What's So Amazing?
Friday, March 24, 2006
TAR 9: Lech mir am Arshle, bitte bitte bitte sehr.
by Wheeze
Well, well. Here you are. Just when you thought the Big Buckin’ Chicken was the best thing on TV, The Amazing Race brings you a real doozy. Just before it begins, The Network shows a commercial about some amazing fruit drink, using gigantic fruit that people are climbing all over. Enormous fruits, on the coast of some body of veryblue water. And right where I have this frame paused, in pink, 7-point font letters on top of red, juicy strawberries, are the words, “Contains no fruit juice.”
There’s an irony there in that commercial that relates to this particular episode. Oh yes, yes there is. If you figure it out, let me know what it is because it’s over my head.
The show opens with a montage of craziness that can only be called Moscow. That’s in Russia, in case you didn’t watch Anastasia eight hundred brazillian times, not that we are bringing brazillians into this – well, some of us might when we try to talk to cab drivers in Moscow.
Little know fact: All cab drivers speak Spanish. It’s a prerequisite. Minimum is 4 courses, or a 215 class equivalency. Whether in Brazil or Russia, you can always find somebody who speaks the universal language.
Let’s talk about me for a moment.
I can’t remember names. I don’t even remember who won TAR last season. If I knew their names then, I’d be surprised. But I’ll never know if I knew, because I am too lazy to check the last TAR episode I did.
Usually (still talking about me here), if we’re down to four or fewer people, I’ll manage to get the names okay. But today we are dealing with eighteen people. Plus that one guy with the stone cold tits who never smiles. That’s a lot of names.
Here are the people I know: FrankenBarry, The Geeks, The Fratboys, and The Scoobs, as in Scooby and Shaggy, stolen from Beannie because that’s funny stuff. Also known are LaWanduh and LaFawnduh who make up the Spanglish team, Lake and his bitch, and the other team that looks like Lakenbitch, hence, the Lakealikes. And there’s Token of course, who will never win because they are black. I’m missing one team, but for the love of God and money I can’t remember who that might be. Maybe we’ll find them later, maybe not. Oh hell! It’s the Dani team (plural, Dani). Silly me.
On to the show. Which is a continuation of last week. So go read Beannie’s if you haven’t been keeping up.
Phil feels right at home in the freezing cold land of Witch’s Tit, Russia while Fratboys discover this leg of the race isn’t over yet. They take their clue and head to the airport, with intention of continuing on to Frankfurt, Germany.
The rest of this summary will be written in German, in honor of my beloved and dearly departed grandmother, who was, incidentally, found to have a sewing needle in her bum during one lengthy CAT scan I was forced to attend. Boy, was that a shocker.
Ja. Nun. Die Fratjungen gehen, und Lakeundbitchen gehen nach. Sie sind sehr glucklich! Nummer Zwei, viel spaß und gluck! Aber. Es ist nicht am enden, nein, nein, nein! “Ach, Scheiss!” sagt Bitchen. Undsoweiter, undsoweiter, die andere personnen, wie Yolanda auf dem Tokens, sagt auch, “Ach, Scheiss!”
“Wo den?” fragt die Frat. “Zum Taxi?”
“Nein! Danke!” sagt die andere Frat. “Ich habe den Wagen da!”
(And with that, I have fulfilled the prophecy of the Bundeslände Karten of 1987, by using the one phrase I said I’d never ever ever use. Because when would I have a car in Germany?? That’s just nuts. But. The spell has been broken, and I no longer must honor my Grossmutter in such fashion. For which you will be thankful, and you [b]will[/b] praise me, and tell me how thankful you are in your comment below.)
In the taxi, the Fratboys decided that on the mat in front of Phil the Witch would have been a good place to be holding hands with the Dani. And now we know that the Frats will neverever win this thing, because they think with their heads.
The Lakers are “haulin’ ass,” and Lake utters a slimy under-chuckle like a red-faced Dubya in the presence of Helen Thomas. Or, heck, even that not-scary David Gregory.
Tokens are third, and Mister sez, brightly, “I don’t want any of the other groups to catch up to us.” Ohhhhhhhhhh… I think I get it now.
Shaggy and Scooby turn up next, and they share a tender moment about FrankenBarry. Shaggy generously tips Tits, who almost…almost…cracks a smile and becomes animated. He just can’t wait to blog about the Scoobs later on. Meanwhile, Scooby grabs the dollar back from Tits and they are on their way.
FrankenBarry are fifth and oh so excited. Too bad they’ve quit twice already. How many times will FrankenBarry quit today, is the REAL question here. I think they should be Titliminated immediately for being whiney.
LaWanduh and LaFawnduh are doing what Latinos do best – cleaning the buses of Caucasians. Sadly, they keep crying about it and refuse to leave, streaking. You get what you pay for, I guess. The Lakealikes clean too.
Meanwhile, the Frats get their tickets to Frankfurt without a problem, and are in a philnominal lead. The call the ugliest ticket counter woman I have ever seen ‘beautiful’ and head to the plane, while the Lakers are refused ticketing. The Frats take off at 7:05 pm.
Little Known Fact: I like the Fratboys. I like the Scoobs, and I love the Geeks.
Everyone else must die.
Back on the mat (hi, Matt!) in Moscow, the Dani are 6th, the Duhs are 7th, the Lakealikes are 8th and the Geeks, who also cleaned the bus, have fallen into last place, OH THE HORRORS! Tits plays a mean trick on them, and this is the first time we’ve seen them cranky at Tits’ ‘Psych you out pit stop’. But not nearly cranky enough for me to lose one iota of geeklove for them.
The Lakers manage a flight a couple hours behind the Frats, and the Scoobs pick a smart spot to wait for ticketing in the airport. Meanwhile, the Frats arrive in Frankfurt, grab a train, win the lottery and get laid by a whole host of Veela, that’s how fucking lucky they are today.
On the 9:15pm flight to Frankfurt are the Lakers and Scoobs.
LaWanduh and LaFawnduh piss and moan about this being the worst day ever, and the ticket counter person pulls the shade in their face. Ha! The Lakealikes go elsewhere to Lufthansa to get a 7am flight to Frankfurt the next morning.
I’m beginning to think we’re never going to get out of this damn Aeropuerto (that’s Taxispeak for shithole). The other teams find out one by one that they will have to come back in the morning to book flights. Ach, Scheiße! The Lakealikes make camp in the airport while the others go find a hotel. And we wait. For seven am.
The Frats meet Johann on the train to Stuttgart and immediately ask him if there are pretty ladies in Germany. Johann smiles all cute and stuff and says yes, there are. Sometimes. And adds the worldwide wisdom, “The more you trinkt, the schöner they get.” The Frats wonder why the Germans are always drunk. They make it to Stuttgart, and find a taxi which brings them to the Mercedes building. The run to the clue box, and we hope they get a clue that says, ‘Du Sceißkopf! There’s nobody behind you. You can walk.’
Once 8:30am arrives, the teams will hop into a Mercedes and luckily have a driver to take them on the ultimate torque + spiderman experience of driving on the ominous WALL OF DEATH, which is not to be confused with that little wall that was once in Berlin, though the results were similar.
Train 2 reaches Stuttgart with the Lakenbitch and Scoobs teams, who also head to the Mercedes factory and get their clues.
Back in Moscow it’s 5am and the remaining teams are all present at the airport and getting tickets for Flight 3, which leaves at 7am.
Little Known Fact: Russia is a mere 55 miles away from the United States.
At 8:30am in Stuttgart, the ISS arrives to drive the teams in circles and demand an answer to the world’s most puzzling question: What the fuck is wrong with your president? The teams urge Germany not to wait to get involved – 335 million lives depend upon them. ‘Yeah, we’ll get right on that,’ they say.
Teams get the tour of the track, first on the high-speed lane, where they reach 170 kilometers per hour, which, after careful calculation, I have determined to be roughly 885.3 miles per hour. All the teams yell. The Frats reach climax. Some (coughSCOOBScough) do the Chicken Dance, while yelling Mach Schnell! Mach Schnell! (which, translated, means ‘No hurry. Take your time.’)
Little Known Fact: All first year German language students learn the Chicken Dance, as well as the song, Mein Hut. Crazy, crazy lyrics there. Goes a little like this…
(clears throat)
Mein Hut, er hat drei Ecke,
Drei Ecke hat mein Hut.
Und hat er nicht drei Ecke,
Denn das is nicht mein HUT!
(Ja ja ja!)
Which, translated, means “Um ya ya, um ya ya, Um ya ya ya! Gooooo Terrapins!”
Groups 1 and 2 are all bunched up again, the teams receive their next clues from the drivers and are given the keys to the ‘cedes. They must now drive 200 miles(4.6 kilometers) on the Autobahn (i.e. Wall of Death 2), to Bad Tolz (meaning “BloodBath of the Nightmare G(ah)Nomes”). In the haunted field there are decapitated and bisected fantastical creatures who have apparently just been attacked by Hector, Gunilla and the whole team of Ithilgorn’s Orc Brigade. Their cleaved bodies are strewn about the field. The teams must pick up the body parts and look under them, for apparently Gnomes are a little like worms – when split in half, they don’t die, they regenerate a new gnome underneath. The racers must collect the newborn gnomies and bring them, coddled in their bosoms, to the Tit Queen and Dumbledore, who is sometimes mistaken for Santa.
But first. The third group of teams arrives in Stuttgart, and the LaWanduhs ask their taxi driver what the word for ‘fast’ is. “Schnell,” says he, and they begin to chant ‘Schnell, Schnell, Schnell!’ at him, just in case he doesn’t understand ‘fast'. Of course, after a while, LaWanduh forgets the word and starts saying ‘Schlaff! Schlaff!’ instead, which is a really, really extremely funny thing to say to someone who is driving you around on a race for a million dollars. They all do their Mercedes ride, with the only thing of note that happens is that Lakealike gets in the driver’s seat, then can’t get his seatbelt on.
The Geeks find themselves in 4th place and holding the keys to their Mercedes, but aren’t sure how to find Bad Tolz. LaWanduh asks for directions using the universal accent, and LaFawnduh is completely annoyed. The Tokens find someone to give them directions to Bad Tolz, and the crabby Mrs says, “Hot boooty,” which will now be my new phrase to repeat endlessly, and with which I will drive all my friends crazy.
We go back to the Geeks, who have now found directions, but when the Lakealikes ask them, they deny that they know anything. Hooray, Geeks! Way to get a strategy. They confess they may have lied, just a little...aren’t they so cute?
Little Known Fact (to LaFawnduh and no one else):
Munich? Is the same as München.
Then, tragically, stupidly the Dani follow the LaWanduhs going the wrong way, which turns into a Bill Murray scene on Ground Hog Day.
Meanwhile, back at the Gnomish Field of Destruction, with yodeling music playing in the background, the Frats find their regenerated gnomebaby. They take their next clue, which says, “Drive yourselves to Bavaria Film in Gruhnewald, take your gnomebaby with you and call his name Yeesus, for he is the great and powerful god who will bring you safely to your next pit stop.”
Lakenbitch pick up a German man who speaks like he lives in Ohio. “I cannot drive, I’m too drunk anymore,” says he. “Lech mir am Ärshle.” Which is Schwäbisch, or Stuttgartian, for “Kiss my ass and call me Sally.” Or something like that.
“Nein, danke, Ich habe den Wagen da, und lech mir auch, bitte,” replies Lake, and Wheezy gets a bonus point added to her GPA.
Little Known Fact: Wheezus hearts Gothmog am besten.
Lakenbitch and the Scoobs arrive at the Gnomely Battlefield. Shaggy dances around like a goon, which for some reason annoys Bitch. Somebody needs to take a bottle to her insolent little head and teach her a lesson in how to have fun.
Lake finds his baby Yeesus while Shaggy does the Sawmill Lumberjack Dance. Boy, those hippies are sure good at dancing. Wouldn’t it be great if there were a task that involved dancing? They’d totally win. Scooby continues searching and wonders aloud what the gnomes look like when Lake finds his. Almost as if we had planned it, Scoob pulls up the next decapitated gnome head and finds new growth. “Like this?” he says, holding it up. Bwa ha ha. Shaggy admires Scooby’s new toy. “Nice gnome, buddy!” he says, like he’s talking to a 4-year-old. Those two orange-panted sillies crack me up.
FrankenBarry arrive. Barry will be the one to venture out on this dangerous task. “Be systematic!” yells Fran.
“I’m gonna only do feet!” yells Barry.
“Why?” screeches Fran
“Because that’ll be my system!” he cries.
The yodelers are gone; Mission Impossible now plays in the background. Barry’s plan works, that sly devil. He grabs the creature and runs. Back in the car, Barry confesses, “That’s the way Fran and Barry travel,” he boasts. “In a car, with a map, that’s what we do. We hit our stride.”
Ground Hog Day on the Autobahn. Much fighting within the vehicles occurs. I have no further comment on these idiots.
The Frats arrive at Bavaria Film, where they are faced with a choice between two tasks: Break It or Slap It.
Break It involves breaking stunt bottles on each others’ heads. They cannot do this willy nilly, oh no. They must wait for the cuckoo bird to … uh … cuckoo before each attempt. Once broken, they must look at the label and find one that says “Prost!” which of course means, “Watch Survivor Next Thursday!”
In Slap It, teams must learn and successfully (snort) perform a series of steps from a German folk dance. We the viewers are led to believe that the dance is long and difficult.
Whichever they choose, they will all dress up in silly costumes.
The Frats choose Break It and make eyes at the Pauli Girl whose job it is to oversee the cuckoo clock and the bottle breakage. At first, the Pauli Girl scowls and pouts like all good German blondes should do when facing naughty frat boys, but soon her boredom leads her to giggle openly. After several Lederhosen jokes and Abbott and Costello attempts, they still come up short.
The Tokens are in 5th place and seem to find their gnomebaby immediately. They discuss the Lakealikes, and wonder how they are always so hot on their trail. Mr. Token sounds like he’s reading his off-the-cuff comment from a cue card.
The Lakealikes find their gnome. The Geeks arrive, search and soon find theirs as well. They make their way to Bavaria Film, where the Frats are still smashing bottles. They ask the Pauli Girl out for some beers afterward. “Eef you pay,” she says coolly. They begin to get cranky at how long it’s taking. Finally they find one as the hippies arrive. They receive kisses from their Pauli Girl, and request she leaves a mark of proof, which I guess will show that they’re not all just talk. Or something.
The Scoobs choose Break It. Shaggy needs a changing room because he’s not wearing underwear.
Yeah, you just sit and think on that for a while.
.
.
.
.
.
.
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The Frats receive their next clue, which leads them 10 miles away into Munich, where they must find Leopoldstraße. The pit stop is at the Siegestor, which, incidentally, is not the same as the Spiegel Store. No, it’s a 153 year old monument to peace. The last team to arrive may be eliminated.
Not Really A Little Known Fact: the “ß” is a symbol used in the Germanic language, and is called the ‘S Set’. A set of s’s, it is. You’d pronounce it just like you’d pronounce a double ‘s’. Why not just write two s’s in a row, you ask. I.Don’t.Know. But I do know that on my new iBook, all I have to do is push ‘Option s’ to get it to type.
Scooby and Shaggy are in their element. They ARE yodelers. After filming a quick Riccola commercial, they begin their task. They, unlike everyone else, can actually speak a few words of Geman, and they are not bad at it. They yuck it up and after a few bottles, Lakenbitch arrive. The Lakenbitches, incidentally, just finished filming a remake of The Accused. Breaking bottles over Bitch’s head is standard procedure. Poor Bitch. She feels she must hide the truth, even when the bottles are fake. “That hurt because you hit it so soft!” she says, looking for Lake’s nod of approval. That one was the winner, and the LakenBitch moves on. In the car, Bitch remarks unconvincingly, “That was fun, huh?”
The Scoobs finally get their Prost, and they kiss and flatter the Pauli Girl. “Ich mochte du tanzen gehen!” says Scooby, which on the screen translates to “I would like to go dancing with you,” but in my cobwebbed German dictionary of the mind, sounded more like, “I would like you to go dancing.” I shrug. Ich weiß nicht.
FrankenBarry enter the Tanzen Universität, and I must say, those little shorts never looked more flattering on a man than Barry. And once again, it appears that FrankenBarry have chosen improperly a task suited for their abilities. Oh, if they had only brought their gnomebaby Yeesus inside to help them.
The Fratboys make haste to the Siegestor. They grab gnomebaby (he ain’t sayin’ nothin’) and rush to find The Tit Queen, who is standing on the mat alongside one of the seven dwarves. Moldy, I think it is. Or Paunchy. The boys are the first to arrive, and they have won a terrific trip to Africa. TQ notices the lipstick on their faces and declares these two to be the biggest Casanovas ever to appear on TAR. They launch into reverie about the Dani, saying they hope the Dani make it to the mat in good time so they can ‘do a little more tongue wrestling or whatever.’ Phil gives them a sterile look. I don’t think he really wanted to know that. And I’m sure the Dani will be glad to know the Frats just spilled that bit of news to the world.
Lakenbitch and the Scoobs meet in the street, trying to find Leopoldstraße. The Lakers are fighting. Lake tells his Bitch to ‘zip the negativism out’. She immediately becomes annoyingly positive, which I hope she is doing on purpose. The Scoobs sneak around the back way to the Siegestor. Realizing they are well in front of the Lakers, they decide to run to the mat, backwards. They turn around, and Scooby’s face lights up. “SANTA!” he cries when he sees the dwarf. What a couple of crazies. Lakenbitch is right behind, in third.
FrankenBarry are still Slapping It. It takes a little longer at that age. They manage not to fall down as the professionals go through it one last time, from the top, at half speed. Before the musicians can gouge their eyes out, the leader declares FrankenBarry to have completed the task perfectly. EVERYBODY CHEERS WILDLY. They head for the pit stop.
The Lakealikes arrive at Bavarian Film and start breaking bottles, followed by the Geeks and the Tokens. Some of them are a bit too big for their britches, but they all make it to the set and start breaking bottles when the extremely bored band decides to do a little parade around them. Somebody screeches. The band plays. The parade marches. The cuckoo calls, the bottles smash, and the screech again. Play, march, cuckoo, smash screeeeeeeeeech. It’s Stomp, Bavarian style.
And good God in heaven, we forgot all about the Dani and the LaWanduhs. They’re still back on the grassy knoll looking for trollbabies. In the dark. They dig in the dirt of the already emptied nests, hoping against hope for a twin. The Dani finally find one, and LaFawnduh declares that there simply aren’t anymore. It’s a mean, evil trick. Miraculously, the camera person stands stoically next to the correct one, and waits until somebody notices. Finally, a new Spanglish gnomebino is born. They drive off into the impending sunrise.
FrankenBarry arrive at the Siegestor and are delighted at their fourth place finish, and back at the Film, The Geeks have luck with bottles and head out, The Lakealikes are mesmerized by the parade and follow the piper, deciding suddenly they can dance. And guess what – they CAN! Quite impressively, too. The Tokens are peee-ussssed, go dance, and totally do fair as well. Of course, the clarinetist has by now run out of spit, so they were practically pushing people through the dance line. As long as they were still standing when the music stopped, they were free to go.
My Sweet Geek-Cheeks take the number five spot on the mat (hi matt, my sweet geek boyfriend!) and are worthily proud of their comeuppance in the ranks from the previous day. Lakealikes arrive in the Six spot, all cute and smiley. They really aren’t anything like the Lakenbitches. They are sweet. Ewww. Not far behind are the Tokens, and Yolanda manages to crack a smile.
And we regretfully go back to the Film, where the Dani have arrived. They start dancing. It looks as if the entire band has gone home for the day, but that was just a little camera trick. They were all simply backstage, the accordianists exchanging spit with the woodwinds. They are team players, the Bavarians. You should see them play soccer.
Little Known Fact: I did, indeed, see the Bavarians play soccer against Manchester United in Soldier Field a couple of years ago. It was a great game. They did not, however, wear the same outfits as what we saw on our television sets Tuesday last.
The Dani make quick work of the dance, and in no time have their next clue. I bet they get lost again…let’s see. Meanwhile, LaWanduh and LaFawnduh find the dance and do a piss poor job. Here’s where it’s a lucky time to be last – they let them go anyway.
