Previously on TAR: The Flanders conclusively proved the nonexistence of karma by continuing to live unexploded lives. The Godeshutthefuckups (thanks Kim!) again demonstrated that they are completely fucking repugnant and awful human beings, but at least they're not as consistently and persistently fuck-awful as the Flanders. The Dimz and the Beavers set new lows for what we're willing to accept in winning TAR contestants. Phil played a cruel joke on the contestants and dry-humped a fence. The rest? Fuck it, Kim did a perfectly good job of summarizing it, and it sucked the fucking life out of her. She's a hollow shell of her former self, and she took that bullet for you leeches. Go read her work. Believe in her divinity. Restore her ability to make the rain fall and the sun shine and small, perfectly sized thunderstorms appear o'ertop the about-to-be-smote heads of her followers' enemies. Save Our Kimmah from the Circle of People Who Push Popsicle Sticks Into Their Ears. She's worth it.

So really? My head’s gonna explode too, because this episode turned out to be pretty much the same fucking episode Kimmah had to suffer and bleed through. I mean, really, they’re just about indistinguishable, except that I get to write somebody out, which just as easily could’ve happened in Kim’s episode. Why am I lucky and charmed and marshmallowy and Kimmah’s depressed and soulsucked and left with too many contestants? There’s no reason at all for this. Kimmah didn’t deserve it. It should’ve been me who had to suffer through not only non-elimination, but non-non-elimination. Now I’ve got a bad case of survivor’s guilt. Poor Kimmah. No, Kim, put down that popsicle stick!

Okay, fine, you want actual previouslying, even though I did just fine previously? Fine. See if I give you anything I dig out of my ears. Previously on TAR Family Values:

The Flanders family rants maniacally at the Dimz family:

Ned: Are you sorry you wasted your Yield?

Random Dimz: Uhm…no?

Ned: You will be!

Random Dimz: Uhm…fuck you, you irrelevant, dried-up old batshit-insane fuckwit?

Balloons nearly collide. Railroad hijinks ensue. The Godeshutthefuckups get left behind at the railroad. Old Faithful ejaculates. The Flanders and the Beavers footrace to what they think is a pit stop, only to find that Phil is a bastard.

Roll credits, then go to:

Commercials:

The same damn morons you’ve seen all season, for British Petroleum; a family of idiots in a mall, wishing they had Verizon Wireless cell phones, and isn’t it good that VW is having a holiday sale; Sasha Cohen, inexplicably not having sex with me, but instead shilling Citizen watches…that’s the figure skater, not the guy who plays Ali G, by the way; a trailer, for Russell Crowe and Tuggah: Fightin’ Round the World, which inexplicably also stars the frighteningly overrated Renee Zellwegger; giant, gag-sized gifts on parade, for Sears; and CBS, for some soap opera, which commercial proves conclusively that TAR’s target audience has taken a turn for the worse with this whole family concept, which can neither end nor die quickly enough to suit me. Or you, if you have a brain, but remember, I’m just some anonymous Internet guy and you don’t really care what I think about you, right? Right?

And we’re back, repeating the last thirty seconds or so of the episode that Our Poor Kimmah had to summarize. Phil hands the Beavers and the Flanders their clues. We’re off, driving 49 miles to Dubois, Wyoming, to visit the Turtle Ranch, where we will become more clueful. There is much whining and exasperation. To the Flanders’ credit, and you know you won’t hear me say this much, the Beavers’ exasperated whining is damned near as annoying as the Flanders’ as makes no difference to the entertainment void through which I am suffering.

Meanwhile, back before Phil’s Little Prank Stop, the Godeshutthefuckups actually pull over to the side of the road and let the Dimz pass them. What the Godeshutthefuckups are doing is a little beyond me; they’re apparently trying to call the fire department to get directions. This ranks up there with Freddy’s lying to a Chicago police officer about the nature of emergencies, in a long-ago and far-away TAR finale. Unsurprisingly, the Godeshutthefuckup sister who calls is denied and disrespected by the telephone operator when she asks to be connected to a fire department, any fire department, then (deservedly) bitched out by her bitch sisters, which provokes more bitching about who’s the biggest bitch. The Dimz roll merrily along, quite confident that they will: a) get there; and b) know it when they see it.

