prize, which now becomes their only possession: The Book of Mormon.

FUN FACT: If tin foil touches the heating coils inside your oven, it will start on fire. Unless the oven isn’t on, that is.

We find ourselves in the Bleever End Times confessional. Ma Bleever is injuvenated and revigorated from Phil’s spanking. She wants to be amazing by coming back from all their trials and tribulations to win the race. They’re ready to win. And I am ready to turn the electric meat slicer on my ownself and take my ears off.

Next week on The Amazing Race: Ma Weaver goes after the Coneever men with a menacing threat heard round the world. She practices her shocking grasp maneuver on Rolly. And a balloon collision sends all the...oh, just forget it. There is no God. That’s it, that’s all, you can all go home now. The end.  ¶ 12:55 PM