The Dani get lost (what else is new) and after asking fourteen people for help, finally have the building in their sites. Of course, by this time, LaWanduhs have managed NOT to get lost for once, and they spot each other. It appears we may indeed have a close finish. But no. The Dani make it, the Duhs do not, and Peter the dwarfman says, “Welcome to Munich, Germany,” in the sweetest grandfatherly voice you’ve ever heard.
The Duhs have been eliminated, they are crying (again), and they tell their tale as if they were forced to join this race. The past four days have been hell, it’s been one nightmare after another, they say, and I for one am glad to see them go.
Next week, on TAR: The teams look for a clue in pieces of hanging laundry, and Geekgirl breaks down at the Roadblock, apparently while putting together a giant Michelin Man. ¶ 5:34 PM 5 Comments
Well, well. Here you are. Just when you thought the Big Buckin’ Chicken was the best thing on TV, The Amazing Race brings you a real doozy. Just before it begins, The Network shows a commercial about some amazing fruit drink, using gigantic fruit that people are climbing all over. Enormous fruits, on the coast of some body of veryblue water. And right where I have this frame paused, in pink, 7-point font letters on top of red, juicy strawberries, are the words, “Contains no fruit juice.”
There’s an irony there in that commercial that relates to this particular episode. Oh yes, yes there is. If you figure it out, let me know what it is because it’s over my head.
The show opens with a montage of craziness that can only be called Moscow. That’s in Russia, in case you didn’t watch Anastasia eight hundred brazillian times, not that we are bringing brazillians into this – well, some of us might when we try to talk to cab drivers in Moscow.
Little know fact: All cab drivers speak Spanish. It’s a prerequisite. Minimum is 4 courses, or a 215 class equivalency. Whether in Brazil or Russia, you can always find somebody who speaks the universal language.
Let’s talk about me for a moment.
I can’t remember names. I don’t even remember who won TAR last season. If I knew their names then, I’d be surprised. But I’ll never know if I knew, because I am too lazy to check the last TAR episode I did.
Usually (still talking about me here), if we’re down to four or fewer people, I’ll manage to get the names okay. But today we are dealing with eighteen people. Plus that one guy with the stone cold tits who never smiles. That’s a lot of names.
Here are the people I know: FrankenBarry, The Geeks, The Fratboys, and The Scoobs, as in Scooby and Shaggy, stolen from Beannie because that’s funny stuff. Also known are LaWanduh and LaFawnduh who make up the Spanglish team, Lake and his bitch, and the other team that looks like Lakenbitch, hence, the Lakealikes. And there’s Token of course, who will never win because they are black. I’m missing one team, but for the love of God and money I can’t remember who that might be. Maybe we’ll find them later, maybe not. Oh hell! It’s the Dani team (plural, Dani). Silly me.
On to the show. Which is a continuation of last week. So go read Beannie’s if you haven’t been keeping up.
Phil feels right at home in the freezing cold land of Witch’s Tit, Russia while Fratboys discover this leg of the race isn’t over yet. They take their clue and head to the airport, with intention of continuing on to Frankfurt, Germany.
The rest of this summary will be written in German, in honor of my beloved and dearly departed grandmother, who was, incidentally, found to have a sewing needle in her bum during one lengthy CAT scan I was forced to attend. Boy, was that a shocker.
Ja. Nun. Die Fratjungen gehen, und Lakeundbitchen gehen nach. Sie sind sehr glucklich! Nummer Zwei, viel spaß und gluck! Aber. Es ist nicht am enden, nein, nein, nein! “Ach, Scheiss!” sagt Bitchen. Undsoweiter, undsoweiter, die andere personnen, wie Yolanda auf dem Tokens, sagt auch, “Ach, Scheiss!”
“Wo den?” fragt die Frat. “Zum Taxi?”
“Nein! Danke!” sagt die andere Frat. “Ich habe den Wagen da!”
(And with that, I have fulfilled the prophecy of the Bundeslände Karten of 1987, by using the one phrase I said I’d never ever ever use. Because when would I have a car in Germany?? That’s just nuts. But. The spell has been broken, and I no longer must honor my Grossmutter in such fashion. For which you will be thankful, and you [b]will[/b] praise me, and tell me how thankful you are in your comment below.)
In the taxi, the Fratboys decided that on the mat in front of Phil the Witch would have been a good place to be holding hands with the Dani. And now we know that the Frats will neverever win this thing, because they think with their heads.
The Lakers are “haulin’ ass,” and Lake utters a slimy under-chuckle like a red-faced Dubya in the presence of Helen Thomas. Or, heck, even that not-scary David Gregory.
Tokens are third, and Mister sez, brightly, “I don’t want any of the other groups to catch up to us.” Ohhhhhhhhhh… I think I get it now.
Shaggy and Scooby turn up next, and they share a tender moment about FrankenBarry. Shaggy generously tips Tits, who almost…almost…cracks a smile and becomes animated. He just can’t wait to blog about the Scoobs later on. Meanwhile, Scooby grabs the dollar back from Tits and they are on their way.
FrankenBarry are fifth and oh so excited. Too bad they’ve quit twice already. How many times will FrankenBarry quit today, is the REAL question here. I think they should be Titliminated immediately for being whiney.
LaWanduh and LaFawnduh are doing what Latinos do best – cleaning the buses of Caucasians. Sadly, they keep crying about it and refuse to leave, streaking. You get what you pay for, I guess. The Lakealikes clean too.
Meanwhile, the Frats get their tickets to Frankfurt without a problem, and are in a philnominal lead. The call the ugliest ticket counter woman I have ever seen ‘beautiful’ and head to the plane, while the Lakers are refused ticketing. The Frats take off at 7:05 pm.
Little Known Fact: I like the Fratboys. I like the Scoobs, and I love the Geeks.
Everyone else must die.
Back on the mat (hi, Matt!) in Moscow, the Dani are 6th, the Duhs are 7th, the Lakealikes are 8th and the Geeks, who also cleaned the bus, have fallen into last place, OH THE HORRORS! Tits plays a mean trick on them, and this is the first time we’ve seen them cranky at Tits’ ‘Psych you out pit stop’. But not nearly cranky enough for me to lose one iota of geeklove for them.
The Lakers manage a flight a couple hours behind the Frats, and the Scoobs pick a smart spot to wait for ticketing in the airport. Meanwhile, the Frats arrive in Frankfurt, grab a train, win the lottery and get laid by a whole host of Veela, that’s how fucking lucky they are today.
On the 9:15pm flight to Frankfurt are the Lakers and Scoobs.
LaWanduh and LaFawnduh piss and moan about this being the worst day ever, and the ticket counter person pulls the shade in their face. Ha! The Lakealikes go elsewhere to Lufthansa to get a 7am flight to Frankfurt the next morning.
I’m beginning to think we’re never going to get out of this damn Aeropuerto (that’s Taxispeak for shithole). The other teams find out one by one that they will have to come back in the morning to book flights. Ach, Scheiße! The Lakealikes make camp in the airport while the others go find a hotel. And we wait. For seven am.
The Frats meet Johann on the train to Stuttgart and immediately ask him if there are pretty ladies in Germany. Johann smiles all cute and stuff and says yes, there are. Sometimes. And adds the worldwide wisdom, “The more you trinkt, the schöner they get.” The Frats wonder why the Germans are always drunk. They make it to Stuttgart, and find a taxi which brings them to the Mercedes building. The run to the clue box, and we hope they get a clue that says, ‘Du Sceißkopf! There’s nobody behind you. You can walk.’
Once 8:30am arrives, the teams will hop into a Mercedes and luckily have a driver to take them on the ultimate torque + spiderman experience of driving on the ominous WALL OF DEATH, which is not to be confused with that little wall that was once in Berlin, though the results were similar.
Train 2 reaches Stuttgart with the Lakenbitch and Scoobs teams, who also head to the Mercedes factory and get their clues.
Back in Moscow it’s 5am and the remaining teams are all present at the airport and getting tickets for Flight 3, which leaves at 7am.
Little Known Fact: Russia is a mere 55 miles away from the United States.
At 8:30am in Stuttgart, the ISS arrives to drive the teams in circles and demand an answer to the world’s most puzzling question: What the fuck is wrong with your president? The teams urge Germany not to wait to get involved – 335 million lives depend upon them. ‘Yeah, we’ll get right on that,’ they say.
Teams get the tour of the track, first on the high-speed lane, where they reach 170 kilometers per hour, which, after careful calculation, I have determined to be roughly 885.3 miles per hour. All the teams yell. The Frats reach climax. Some (coughSCOOBScough) do the Chicken Dance, while yelling Mach Schnell! Mach Schnell! (which, translated, means ‘No hurry. Take your time.’)
Little Known Fact: All first year German language students learn the Chicken Dance, as well as the song, Mein Hut. Crazy, crazy lyrics there. Goes a little like this…
(clears throat)
Mein Hut, er hat drei Ecke,
Drei Ecke hat mein Hut.
Und hat er nicht drei Ecke,
Denn das is nicht mein HUT!
(Ja ja ja!)
Which, translated, means “Um ya ya, um ya ya, Um ya ya ya! Gooooo Terrapins!”
Groups 1 and 2 are all bunched up again, the teams receive their next clues from the drivers and are given the keys to the ‘cedes. They must now drive 200 miles(4.6 kilometers) on the Autobahn (i.e. Wall of Death 2), to Bad Tolz (meaning “BloodBath of the Nightmare G(ah)Nomes”). In the haunted field there are decapitated and bisected fantastical creatures who have apparently just been attacked by Hector, Gunilla and the whole team of Ithilgorn’s Orc Brigade. Their cleaved bodies are strewn about the field. The teams must pick up the body parts and look under them, for apparently Gnomes are a little like worms – when split in half, they don’t die, they regenerate a new gnome underneath. The racers must collect the newborn gnomies and bring them, coddled in their bosoms, to the Tit Queen and Dumbledore, who is sometimes mistaken for Santa.
But first. The third group of teams arrives in Stuttgart, and the LaWanduhs ask their taxi driver what the word for ‘fast’ is. “Schnell,” says he, and they begin to chant ‘Schnell, Schnell, Schnell!’ at him, just in case he doesn’t understand ‘fast'. Of course, after a while, LaWanduh forgets the word and starts saying ‘Schlaff! Schlaff!’ instead, which is a really, really extremely funny thing to say to someone who is driving you around on a race for a million dollars. They all do their Mercedes ride, with the only thing of note that happens is that Lakealike gets in the driver’s seat, then can’t get his seatbelt on.
The Geeks find themselves in 4th place and holding the keys to their Mercedes, but aren’t sure how to find Bad Tolz. LaWanduh asks for directions using the universal accent, and LaFawnduh is completely annoyed. The Tokens find someone to give them directions to Bad Tolz, and the crabby Mrs says, “Hot boooty,” which will now be my new phrase to repeat endlessly, and with which I will drive all my friends crazy.
We go back to the Geeks, who have now found directions, but when the Lakealikes ask them, they deny that they know anything. Hooray, Geeks! Way to get a strategy. They confess they may have lied, just a little...aren’t they so cute?
Little Known Fact (to LaFawnduh and no one else):
Munich? Is the same as München.
Then, tragically, stupidly the Dani follow the LaWanduhs going the wrong way, which turns into a Bill Murray scene on Ground Hog Day.
Meanwhile, back at the Gnomish Field of Destruction, with yodeling music playing in the background, the Frats find their regenerated gnomebaby. They take their next clue, which says, “Drive yourselves to Bavaria Film in Gruhnewald, take your gnomebaby with you and call his name Yeesus, for he is the great and powerful god who will bring you safely to your next pit stop.”
Lakenbitch pick up a German man who speaks like he lives in Ohio. “I cannot drive, I’m too drunk anymore,” says he. “Lech mir am Ärshle.” Which is Schwäbisch, or Stuttgartian, for “Kiss my ass and call me Sally.” Or something like that.
“Nein, danke, Ich habe den Wagen da, und lech mir auch, bitte,” replies Lake, and Wheezy gets a bonus point added to her GPA.
Little Known Fact: Wheezus hearts Gothmog am besten.
Lakenbitch and the Scoobs arrive at the Gnomely Battlefield. Shaggy dances around like a goon, which for some reason annoys Bitch. Somebody needs to take a bottle to her insolent little head and teach her a lesson in how to have fun.
Lake finds his baby Yeesus while Shaggy does the Sawmill Lumberjack Dance. Boy, those hippies are sure good at dancing. Wouldn’t it be great if there were a task that involved dancing? They’d totally win. Scooby continues searching and wonders aloud what the gnomes look like when Lake finds his. Almost as if we had planned it, Scoob pulls up the next decapitated gnome head and finds new growth. “Like this?” he says, holding it up. Bwa ha ha. Shaggy admires Scooby’s new toy. “Nice gnome, buddy!” he says, like he’s talking to a 4-year-old. Those two orange-panted sillies crack me up.
FrankenBarry arrive. Barry will be the one to venture out on this dangerous task. “Be systematic!” yells Fran.
“I’m gonna only do feet!” yells Barry.
“Why?” screeches Fran
“Because that’ll be my system!” he cries.
The yodelers are gone; Mission Impossible now plays in the background. Barry’s plan works, that sly devil. He grabs the creature and runs. Back in the car, Barry confesses, “That’s the way Fran and Barry travel,” he boasts. “In a car, with a map, that’s what we do. We hit our stride.”
Ground Hog Day on the Autobahn. Much fighting within the vehicles occurs. I have no further comment on these idiots.
The Frats arrive at Bavaria Film, where they are faced with a choice between two tasks: Break It or Slap It.
Break It involves breaking stunt bottles on each others’ heads. They cannot do this willy nilly, oh no. They must wait for the cuckoo bird to … uh … cuckoo before each attempt. Once broken, they must look at the label and find one that says “Prost!” which of course means, “Watch Survivor Next Thursday!”
In Slap It, teams must learn and successfully (snort) perform a series of steps from a German folk dance. We the viewers are led to believe that the dance is long and difficult.
Whichever they choose, they will all dress up in silly costumes.
The Frats choose Break It and make eyes at the Pauli Girl whose job it is to oversee the cuckoo clock and the bottle breakage. At first, the Pauli Girl scowls and pouts like all good German blondes should do when facing naughty frat boys, but soon her boredom leads her to giggle openly. After several Lederhosen jokes and Abbott and Costello attempts, they still come up short.
The Tokens are in 5th place and seem to find their gnomebaby immediately. They discuss the Lakealikes, and wonder how they are always so hot on their trail. Mr. Token sounds like he’s reading his off-the-cuff comment from a cue card.
The Lakealikes find their gnome. The Geeks arrive, search and soon find theirs as well. They make their way to Bavaria Film, where the Frats are still smashing bottles. They ask the Pauli Girl out for some beers afterward. “Eef you pay,” she says coolly. They begin to get cranky at how long it’s taking. Finally they find one as the hippies arrive. They receive kisses from their Pauli Girl, and request she leaves a mark of proof, which I guess will show that they’re not all just talk. Or something.
The Scoobs choose Break It. Shaggy needs a changing room because he’s not wearing underwear.
Yeah, you just sit and think on that for a while.
.
.
.
.
.
.
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The Frats receive their next clue, which leads them 10 miles away into Munich, where they must find Leopoldstraße. The pit stop is at the Siegestor, which, incidentally, is not the same as the Spiegel Store. No, it’s a 153 year old monument to peace. The last team to arrive may be eliminated.
Not Really A Little Known Fact: the “ß” is a symbol used in the Germanic language, and is called the ‘S Set’. A set of s’s, it is. You’d pronounce it just like you’d pronounce a double ‘s’. Why not just write two s’s in a row, you ask. I.Don’t.Know. But I do know that on my new iBook, all I have to do is push ‘Option s’ to get it to type.
Scooby and Shaggy are in their element. They ARE yodelers. After filming a quick Riccola commercial, they begin their task. They, unlike everyone else, can actually speak a few words of Geman, and they are not bad at it. They yuck it up and after a few bottles, Lakenbitch arrive. The Lakenbitches, incidentally, just finished filming a remake of The Accused. Breaking bottles over Bitch’s head is standard procedure. Poor Bitch. She feels she must hide the truth, even when the bottles are fake. “That hurt because you hit it so soft!” she says, looking for Lake’s nod of approval. That one was the winner, and the LakenBitch moves on. In the car, Bitch remarks unconvincingly, “That was fun, huh?”
The Scoobs finally get their Prost, and they kiss and flatter the Pauli Girl. “Ich mochte du tanzen gehen!” says Scooby, which on the screen translates to “I would like to go dancing with you,” but in my cobwebbed German dictionary of the mind, sounded more like, “I would like you to go dancing.” I shrug. Ich weiß nicht.
FrankenBarry enter the Tanzen Universität, and I must say, those little shorts never looked more flattering on a man than Barry. And once again, it appears that FrankenBarry have chosen improperly a task suited for their abilities. Oh, if they had only brought their gnomebaby Yeesus inside to help them.
The Fratboys make haste to the Siegestor. They grab gnomebaby (he ain’t sayin’ nothin’) and rush to find The Tit Queen, who is standing on the mat alongside one of the seven dwarves. Moldy, I think it is. Or Paunchy. The boys are the first to arrive, and they have won a terrific trip to Africa. TQ notices the lipstick on their faces and declares these two to be the biggest Casanovas ever to appear on TAR. They launch into reverie about the Dani, saying they hope the Dani make it to the mat in good time so they can ‘do a little more tongue wrestling or whatever.’ Phil gives them a sterile look. I don’t think he really wanted to know that. And I’m sure the Dani will be glad to know the Frats just spilled that bit of news to the world.
Lakenbitch and the Scoobs meet in the street, trying to find Leopoldstraße. The Lakers are fighting. Lake tells his Bitch to ‘zip the negativism out’. She immediately becomes annoyingly positive, which I hope she is doing on purpose. The Scoobs sneak around the back way to the Siegestor. Realizing they are well in front of the Lakers, they decide to run to the mat, backwards. They turn around, and Scooby’s face lights up. “SANTA!” he cries when he sees the dwarf. What a couple of crazies. Lakenbitch is right behind, in third.
FrankenBarry are still Slapping It. It takes a little longer at that age. They manage not to fall down as the professionals go through it one last time, from the top, at half speed. Before the musicians can gouge their eyes out, the leader declares FrankenBarry to have completed the task perfectly. EVERYBODY CHEERS WILDLY. They head for the pit stop.
The Lakealikes arrive at Bavarian Film and start breaking bottles, followed by the Geeks and the Tokens. Some of them are a bit too big for their britches, but they all make it to the set and start breaking bottles when the extremely bored band decides to do a little parade around them. Somebody screeches. The band plays. The parade marches. The cuckoo calls, the bottles smash, and the screech again. Play, march, cuckoo, smash screeeeeeeeeech. It’s Stomp, Bavarian style.
And good God in heaven, we forgot all about the Dani and the LaWanduhs. They’re still back on the grassy knoll looking for trollbabies. In the dark. They dig in the dirt of the already emptied nests, hoping against hope for a twin. The Dani finally find one, and LaFawnduh declares that there simply aren’t anymore. It’s a mean, evil trick. Miraculously, the camera person stands stoically next to the correct one, and waits until somebody notices. Finally, a new Spanglish gnomebino is born. They drive off into the impending sunrise.
FrankenBarry arrive at the Siegestor and are delighted at their fourth place finish, and back at the Film, The Geeks have luck with bottles and head out, The Lakealikes are mesmerized by the parade and follow the piper, deciding suddenly they can dance. And guess what – they CAN! Quite impressively, too. The Tokens are peee-ussssed, go dance, and totally do fair as well. Of course, the clarinetist has by now run out of spit, so they were practically pushing people through the dance line. As long as they were still standing when the music stopped, they were free to go.
My Sweet Geek-Cheeks take the number five spot on the mat (hi matt, my sweet geek boyfriend!) and are worthily proud of their comeuppance in the ranks from the previous day. Lakealikes arrive in the Six spot, all cute and smiley. They really aren’t anything like the Lakenbitches. They are sweet. Ewww. Not far behind are the Tokens, and Yolanda manages to crack a smile.