This is all so fucking boring. Do you realize that, since sometime back in October or so, we’ve been watching these assclowns drive themselves across about 2000 road miles of the American West? That the whole campers thing is this giant eureka moment that The Bruck had for saving money, causing bigger and better bunching, and keeping all the poor endangered little famblies in a single, safe, easily managed country? That we’re fucking dying here, and this bonesmoker Bruck is doing the killing, and we’re just fucking laying on the fucking couch fucking TAKING IT???

I mean, think about this. We haven’t seen Miss Lousiana Assfuck since, like, September. We haven’t seen the Princess/Whore Stasi since not long thereafter. Around the time of the last snowfall (before the one we got two days ago), we watched Team America stand by helplessly as Alec Baldwin blew up the Panama Canal. The fucking Flanders have been yielded TWICE, in Panama and Utah, but the Yields were strategically placed right before giant bunch-fucks, so we still have to watch their lying, rude, insane, faux-oppressed, criminally fat asses haul across the desert in a fucking Winnebago? The last time somebody was eliminated, it was the fucking Paolos, back in those happy days a year or so ago before the Country Music Awards. WHY ARE WE LAYING DOWN FOR THIS? TO ARMS! TO ARMS!!!!!

Sigh. Sorry, this is getting away from me. I’ll take a Ritalin or something.

On the road to Dubois, the Beavers are bitching about hunger, and this episode, much like this summary, has turned into a total whinefest. The Flanders argue about whether to get gas as they ask for directions to the Turtle Ranch. The two fat, ugly, nasty Flanders sisters get into an adolescent bitchslapping contest.

The Dimz find the Rancho de Philsucks, ranting about the Philinator and hooting and hollering and stuff, and find out that they’re still racing. A little later, the Godeshutthefuckups very loudly and assertively find the ranch, bickering about who’s contributing, who’s not, and generally seeing if they can get the littlest Godeshutthefuckup to twist her little panties and cry. They do. After considerable weeping about their presumed imminent elimination, they find out that they’re moving on to the Turtle Ranch. Phil cruelly stretches out the drama, telling them that they’re the last family to arrive, and dramatically pausing as little Chrissie Godeshutthefuckup bawls her little eyes out. These horrible persons are then allowed to continue.

I mean, c’mon, Phil, what the fuck? I mean, what the fucking fuck? You coulda just eliminated them right there. They’d have never known the difference. They’re too busy bickering to watch the show. Right now, there’s some chat room where they go to boss each other around and call each other names and make little Chrissie weep like a widow, instead of watching the show.

Not only that, Phil encourages the bitches. “Don’t stop racing, it’s not over,” he yells, cheerfully. Not only that, one of the sisters compounds the annoyance by suggesting that maybe they have to go eat some turtles.

I humbly suggest that she go eat some Terrapins. In the lewdest possible sense, I mean. And as long as they’re not me, I mean.

The Beavers arrive at Turtle Ranch, only to discover that we are being bunched. Again. The Beaver girls correctly identify this as “bogus.” The Flanders arrive after opining that many turtles are made at the Turtle Ranch.

Sigh.

Pennsylvania’s a state, by the way.

The Flanders retreat to their trailer. It seems the other teams are people they don’t want to hang out with. Yeah, yeah. Let me guess…they’re oppressing you, right?

The Dimz find the ranch, and socialize like normal human beings with the Beaverses. The Godeshutthefuckups get there, too. Everyone’s happy and social. Except for the Flanderses, who are back in the trailer bitching about how everyone’s out to get them. “They are freaks,” opines one Flanders. Ye gods, these people are completely psychotic.

The other families turn in, as one Flanders meaningfully turns out the trailer light, pouting, “We don’t need them.”

I’m really tired of telling you how awful the Flanders are, so we’ll just go to:

Commercials, brought to you by Buick:

overly stylish narration and photography, for Buick, and I’m guessing someone might win themselves a Buick tonight, huh?; people in an auditorium getting lectured about Internet security, for AOL; a trailer, for a sequel to Cheaper by the Dozen, which smells a lot, stylistically, like What About Bob?; excited monochrome children, for Target; more of the same goofy customers, for British Petroleum; and CBS, for Survivor, about which I am not writing.

And we’re back. On the Turtle Ranch. Which does not involve reproduction, or chocolate-peanut-caramel candy, or My Alma Mater, or anything reptilian. Because, y’know, Phil’s not there.

The ranch opens, and there are giant chauffeured SUVs waiting for the famblies, and I think I sense that we’re about to get the Detour lecture. The famblies are bewildered by their destination; they’re being driven, on a dirt road, deeper into Wyoming. The Dimz and the Beavers are tuckered out; the Godeshutthefuckups are hoping they’re not really in last place; and the Flanderses want the Lord to give them wisdom. The joke writes itself, dunnit?