And we regretfully go back to the Film, where the Dani have arrived. They start dancing. It looks as if the entire band has gone home for the day, but that was just a little camera trick. They were all simply backstage, the accordianists exchanging spit with the woodwinds. They are team players, the Bavarians. You should see them play soccer.
Little Known Fact: I did, indeed, see the Bavarians play soccer against Manchester United in Soldier Field a couple of years ago. It was a great game. They did not, however, wear the same outfits as what we saw on our television sets Tuesday last.
The Dani make quick work of the dance, and in no time have their next clue. I bet they get lost again…let’s see. Meanwhile, LaWanduh and LaFawnduh find the dance and do a piss poor job. Here’s where it’s a lucky time to be last – they let them go anyway.
The Dani get lost (what else is new) and after asking fourteen people for help, finally have the building in their sites. Of course, by this time, LaWanduhs have managed NOT to get lost for once, and they spot each other. It appears we may indeed have a close finish. But no. The Dani make it, the Duhs do not, and Peter the dwarfman says, “Welcome to Munich, Germany,” in the sweetest grandfatherly voice you’ve ever heard.
The Duhs have been eliminated, they are crying (again), and they tell their tale as if they were forced to join this race. The past four days have been hell, it’s been one nightmare after another, they say, and I for one am glad to see them go.
Next week, on TAR: The teams look for a clue in pieces of hanging laundry, and Geekgirl breaks down at the Roadblock, apparently while putting together a giant Michelin Man. ¶ 5:34 PM 5 Comments
Monday, March 20, 2006
The Amazing Race 9, Episode 3: Whiners, Shitheads and
Daggum Morons by: Beannie
(First, let me apologize for the very lateness of this entry. Real Life really got in the way this week. Secondly, let me apologize for the ridiculous horridness of what is to follow. I am pms’ing and am out of my special medicine, so nothing seems funny to me today.)
Last time, on the Amazing Race, 10 teams journeyed through the apparently “Spanish-speaking” Brazil, Jeremy & Eric grabbed ass, giving us all a collective case of the willies, and led the pack with the weirdest duo ever to grace the race, BJ & Tyler. Teams struggled with bad karma (Fran & Barry) and worse partners (Michelle & Lake), and the foul-mouthed, god-fearing Lisa & Joni were sent packing, much to my chagrin. There was a lot of material in those over-sized, never-shutting-the-fuck-up ladies, I’ll tell you whut.
First to depart from Brotas, Brazil at 4:48 am are BJ & Tyler, representing the great unwashed with a penchant for orange pants. They explain that they think the other teams now see that they are not just the crazy, happy-go-lucky hippies running around naked all the time. Can you say thank god for small favors? Too goofy to describe doing them any justice, I will just call them Shaggy & Scooby, and leave it at that.
The teams must figure out how to travel a whole THREE miles to engage in the skill-intensive task of riding a zipline. Good Christmas. Has there been a race yet of the 9 where there hasn’t been a zipline? Fine, a nice way to see the scenery of a foreign land. But so is a guided fucking bustour, but neither makes for a very exciting “race.” Of course, you can’t see the tops of the trees in the dark, so the ride, er, task doesn’t open til 7 am, a good two hours later. Thus, Scooby 7 Shaggy amuse themselves by jumping in front of the approaching cars and scaring the bejeezus out of several teams arriving behind them.
Next to depart are skeezebags Eric & Jeremy. If these lazy ass, do-nothing pieces of turd win this race, so help me … oh, I don’t know what, but if God got the Weavers to the final three in the last installment, surely he can exercise some muscle and eliminate these guys before I contract a veneral disease just watching them. They would so fuck a corpse, you know they would. So foul are they, and so concerned with getting laid and earning cash for playing around their whole lives, I have dubbed them “Team RonJeremy.”
Joseph & Monica are the third to depart. Bland. Beautiful but bland. Nothing else to say. They have named themselves MoJo, I call the “HoHum.”
Next comes my favorite team of all fucking time, the Dorknamic Duo – Dave & Lori, the overweight, bespectacled dorky lovers, who remind me of half of my college Freshman Honors Dorm. So sweet and oh so socially unacceptable, they prove the old adage that beauty ain’t everything. They are so truly in love with each other and the opportunity to travel the world together, I can’t help but love them to death. Ok, so I wouldn’t fuck either of them, but I would ask them for help with my science project and laugh with them the whole damn time.
Ray & Yolanda, the requisite long-distance dating couple, are next. Ray hopes to learn something about Yolanda he hasn’t in the FIVE years they’ve been together, but apart. Five years, people. If you haven’t had the urge to get closer yet, I’d call it on account of lack of interest. They obviously packed light by leaving their sense of humor behind in the states. If they’ve smiled yet this race, I musta blinked and missed it. But, otoh, failure to smile will prevent wrinkles and they are damn fine-looking for miserable people. Team Sourpuss. Bleh.
Starting in sixth place, nearly 2 hours behind the first team, is the mother-daughter duo of Wanda & Desiree, who could easily pass for sisters, if’n you don’t look too close. These Latino beauties are the stuff of just about every teen’s wet dreams. Damn Fester stole my nickname for them, so I’m stealing it back. Team Spanglish. Desiree notes that her mom has a tendency to overreact the tense situations and can imagine things to be worse than they are. Foreshadow much??
Seven o’clock finally rolls around and the first 6 teams jog to the starting place for the zipline. Shaggy & Scooby demonstrate why potheads aren’t allowed in the armed forces, singing “I don’t know what I’ve been told, zip kinds (the stoner version of the Freudian slip), zip lines, uh …” The teams get outfitter by their riggers, and Dorknamic Dave gives me a good giggle as he wriggles into his harness.
Cut to Lake & Michelle, married couple from somewhere they speak some type of Bavarian English, because I can only understand every third word. He waxes hillbilly about being glad Michelle hasn’t slowed him down too much. Lake is a misnomer. While he may feel Superior, he is so full of hillbilly hubris, he much more akin to pond scum. Between his berating and her sitting and taking it, they simply don’t deserve a nickname. Michelle reads the arrow and says turn right, Lake turns left and tells her to STFU. When he realizes he’s lost, he pitches a hissy and wonders aloud that “we don’t know the first turn out of the damn gate.” If looks could kill, Michelle’s facing a life sentence without parole.
Danielle and Danni are next. Which is which? No one knows and no one cares. They plan to use, in this order, their hearts, then bodies, then boobs. They completely leave out the thought of using their brains, guaranteeing their success in the race. With the big eyes and even bigger boobs, these girls are Bratz dolls come to life.
Shaggy’s the first down the zipline and manages to figure out its intricacies. Gosh, I hope the other teams are taking notes. Scooby follows and they receive their next clue – fly to Moscow, Russia! Find Chaika Bassein to get the next clue. For some reason, the guys get very excited about the fact that they need to get to the bus station and claim a departure time to Sao Paolo airport, so they celebrate with a painful headbutt and a few “tatows,” which Scooby explains is the source of their power and the circle of the universe. I have no idea if this is a real word or how to spell it, but I am pretty sure, given the reverence with which they say it, it means a three foot long sub they can eat in two gulping bites.
Team Ron Jeremy navigates the treacherous zip line next and manage not to make a sexual reference. Joseph and Monica follow. Ho-hum.
As the first teams are leaving, Spanglish, Team Sourpuss and the Bratz are arriving. Lake & Michelle are still lost, and Lake stands atop the care to get a better view of the middle of nowhere.
Finally, at 8:24, married Seniors Fran & Barrry depart the pitstop. Now, I know it can sometimes be tough for the older teams to keep up with the young & the fit, but these two are certainly not making it any easier on themselves. Leg one, Fran decides that since she’s handy, she can put together a motorcycle. She was wrong. Leg two, they decide to scale a rock wall rather than make ethanol from sugar cane. They suck at that too. Of course, the car battery dying on them at the end of that leg wasn’t technically their fault, but it couldn’t have happened to a more derving couple. And each and every time, they lament their bad fortune and are ready to throw in the towel. I call them Team Woe is Me. As they take off for the dreaded zipline, Fran announces they are hot to trot. I shiver and have a nasty flashback of a night at Grandma and Grandpas when I innocently walked into their bedroom to get ask for a glass of water and burnt out my retnas at the site of naked writhing wrinkle sacs. And no, I am not sorry I put that image into your heads. Hell, if I had to live it, you can hear it described.
Team Sourpuss takes the zipline and almost smiles, but not quite. Yet Desiree is all smiles, despite the fact she announces to the viewing public that she is about the pee her pants, and the pair make it across the harrowing ravine.
Shaggy & Scooby are the first to the bus station and grab a seat on the 9:15 bus with RonJeremy, HoHum and the Dorknamic Duo. Well, I sure am glad the teams out in front get to keep their lead this time. I mean, forty-five minutes ought to be plenty of time to book a great flight to Moscow from Brazil and leaving the trailing teams in the dust, right?
Lake and Michelle finally complete their three mile, hour long ride to the zipline. Upon learning their destination, Lake remarks “Daggumit, I was hoping we wouldn’t have to go to Russia.” Geez, I hope they got their commie innoculation before they went on this trip.
Back at the bus depot, Ron Jeremy and the Bratz, who get on the 10:00 am bus with teams Sourpuss and Spanglish, flirt while a porn riff is playing in the background. At least the producers have a sense of humor. The girls talk about how much they enjoyed “spending time” with these two sleeziods at the last pitstop, confirming their plan not to use their brains on this race.
On the way to the bus depot, Michelle confirms to Lake that the clue is not magic and still says Moscow, Russia, at which time he tells her not to be ugly to him because he’s treated her so daggum nice so far. Michelle almost leaves the clue bag behind in the car and gets chastised once again by Lake. Good thing he’s not being ugly to her. Apparently, “shut up, Bitch” is just a pet name.
Long after they other teams are en route to the airport, Fran and Barry arrive at the bus depot to discover they are the only team on the last bus. They cringe, they “Oh God,” they wonder if this is the end, my friend.
One by one, every fucking team gets tickets on the same flight to Moscow, via Frankfurt, Germany. The Bratz defy their strategy and actually have the foresight to ask a Russian traveler to write down some handy Russian words for them, then immediately share their advantage with RonJeremy. I then witness Dani(elle?) getting her hat stolen and hair mussed by Scuz #1, the exact same behavior that got my 9 year old son sent to the principal last week.
7300 hundred miles later, every fucking team arrives in Moscow at the same time. They hop cabs to Chaka Bassein. Like good little communists, pooling their resources for the common good, Dave & Lori and HoHum share a taxi, as do the Bratz and RonJeremy. And who says these racers have no appreciation for foreign cultures. Oh, never mind, Monica explains all she knows about Russian culture, glean from action-adventure films, no doubt – they smoke and drink a lot.
Oh, by the way, it’s cold. So cold just about every team has to comment on the fact that it’s fucking cold outside in Russia.
Roadblock at Chaka Bassein – Who wants to “Take the Plunge?” The chosen person must jump from a 10 meter platform and swim under water to retrieve the next clue. Unfortunately for them, Teams Sourpuss and Spanglish must have gotten clues written in Russian, because they assign the task to the partner who can’t even fucking swim. Michelle doesn’t want to do it, because she might have to get naked in front of the Russians.
Shaggy jumps, and Barry jumps. The men have donned provided speedos and each time we are subjected to the most unfortunate of camera angles – the underwater crotch-cam. Yeah, ok guys, we know, it’s very very cold out there. Uh huh. Whatever you say.
Yolanda climbs to her certain death as Ray asks something he’s been dying to know about her for the past five years – can she doggie paddle? The concern is underwhelming. Yolanda stutters a few times and then jumps and splashes down as ominous music accompanies her whining, sobbing, dog-paddlin’ ass to the clue. Hey, this isn’t survivor, people, you don’t have to take turns sitting out the roadblocks. Surely, one of the upcoming roadblocks would more fit her talents – a frown-off in Nepal for instance?
Lake, Eric (?) (I still don’t know which is which and I am afraid to look too close to find out, seeing as I don’t have a barf bag handy) and Danielle jump. RonJeremy saves their cab to share with the Bratz and tell the driver to wait for the two girls with the big boobies. In case the driver doesn’t understand the nuances of the English language, they use hand signals to describe them. I throw up a little in my mouth. And I wonder, do these girls have a different impression of the boys with the sex-addled brains upon viewing this from home? And will Eric or Jeremy ever get a date again?
Monica jumps. As bad a fashion choice the Speedos were for the men, the women’s selection was worse, because it meant Monica didn’t get to jump in this outfit:
which for once and for all dispells the notion that Barbie was impossibly proportioned.
Wanda is the last to jump. And she was the obvious choice of the two, seeing as diving underwater is her.greatest.fear.in.the.world. She jumps no problem, but flips the fuck out when she has to dive 5 feet under to get the clue. She sobs uncontrollably that “I can’t make myself go down!” At first I thought “what a ridiculous thing to say,” then I remembered I said pretty much the same thing to the mister last Saturday night. Ok, having share too much, let’s move on, shall we?
Scooby & Shaggy arrive at the beautiful (I missed the name of it) Cathedral to get their next clue.
Detour – Choose between these two impossible tasks
Scrub: Search endlessly for a trolley park known only to three cab drivers in the entire city and wash a filthy trolley that’s been carting filthy disgusting Russians around filthy disgusting Moscow and wait for the results of the tox screen to come back negative before receiving your next clue …
Or Scour – Search through 1500 Russian Matrioshka Nesting Dolls for one of ten microscopic clues – without a microscope even! Not only are there just gazillions of those dolls, this task requires the teams to be surrounded by beclogged twirling dancers who might last about five minutes in the room with me before I strangle their brightly-clad asses. The only thing worse than this insipid detour is if they have to open all those fucking dolls to find Charla reading their next clue. (Hat tip to Estee for the image)
So in love with the thought of sitting on RonJeremy’s lap in the cab, the Bratz forget their clue bag – passports, money, clues and all – back at the Roadblock. They alight from the shared cab to make their way back as RonJeremy bemoan the fact that the girls’ stupidity might cost the guys a quality shag at the next pitstop.
At just about the same time, RonJeremy, Fran & Barry, Lake & Michelle & the Sourpusses arrive at the Cathedral. Michelle reminds Lake there is no running in this sacred place, so he naturally bolts for the clue box at full tilt. Team Sourpuss picks the Matrioshka, and RonJeremy and Micelle & Lake follow them blindly, thinking they are heading to “scour.” I mean, the black couple has to be going to scrub something, don’t they?
Back at Chaika Bassein, Desiree wells up with tears as her mother finally conquers her greatest fear of diving 5 feet under water. Just as they are leaving, the Bratz return for their clue bag, which has been sitting in the locker room for quite a long time untouched. Sounds like the Russian economy is on the up-tick, as the bag wasn’t stolen by some filthy Russian in need of cigarettes and vodka.
Scooby & Shaggy and Team Woe is Me picked the wrong cabbies, get lost looking for the apparently non-existent Trolley park, give up and head to the site of the great nesting doll massacre of 2006. Beating them there are the Sourpusses, RonJeremy and Michelle & Lake, who get bitchslapped by the Sourpusses when they complain about the shitty detour Ray & Yolanda led them to. “Pick your own damn detour,” Yolanda growls. I smile. She doesn’t.
Team Spanglish and Team Bratz arrive at the Catherdral for the clue, and the Latino lovelies choose the trolleys, as Wanda is a self-proclaimed cleaning pro. Let’s just hope the trolleys aren’t at the bottom of a pool. The Bratz don’t ask their cab to wait, and then whine as they try to hail another that their hearts aren’t getting them a cab. Had they been using their brains, they’d have realized the boobies might have worked. They finally find a cab parked at the curb around the corner and are off to the trolley park.
Back at the dolls, RonJeremy and Lake & Michelle luck into their not-so-microscopic, but definitely tiny, clues which tell them to search Red Square behind St. Basile’s Catherdral for Phil. Oh, shit. Fuck me. No “Head to the pit stop,” no “last team to arrive …” Would ya look at the time. 10:55 pm. Bite me, bite me. You mean not a one of these stupid fucking teams is getting the axe tonight? I can name at least three who deserve the boot based on game play and two who should go on principle alone. We have enough stupid on the nightly news, now I have to watch all ten of these dumbass teams again next week? Cripes, more happens in the first 25 minutes of an American Idol elimination episode than this entire god-damned hour. Ptooey.
Dave & Lori and HoHum, who have been driving from what seems like dawn to dusk in search of the trolley park, finally find it. And it’s a scrub-off, with the teams sloshing soap and water over the trolleys. There is nothing whatsoever amusing about this and it’s dark so I am not sure how anyone can tell if these trolleys are clean, and now I am just waiting for the TBC, so fuck it, back to the dolls.
Fran and Barry arrive at the dolls as Team Sourpuss find their clue. Scooby and Shaggy aren’t far behind and the luck of the hippies is with them, as they seem to find theirs in record time. Ya know, I have thought since episode one that these two look familiar to me. I think I’ve finally placed them. I am 97% convince I bought a veggie burrito and a phatty dank gooball from them out the back of their VW bus at a Phish show once.
Team Woe is Me is heard to exclaim “If it’s not in that one, we’ll just give up, finished.” Barry tries to support his wife by telling her “It’s impossible.” I am not sure what these two expected on this race and not sure what they thought they could bring to it, but skill and entertainment are not among their strengths. Impossible isn’t even eating four pounds of meat or driving a double-decker bus through an obstacle course, and both of those were measurably harder than opening up and finite number of nesting dolls to find a clue. Tedious, maybe. Impossible, shut up you stupid whiny, morons. I? am not a fan.
RonJeremy and Lake & Michelle arrive at Red Square to look for Phil. Dayum, that place is HUGE. I wonder if Fran & Barry will think it’s impossible. RonJeremy arrives first, only to have Phil tell them the leg isn’t over and gives them their next clue.
Next time on the Amazing Race – Fran & Barry (who obviously do the impossible and find a fucking clue at the last detour) surprise us by struggling with the next one. Team Spanglish gets lost and bitch each other out, and hopefully someone named after a body of water crashes in a racecar. ¶ 4:40 PM 1 Comments
Daggum Morons by: Beannie
(First, let me apologize for the very lateness of this entry. Real Life really got in the way this week. Secondly, let me apologize for the ridiculous horridness of what is to follow. I am pms’ing and am out of my special medicine, so nothing seems funny to me today.)
Last time, on the Amazing Race, 10 teams journeyed through the apparently “Spanish-speaking” Brazil, Jeremy & Eric grabbed ass, giving us all a collective case of the willies, and led the pack with the weirdest duo ever to grace the race, BJ & Tyler. Teams struggled with bad karma (Fran & Barry) and worse partners (Michelle & Lake), and the foul-mouthed, god-fearing Lisa & Joni were sent packing, much to my chagrin. There was a lot of material in those over-sized, never-shutting-the-fuck-up ladies, I’ll tell you whut.
First to depart from Brotas, Brazil at 4:48 am are BJ & Tyler, representing the great unwashed with a penchant for orange pants. They explain that they think the other teams now see that they are not just the crazy, happy-go-lucky hippies running around naked all the time. Can you say thank god for small favors? Too goofy to describe doing them any justice, I will just call them Shaggy & Scooby, and leave it at that.
The teams must figure out how to travel a whole THREE miles to engage in the skill-intensive task of riding a zipline. Good Christmas. Has there been a race yet of the 9 where there hasn’t been a zipline? Fine, a nice way to see the scenery of a foreign land. But so is a guided fucking bustour, but neither makes for a very exciting “race.” Of course, you can’t see the tops of the trees in the dark, so the ride, er, task doesn’t open til 7 am, a good two hours later. Thus, Scooby 7 Shaggy amuse themselves by jumping in front of the approaching cars and scaring the bejeezus out of several teams arriving behind them.
Next to depart are skeezebags Eric & Jeremy. If these lazy ass, do-nothing pieces of turd win this race, so help me … oh, I don’t know what, but if God got the Weavers to the final three in the last installment, surely he can exercise some muscle and eliminate these guys before I contract a veneral disease just watching them. They would so fuck a corpse, you know they would. So foul are they, and so concerned with getting laid and earning cash for playing around their whole lives, I have dubbed them “Team RonJeremy.”
Joseph & Monica are the third to depart. Bland. Beautiful but bland. Nothing else to say. They have named themselves MoJo, I call the “HoHum.”
Next comes my favorite team of all fucking time, the Dorknamic Duo – Dave & Lori, the overweight, bespectacled dorky lovers, who remind me of half of my college Freshman Honors Dorm. So sweet and oh so socially unacceptable, they prove the old adage that beauty ain’t everything. They are so truly in love with each other and the opportunity to travel the world together, I can’t help but love them to death. Ok, so I wouldn’t fuck either of them, but I would ask them for help with my science project and laugh with them the whole damn time.
Ray & Yolanda, the requisite long-distance dating couple, are next. Ray hopes to learn something about Yolanda he hasn’t in the FIVE years they’ve been together, but apart. Five years, people. If you haven’t had the urge to get closer yet, I’d call it on account of lack of interest. They obviously packed light by leaving their sense of humor behind in the states. If they’ve smiled yet this race, I musta blinked and missed it. But, otoh, failure to smile will prevent wrinkles and they are damn fine-looking for miserable people. Team Sourpuss. Bleh.
Starting in sixth place, nearly 2 hours behind the first team, is the mother-daughter duo of Wanda & Desiree, who could easily pass for sisters, if’n you don’t look too close. These Latino beauties are the stuff of just about every teen’s wet dreams. Damn Fester stole my nickname for them, so I’m stealing it back. Team Spanglish. Desiree notes that her mom has a tendency to overreact the tense situations and can imagine things to be worse than they are. Foreshadow much??
Seven o’clock finally rolls around and the first 6 teams jog to the starting place for the zipline. Shaggy & Scooby demonstrate why potheads aren’t allowed in the armed forces, singing “I don’t know what I’ve been told, zip kinds (the stoner version of the Freudian slip), zip lines, uh …” The teams get outfitter by their riggers, and Dorknamic Dave gives me a good giggle as he wriggles into his harness.
Cut to Lake & Michelle, married couple from somewhere they speak some type of Bavarian English, because I can only understand every third word. He waxes hillbilly about being glad Michelle hasn’t slowed him down too much. Lake is a misnomer. While he may feel Superior, he is so full of hillbilly hubris, he much more akin to pond scum. Between his berating and her sitting and taking it, they simply don’t deserve a nickname. Michelle reads the arrow and says turn right, Lake turns left and tells her to STFU. When he realizes he’s lost, he pitches a hissy and wonders aloud that “we don’t know the first turn out of the damn gate.” If looks could kill, Michelle’s facing a life sentence without parole.
Danielle and Danni are next. Which is which? No one knows and no one cares. They plan to use, in this order, their hearts, then bodies, then boobs. They completely leave out the thought of using their brains, guaranteeing their success in the race. With the big eyes and even bigger boobs, these girls are Bratz dolls come to life.
Shaggy’s the first down the zipline and manages to figure out its intricacies. Gosh, I hope the other teams are taking notes. Scooby follows and they receive their next clue – fly to Moscow, Russia! Find Chaika Bassein to get the next clue. For some reason, the guys get very excited about the fact that they need to get to the bus station and claim a departure time to Sao Paolo airport, so they celebrate with a painful headbutt and a few “tatows,” which Scooby explains is the source of their power and the circle of the universe. I have no idea if this is a real word or how to spell it, but I am pretty sure, given the reverence with which they say it, it means a three foot long sub they can eat in two gulping bites.
Team Ron Jeremy navigates the treacherous zip line next and manage not to make a sexual reference. Joseph and Monica follow. Ho-hum.
As the first teams are leaving, Spanglish, Team Sourpuss and the Bratz are arriving. Lake & Michelle are still lost, and Lake stands atop the care to get a better view of the middle of nowhere.
Finally, at 8:24, married Seniors Fran & Barrry depart the pitstop. Now, I know it can sometimes be tough for the older teams to keep up with the young & the fit, but these two are certainly not making it any easier on themselves. Leg one, Fran decides that since she’s handy, she can put together a motorcycle. She was wrong. Leg two, they decide to scale a rock wall rather than make ethanol from sugar cane. They suck at that too. Of course, the car battery dying on them at the end of that leg wasn’t technically their fault, but it couldn’t have happened to a more derving couple. And each and every time, they lament their bad fortune and are ready to throw in the towel. I call them Team Woe is Me. As they take off for the dreaded zipline, Fran announces they are hot to trot. I shiver and have a nasty flashback of a night at Grandma and Grandpas when I innocently walked into their bedroom to get ask for a glass of water and burnt out my retnas at the site of naked writhing wrinkle sacs. And no, I am not sorry I put that image into your heads. Hell, if I had to live it, you can hear it described.
Team Sourpuss takes the zipline and almost smiles, but not quite. Yet Desiree is all smiles, despite the fact she announces to the viewing public that she is about the pee her pants, and the pair make it across the harrowing ravine.
Shaggy & Scooby are the first to the bus station and grab a seat on the 9:15 bus with RonJeremy, HoHum and the Dorknamic Duo. Well, I sure am glad the teams out in front get to keep their lead this time. I mean, forty-five minutes ought to be plenty of time to book a great flight to Moscow from Brazil and leaving the trailing teams in the dust, right?
Lake and Michelle finally complete their three mile, hour long ride to the zipline. Upon learning their destination, Lake remarks “Daggumit, I was hoping we wouldn’t have to go to Russia.” Geez, I hope they got their commie innoculation before they went on this trip.
Back at the bus depot, Ron Jeremy and the Bratz, who get on the 10:00 am bus with teams Sourpuss and Spanglish, flirt while a porn riff is playing in the background. At least the producers have a sense of humor. The girls talk about how much they enjoyed “spending time” with these two sleeziods at the last pitstop, confirming their plan not to use their brains on this race.
On the way to the bus depot, Michelle confirms to Lake that the clue is not magic and still says Moscow, Russia, at which time he tells her not to be ugly to him because he’s treated her so daggum nice so far. Michelle almost leaves the clue bag behind in the car and gets chastised once again by Lake. Good thing he’s not being ugly to her. Apparently, “shut up, Bitch” is just a pet name.
Long after they other teams are en route to the airport, Fran and Barry arrive at the bus depot to discover they are the only team on the last bus. They cringe, they “Oh God,” they wonder if this is the end, my friend.
One by one, every fucking team gets tickets on the same flight to Moscow, via Frankfurt, Germany. The Bratz defy their strategy and actually have the foresight to ask a Russian traveler to write down some handy Russian words for them, then immediately share their advantage with RonJeremy. I then witness Dani(elle?) getting her hat stolen and hair mussed by Scuz #1, the exact same behavior that got my 9 year old son sent to the principal last week.
7300 hundred miles later, every fucking team arrives in Moscow at the same time. They hop cabs to Chaka Bassein. Like good little communists, pooling their resources for the common good, Dave & Lori and HoHum share a taxi, as do the Bratz and RonJeremy. And who says these racers have no appreciation for foreign cultures. Oh, never mind, Monica explains all she knows about Russian culture, glean from action-adventure films, no doubt – they smoke and drink a lot.
Oh, by the way, it’s cold. So cold just about every team has to comment on the fact that it’s fucking cold outside in Russia.
Roadblock at Chaka Bassein – Who wants to “Take the Plunge?” The chosen person must jump from a 10 meter platform and swim under water to retrieve the next clue. Unfortunately for them, Teams Sourpuss and Spanglish must have gotten clues written in Russian, because they assign the task to the partner who can’t even fucking swim. Michelle doesn’t want to do it, because she might have to get naked in front of the Russians.
Shaggy jumps, and Barry jumps. The men have donned provided speedos and each time we are subjected to the most unfortunate of camera angles – the underwater crotch-cam. Yeah, ok guys, we know, it’s very very cold out there. Uh huh. Whatever you say.
Yolanda climbs to her certain death as Ray asks something he’s been dying to know about her for the past five years – can she doggie paddle? The concern is underwhelming. Yolanda stutters a few times and then jumps and splashes down as ominous music accompanies her whining, sobbing, dog-paddlin’ ass to the clue. Hey, this isn’t survivor, people, you don’t have to take turns sitting out the roadblocks. Surely, one of the upcoming roadblocks would more fit her talents – a frown-off in Nepal for instance?
Lake, Eric (?) (I still don’t know which is which and I am afraid to look too close to find out, seeing as I don’t have a barf bag handy) and Danielle jump. RonJeremy saves their cab to share with the Bratz and tell the driver to wait for the two girls with the big boobies. In case the driver doesn’t understand the nuances of the English language, they use hand signals to describe them. I throw up a little in my mouth. And I wonder, do these girls have a different impression of the boys with the sex-addled brains upon viewing this from home? And will Eric or Jeremy ever get a date again?
Monica jumps. As bad a fashion choice the Speedos were for the men, the women’s selection was worse, because it meant Monica didn’t get to jump in this outfit:
which for once and for all dispells the notion that Barbie was impossibly proportioned.
Wanda is the last to jump. And she was the obvious choice of the two, seeing as diving underwater is her.greatest.fear.in.the.world. She jumps no problem, but flips the fuck out when she has to dive 5 feet under to get the clue. She sobs uncontrollably that “I can’t make myself go down!” At first I thought “what a ridiculous thing to say,” then I remembered I said pretty much the same thing to the mister last Saturday night. Ok, having share too much, let’s move on, shall we?
Scooby & Shaggy arrive at the beautiful (I missed the name of it) Cathedral to get their next clue.
Detour – Choose between these two impossible tasks
Scrub: Search endlessly for a trolley park known only to three cab drivers in the entire city and wash a filthy trolley that’s been carting filthy disgusting Russians around filthy disgusting Moscow and wait for the results of the tox screen to come back negative before receiving your next clue …
Or Scour – Search through 1500 Russian Matrioshka Nesting Dolls for one of ten microscopic clues – without a microscope even! Not only are there just gazillions of those dolls, this task requires the teams to be surrounded by beclogged twirling dancers who might last about five minutes in the room with me before I strangle their brightly-clad asses. The only thing worse than this insipid detour is if they have to open all those fucking dolls to find Charla reading their next clue. (Hat tip to Estee for the image)
So in love with the thought of sitting on RonJeremy’s lap in the cab, the Bratz forget their clue bag – passports, money, clues and all – back at the Roadblock. They alight from the shared cab to make their way back as RonJeremy bemoan the fact that the girls’ stupidity might cost the guys a quality shag at the next pitstop.
At just about the same time, RonJeremy, Fran & Barry, Lake & Michelle & the Sourpusses arrive at the Cathedral. Michelle reminds Lake there is no running in this sacred place, so he naturally bolts for the clue box at full tilt. Team Sourpuss picks the Matrioshka, and RonJeremy and Micelle & Lake follow them blindly, thinking they are heading to “scour.” I mean, the black couple has to be going to scrub something, don’t they?
Back at Chaika Bassein, Desiree wells up with tears as her mother finally conquers her greatest fear of diving 5 feet under water. Just as they are leaving, the Bratz return for their clue bag, which has been sitting in the locker room for quite a long time untouched. Sounds like the Russian economy is on the up-tick, as the bag wasn’t stolen by some filthy Russian in need of cigarettes and vodka.
Scooby & Shaggy and Team Woe is Me picked the wrong cabbies, get lost looking for the apparently non-existent Trolley park, give up and head to the site of the great nesting doll massacre of 2006. Beating them there are the Sourpusses, RonJeremy and Michelle & Lake, who get bitchslapped by the Sourpusses when they complain about the shitty detour Ray & Yolanda led them to. “Pick your own damn detour,” Yolanda growls. I smile. She doesn’t.
Team Spanglish and Team Bratz arrive at the Catherdral for the clue, and the Latino lovelies choose the trolleys, as Wanda is a self-proclaimed cleaning pro. Let’s just hope the trolleys aren’t at the bottom of a pool. The Bratz don’t ask their cab to wait, and then whine as they try to hail another that their hearts aren’t getting them a cab. Had they been using their brains, they’d have realized the boobies might have worked. They finally find a cab parked at the curb around the corner and are off to the trolley park.
Back at the dolls, RonJeremy and Lake & Michelle luck into their not-so-microscopic, but definitely tiny, clues which tell them to search Red Square behind St. Basile’s Catherdral for Phil. Oh, shit. Fuck me. No “Head to the pit stop,” no “last team to arrive …” Would ya look at the time. 10:55 pm. Bite me, bite me. You mean not a one of these stupid fucking teams is getting the axe tonight? I can name at least three who deserve the boot based on game play and two who should go on principle alone. We have enough stupid on the nightly news, now I have to watch all ten of these dumbass teams again next week? Cripes, more happens in the first 25 minutes of an American Idol elimination episode than this entire god-damned hour. Ptooey.
Dave & Lori and HoHum, who have been driving from what seems like dawn to dusk in search of the trolley park, finally find it. And it’s a scrub-off, with the teams sloshing soap and water over the trolleys. There is nothing whatsoever amusing about this and it’s dark so I am not sure how anyone can tell if these trolleys are clean, and now I am just waiting for the TBC, so fuck it, back to the dolls.
Fran and Barry arrive at the dolls as Team Sourpuss find their clue. Scooby and Shaggy aren’t far behind and the luck of the hippies is with them, as they seem to find theirs in record time. Ya know, I have thought since episode one that these two look familiar to me. I think I’ve finally placed them. I am 97% convince I bought a veggie burrito and a phatty dank gooball from them out the back of their VW bus at a Phish show once.
Team Woe is Me is heard to exclaim “If it’s not in that one, we’ll just give up, finished.” Barry tries to support his wife by telling her “It’s impossible.” I am not sure what these two expected on this race and not sure what they thought they could bring to it, but skill and entertainment are not among their strengths. Impossible isn’t even eating four pounds of meat or driving a double-decker bus through an obstacle course, and both of those were measurably harder than opening up and finite number of nesting dolls to find a clue. Tedious, maybe. Impossible, shut up you stupid whiny, morons. I? am not a fan.
RonJeremy and Lake & Michelle arrive at Red Square to look for Phil. Dayum, that place is HUGE. I wonder if Fran & Barry will think it’s impossible. RonJeremy arrives first, only to have Phil tell them the leg isn’t over and gives them their next clue.
Next time on the Amazing Race – Fran & Barry (who obviously do the impossible and find a fucking clue at the last detour) surprise us by struggling with the next one. Team Spanglish gets lost and bitch each other out, and hopefully someone named after a body of water crashes in a racecar. ¶ 4:40 PM 1 Comments
Friday, March 10, 2006
The Amazing Race 9, Episode 2: Where We Explore Sexuality and Climb Shit
Sao Paolo, Brazil. Population: 20,000,000. A city barely large enough to contain Phil’s oobage. It is here that this complete waste of time leg of the race begins. We’re looking at a soccer stadium. A “massive” soccer stadium, by the Oobster’s description. I think it’s time Phil reevaluated. Massive stadia look like Wembley, or the Rose Bowl, or Estadio Azteca. But I digress.
At any rate, massive or no, this was the finish line for the last leg, which was the first leg, not to be confused with the middle leg, because we wouldn’t want to go for the crotch joke this early. Speaking of crotch jokes, we’re ready for the departure of Eric and Jeremy. You may remember Eric and Jeremy from last week. They were the ones acting a fool in a non-Blue Brazilian taxi cab and generally being hornier than Herb Alpert’s Tijuana Brass. Given their preference to ogling and drooling over women to actually competing in the race, yet succeeding in spite of this, I am dubbing them Team Bode Miller. The Bodes finished first in the aforementioned first leg (as I have no doubt they do in other endeavors), and, after a strangely unidentified arrival time AND mandatory rest period, they depart at 5:34 AM.
The clue they are handed instructs them to head toward an office building in Sao Paolo, approximately 20 minutes away. In a city of, as I believe I mentioned above, 20,000,000 people. I can’t believe we’re in the largest county on the continent, in the largest city in that country, and the best they can come up with is some anonymous office building that is basically around the corner. Unfortunately, this is merely the first of several uninspired destinations. So the Bodes are off to the Dunder-Mifflin of Sao Paolo, but decide to wait for their doppelgangers, the yangs to their yins, the two men who just may complete them, and with whom they will most certainly consummate, Team Haight & Ashbury.
H&A are trying way too hard to be hip. Or to be Hippie, to be more precise. They’re about as anachronistic as Austin Powers and a bit more over-the-top. It seriously wouldn’t surprise me if they ended every sentence with “Yeah, baby”. They are tiresome. They are trite. And? They just might win this race, so I’d better get over my aversion to them. Quickly.
There is one silver lining to H&A. They are the perfect match, and yes I mean that kind of match, for the Bodes. The Bodes are hypersexed. H&A are so goofy they may not have complete genitalia. H&A look like 1967. The Bodes’s pick-up lines are from 1967. Where their counterparts Joined Bode (.com) for the chicks, H&A Joined because, to them, nothing sounds cooler than attempting to ski down Everest totally baked. You could even think of them as Team Bode 1 and Team Bode 2. In short, they are Sex, Drugs, and Rock & Roll minus the Rock & Roll. There is absolutely nothing Rock & Roll about either of these teams. They’re more like Sex, Drugs, and John Tesh--only a bit cheesier than JT. And yes, all four of them are quite possibly retarded.
So H&A, leaving 2 minutes behind the Bodes, who are looking for sex--at 5:36 AM, join up with their soulmates. The 2 teams quickly get taxi cabs that will take them to the Office Park O’ Thrills.
10 minutes behind them, Wanda and Desiree, Team Spanglish, a Puerto Rican Momily in reverse, if you will, depart. Desiree is the Zen one who will have to reign in Wanda’s Fiery Latina-ness. They really sound like an episode of that Freddy Prinze, Jr. piece-of-crap show—inoffensive and totally forgettable.
Next come our darlings, Dave & Lori, Team DworkLove. They are sweet. They are nerdy. They are so deeply in love that they just don’t give a good fuck what you think of them. In fact, I imagine that if they’re still in it at the end that they’ll cross the finish line dressed as Dr. Who and Princess Leia, though I’m not ready to predict who will be wearing which costume. Not that there’s anything wrong with Dr. Who. Or Star Wars. Or cross-dressing. I’m just saying. As they head off, DworkDave calls DworkLori his “Hotty-boom-botty with the knotty pilates”. Really. Now there’s a couple who have realized that they’re perfect for each other. Unlike…
The Bodes. They’re still cabward toward the Office Park O’ Thrills, when one of them spies a Whore. (No, not one of THOSE whores, they haven’t even been introduced, let alone left the starting gate). Bode A (Could be Eric, could be Jeremy. I don’t know which. I can’t tell them apart and don’t care to. And fess up. You don’t care to either.) finds this Hu-er’s arse appealing. Shock and horror! It turns out this lady of the evening is no lady! That’s a man, baby. Bode B mocks Bode A. As if. Methinks the Bode doth protest too much. The sooner these peckerwoods embrace their inner Tobias Fünke, the sooner they’ll find bliss.
Meanwhile, all 4 of our early departures have reached the Office Park O’ Thrills, only to find…wait for it…that it’s CLOSED until 8 AM. Well, at least the show is consistant.
Back at Massive Oobage Stadium, Lake & Michelle, Promise Keepers and winners of the “Most Likely to Have Their Relationship Be the Focus of a Lifetime Movie of the Week” award, are ready to set out. I could add more about the sheer dysfunctionality of this couple, but you all watched last week. You saw Lake berate Michelle for second-guessing him. You saw him completely fuck up the airplane ticket booking and fail to take anything but partial blame for it. You heard him expound on his lack of compassion for other humans. And you saw him use power tools and expletives and a whole lot of whupass on that motorcycle. (Hmmm…a guy who loves banging shit with blunt objects and has no human compassion? Sounds like a dentist to me. Nice career choice, Lake.) And we all saw Michelle take it. Again and again. They are Team BurningBed.
As they depart, I can’t help but be distracted by that band-aid on Lake’s neck. What the fuck is that thing, anyway? I’ll bet it’s similar to that band-aid that Marcellas Wallace had on his neck. Y’know, the one covering up the spot where the Devil sucked out his soul? I’m guessing ol’ Lucifer came up empty, and there’s no briefcase containing it being guarded by two Mississippian slack-jawed yokels. And also? I’m guessing if the Big Kahuna Downstairs had five minutes in a room, his neck would not be the place he’d start. But, again, I’m just guessing.