Oh look, it’s the Clue Bus. And y’know what? A Detour is a choice between two tasks, each with its own pros and cons. In this detour, teams must choose between two goofily nicknamed tasks, one involving putting the wheels and horses on a wagon and driving the wagon a quarter-mile, and the other involving building a teepee to the satisfaction of a presumably Native American gentleman in presumably indigenous garb.

The Dimz and the Beavers take on the wagon task; the Flanderses and the Godeshutthefuckups decide to build teepees. The wagon task is moderately entertaining, as the wagons are sorta rickety-looking, and the contestants have to find four wheels of the same color, and lug them back to the wagon body, and assemble the wagon and the horses and ride hell for leather along a bumpy course.

The teepee task, on the other hand, is dull beyond words. A Godeshutthefuckup—little Chrissie, I think—dashes off to measure, with her feet, the space between teepee poles. The Flanderses just do it.

Back at the wagon factory, the Dimz manhandle their wagon wheels back, while the Beavers squeal that wagon wheels are icky. Wagon assembly ensues. I lied, it’s not particularly entertaining.

A selection from Aaron Copeland’s Rodeo (but not, sadly, the beef theme song) accompanies the Flanders’ building of a teepee. Part of the process involves lashing a rope around the tops of the teepee poles. Rolly Flanders chants as he runs circles around the teepee, lashing the rope; one of his idiot sisters tells him to “Shut up and don’t let them see how you’re doing it.” See? The Flanderses are even nice to each other. Why does everyone hate them?

Furthermore, how the fuck is this kid supposed to not let the Godeshutthefuckups see him lashing a rope around a pole in the middle of a freakin’ prairie? Fortunately for Rolly, he’s a good kid, more or less—he seems to be measurably less insane than his completely bugfuck mother and sisters—so he does not respond, rather than reminding his sister that she’s stupid, insane, nasty, and looks like a yeasty skunk sausage.

Ned Flanders tells Rolly to get the rope tighter, but poor Rolly stops in his tracks; “He’s looking at me,” he says of the gaily dressed Native American watcher. Rolly is horrified. What he doesn’t understand is that the watcher is stealing his soul. It’s okay, Rolly, you’ll barely notice it’s gone.

The Godeshutthefuckups bicker about how to build the teepee. Chrissie insists that the poles must be four shoes apart. Her older, meaner sisters put her in a concentration camp and gas her.

The Dimz complete their wagon, extolling their own smartness. They bring the horsies over, and they’re just ahead of the Beavers. But it’s a quick cut to the wagoneering, because we’re back to Flanderses doing a reasonable and moderately cooperative job of teepee assembly, while the Godeshutthefuckups bicker and whine about how everyone else is ahead of them and generally make asses of themselves instead of just shutting the fuck up and building a fucking teepee. Their task is made even more difficult by their fundamental dearth of understanding of simple geometry.

The Dimz hitch the horses and take off, yelling at the horses—“Hut Hut Hut Hut Hut!”; one of the horses jumps offsides. The Dimz girl waves politely at the Flanders as they pass by, and Ned deems this “snotty.”

The Flanderses are really, really shitty people.

The Beavers git hitched up and take off, not far behind the Dimz, who finish the quarter-mile course, get back in the SUV, and head back to the ranch. The ensuing clue tells them to go to Cody, Wyoming. Phil tells us that this is 221 miles away. They’ll have to go to a hotel named after Buffalo Bill’s daughter, dress up in period clothing, and get their picture taken with a Buffalo Bill impersonator, who will then reclue them.

The Dimz are beaming about their first-place standing, and about the excitement of the rickety wagon ride. The Beavers finish their ride and get clued.

Back at the teepee farm, the Weavers are continuing to teepee, and the Godeshutthefuckups are continuing to bicker. The mechanics and mathematics of the process continue to make monkeys of the Godeshutthefuckups, who have really fallen well behind the Flanderses on the evolutionary scale, at least those parts of it that involve brain.

As the Dimz run back to the SUV, the girl Dimz, who doesn’t sweat much for a fat girl, tells us that it would be nice if her pants wanted to stay up. Anyone who is turned on by the girl Dimz should feel free to get excited by this. For my part, I have to go rinse a little vomit out of my mouth now.