Next to leave are Monica and Joseph, or “MoJo”, as they call themselves. The “Mo” portion of this team does nothing but bounce and squeal. I picture her on a trampoline, in a bikini. The “Jo” portion is a backward hat-wearing doofus, who likely spends his alone time lighting his farts on fire. They? Are Team ManShow—Juggy and Meathead.
Hot on their heels are Ray & Yolanda, your Token team of inoffensive African-Americans. I want—really want—Ray to be as militant as he purports to be, but if he were, I doubt he’d be Bruck’s Stepin Fetchit. Yolanda is pissed about their current standing, while Ray tries to stay Zen while mumbling something about marathons…or Marathon Bars…mmm, Marathon Bars…
They are followed by Barry & Fran, the requisite Old Person Couple. SeeBS, knowing its target demographic, foists a team of old codgers upon us every season, to act as “inspiration”. Mostly they complain or encourage each other like you would encourage a toddler. You remember the Havercamps from Caddyshack? Yeah, a lot like them. This season’s duo is no different. You may remember last week? When they literally couldn’t find a clue, then failed miserably at putting together a motorcycle, brakking all the way? I know, you wanted to forget. But it’s my job to make you remember. You’re welcome.
Well, for this stage, ol’ Barry has donned a ‘do rag. Or a bathing cap, I’m not quite sure. Whichever, it looks totally preposterous on his God-given chrome dome. This pathetic attempt to look cool gives me no choice but to call them Team Artificial Hip. They depart shortly after 7 AM. Still plenty of time to catch the rest of the e’er bunching pack. Oh, goody.
Speaking of goodies, Bruck’s breastaceous pair is next. Dani & Danielle (wish I was kidding), 2 Staten Island gutter tramps who are so skeeztastic, not even the syphilitic, miscreant Brazilian oglers outside the motorcycle shop would accept a “Head for Service” arrangement on last week’s Build-A-Bike Detour option, were hoping to use their “femininity” as a crutch. No such luck. Well, there’s always the Bodes, but they’re so sexually confused they’d probably wind up fucking each other in the odd (and beyond disturbing) chance they hook up in some sort of repugnant foursome mélange. Boy, I’m sorry I went there. OK, shake it off…
Where was I? Oh yeah, Double-D, as they like to be called. I can’t speak for the rest of you, but whenever I see them, I am reminded of a certain D-List hobag, and so, henceforth they will be known as Team Tara Reid.
Bringing up the rear (in more ways than one) are the self-proclaimed “Glamazons”, Loni & Josi or Lisa & Joni or Joanie & Chachi or whatever the hell their names are. You may remember them from last week, when they narrowly defeated Harvey Fierstein and Sean Hayes and the karmic power of Barbara Eden to stay in the race. This couple can’t die fast enough. For everyone. As bad as some of these teams are, on a cosmic scale, these two hateful, shrill, fluorescent blights must lose. The fate of the ratings for this show may depend on it, and frankly, after last season’s debacle (which I thankfully didn’t watch), they’d lose the remainder of the momentum gained after the studly TAR7. Then each and every one of us would have to find something else to do on Tuesdays, like parent children or talk to spouses or *gasp* go OUTSIDE, and that? Simply won’t do. Can I get an Amen? These 2 hagwenches must go down, and, as Al Davis would say, they must go down hard.
Now that we’ve dispatched with the colorful introductions, we can get to the meat of this particular episode. Unfortunately, there is WAY more cereal filler than meat this go ‘round. I could try to reenact the suspenseful cab rides to the Office Park O’ Thrills, but it would be a lie. So let’s flash forward a bit, ‘kay? To no one’s shock, all 10 remaining teams make it to the Sao Paolan cube farm by the 8 AM opening bell.
Once the hounds have been released, it’s a full-on rush up some stairs to some roof-like structure. There, they find the Clue Box (yes, even the Artificial Hips). And we have our first ROADBLOCK. A “Roadblock” is a task…oh fer heck. You know what a fucking Roadblock is. In this creative edition, one lucky party gets to climb up one of three outside fire escapes and rappel back down. 400 feet! That’s like 40 stories! Did I mention it was outside? Dood, I can’t make a silk purse out of this sow’s-ear-of-a-challenge. The only strategic element to this challenge is that teams queue up in the order in which they reach the top of the respective staircases. Apparently, only the bong water-addled H&A understand this part and smartly go up Escape 3. The other nine teams jam up Escapes 1 & 2.
There is much panting, gasping, and encouragement from partners, and I SO wish that was code. Bode B attempts to compliment Tara B, then turns to the camera and says “you gotta make the girls feel good, so you can get into their pants later”. Yeah, that’s verbatim. Dood, there are creatures of death trying to get OUT of Tara B’s pants, and you want in?
Meanwhile back on the roof, the line at the top of Escape 1 is: Bode A, Token Ray, Spanglish Desiree, Tara A, and Artificial Hip Fran. Escape 2’s line is: ManShow Joe, BurningBed Lake, DworkLove Dave, and Hagazon Joni or Chachi. H&A A is the only one smart enough to use Escape 3. They make it down pretty much in alternating order, receiving their clue which tells them to go to…wait for it…THE BUS STATION! Yay! (Jeezus, this episode sucks.)
Eventually, it’s Tara A’s turn. She suddenly remembers she has a fear of heights. This? Is staggering genius. AH Fran attempts to talk her off the ledge (as it were), all the while thinking “I’m gonna kill this bitch if she doesn’t get a move on.” Fade to black…
And, we’re back! Tara A still freaking. AH Fran still comforting, with an option to push. Everyone is now en route to the Bus Depot of Dreams (BDD) except the aforementioned Taras and AHs, as well as the Hags. At the BDD, there are 3 buses that await our teams. One at 10:15, one at 11:15, and one at 12:15. The first two have 3 slots, the last has 4.
Back at the Office Tower of Power, Tara A has finally overcome her fear, or developed a newer and stronger fear of Fran. Hag Chachi is, in a moment of rare clarity, letting gravity do it’s thang and drag her fat ass to the ground. A couple of third-degree friction burns later, she lands. Finally, AH Fran makes it to the bottom, as well. The Hags try to get directions, but find that barking at Brazilians in English doesn’t really command the attention they thought it should.
At the BDD, the Bodes, H&A, ManShow, and the Tokens all rush for the first bus vouchers. The Tokens lose out. They are relegated to Bus 2. Meanwhile, BurningBed has arrived at the wrong bus station. Lake blames Michelle and the locals, in that order.
DworkLove and Spanglish arrive at the BDD and claim seats 2 and 3 on Bus 2. There is much rejoicing. The Taras just miss out, and the Bodes console them by grabbing their diseased asses. The Bodes call them “dirty”. Brother, you don’t know the half of it. One gets the feeling that the Taras expected ticket compensation for their compliance, but I’m quite sure the Bodes were looking for something more along the lines of a fluid exchange. OK, I’ve officially skeeved myself out. Ick.
The remaining teams arrive and claim their spots on Bus 3. So, to recap: Bus 1 contains the Bodes, H&A, and ManShow, Bus 2 contains the Tokens, Spanglish, and DworkLove, and ShortBus 3 contains the Taras, BurningBeds, Artificial Hips, and the Hagazons.
There is a brief attempt at oohing and aahing over the countryside, but it’s only a 150 mile trip fer chrissakes. No good bus breakdowns, no attempts at driver bribery, no nothing. One. Boring. Busride.
When they arrive at their destination, there are 10 VW bugs waiting for them. H&A gain an immediate competitive advantage. The clue that awaits them is a DETOUR. Pros and cons and all that. This detour involves climbing (MORE fucking climbing?!) or pressing. Teams can either climb a waterfall or make ethanol out of sugar cane. All three of our dumbfuck Bus 1 teams choose climbing. Quelle surprise. All three cars decide to follow each other. Driving, followed by direction asking, followed by Juggy ass-ogling by the Bodes, followed by more driving and direction asking, until they reach Jacare Falls.
You may remember Jacare from Survivor 6: The Amazon. As it happens, S6’s Rob Cesternino, the nanciest bedwetter never to win Survivor, has opened his very own Waterfall Adventure Park and Mini Golf establishment. This week’s special? Hit the ball through Heidi Ho’s Hoo-Hoo and win a Big Gulp.
At any rate, H&A arrive at Rob C’s first after a closely contested game of Punchbuggy, closely followed by a jiggly Juggy and grunting Meathead, and the Bodes, who “can’t wait to slip into their Speedos”. No, they’re not gay at all. They each wade into the water, with the Bodes complaining about damaging their suede shoes. Yeah, totally heterosexual, those guys.
Meanwhile, Bus 2 has arrived at the Love Bug-o-rama. Tokens decide to climb, what with Yolanda having thighs that would put Bo Jackson’s to shame, while DworkLove and Spanglish opt to make ethanol. Dwork Dave claims to have done this experiment in high school, although it was probably last week during a Mythbusters marathon.
Back at Rob C’s, H&A have climbed the falls, as have ManShow. Bode B has a “kink in his rope” (Code?), but eventually makes it to the top. Bode A says “Way to go, Slammer.” (Really.) Now, it’s off to the pit stop, a coffee plantation down the road about 20 miles. I think all tolled, this Stage took about 4 hours and 3 of those were the bus ride. They totally could’ve done this episode in real time, 24-style.
Elsewhere, the Bus 2 peeps are cluelessly driving around the Brazilian wilderness as ShortBus 3 arrives. Taras, Artificial Hips, and BurningBeds all decide to climb, Hags decide to press. The Taras, oddly enough, are having a difficult time with the gear shift. The Hags are also having a difficult time with the gear shift. This is a lot easier to believe. They begin to yell at each other as I—errr, we fade to black…
Back again! Hags still yelling at each other. And crying. Don’t forget the crying. Oh, these two are such a joy to watch. *simulates suicide* Eventually, they ask directions, and the locals show them where they can go.
Elsewhere on the road, the Bus 1 peeps are headed to the pit stop, but get lost. Again. The Bodes pass the Taras on the road and show them their peenies. They wonder what will happen if the objects of their erections are Philiminated. Will they *gasp* have to hit on the Hippies? If this were a Burnett production, that would be Shithammer foreshadowing if I ever saw it. As it is, I’m now optimistic that the Bode/H&A love connection will happen. Oh yes, it WILL happen.
The Dworks have reached the press. There is squirting of juice, none of it sexual in nature. The Tokens arrive at Rob C’s, using words that end in “izzle”. I’m quite sure this was dubbed in later. Spanglish reaches the press, as well, just as the Dworks are finishing up. Dwork Dave is proud of hiscrystal meth ethanol concoction. They receive their clue, and they’re off! Tokens also complete the Detour and head to the pit stop.
The Artificial Hips, en route to Rob C’s, explain to us that they chose this physically demanding task because they couldn’t put a motorcycle together. Umm, OK. This was the team that was supposed to win using their wits, right? Just checking. This is followed by more uninteresting confusion from the ShortBus 3 peeps as they attempt to find their destinations.
Meanwhile, Spanglish finishes the ethanol and gets their clue.
The Bus 1 peeps are still lost, or they’re using recycled footage to fill the hour, I’m not sure which and it's completely uninteresting in either event. The Bodes stop following H&A and ask for directions. They are told they should have stayed behind H&A. They have a collective “D’Oh!” moment, as H&A spastically reach the plantation. They come running, flipping, and somersaulting down the hill shouting “Hey Philip!”. They actually did it. Yes they did. They called him Philip. Excellent. “Philip” does not look as thrilled, however. He tells them they are Team #1 and that they’ve won a trip to Tahiti. H&A are so excited they begin to thrash about like teenagers who know that they were given naughty bits, but haven’t quite figured out how to use them. It was a bit jarring, truthfully.
Not far behind them are the Bodes, who are yelling about being cranky and then say “I’m gonna smack you, woman” to Phil. Phil gives them the evil eyebrow, as if to say “not if my huge rack has anything to say about it, you won’t.” Possibly the most surreal moment ever on this show. ManShow arrives 3rd. There is jiggling from Juggy.
Back at Rob C’s, Artificial Hips and BurningBeds have arrived. Both teams make their wives go first. Lake is, quizzically, shirtless. He shouts at Michelle to get her ass up the waterfall. I find myself wishing leeches upon his naked bosom. Then Fran takes a header off the rock face and she—errr, we fade to black…
Ready for one more segment? Me neither. Lake is still screaming at Michelle. Fran has rebounded, literally and figuratively, to inching her way back up the falls. Michelle reaches the top and Lake yells “I’m comin’ after ya!” Although he usually is shirtless when he says this at home, he’s also usually holding a steak knife. Fran makes it to the top just before Lake. Lake screams like the Neanderthal that he is as they receive their clue.
Back at Philip, the Dworks, Tokens, and Spanglish reach the mat in that order.
The Taras arrive at Rob C’s and hustle into the water. Tara A passes Barry and reaches the top quickly. Barry then reaches the top, and the Hips are off to the pit stop. The Taras are close behind them.
Elsewhere, the Hags have finally reached the press. Chachi says “Pretend like you’re giving birth.” Loni says “I had a C-section.” I have no idea what that exchange was about, but I’m filing a Class Action suit against Bruckheimer for putting that image in my brain.
Out on the road, Lake has had e-goddamn-nough of Spanish and refuses to ask directions. When Michelle points out that they speak Portuguese in Brazil, Lake reminds her what happens when you contradict Daddy. Down the road a spell, the AH’s car dies and the Taras pass them. Lake forces a young darkie Brazilian into servitude and makes him lead them to the plantation, then is horrified when his new servant stops to get gas.
Finally, the AH’s new car arrives, as Philip explains that, while they will be getting a replacement car, they’re pretty much screwed in the time credit department.
Back at the press, the Hags continue to bitch and moan about not wanting to go home. They, and the possible exception of their husbands, are the only people on the planet who don't want this.
At the plantation, BurningBed and the Taras arrive simultaneously. Lake yells at Michelle to move her ass. There is running. There is yelling. There is Lake & Michelle finishing ahead of the Taras. Lake is stunned that they’re in 7th place. The Taras seem to want something from Philip for finishing in 8th. Philip directs them to the Bodes’s cottage.
And then…darkness. All of a sudden. No dusk, no red sunset. Darkness. All-consuming, break-out-your-miner-helmet darkness. This is followed by the tiresome ritual of creatively editing a photo-finish. Will it be the Hips or the Hags? Who gives a flying fuck? Could it possibly be both? Please? Alas, it is not. The Hips emerge from the darkness, and after the obligatory pregnant pause, Philip tells them they are Team #9. They are incredulous. How bad must the Hags have sucked to finish behind the team who needed a replacement automobile? Finally, the Hags limp to the finish. They are Philiminated. They cry. I? Don’t care. They are off my TV, and I’m doing my little dance of joy. It’s quite something. Really. I should have taped it.
Next week: Russians, Nesting Doll Hell, and Fear of Water. ¶ 4:15 PM 1 Comments
At any rate, massive or no, this was the finish line for the last leg, which was the first leg, not to be confused with the middle leg, because we wouldn’t want to go for the crotch joke this early. Speaking of crotch jokes, we’re ready for the departure of Eric and Jeremy. You may remember Eric and Jeremy from last week. They were the ones acting a fool in a non-Blue Brazilian taxi cab and generally being hornier than Herb Alpert’s Tijuana Brass. Given their preference to ogling and drooling over women to actually competing in the race, yet succeeding in spite of this, I am dubbing them Team Bode Miller. The Bodes finished first in the aforementioned first leg (as I have no doubt they do in other endeavors), and, after a strangely unidentified arrival time AND mandatory rest period, they depart at 5:34 AM.
The clue they are handed instructs them to head toward an office building in Sao Paolo, approximately 20 minutes away. In a city of, as I believe I mentioned above, 20,000,000 people. I can’t believe we’re in the largest county on the continent, in the largest city in that country, and the best they can come up with is some anonymous office building that is basically around the corner. Unfortunately, this is merely the first of several uninspired destinations. So the Bodes are off to the Dunder-Mifflin of Sao Paolo, but decide to wait for their doppelgangers, the yangs to their yins, the two men who just may complete them, and with whom they will most certainly consummate, Team Haight & Ashbury.
H&A are trying way too hard to be hip. Or to be Hippie, to be more precise. They’re about as anachronistic as Austin Powers and a bit more over-the-top. It seriously wouldn’t surprise me if they ended every sentence with “Yeah, baby”. They are tiresome. They are trite. And? They just might win this race, so I’d better get over my aversion to them. Quickly.
There is one silver lining to H&A. They are the perfect match, and yes I mean that kind of match, for the Bodes. The Bodes are hypersexed. H&A are so goofy they may not have complete genitalia. H&A look like 1967. The Bodes’s pick-up lines are from 1967. Where their counterparts Joined Bode (.com) for the chicks, H&A Joined because, to them, nothing sounds cooler than attempting to ski down Everest totally baked. You could even think of them as Team Bode 1 and Team Bode 2. In short, they are Sex, Drugs, and Rock & Roll minus the Rock & Roll. There is absolutely nothing Rock & Roll about either of these teams. They’re more like Sex, Drugs, and John Tesh--only a bit cheesier than JT. And yes, all four of them are quite possibly retarded.
So H&A, leaving 2 minutes behind the Bodes, who are looking for sex--at 5:36 AM, join up with their soulmates. The 2 teams quickly get taxi cabs that will take them to the Office Park O’ Thrills.
10 minutes behind them, Wanda and Desiree, Team Spanglish, a Puerto Rican Momily in reverse, if you will, depart. Desiree is the Zen one who will have to reign in Wanda’s Fiery Latina-ness. They really sound like an episode of that Freddy Prinze, Jr. piece-of-crap show—inoffensive and totally forgettable.
Next come our darlings, Dave & Lori, Team DworkLove. They are sweet. They are nerdy. They are so deeply in love that they just don’t give a good fuck what you think of them. In fact, I imagine that if they’re still in it at the end that they’ll cross the finish line dressed as Dr. Who and Princess Leia, though I’m not ready to predict who will be wearing which costume. Not that there’s anything wrong with Dr. Who. Or Star Wars. Or cross-dressing. I’m just saying. As they head off, DworkDave calls DworkLori his “Hotty-boom-botty with the knotty pilates”. Really. Now there’s a couple who have realized that they’re perfect for each other. Unlike…
The Bodes. They’re still cabward toward the Office Park O’ Thrills, when one of them spies a Whore. (No, not one of THOSE whores, they haven’t even been introduced, let alone left the starting gate). Bode A (Could be Eric, could be Jeremy. I don’t know which. I can’t tell them apart and don’t care to. And fess up. You don’t care to either.) finds this Hu-er’s arse appealing. Shock and horror! It turns out this lady of the evening is no lady! That’s a man, baby. Bode B mocks Bode A. As if. Methinks the Bode doth protest too much. The sooner these peckerwoods embrace their inner Tobias Fünke, the sooner they’ll find bliss.
Meanwhile, all 4 of our early departures have reached the Office Park O’ Thrills, only to find…wait for it…that it’s CLOSED until 8 AM. Well, at least the show is consistant.
Back at Massive Oobage Stadium, Lake & Michelle, Promise Keepers and winners of the “Most Likely to Have Their Relationship Be the Focus of a Lifetime Movie of the Week” award, are ready to set out. I could add more about the sheer dysfunctionality of this couple, but you all watched last week. You saw Lake berate Michelle for second-guessing him. You saw him completely fuck up the airplane ticket booking and fail to take anything but partial blame for it. You heard him expound on his lack of compassion for other humans. And you saw him use power tools and expletives and a whole lot of whupass on that motorcycle. (Hmmm…a guy who loves banging shit with blunt objects and has no human compassion? Sounds like a dentist to me. Nice career choice, Lake.) And we all saw Michelle take it. Again and again. They are Team BurningBed.
As they depart, I can’t help but be distracted by that band-aid on Lake’s neck. What the fuck is that thing, anyway? I’ll bet it’s similar to that band-aid that Marcellas Wallace had on his neck. Y’know, the one covering up the spot where the Devil sucked out his soul? I’m guessing ol’ Lucifer came up empty, and there’s no briefcase containing it being guarded by two Mississippian slack-jawed yokels. And also? I’m guessing if the Big Kahuna Downstairs had five minutes in a room, his neck would not be the place he’d start. But, again, I’m just guessing.
Next to leave are Monica and Joseph, or “MoJo”, as they call themselves. The “Mo” portion of this team does nothing but bounce and squeal. I picture her on a trampoline, in a bikini. The “Jo” portion is a backward hat-wearing doofus, who likely spends his alone time lighting his farts on fire. They? Are Team ManShow—Juggy and Meathead.
Hot on their heels are Ray & Yolanda, your Token team of inoffensive African-Americans. I want—really want—Ray to be as militant as he purports to be, but if he were, I doubt he’d be Bruck’s Stepin Fetchit. Yolanda is pissed about their current standing, while Ray tries to stay Zen while mumbling something about marathons…or Marathon Bars…mmm, Marathon Bars…
They are followed by Barry & Fran, the requisite Old Person Couple. SeeBS, knowing its target demographic, foists a team of old codgers upon us every season, to act as “inspiration”. Mostly they complain or encourage each other like you would encourage a toddler. You remember the Havercamps from Caddyshack? Yeah, a lot like them. This season’s duo is no different. You may remember last week? When they literally couldn’t find a clue, then failed miserably at putting together a motorcycle, brakking all the way? I know, you wanted to forget. But it’s my job to make you remember. You’re welcome.
Well, for this stage, ol’ Barry has donned a ‘do rag. Or a bathing cap, I’m not quite sure. Whichever, it looks totally preposterous on his God-given chrome dome. This pathetic attempt to look cool gives me no choice but to call them Team Artificial Hip. They depart shortly after 7 AM. Still plenty of time to catch the rest of the e’er bunching pack. Oh, goody.
Speaking of goodies, Bruck’s breastaceous pair is next. Dani & Danielle (wish I was kidding), 2 Staten Island gutter tramps who are so skeeztastic, not even the syphilitic, miscreant Brazilian oglers outside the motorcycle shop would accept a “Head for Service” arrangement on last week’s Build-A-Bike Detour option, were hoping to use their “femininity” as a crutch. No such luck. Well, there’s always the Bodes, but they’re so sexually confused they’d probably wind up fucking each other in the odd (and beyond disturbing) chance they hook up in some sort of repugnant foursome mélange. Boy, I’m sorry I went there. OK, shake it off…
Where was I? Oh yeah, Double-D, as they like to be called. I can’t speak for the rest of you, but whenever I see them, I am reminded of a certain D-List hobag, and so, henceforth they will be known as Team Tara Reid.
Bringing up the rear (in more ways than one) are the self-proclaimed “Glamazons”, Loni & Josi or Lisa & Joni or Joanie & Chachi or whatever the hell their names are. You may remember them from last week, when they narrowly defeated Harvey Fierstein and Sean Hayes and the karmic power of Barbara Eden to stay in the race. This couple can’t die fast enough. For everyone. As bad as some of these teams are, on a cosmic scale, these two hateful, shrill, fluorescent blights must lose. The fate of the ratings for this show may depend on it, and frankly, after last season’s debacle (which I thankfully didn’t watch), they’d lose the remainder of the momentum gained after the studly TAR7. Then each and every one of us would have to find something else to do on Tuesdays, like parent children or talk to spouses or *gasp* go OUTSIDE, and that? Simply won’t do. Can I get an Amen? These 2 hagwenches must go down, and, as Al Davis would say, they must go down hard.
Now that we’ve dispatched with the colorful introductions, we can get to the meat of this particular episode. Unfortunately, there is WAY more cereal filler than meat this go ‘round. I could try to reenact the suspenseful cab rides to the Office Park O’ Thrills, but it would be a lie. So let’s flash forward a bit, ‘kay? To no one’s shock, all 10 remaining teams make it to the Sao Paolan cube farm by the 8 AM opening bell.
Once the hounds have been released, it’s a full-on rush up some stairs to some roof-like structure. There, they find the Clue Box (yes, even the Artificial Hips). And we have our first ROADBLOCK. A “Roadblock” is a task…oh fer heck. You know what a fucking Roadblock is. In this creative edition, one lucky party gets to climb up one of three outside fire escapes and rappel back down. 400 feet! That’s like 40 stories! Did I mention it was outside? Dood, I can’t make a silk purse out of this sow’s-ear-of-a-challenge. The only strategic element to this challenge is that teams queue up in the order in which they reach the top of the respective staircases. Apparently, only the bong water-addled H&A understand this part and smartly go up Escape 3. The other nine teams jam up Escapes 1 & 2.
There is much panting, gasping, and encouragement from partners, and I SO wish that was code. Bode B attempts to compliment Tara B, then turns to the camera and says “you gotta make the girls feel good, so you can get into their pants later”. Yeah, that’s verbatim. Dood, there are creatures of death trying to get OUT of Tara B’s pants, and you want in?
Meanwhile back on the roof, the line at the top of Escape 1 is: Bode A, Token Ray, Spanglish Desiree, Tara A, and Artificial Hip Fran. Escape 2’s line is: ManShow Joe, BurningBed Lake, DworkLove Dave, and Hagazon Joni or Chachi. H&A A is the only one smart enough to use Escape 3. They make it down pretty much in alternating order, receiving their clue which tells them to go to…wait for it…THE BUS STATION! Yay! (Jeezus, this episode sucks.)
Eventually, it’s Tara A’s turn. She suddenly remembers she has a fear of heights. This? Is staggering genius. AH Fran attempts to talk her off the ledge (as it were), all the while thinking “I’m gonna kill this bitch if she doesn’t get a move on.” Fade to black…
And, we’re back! Tara A still freaking. AH Fran still comforting, with an option to push. Everyone is now en route to the Bus Depot of Dreams (BDD) except the aforementioned Taras and AHs, as well as the Hags. At the BDD, there are 3 buses that await our teams. One at 10:15, one at 11:15, and one at 12:15. The first two have 3 slots, the last has 4.
Back at the Office Tower of Power, Tara A has finally overcome her fear, or developed a newer and stronger fear of Fran. Hag Chachi is, in a moment of rare clarity, letting gravity do it’s thang and drag her fat ass to the ground. A couple of third-degree friction burns later, she lands. Finally, AH Fran makes it to the bottom, as well. The Hags try to get directions, but find that barking at Brazilians in English doesn’t really command the attention they thought it should.
At the BDD, the Bodes, H&A, ManShow, and the Tokens all rush for the first bus vouchers. The Tokens lose out. They are relegated to Bus 2. Meanwhile, BurningBed has arrived at the wrong bus station. Lake blames Michelle and the locals, in that order.
DworkLove and Spanglish arrive at the BDD and claim seats 2 and 3 on Bus 2. There is much rejoicing. The Taras just miss out, and the Bodes console them by grabbing their diseased asses. The Bodes call them “dirty”. Brother, you don’t know the half of it. One gets the feeling that the Taras expected ticket compensation for their compliance, but I’m quite sure the Bodes were looking for something more along the lines of a fluid exchange. OK, I’ve officially skeeved myself out. Ick.
The remaining teams arrive and claim their spots on Bus 3. So, to recap: Bus 1 contains the Bodes, H&A, and ManShow, Bus 2 contains the Tokens, Spanglish, and DworkLove, and ShortBus 3 contains the Taras, BurningBeds, Artificial Hips, and the Hagazons.
There is a brief attempt at oohing and aahing over the countryside, but it’s only a 150 mile trip fer chrissakes. No good bus breakdowns, no attempts at driver bribery, no nothing. One. Boring. Busride.
When they arrive at their destination, there are 10 VW bugs waiting for them. H&A gain an immediate competitive advantage. The clue that awaits them is a DETOUR. Pros and cons and all that. This detour involves climbing (MORE fucking climbing?!) or pressing. Teams can either climb a waterfall or make ethanol out of sugar cane. All three of our dumbfuck Bus 1 teams choose climbing. Quelle surprise. All three cars decide to follow each other. Driving, followed by direction asking, followed by Juggy ass-ogling by the Bodes, followed by more driving and direction asking, until they reach Jacare Falls.
You may remember Jacare from Survivor 6: The Amazon. As it happens, S6’s Rob Cesternino, the nanciest bedwetter never to win Survivor, has opened his very own Waterfall Adventure Park and Mini Golf establishment. This week’s special? Hit the ball through Heidi Ho’s Hoo-Hoo and win a Big Gulp.
At any rate, H&A arrive at Rob C’s first after a closely contested game of Punchbuggy, closely followed by a jiggly Juggy and grunting Meathead, and the Bodes, who “can’t wait to slip into their Speedos”. No, they’re not gay at all. They each wade into the water, with the Bodes complaining about damaging their suede shoes. Yeah, totally heterosexual, those guys.
Meanwhile, Bus 2 has arrived at the Love Bug-o-rama. Tokens decide to climb, what with Yolanda having thighs that would put Bo Jackson’s to shame, while DworkLove and Spanglish opt to make ethanol. Dwork Dave claims to have done this experiment in high school, although it was probably last week during a Mythbusters marathon.
Back at Rob C’s, H&A have climbed the falls, as have ManShow. Bode B has a “kink in his rope” (Code?), but eventually makes it to the top. Bode A says “Way to go, Slammer.” (Really.) Now, it’s off to the pit stop, a coffee plantation down the road about 20 miles. I think all tolled, this Stage took about 4 hours and 3 of those were the bus ride. They totally could’ve done this episode in real time, 24-style.
Elsewhere, the Bus 2 peeps are cluelessly driving around the Brazilian wilderness as ShortBus 3 arrives. Taras, Artificial Hips, and BurningBeds all decide to climb, Hags decide to press. The Taras, oddly enough, are having a difficult time with the gear shift. The Hags are also having a difficult time with the gear shift. This is a lot easier to believe. They begin to yell at each other as I—errr, we fade to black…
Back again! Hags still yelling at each other. And crying. Don’t forget the crying. Oh, these two are such a joy to watch. *simulates suicide* Eventually, they ask directions, and the locals show them where they can go.
Elsewhere on the road, the Bus 1 peeps are headed to the pit stop, but get lost. Again. The Bodes pass the Taras on the road and show them their peenies. They wonder what will happen if the objects of their erections are Philiminated. Will they *gasp* have to hit on the Hippies? If this were a Burnett production, that would be Shithammer foreshadowing if I ever saw it. As it is, I’m now optimistic that the Bode/H&A love connection will happen. Oh yes, it WILL happen.
The Dworks have reached the press. There is squirting of juice, none of it sexual in nature. The Tokens arrive at Rob C’s, using words that end in “izzle”. I’m quite sure this was dubbed in later. Spanglish reaches the press, as well, just as the Dworks are finishing up. Dwork Dave is proud of his
The Artificial Hips, en route to Rob C’s, explain to us that they chose this physically demanding task because they couldn’t put a motorcycle together. Umm, OK. This was the team that was supposed to win using their wits, right? Just checking. This is followed by more uninteresting confusion from the ShortBus 3 peeps as they attempt to find their destinations.
Meanwhile, Spanglish finishes the ethanol and gets their clue.
The Bus 1 peeps are still lost, or they’re using recycled footage to fill the hour, I’m not sure which and it's completely uninteresting in either event. The Bodes stop following H&A and ask for directions. They are told they should have stayed behind H&A. They have a collective “D’Oh!” moment, as H&A spastically reach the plantation. They come running, flipping, and somersaulting down the hill shouting “Hey Philip!”. They actually did it. Yes they did. They called him Philip. Excellent. “Philip” does not look as thrilled, however. He tells them they are Team #1 and that they’ve won a trip to Tahiti. H&A are so excited they begin to thrash about like teenagers who know that they were given naughty bits, but haven’t quite figured out how to use them. It was a bit jarring, truthfully.
Not far behind them are the Bodes, who are yelling about being cranky and then say “I’m gonna smack you, woman” to Phil. Phil gives them the evil eyebrow, as if to say “not if my huge rack has anything to say about it, you won’t.” Possibly the most surreal moment ever on this show. ManShow arrives 3rd. There is jiggling from Juggy.
Back at Rob C’s, Artificial Hips and BurningBeds have arrived. Both teams make their wives go first. Lake is, quizzically, shirtless. He shouts at Michelle to get her ass up the waterfall. I find myself wishing leeches upon his naked bosom. Then Fran takes a header off the rock face and she—errr, we fade to black…
Ready for one more segment? Me neither. Lake is still screaming at Michelle. Fran has rebounded, literally and figuratively, to inching her way back up the falls. Michelle reaches the top and Lake yells “I’m comin’ after ya!” Although he usually is shirtless when he says this at home, he’s also usually holding a steak knife. Fran makes it to the top just before Lake. Lake screams like the Neanderthal that he is as they receive their clue.
Back at Philip, the Dworks, Tokens, and Spanglish reach the mat in that order.
The Taras arrive at Rob C’s and hustle into the water. Tara A passes Barry and reaches the top quickly. Barry then reaches the top, and the Hips are off to the pit stop. The Taras are close behind them.
Elsewhere, the Hags have finally reached the press. Chachi says “Pretend like you’re giving birth.” Loni says “I had a C-section.” I have no idea what that exchange was about, but I’m filing a Class Action suit against Bruckheimer for putting that image in my brain.
Out on the road, Lake has had e-goddamn-nough of Spanish and refuses to ask directions. When Michelle points out that they speak Portuguese in Brazil, Lake reminds her what happens when you contradict Daddy. Down the road a spell, the AH’s car dies and the Taras pass them. Lake forces a young darkie Brazilian into servitude and makes him lead them to the plantation, then is horrified when his new servant stops to get gas.
Finally, the AH’s new car arrives, as Philip explains that, while they will be getting a replacement car, they’re pretty much screwed in the time credit department.
Back at the press, the Hags continue to bitch and moan about not wanting to go home. They, and the possible exception of their husbands, are the only people on the planet who don't want this.
At the plantation, BurningBed and the Taras arrive simultaneously. Lake yells at Michelle to move her ass. There is running. There is yelling. There is Lake & Michelle finishing ahead of the Taras. Lake is stunned that they’re in 7th place. The Taras seem to want something from Philip for finishing in 8th. Philip directs them to the Bodes’s cottage.
And then…darkness. All of a sudden. No dusk, no red sunset. Darkness. All-consuming, break-out-your-miner-helmet darkness. This is followed by the tiresome ritual of creatively editing a photo-finish. Will it be the Hips or the Hags? Who gives a flying fuck? Could it possibly be both? Please? Alas, it is not. The Hips emerge from the darkness, and after the obligatory pregnant pause, Philip tells them they are Team #9. They are incredulous. How bad must the Hags have sucked to finish behind the team who needed a replacement automobile? Finally, the Hags limp to the finish. They are Philiminated. They cry. I? Don’t care. They are off my TV, and I’m doing my little dance of joy. It’s quite something. Really. I should have taped it.
Next week: Russians, Nesting Doll Hell, and Fear of Water. ¶ 4:15 PM 1 Comments
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
The Amazing Race 9, Episode One: "Once Upon a Load of Turds"
by Landru
Oh boy. It’s been a while since I did one of these. It’s been a while since I did reality television at all, in fact. I just sort of…stopped. The last season of this show was really pretty awful, although the outcome could’ve been far, far worse; I’m told that the current edition of my other usual reality show is beyond perversely awful, although I don’t have first-hand experience of that just yet. I’ve sort of been laying off, for professional reasons—I wouldn’t want to burn out on this stuff, since you’ve all come to expect healthy dosings of my cheerful summary-y goodness on a regular basis, and I’d hate to disappoint you—and until professional reasons forced me to watch. So here we are.
I could write a whole lot about me, here in this opening space. I usually do. But you already know it all. I’m more married, with more children, than I was the last time we visited. My coronary arteries are quantifiably more clogged. I’m more employed, and my basketball team is quantifiably more suckified. I’m less obsessed with dredging the Weavers in honey and burying them in an anthill in West Texas, but more convinced than ever that they were mere victims of the Bruck, who is the one who really needs to be honey-dipped and ant-exposed, to prevent future generations of Weavers.
So we open with wide shots of some mountainous locale—wildernessy mountains and forestses, an antelope, or perhaps it’s a wolf or a dire montrous grizzly bear, romping through the prairie, or perhaps it’s the high plains or the lowlands, snowcapped majesty, that sort of thing. I guess that we’re starting in Denver, and a moment later the camera apparently makes a right turn and zooms toward that very city, which is, I have found, a fairly silly place with little to recommend it save its proximity to actual mountains. But that’s just a personal opinion from some random guy on the Internet, and you’re not bound by it.
Except it’s not. Denver really is an ass-suck of a city, and when the big snowstorm hits the East Coast and strands you where you are for a few days, I really, really strongly recommend that where you are be someplace other than Denver.
The camera zooms all the way to Phil, who is standing on top of a tall building that has nothing to do with the show, delivering exposition on Denver and the start of the race. Phil is wearing his brown leather jacket and a turtleneck sweater that fails, abjectly, to hide his disgustingly gigantic honkin’ man-breasts.
Much has been said and written about these manmaries in spaces we have frequented over time, and I have finally reached a conclusion: Phil is a ladyboy. On lonely evenings out on the road waiting for racers to arrive at wherever the pit stop is, Phil paints hisself up and uses those puppies to flesh out all manner of filmy underthings while he waits in seedy portside bars for the fleet to arrive. Aren’t you glad I shared this conclusion with you?
I am. In fact, I’m so glad I’m just going to pause for a moment and let you visualize. Go ahead. Phil. Makeup. Lingerie. Man-boobs. Bar. Sailors.
Better?
The race actually has nothing to do with Denver; it starts out at the Red Rocks Amphitheatre well outside of town. The teams are being driven there in extremely high-class luxury, that being a fleet of beat-up old Chevy pickups. The teams ride in the back of these crummy old beaters, in the rosy dawn, freezing their hopeful little faces off. We now move into the phase where we must spend much time and many pages introducing these assholes.
The first team introduced is Lake and Michelle. Lake is a dentist and Michelle is his wife and dental hygienist. They are from Hattiesburg, Mississippi, extremely Southron, almost laughably stereotypically so, and not in a real good way. They are hard to understand, with deep Mississippi accents and matching attitudes. Michelle tells us that “Blake ‘n ah hayuv are reelayshunship sayut up so thet hayee is very much the leader.” This will have good and bad consequences, as we shall see, the good consequences stemming mostly from Michelle being really fucking stupid, as evidenced primarily by her marriage to Lake, and the bad ones stemming mostly from Lake being the most vicious, arrogant, wife-beating son of a bitch to grace this show since good old Jonathan. The fambly is shown on the deck, grilling food, their son sitting in Michelle’s lap. She snatches his finger out of his nose. On camera.
She compares herself to Scarlett O’Hara.
No, you stupid clod. You’re not Scarlett O’Hara. There’s no war. You don’t own slaves or a plantation, although it’s painfully clear that you’d do so quite cheerfully, given the opportunity, and it will become painfully clear that your cocky, hypercharged shit of a husband would welcome the opportunity gleefully, laying whip marks on them slaves his very own self.
Lake acknowledges that he is short on compassion, then comes out and trashes the rest of humanity. In his view, it’s tough shit for the rest of us that he’s a bastard.
Lake and Michelle will be Team DixieCup. If I have to explain to you the many levels on which this works, go away.
Next up are Dani and Danielle, identical and indistinguishable best friends and hooahs from Staten Island. They are blonde. They wear pink. They have collected, between the two of them, about sixty pounds of breasts. They are so overwhelmingly fuckawful that I am…well, overwhelmed by their fuckawfulness. But I’m a good trooper and I’ll go on, here.
Actually, I won’t. Their narrative consists entirely of telling us that they’re girls and they want to get laid. They are Team HoBag.
Next up are BJ and Tyler. I will relax for a moment here and let Mrs. Satan tell you all you need to know about them: “Jesus Fucking Christ, they’re the bastard sons of Doug Henning!”
She really said that. No lie.