The Dimz painfully try to come up with the name of Buffalo Bill’s daughter (it’s Irma). “Painfully” is actually not sufficiently descriptive, but I’m not sure that a sufficiently descriptive word exists that will cover the anguish generated by watching these muscleheads try to think. They complete the equation by actually realizing, and stating, that they are stupid. Bruck punctuates this with a brief shot of buffalo roaming.

And more teepeeing. This is really, really, really not as entertaining as Kathy Vavrick O’Brien peeing. There is a great deal of Godeshutthefuckup hoisting of one sister onto another’s shoulders, with concomitant bickering, and whining, and Chrissie-bashing.

Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I like Chrissie Godeshutthefuckup. I think she’s a whiny little snip. It’s just amazing the way her older sisters circle her like sharks. I do not care to consider what the Godeshutthefuckup household was like when these carnivorous bitches were growing up together.

The Flanderses finish their teepee, calling for the “Chief.” Now, we have no idea whether the Native American is actually a Chief, or an Elder, or an Alderman. Come to think on it, we have no idea if he’s actually Native American. But the Flanderses are comfortable assuming he is both a Native American and a Chief. Ned is so certain that she calls him “Chief-o,” forgetting that she is no longer in Panama.

Which is not a state, except maybe to the Flanderses.

We cut to more Godeshutthefuckuping, with Chrissie standing at the bottom of a totem pole of bickering sisters, once again bearing the weight of the entire family. Which is considerable, given that even tons of hot air cannot lighten the load of tons of Godeshutthefuckup flesh.

The watcher approves the Flanders’ work, and they’re on their way, properly clued. The Godeshutthefuckups are continuing to bicker. Sharon, who appears to be one of the two oldest, continues to bitch bitch bitch. These harridans really must be slain.

But it’s not to be, because we’re off to a tease for TAR Live, followed by:

Commercials:

Upbeat music and a hand model who may or may not be George Costanza, for Verizon Wireless; water and suave voiceover, for Buick, again; an overly large family on Christmas, for K-Mart; a trailer, for the DVD version of Fantastic Four; my local news, the sucky one that has forfeited its right to a large, media-market-in-your-facing font, for its extra-special e-alert weather system, which does nothing to fire the asshole weatherman who insists that his actual given name is “Topper”; a dog and a bunch of filthy little soccer players exiting a minivan, for Dirt Devil; mellow music and textover, for Volkswagen, and who wouldn’t want a car built by the company that built the finest half-tracks of World War II?; food, enhanced by professional food designers, for Bob Evans sausage; annoying chick voiceover and happy models, for Marshalls; and the aforementioned dipshit Topper, telling me that it will snow more on Thursday night, which is, by now, uhm, now.

And we’re back.

Where the Godeshutthefuckups are still panting and bickering and trying to finish their teepee. Chrissie uncharacteristically earns praise from her incredibly mean sisters, and the Godeshutthefuckups get clueful.

Up in Cody, the Dimz and the Beavers are dragracing into Cody, Wyoming. The Beavers pass the Dimz when the Dimz ask a passerby about Buffalo Bill’s daughter, and the Dimz return the favor a moment later. The Dimz are the first to arrive at the Irma. They’re escorted into a dressing room by a person impersonating Irma. She’s actually quite exceedingly hot. The man impersonating Buffalo Bill looks amused, drunk, and amiable. The Beavers are made to wait until the Dimz are done.

Back on the road, the Flanderses are dreaming sweet dreams of Pizza Hut. One of the sausage daughters tells us of her great love for the buffet. Really? Wouldn’t have known, you fat nasty cow. The Flanders daughters, by the way, do sweat a lot, even for fat girls.

The Godeshutthefuckups get on the road, vowing that there will be no peeing between here and Cody.

The Dimz dress up like 19th-century riverboat gamblers, much to the amusement of the Beavers. The Dimz are told to be deadly serious. They get through their picture and get their clue, which tells them to drive (73 miles!) to Red Lodge, Montana, and find the tenth tee at some golf course. The Dimz admire their picture as they drive away from the Irma; one of them claims he looks like a pimp. The Dimz daughter actually doesn’t look too fat in the picture.

The Flanderses arrive while the Beavers are dressing. The Beavers get their picture taken while the Flanderses wait, giving off waves of impatience—and impertinence. The Beavers get out, and it is actually a fairly handsome picture of Wally and his little beavers. Wally suggests the picture as a family Christmas card. That’s fine, Wally, but what are you going to send your Jewish friends? Please, Wally…won’t you help us secularize Christmas?