These two poofs are exhibionist creeps, best friends from San Francisco. They are loopy and addled, but they’re pretty convinced that they’re interesting, and tell us so. At length. They are Team ChickenFucker, because they’re also reminiscent of the guy who ran the South Park bookmobile.
Ray and Yolanda are dating, a lawyer and teacher from, we are told, Chicago. They are the show’s token African-American couple. Yolanda tells us that they are smart and athletic. Ray tells us that he’s from the ‘hood and went to law school because the system is against them. They expect to be the team to beat. While it probably does them a disservice, because they seem to be perfectly fine and inoffensive young American human beings, they are, of course, Team Token. What the hell else could they be?
John and Scott are best friends from New England. They are the token extremely gay couple. Scott denies this, telling us that he loves John “like a brother and nothing more than that.” We do not believe him. He also tells us that his father calls John “his tallest daughter.” We do believe him. John flames and minces. Scott’s flaming and mincing is considerably more understated. They will be very annoying. But not for long. They are Team Mincemeat.
Joseph and Monica, the self-proclaimed Team MoJo, are dating, and are from Fayetteville, Arkansas, which is one of those places where you can make a 20-minute regional joke just by pronouncing the name. Monica is very, very blonde. Joseph looks disturbingly like my wife’s ex-husband. They blather about competitiveness and unstoppability. Given that they wear matching “Team MoJo” t-shirts with little Arkansas Razorbacks on the sleeve, they are Team HogSlop.
Eric and Jeremy are fratboy friends, a bartender and valet from Florida. They have absolutely no distinguishing personality characteristics and will make a lovely match for Team HoBag. My wife shrieked in fear when she saw that one of them has double nipple piercings. They admittedly have no ambition and no careers. They are Team Wastrel.
Lisa and Joni, the self-proclaimed Glamazons, are frosted blonde Texan nouveau riche fatbag sisters accessorized in lime green. They are shown donning tiaras and playing with sequins. They are redneck terrorists, loud obnoxious pushy first wives with a penchant for being…uhm…loud and obnoxious and pushy. There is much talk of underestimation, which will be exposed as pretty fucking silly when the race begins, because they like to go slow, get lost, and do stupid shit. While commenting on it. Loudly. And obnoxiously. They are Team TurdLoad, for reasons that will become apparent.
Y’know, the South is peopled with bright, funny humans who don’t all talk like they done stuffed their mouths with cotton. When will reality television decide to cast people who aren’t walking adverts for the Dukes of Hazzard? We get all manner of rednecks and crackers and Cooters and Daisy Dooks and evangelicals and wife-beaters and Aryan supremacists and princess-pimpers and Davey Crockett and Davida Crockette and good ol’ boys and Jamies and inbreds. When the fuck will they cast our Kimmah so that the whole world doesn’t think James and BobbyJon are the epitome of the South?
Sigh. Right, back to work.
Fran and Barry are an old married couple. They’re completely fucking useless and they whine a lot. We are shown old photographs from back before they were wrinkled and dried up. They are wearing foul-weather gear on a perfectly sunny day. They expect to destroy all of the young beef in their paths. They are Team Eisenhower.
Wanda and Desiree are a mother and daughter from Atlanta. Wanda wishes us to know how extremely Puerto Rican she is. Desiree wishes us to know that her mother is hip, cool, not like those other moms. Wanda tells us that she will have to suppress her impulse to keep her daughter from being a whore. Desiree does not particularly appear to be a whore—in fact, she appears to be reasonably well-centered, if a bit low-wattage. They call down every stereotype in the book in defining themselves, so I don’t feel bad about dubbing them Team Barrio.
Dave and Lori are dating. They are largish, lumpy Kansans who are deeply in love. I gotta tell you, these two are completely fucking adorable. They are self-admitted geeks totally devoted to each other, feeling lucky to be in love and together—and they probably are. They are really, really sweet, but not quite in a vomitorious way. They proclaim nerdiness to be one of their super powers. Sadly, they have no chance in hell of winning, because they’re just too damn big and slow. I’m having trouble coming up with a derogatory name for them, because I really like them more than I’ve liked any TAR team, in, like, forever. I’ll just go with Team Nerd until something better presents itself.
And so we reach the starting line. It’s time for a lecture from Phil, and lecture he does, about the rules, and the hazards, and the brak brak brak are we fucking done yet?
No. No, we’re not. We haven’t seen Phil’s arched drag-queen eyebrow yet. What the fuck is up with that? What the hell is Phil trying to convey with this gesture, which he cannot resist making all the fucking time? It’s a staple of race starts. He lifts that eyebrow into an impossibly Spockian twist, as he launches into his little countdown, telling them to travel safe and to try not to suck any cocks that he hasn’t already tested as they cross the parking lot.
Finally, we are off. Team DixieCup is heard from first, as Lake unnecessarily exhorts his wife/victim up the steps of the amphitheatre toward their bags. Team ChickenFucker makes a theatrical production out of opening their clue; it’s Magic! The clue is read in fragments of various voices.
Basically, we’re going to Sao Paulo, to the rooftop of the Hotel Unique, to look for our next clue. We can get there on one of three flights, which of course have limited numbers of seats reserved for the competitors, and we are driving cars to the Denver International Airport (the world’s only airport with teepees on the roof) to board those flights. We are to park in a specified parking lot, and we must not try to call ahead to reserve our flight.
There is much exhorting, and much whining about the altitude. Team ChickenFucker is first out of the gate, followed closely by Team HogSlop and Team DixieCup, and eleven minutes into the show, we’re rolling credits.
Having done the important work of introducing the nimrods and starting the race, I want to make very clear to you one crucial detail: you can stop after this paragraph, if you’d like, because absolutely nothing will happen for the remainder of this program. In two fucking hours, the sum total of tasks will be ONE, a Detour in Sao Paulo that involves riding a helicopter or assembling a motorcycle. A team will be eliminated, and it will be a gasping and fucktarded Team Mincemeat. Team Wastrel will win the leg and ten grand each. The order of finish will be not terribly far from perfectly predictable. That is all. The rest of the show—and of this summary—is pure, unmitigated filler. Do with this information what you will.
We are now going to drive to the airport for a while. There will be jockeying for position. Team ChickenFucker gloats and congratulates itself. Monica, of Team HogSlop, opines that the “hippies” must not have smoked pot for a while, or they wouldn’t be leading. Haw! That’s howlingly funny, you Sorority Barbie dimwit.
Not.
Back at Red Rocks, various teams are struggling with the concept of loading baggage into automobiles. Team TurdLoad and Team Mincemeat are taking it easy, making leisurely walks to their cars. Everyone whines about the altitude.
“Fasten joor seatbelts,” yells Wanda. “It’s gonna be a bumpy ride.” Team Mincemeat dubs Team TurdLoad “the Frosties.” This is funny, given that Team ChickenFucker is the team dressed like Froot Loops. Otherwise? Not so funny.
One of Team TurdLoad opines that they are off to Brazil, most likely to eat “monkey testicles or something.” Yes, that’s exactly the enlightened view of other cultures that we strive for on this expedition. Except you forgot to note that all Brazilians are transsexuals with AIDS. Keep up, you overblown Texas Republican snotbarrels.
Back at Team DixieCup, Lake is telling Michelle to make a left turn into oncoming traffic. She protests that she doesn’t want to get flattened by a truck. He reminds her that he’s invincible.
More driving. More driving. The Wastrels have decided that the HoBags are their type, by which I think they mean that the HoBags have breasts. Team Barrio is still screaming excitedly, and dubs itself Team Bouricua, feeding further into my stereotyping efforts. They also dub the Nerdlettes Team Einstein. This is an unfortunate slur on smart people. Fucking Puerto Ricans.
John minces about flying. He wants to fly on big planes. Scott reassures him that he personally is not gay and that they will fly on big planes. One of the Texazons tells us that she’s done being a doormat, and that she’s going to unsheath her womanhood. This prompts my smart friend Diane to call me and tell me that she’s very, very afraid of unsheathed womanhood. I must agree.
Team Token tells us that we may not reserve our tickets over the phone. Lake makes his wife stop to use a pay phone to reserve the tickets. She tells us in a confessional that he’s always right. They stop and make the call. He yells at her as she’s trying to talk on the phone. One gets the impression that this is not unusual. Because he’s, y’know, a complete ASSHOLE.
Team HogSlop gets to the airport exit, which is, I can attest, still quite some distance from the airport and the teepees. Joseph refers to the exit as “Penyay Boulevard”. There is no rationale for pronouncing the word “Pena” (“Pain-ya”), as in “Pena Boulevard”, i.e. the Denver Airport road, this way, except that maybe your entire vocabulary consists of “Oooooo….Hog! Sooey! Razorback!” Which his does.
Look, I’m really sorry. I’m a Southerner of sorts myself (Kimmah would disagree and very politely and without malice contend that I am a fucking Yankee, and that’s the sort of cultural diversity of viewpoints that makes our country great). But honestly, could one of these shows please put up someone from the old Confederacy who isn’t just a walking cliché?
Team ChickenFucker mocks Team HogSlop from behind, calling them “Ken and Barbie.” One of the ChickenFuckers calls Joseph “anatomically correct Ken.” Their interest in that aspect of Joseph’s personhood is, at best, disturbing.
For some reason, there is a lot of emphasis on speeding and not speeding. Why on Earth would you not particularly speed, during a race? Especially on a leg where you are driving anywhere between the Mississippi River and the Rocky Mountains, where it is virtually impossible to get a ticket unless you are a complete idiot? Are TAR producers watching your speedometer? Obviously not—last season, one of the skunk/skank Weavers got pulled over for speeding in some podunk town in Wyoming. Wassup wit this respect for the speed limit? It’s not like this show is doing anything to encourage socially responsible values; witness Lake and Michelle, ferchrissakes. Let ‘em drive, Bruck.
Back at the pay phone, Team DixieCup thinks it has succeeded in phoning in a reservation for tickets on the first departing flight. “I wish I wasn’t so stressed on it,” says Michelle. “You didn’t mess us up at all,” says Lake. Remember this.
People begin to arrive at the shuttle parking. Everyone is essentially going to arrive at the airport at the same time. Team HoBag tries to keep its shuttle bus from stopping for other players. There’s a clusterfuck at the parking area and on the buses. Teams TurdLoad and Mincemeat get on the same bus and greet each other squealing.
American, Continental, and United have paid for product placement for this leg of the trip. The American flight leaves and arrives first, followed by the United flight and the Continental flight.
Back at Team DixieCup, Michelle realizes that they’ve fucked up. Lake agrees that he didn’t read everything. “Dad gum it,” he says, as we go to:
Commercials, brought to us by Duracell:
an officious voiceover, for Duracell, which wants to remind us that the rainforest will die if we don’t use Duracell batteries; a trailer for a decidedly uninteresting-looking Chonny Depp vehicle called The Libertine; the fucking Gnome, for Travelocity; faux detectives conducting a faux investigation into text messaging, followed by Katherine Zeta-Jones, for T-Mobile; closet nutjob Andie McDowell, for some L'Oreal product; people giving out yellow t-shirts and pretending to save the world, for ethanol fuels and the GM vehicles that use them; and CBS, for the Mandy Patinkin crime show, and for CSI: Sipewicz, and for the stupid show that wants us to believe in Rob Morrow as a cop.
And we’re back, where Lake is apologizing to his wife/victim in his own fashion. “I’m sorry,” says her asshole husband. “That was…partially my fault, really.”
No, you wifebeating, arrogant, piece of slimefuck. It was entirely your fault. You didn’t read the fucking instructions, you bag of crap. Crawl back under whatever rock you live under and belly up to the responsibility bar, asshole, and pray that there is no deity available to strike you down for your self-delusional shit, you cocky fucktard. Then die anyway, because your behavior is remarkably beyond the bounds of what should be tolerated from living human beings.
Michelle does her best to simmer quietly and not provoke a beating from this insane redneck criminal.
There is a whole crapload of contestants on one of the buses. They converge on the American counter, except for a few smarter ones who head for Continental, which has more seats and less crush. In the midst of the crush at the American counter, the Chickenfuckers introduce themselves to the HoBags and ask if they can call the sluts Double D. “Sure,” reply the girls. “Everyone does.”
No lie.
The next bit is really boring and useless, as the teams do research and establish the arrival and departure times. Some of the smarter teams bail on American and head for United before the crush.
The HoBags, the ChickenFuckers, and Team Eisenhower get onto the American flight. Monica looks like she’s about to cry. Joseph asks her if she’s about to start to cry. She lies. They bolt for United.
The Nerdlettes stand at the United counter and tell each other how hot they are. They are so fucking adorable. They confess about their monstrously huge love for each other.
The Wastrels are the first on the United flight, and the TurdLoads are first on the Continental. Team Mincemeat wanders back and forth. Team DixieCup storms into the airport last, Michelle bemoaning their fate, and her tormentor telling her to “shut the fuck up.”
I’m serious. This guy is a class A piece of shit who seriously needs to be beaten and assraped by an African-American motorcycle gang, then sold into slavery. And really, even that won’t have much of an impact on his attitude.
Team Barrio and the Nerdlettes make the United flight, along with Team Mincemeat. Everyone else sprints for Continental, needlessly, because they’re all going to be on the same last flight. Lake exhorts his victim, yelling “that black girl can outrun you, come on!”
Great. Not only is he an arrogant, wifebeating piece of shit, he’s a racist as well. What a pretty picture he makes.
Team HogSlop uncharacteristically shows a flash of brilliance, refusing to get caught in an unnecessary footrace to the Continental counter.
Team DixieCup pretends to like black people, introducing themselves to Team Token at the Continental counter. “Lake, like the ocean,” says the violent abusive arrogant piece of shit. “Ray, like the sun,” says Ray.
No lie.
I bet Ray’s dick is bigger.
A lot bigger.
So the DixieCups, Team Token, and Team HogSlop all make the Continental flight. Continental goes through Houston (and speaking from personal experience, let me advise you that, if you ever happen on an opportunity to connect in Houston on Continental, you should immediately avail yourself of an opportunity to take a different airline), American goes through DFW, and United goes, inexplicably, through Washington Dulles, despite its hubs at Denver and Chicago.
Of course, bizarre things happen on connecting flights, and the arrival order is shaken and stirred. United gets there first, followed by American and Continental. Phil speaks to us from the rooftop of the Hotel Unique. He clearly got there faster, and changed his clothing. He is wearing a tight black rayon shirt that, as usual, accentuates the protrusion of his mighty orbs.
So we get to the airport and it’s time for us to pile into taxis. Sadly, they are not blue. This disappoints me beyond measure, because we established many, many seasons ago that while we are perfectly prepared to tolerate non-blue taxis in most countries, Brazil is not one of them. I am crushed.
We get a swirly montagey collection of Brazilian street life, but it’s brief. We get a brief cut to an old-fashioned airport arrivals board, spinning through airlines and points of origin. Team Barrio is the first to get into a taxi, and Mama Barrio can perform the amazing trick of speaking to taxi drivers in Spanish! Sadly, Brazil is a Portuguese-speaking country, but apparently she speaks a bit of that, too.
Team Wastrel talks to its taxi driver about Team Barrio’s boobs. It seems the taxi driver noticed them, as well. Apparently, as we shall see in a poignant and touching scene later in the show, noticing breasts is a not-unusual hobby among Brazilian men.
Team Mincemeat boards a taxi. John pats the driver’s shoulder. The driver clearly does not being touched and winces, fearful that John has given him the gay.
The ChickenFuckers arrive on the American flight, which apparently got in about the same time—within 5 minutes, it appears—as the United flight. They display their newfound knowledge of Portuguese, complimenting the size of their driver’s penis and instructing him to mow down any American-looking travellers in cold blood, just in case.
The HoBags’ driver asks them if they’re celebrities. They acknowledge that they are.
Meanwhile, the Continental flight arrives—the editing makes it appear that the flights come in very close together.
Teams HogSlop, DixieCup, Token, and TurdLoad catch cabs; one of the TurdLoad sisters opines that she thought Spanish was the universal language of the world and is dismayed that their driver speaks Portuguese. At least she doesn’t try to speak Spanish by putting the letter “o” at the end of every word.
The Hotel Unique is a cool-looking building—sort of a filled-in half-circle suspended off the ground. The Box of Curing Cluelessness is situated on the roof, which affords a really cool view of Sao Paulo. The teams have no time to linger over the view, however, because as Team Barrio discovers as it is the first to arrive, they must get to a famous bridge called the Viaduto Santa Efigenia, travelling by taxi through traffic-choked streets. This destination’s name produces an interesting variety of pronunciations by the various overly American competitors.
The teams arrive in turn at the hotel—the Wastrels, Team Mincemeat, the ChickenFuckers. Team Barrio discovers that it is in first place. The ChickenFuckers once again do a little exhibitionism as they raid the cluebox. It’s Magic! The Nerdlettes kiss tenderly in the back of the taxi, which at least has blue stripes, as they find the hotel. Team Eisenhower is next to arrive, and has the good sense to make its taxi driver wait, forcing the Wastrels to go find a new cab. The HoBags arrive, ogling Team Wastrel on the way in. The ChickenFuckers beat Team Mincemeat to a cab, which will turn out to be the demise of Mincemeat. The Nerdlettes get in a taxi and perform a ridiculously complex handshake. This ritual will be surpassed momentarily in a spectacularly retarded fashion by another team. The HoBags get another cab, bitching about Team Wastrel, whom they will later express a clear desire to fuck.
Over at the Viaduto, Team Barrio bails from the taxi and climbs up to the bridge. The ChickenFuckers and the Wastrels are close behind, or so we are to believe. Team Mincemeat took the wrong taxi—their driver has no clue where he’s going. Scott’s pretty laid back about it, and John rips into him for not being bitchy enough.
Team HogSlop gets to the hotel, followed closely by the DixieCups. Monica is irrationally exuberant about finding the clue, bouncing up and down. Unfortunately, her Team MoJo t-shirt is not particularly close-fitting. The DixieCups are obsessed with “that black team.” Thanks for the validation, there, wifebeater.
Back at Team Token, Ray is getting a little nervous, wanting to know if they’re getting close. Yolanda scolds him cheerfully, asking him how he’d feel if he had a big black man sitting behind him, asking, “Are we close?” They crack up giggling. They really do seem to be very nice people, possibly even smart and funny, although we have many hours of footage to cull through before we will be able to reach a final judgment. For now, we’ll just fervidly hope that they at least get the opportunity to destroy Team DixieCup in single combat. They arrive at the hotel in tenth place and get clueful, followed by the TurdLoads, who are already spouting defeatism.
Over at the bridge, Team Barrio raids the cluebox and discovers that they are facing a Detour.
A Detour, for those of you who live in sensory deprivation tanks and therefore have never watched the show and are not reading this summary, is a choice between two tasks, each of which has advantages and disadvantages. The choices are, in this instance, assembling a motorcycle from a scattering of beat-up-looking parts, or riding a helicopter to find one of three specific buildings in which clues have been thoughtfully hidden somewhere near the roof. The tasks have not been very well-thought-out, because it’s obvious that the helicopter task will be faster, even though the motorcycle shop is closer to the hotel and it may take some time to get to the airport, identify the right building in the pilot’s guide, procure a ticket, and complete the task. Only an actual gearhead should even be thinking about attempting the motorcycle task. While four teams will attempt the motorcycle task, only two will finish it.
Team Barrio heads for the airport, followed by the ChickenFuckers, who think helicopters are cool. The Wastrels clearly understand that motorcycle assembly would involve actual work, and follow suit. The Nerdlettes also, adorably, decide to take the helicopter ride.
Team Eisenhower can’t find the clue box. They walk up and down the bridge, repeatedly walking by the repositoire d’clue, which is, of course, brightly marked with the traditional TAR burgundy and gold. They are idiots. And they whine about it. A lot.