The Dimz find the golf course easily, and the accompanying clue, which of course sends them to a Roadblock, which is brak brak brak bite me. In this roadblock, two team members must board a Buick Lucerne golf cart (what? what??? When the hell did golf carts get brand and model names? What the fucking fuck?) and drive down the back nine, looking for four golf balls of the same color. Okay, fine.

The Dimz send two Dimz boys out to search for balls. Their chosen color is orange, of course, since they are of course huge Ben-Galz fans. They find their first ball on a fairway, and it’s time for the Beavers to arrive. Wally is apparently a golfer, and he takes one of his little beavers out for a ride with him. He chooses the purple ball; one of the beavers screams, “No, we’re blue, dwork!” in a show of filial hostility unmatched since the Paolos got dumped into Lake Havasu. Wally doesn’t care. I am disappointed that he doesn’t immediately sell the offending daughter to the nearest Dimz boy.

Wally comes up with the brilliant idea to have his little beaver look in the hole. Nothing there (no Dimz boys are about), but she finds a ball on the fairway.

Back in Cody, the Flanders are ready to get their picture taken, and y’know what? The editing of this sequence is way skewed, because there’s no way the Bransens drove 73 miles and got started on the golf course while the Flanderses were still getting dressed. This is the most obvious time-sequence editing fuckup I’ve ever seen, and it confirms everyone’s long-held view that the TAR editors ruthlessly manipulate us to make it seem like teams are closer together or farther apart. I do not care for the TAR editors. I do not care for the Manson Family edition. I want it to go away foreverish.

So the Flanderses get their picture taken, and they can’t resist smiling for the camera, but it’s actually not a bad family portrait. I’ll give the Flanderses this much: when they are not particularly pressed for time and they get off their incredibly offensive and ill-founded persecution kick, they seem to be capable of being a happy and relaxed family, and that has to be a good thing. Once in the car, Ned and one of the sausages argue about which of them looks more disgusting. Rolly, who still seems to me to be the most salvageable Flanders, quietly cracks up laughing. I suspect that Rolly will take his share of the family's winnings and build himself a little cabin in Ocala and shack up with a few Hooters girls.

The Godeshutthefuckup sisters find the Irma, mocking each other all the way, and are escorted straight in, so I guess there may have been a pee stop or two after all. Back at the golf course, the Dimz have three balls (oh, shut up, you wankers) and a shot at finishing the task ahead of the Beavers—who get to their third ball right about now in the editing sequence.

The Flanderses figure out that what they’re looking for is a golf course, and the Godeshutthefuckups get their picture taken. The sisters actually relax a little while they’re waiting for their picture, dancing and flirting a little with the Buffalo Bill impersonator, who appears to be too drunk to notice. Irma sighs, offended by their bawdy behavior with her father figure.

The Dimz get to the 18th hole, and inexplicably fail to look in the hole, which does, in fact, contain an orange ball. The Flanderses arrive, and the Beavers take advantage of the Dimz’ lapse to find their fourth ball in a hole. They clue up, and we will now drive 43 miles to the ranch that is the next pit stop, where the last family check in may be eliminated, but since, as Kimmah pointed out, her youngest child was still a gleam in her grandfather’s eye when last someone was eliminated, and there’s only one remaining episode of this trash, it seems likely that we will get to see someone Philiminated.

The Beavers sprint to their truck and camper, and the Dimz find their last ball in the 18th hole and clue up. The Dimz are disappointed in themselves.

The Godeshutthefuckups arrive at the golf course to find the two Flanders sausages sitting at the tenth tee, awaiting task completion, so yes, we have in fact been misled by editing. Duh. The two oldest sisters take off to complete the roadblock, and Chrissie and the only cute-ish Godeshutthefuckup sister sit and wait. The sausages studiously ignore them. What polite little sausages.

The two Godeshutthefuckup hags find a blue ball, and move along. Ned and Rolly find their third ball. Chrissie and the cute one both opine that they’d hate to be out looking for balls with their nasty sisters. The two sisters out on the course bitch and snipe at each other; one decides to get out and walk, and the fight becomes pretty huge. These two sisters are massively incompetent, nasty bitches, which is well-established by the time we go to:

Commercials, brought to us by Citizen watches and the new Jim Carrey movie:

a trailer, for the aforementioned Fun with Dick and Jane; a Waltrip, for Citizen watches; giant mouths, for Oral B; a family decorating the tree, for some noisy Hallmark ornament; more of the same got-damn idiot customers, for British Petroleum; the idiot family without cell phones, again, for Verizon Wireless; CBS, and some exceedingly hot babes, for the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show, which will follow TAR and which is on my tape, waiting for me to watch it as a reward for completing this dogass turkey of a summary, and for some figure skating show; the same damn commercial, for Volkswagen, again; flying miniature radios for some MP3 player available at Walmart.com; guitars and a morphing SUV and animated ravens, for some ugly Nissan vehicle; and my crappy local news, for itself.

And we’re back.

Back on the fairway, the Godeshutthefuckup sisters are bickering about who’s done more, and about whether the cart will decapitate one of them.

On the road, the Beavers and the Dimz get to whatever Montana town includes the target ranch. Back at the golf course, Rolly finds the last red ball, in a hole, and the Flanderses are on the way to the pit stop. Ned opines that this was the most frustrating thing she’s ever done, so I guess scooping Maude up off the track at Daytona wasn't all that bad. The Goddeshutthefuckup sisters finally find their last ball, in a hole. They get in the truck and begin to wish bad things for the Flanderses.

Over at the ranch, cows low in the pastures. The Beavers find the driveway and begin their Philsearch. The Dimz are not far behind them—we’re going to be edited as if this is a photo finish, but I don’t think it is, really. The Beavers are welcomed to Montana, in first place.

Phil asks how they liked them there golf carts; Wally prophetically alleges that Buicks are great vehicles. This is good for Wally, because the Beavers won one, and it’s not likely that any of the Beaver daughters are gonna drive a Buick in the next 30 years.

The Beavers are nowhere in evidence as the Dimz arrive second. Phil notifies them that they’re in the finals.

The Flanderses are on the road. As they pull into the town of Absalonikarootytootyfreshandfruity, near which lies our pit stop, a siren whoops behind them. It’s John Law! The cream of Montana deputy sheriffs has decided to get on television, and tells the sausage driving the vehicle that she’s been speeding.

The editors spend a few moments making us believe that the Godeshutthefuckups will catch up while the Flanderses are being body-cavity searched, but it is not to be. The deputy sheriff lets the sausage off with a warning, and after some faux suspense, including the Godeshutthefuckups seeing a ranch (!) and the gas needle in the Flanders truck dipping to E, we get a fake footrace. It’s not actually close, of course; the Godeshutthefuckups are nowhere in sight as the Flanders land on the mat in time to make it to the finals.

Finally, the tragic music begins, and the Godeshutthefuckups are, at long last, eliminated. Their group confessional is a masterpiece; the oldest and fattest sister bitches about her sisters’ bitching, much of which was caused by her own bitching; Chrissie is sad because her sisters suck, and that’s sad; the other old sister bitches about Chrissie, essentially confirming Chrissie’s assessment; and the cute one is just appalled that her sisters are such a pack of whinging, uncooperative bitches.

As for the rest, everyone’s confident. No one’s going to be nice to anyone. Everyone’s going to hustle. The Flanderses don’t care if no one thinks they’re a threat (which is an interesting turn, since the Flanderses have been bitching all along that everyone else is jealous of them because they’re a threat, but this sort of logic is about what we’ve come to expect from the Flanderses). We get montagey, kaleidoscopy confessional goodness. The Dimz assert that it’s theirs, unless they let someone take it, and as God is the non-sweaty fat chick’s witness, that’s not gonna happen. The Flanderses assert divine right. The Beavers flip their hair.

And we’re off to:

Commercials:

water and suave voiceover, again, for that same damned Buick; a trailer, for the movie remake of The Producers; household catastrophe, for some Black and Decker product that prevents household catastrophes; penguins, for Duracell; a moron and the Star Wars cast, for Wal-Mart; and CBS, where the whore Julie Chen Moonves, once again incorrectly characterizing tonight’s TAR losers as “castoffs,” and also for a TV movie about the late Pope.

And we’re back, where next week on the two-hour season finale of TAR Sure Has Turned Into a Pile of Dogshit:

Boats race through some semi-white water on a river; Flanderses scream; Wally gets pissed off in a ballpark; Rolly Flanders deliberately knocks a Dimz on his ass, from behind, while his batshit insane mother screams, “No, don’t touch him.” Fuck you, you delusional, rude, hypocritical crone. Curling and trapeze artistry happen. We are clearly spending time in Canada.

And we’re done. Thanks, as always, for reading, especially considering that this summary, like the show upon which it was based, suhhhhhcked.