And we’re off to:
Commercials:
a trailer, for some futuristic costume drama about a totalitarian society; lobsters, for Red Lobster, which is clearly the place to go if you want quality previously frozen lobster; dust mites living in a carpet, for Dyson vacuum cleaners; faux Eurotrash unpimping some guy’s ride, for VW, in a really, really disturbing little vignette that I hope never to see again; some chick, for some makeup; My Local News, teasing some crap I don’t have time for; guys driving an old car in a nighttime race, for Mercedes; lampshades and parasols and the ever-locally-popular Lady Luck, for the Virginia Lottery; some car, for itself; and the improbably named weatherman Topper Schutt, wearing a striped shirt that is making the entire DC metro area’s eyes bleed and way too much makeup for a news guy, for My Local News and his weather.
And we’re back in Sao Paulo. Let’s see, now. Team Eisenhower still can’t find the painfully obvious clue box, still walking by it again and again and again.
Wanda is getting upset because the ChickenFuckers have caught up to them. Her daughter, who really, really wants to be hot, confesses that her role on Team Barrio is to keep her mother from flying off the hinge and becoming a total looming psychobitch from the inner circle of Hell. Team Barrio, the ChickenFuckers, and the Wastrels all catch taxis to the airport where helicopters live. The Nerdlettes are edited as not terribly far behind.
The HoBags find the cluebox easily and decide that they’re biker chicks; amazingly, Team Eisenhower is paying no attention to them, searching in other neighborhoods for a cluebox that is sitting, in the open, on a bridge, right where the fucking clue told them it would be. Apparently, they have never watched this show before and don’t know what a cluebox looks like.
Team Mincemeat is busily freaking out in the back of its cab, which is apparently piloted by a hydroencephalic moron. John scolds Scott, trying to bully him into leaving the cab, which would deposit them in an unknown location in the middle of one of the world’s largest and most bustling metropoli. Where they don’t speak the language. Or understand the local culture. Or have any fucking clue where they are. Darwinism is kicking in.
The place where helicopters live is, apparently, on or near some form of military installation. Team Barrio goes to the wrong entrance. So do the ChickenFuckers and the Wastrels, and the Nerdlettes are the first to arrive at the supersecret heliport, followed closely by the ChickenFuckers and Wastrels. Inexplicably, Team Barrio is nowhere to be seen.
The Wastrels establish that their pilot’s name is Martinez. After all three teams board helicopters, Team Barrio finally catches up and arrives at the helihangar.
I don’t really give a shit which team is going to which building. Do you? No. No, you really don’t. So some helicopter riding takes place. There is much exclamation and woo-hooing and general joy.
The HoBags get to the motorcycle place, asking who will help them put together a motorcycle, kissing several of the local layabouts in an effort to enlist assistance. The winning layabout has no idea what they’re talking about. “These American whores are completely fucking insane, but I’ll bet they’ll fuck Brazilians,” he says to his companions. The HoBags begin to shed clothing, in an effort to get someone to put a motorcycle together for them.
Team HogSlop finds the cluebox; Team Eisenhower is lucky enough to be watching as they find it. God DAMN those gerifarts are dumber than fucking dirt. HogSlop goes flying; the Eisenhowers think they can build a bike. They whine about it. A lot. They decide it wasn’t there the whole time.
The DixieCups and the Tokens dash up the bridge. Team HogSlop correctly identifies Lake DixieCup as “Scott Peterson.”
No lie.
The DixieCups decide to build a bike, because Lake is good with his hands. Michelle defers to him. He screams at her not to second-guess him.
Nope. No reason for that, not when you don’t bother to read the fucking clues.
Dickhead.
The Tokens also decide to build a bike. Meanwhile, the TurdLoads are stuck in traffic, and whining about it. One of them farts, and the other calls her on it. Team Mincemeat is still stuck in traffic too, and they finally bail from the cab and start seeking help from passersby, all of whom ignore them. As they whimper and flame and mince about it, we decide to bag them, because we want some
Commercials:
a trailer for Denzel Washington’s next vehicle, in which he will be either a police officer, a soldier, a coach, or an athlete…do you really care which?; Mongols or Huns or Kazakhs or something, for Circuit City; kids in wonderment, for Disney; fake doctors, for a subpar cholesterol medication; CBS, for Dave, and for some new show starring the President from the original season of 24 and the guy who played the liquid metal Terminator in T2; loud noise, for some local furniture store; a model whose looks are not improved by eyeglasses, for Hour Eyes; constipated persons, for some fiber pills; house shoppers, for some real estate Web site; and My Local News, yet again, once more pimping something about which I do not give a fuck.
And we’re back. We’re about halfway through, by the way, but remember my original admonition; nothing is going to happen, Team Mincemeat is going to go down in flames, and I’m trying very, very hard to stick to mockably fine points in the two hours of nihilism that constitutes this television program.
Team Mincemeat has a ridiculous fight about what to do, now that they’re lost in Sao Paulo. The TurdLoads become depressed over their traffic-jammed condition. “They live lahk this, they don’t know any better,” opines one of these vile creatures. “They would probably be out of place where we live,” answers the other.
Yes. Yes, they’d probably be out of place in a suburban Dallas mcmansion where the only brown people are gardeners and servants. Yes, they probably would.
So back where we’re helicoptering, we’re still…well, helicoptering. Some helicopters land, some clues are found, specifically by the Wastrels and the ChickenFuckers. Awe is inspired, exclamations uttered. Wow, it’s all very cool. The clue instructs the teams to travel to a grungy warehouse in a scary neighborhood and witness a scary, snake-involved religious ritual performed by practitioners of a religion unique to Brazil. The Nerdlettes, meanwhile, land at their building some miles away and locate their very own clue in an office kitchen. Team Barrio’s clue is even farther away, in a luxury hotel suite of some sort.
Team HogSlop tries to get its taxi driver to go to the right location. They are still speaking Spanish to the unfortunate Brazilian driver, who has no clue of how to reach a destination that is, visibly, across the fucking street from where they are, as we head off to:
Commercials:
annoying guy trying to reach customer service, for Citi; a trailer, for a Bruce Willis vehicle in which he is either a police officer, a soldier, a coach, or an athlete…do you really care which?; girls dunking Oreos, for Oreos; the Mardi Gras parade, for Zatarain’s; claymation and an inexplicably Hispanic-accented voiceover, for Nasonex—actually I think the reason for the accent is that some things, like “Chonny Depp,” just sound cool with an accent; leaves and horses, for…a car? Oh, it’s a Mustang, I get it; anthropomorphic toothbrushes, for a Colgate product; and CBS, for Dave, and for some CSI product, and for some other CBS crime show…really, how are we supposed to distinguish among all these CBS crime products?
And we’re back, where nothing will happen, but we’re still watching Team HogSlop try to give instructions to their retard of a cab driver, and wait a minute!
Okay, I had to pause the tape to catch this clearly, but Joseph HogSlop is, in this shot, very, very clearly wearing a rubber glove on his right hand. I can only infer that he fears Third World germs. And believes that a rubber glove will prevent their transmission.
Back at Biker Alley, the HoBags are falling out of their clothing as they attempt to assemble a bike. Team Eisenhower arrives as the HoBags are departing. But Team Eisenhower isn’t bright enough to pull it off, either. After watching them for a few moments, Team HoBag decides to blow town and ride helicopters.
The DixieCups arrive, with Lake screaming at his wife/victim. He promises to help Team Eisenhower after he finishes assembling his own bike. Michelle protests; in an unusual display of lucidity, Lake points out that the Eisenhowers might help them later on. Team Token arrives, and Lake claims that Ray will never assemble a bike as quickly as he can. Of course not, Lake. Every one knows black people have no mechanical aptitude.
Yolanda now being by far the most attractive human in the vicinity of the bike shop, the Tokens draw quite a crowd as they work in their bike. Ray is having a little trouble focusing on the bike, since he very clearly wants to go clear him out some local color, but he manages to stay on task. Yolanda picks up parts, giving the crowd a clear view of her stretch-fabric-covered ass to keep them entertained.
Team Mincemeat is still lost. They finally ask some cops, who correctly direct them. They get to the clue on the bridge a bit ahead of Team TurdLoad. They choose the helicopter ride, which John minces and whines about. The TurdLoads agree to hit the helicopters, too.
The Wastrels pump up Martinez’ confidence, asking him how many girls he gets on account of being a helicopter pilot. Martinez, figuring his wife might be watching, denies it. They land, the ChickenFuckers not far behind them. They run into Team HogSlop; Monica is bouncing up and down excited, but hasn’t tightened up her shirt at all. She remains excited as they board and take off.
The Nerdlettes return to the heliport, still deeply in love. Team Barrio are not far behind. Everyone boards cabs. Wanda tells us that this is a rat race, and that New York is not comparable in its rat-raciness. Wanda is deluded.
The HogSlops find their clue, bouncing back to the helicopter. I really don’t like them at all, but I’ll give them one thing—Monica’s joie de vivre is pretty impressive and heartening. And yes, that means what I think it means.
The Eisenhowers are frustrated, having intense trouble with their motorcycle. The DixieCups are succeeding, but Lake is pissed off at the machine, grunting at it constipatedly, “Don’t…be…mah…demise!”
I really hate this guy.
The Tokens are moving along with their bike, to the delight of the assembled crowd (apparently, hanging around in front of motorcycle shops is vastly preferable to employment, in a burg like Sao Paulo). The Eisenhowers continue to whimper, as the DixieCups’ cycle roars into life. Lake tries to give some assistance to the Eisenhowers, but they’re too dumb to handle it. He even asks the Tokens if they’ve got it right. The Eisenhowers are whining more and working less as we head off to:
Commercials, brought to us by T-Mobile and some Web contest it’s running:
the faux detectives and their faux investigation, again, for T-Mobile, again; a trailer, for a Disney film that I refuse to identify; a car, for itself; women wearing clothing, for Talbots; a poofter in a tophat and other Victorian garb, playing the harpsichord, for NetFlix; CBS, for Dave, again, and for that other reality show, where we won’t believe what’s buried in the Ark of the Covenant, and for the Jennifer Love Whorewith show, and for some other annoying CBS product; My Local News, where Topper still hasn’t changed his fucking striped shirt and now I’ve got a nosebleed from it; foodfor Subway; a fake press conference, for local car dealers who are still running a holiday sale; and a yellow polka dot bikini, for Yoplait, which is clinically proven to make you less of a fat pig, unless you’re my wife, who isn’t fat.
And we’re back, where the Eisenhowers really need to die, soon, because I’m sick of their fucking whining about being old and stupid and useless, and I might must teleport myself into the timeline they’re currently occupying and cause some form of fatal anti-American soccer riot in the street on which they are failing to assemble a motorcycle. They continue to whine as they decide to go do the helicopter thing. And thereafter. Since they’re out of the street where I tried to conjure up a soccer riot, I’ll have to root for a cement-truck rollover, or something.
The Ho-Bags arrive at the helicoptery place and select a building to raid, taking off as the HogSlops are landing. The HogSlops run out to catch a cab, becoming the next in a long line of self-important TAR contestants to proclaim to someone that this is an emergency.
What the fuck is it with these people? Why the fuck do they think their personal quest to win a million fucking dollars on a television game show is a fucking emergency? If I approach them after they win the money and tell them it’s a fucking emergency and I need ten grand because I’m out of blow, will they help me?
The TurdLoads finally arrive at the heliport. They pick a building and try to get gone, as the Eisenhowers arrive. The TurdLoads notice, and earn their name as one of them sees that arrival and exclaims, “Crap a big load of turds!”
No lie.
Then the Mincemeats arrive, and the TurdLoads go batshit screaming crazy. Really. They begin to scream at every little bit of news. Both of them claim they are urinating in their battleship-sized underwear. They thank Jesus, but not in a smarmy sort of way—they’re just looking for someone else to scream at. They regain their equilibrium and begin to focus.
Team Mincemeat has trouble locating a building to fly to. The TurdLoads resume screaming as their helicopter lifts off. The Eisenhowers catch a helicopter and head for some building. Team Mincemeat bickers. Then they whine. Then we go to:
Commercials:
Some dried-up chick, for Curel; a trailer, for the latest Harry Potter DVD; a car, for itself; various persons performing various tasks, for Visa; loud noise and science, for a Gillette product that involves many, many blades and perhaps a vibrator; some faux noir guy, for Flonase; a trailer, for the Johnny Cash movie starring people very badly cast as Johnny and June Carter Cash; and CBS, for the Mandy Patinkin thing and some CSI thing and the new show with the 24 guy.
And we’re back, where Team Mincemeat is panicking over the tininess of helicopters.
Over in the scary neighborhood, the Wastrels are the first to arrive at the scary warehouse, go through the scary snake ritual, and get directions to the pit stop, which is at a soccer stadium. All of the participants in the ritual, including a very, very large snake, love them, and they are on their way without incident, the ChickenFuckers hot on their heels.
Over at the pit stop, soccer players and Phil’s breasts await the racers. The Nerdlettes hustle into the religious ritual not terribly far behind, light their candle, and accept their clue. Team Barrio is just behind them. Wanda loves it, of course. It is unclear which of them catches a cab first.
Back in Motor Alley, the Tokens are still working the cycle thing. After a terrifyingly large number of kicks, the cycle coughs into life, to the cheers of the assembled ass-watchers.
The Whores, and the Eisenhowers, the TurdLoads, and finally Team Mincemeat, fly to buildings and gather up their clues. One of the TurdLoads helpfully informs us that her panties are falling down. Scott wants us to know that he isn’t gay, and that he is very proud of John not peeing in his panties over the excitement of flying in a helicopter.
Brak brak brak returning to the heliport, heading to the snake ritual, brak brak brak. The DixieCups get there, Lake attempting to set some Brazilians on fire with his candle before taking the clue and leaving. The HogSlops get there, happily soaking in local culture. Really…Monica’s level of excitement is this weird blend of really, really annoying and completely gratifying. As disagreeable as she and her boyfriend are, it’s really sort of nice to see someone so stupid and provincial take such joy in every step of what should be a great experience, rather than some chore that makes you whimper at and bite the head off of someone you love.
The helicopter landings are interminable; the TurdLoads get hung up trying to catch a taxi as they leave the heliport. But this needs to be a cliffhanger, because we’re going to:
Commercials, brought to us by Travelocity:
the fucking gnome, for Travelocity; Eva Longoria, for some hair care product, but I’d be a lot more inclined to listen to her if she were having sex with me; a trailer, for the reissued DVD of Lady and the Tramp; kids grubbing money for drugs, for non-pot-smoking; various aeronautical crap, for some SUV; those goddam faux investigators, again, for T-Mobile, again; CBS, for Jennifer Love Whorewit, and for another dumb crime show, and for the Rob Morrow thing, and for TAR and NCIS and the new show with the 24 guy, and for a new Julia Louis-Dreyfus vehicle that looks massively stupid, but which I must advise you to watch because my friend Jim’s sister is in the cast and I promised him I’d pimp the show; more of the Mini craze, several years late, for Ruby Tuesday’s; and My Local News, pimping a local-school horror story, among other things about which I do not care.
And we’re back, where the TurdLoads are still whining about being afraid to step out to the road and hail a taxi. But one pulls into the parking lot, and they loudly thank Jesus, again. Team MinceMeat also manages to find a cab.
Back at the stadium, we are led to believe that the Wastrels and the ChickenFuckers are in a close race to the finish, but they’re probably a good five minutes apart. The Wastrels are welcomed by Phil and a local soccer player, who is impressed with his own ball-handling skills. The Wastrels win $10,000 each. They proclaim the value of dropping out of school.
The ChickenFuckers are next, the Wastrels no longer in evidence. The Nerdlettes are apparently the next to arrive at the stadium, but Team Barrio beats them to the mat, because the Nerdlettes enter the stadium through the wrong gate, in time to watch Team Barrio get to the mat ahead of them. Phil compliments the Nerdlettes on how much they love each other.
Back at the voodoo palace, the Tokens get their clue. We are told they’re in seventh place. The Whores are stuck in traffic, and they’re not happy about it. The Eisenhowers get their clue, followed by the Whores.
The DixieCups arrive at the mat. Phil notices that Lake is an asshole. Michelle acknowledges that he is correct. Team Hogslop follows them.
The TurdLoads get lost on their way to the ceremony. Team Mincemeat invokes “Djinni Power,” although I’m certain they would spell it “Genie Power.” This involves John placing his arms in the “I Dream of Jeannie” position and making odd noises, while Scott shrieks that he’s not gay. It’s not gonna work.
Team Token arrives at the mat next, followed by the Eisenhowers, who are stunned that they’re not only not last, but managed to come in ahead of three other teams. They confess about how brilliant they are, usually, and express the hope that they’ll be less stupid tomorrow. The Whores are perfectly pleased not to be eliminated. The TurdLoads are still lost, and we’re all set for a photo finish between them and Team Mincemeat.
Naw, not really. Team Mincemeat is nowhere in sight at the TurdLoads leave the area. The photo finish is all in the editing, which doesn’t even bother to spend as much time as usual convincing us that it’s close. Phil fucks with the TurdLoads only briefly before telling them that they’re not Philiminated.
The music is, of course, touching as Team MinceMeat arrives at the mat to find out that they suck. They are extremely gracious. Phil notes how close they are. They hold hands as Scott reminds us that he’s not gay. There’s some more brakage, but we’re done here, and we’re out.
Commercials:
My Local News, for yet more shit I don’t care about; Felicity Huffman, for that outrageous Dove campaign, followed by yet another commercial in that offensive and insulting series of commercials intended to make us believe that Dove is anything other than a commercial concern; a cow and a boy, dancing for Jell-O pudding; a naked man in the backyard, for Purex; and CBS, for Dave, and for The Early Show, and for that other reality show.
Next Week: The Wastrels have sex with the Whores in a bus station restroom; one of the Whores takes acid and thinks she can fly; the Eisenhowers remain old and ineffectual; and Lake beats his wife, calls Ray “one seriously fine young buck,” and asks if he can spend a few minutes with Yolanda out in the slave quarters.
That’s all I got. Thanks for reading. ¶ 7:31 PM 6 Comments
Oh boy. It’s been a while since I did one of these. It’s been a while since I did reality television at all, in fact. I just sort of…stopped. The last season of this show was really pretty awful, although the outcome could’ve been far, far worse; I’m told that the current edition of my other usual reality show is beyond perversely awful, although I don’t have first-hand experience of that just yet. I’ve sort of been laying off, for professional reasons—I wouldn’t want to burn out on this stuff, since you’ve all come to expect healthy dosings of my cheerful summary-y goodness on a regular basis, and I’d hate to disappoint you—and until professional reasons forced me to watch. So here we are.
I could write a whole lot about me, here in this opening space. I usually do. But you already know it all. I’m more married, with more children, than I was the last time we visited. My coronary arteries are quantifiably more clogged. I’m more employed, and my basketball team is quantifiably more suckified. I’m less obsessed with dredging the Weavers in honey and burying them in an anthill in West Texas, but more convinced than ever that they were mere victims of the Bruck, who is the one who really needs to be honey-dipped and ant-exposed, to prevent future generations of Weavers.
So we open with wide shots of some mountainous locale—wildernessy mountains and forestses, an antelope, or perhaps it’s a wolf or a dire montrous grizzly bear, romping through the prairie, or perhaps it’s the high plains or the lowlands, snowcapped majesty, that sort of thing. I guess that we’re starting in Denver, and a moment later the camera apparently makes a right turn and zooms toward that very city, which is, I have found, a fairly silly place with little to recommend it save its proximity to actual mountains. But that’s just a personal opinion from some random guy on the Internet, and you’re not bound by it.
Except it’s not. Denver really is an ass-suck of a city, and when the big snowstorm hits the East Coast and strands you where you are for a few days, I really, really strongly recommend that where you are be someplace other than Denver.
The camera zooms all the way to Phil, who is standing on top of a tall building that has nothing to do with the show, delivering exposition on Denver and the start of the race. Phil is wearing his brown leather jacket and a turtleneck sweater that fails, abjectly, to hide his disgustingly gigantic honkin’ man-breasts.
Much has been said and written about these manmaries in spaces we have frequented over time, and I have finally reached a conclusion: Phil is a ladyboy. On lonely evenings out on the road waiting for racers to arrive at wherever the pit stop is, Phil paints hisself up and uses those puppies to flesh out all manner of filmy underthings while he waits in seedy portside bars for the fleet to arrive. Aren’t you glad I shared this conclusion with you?
I am. In fact, I’m so glad I’m just going to pause for a moment and let you visualize. Go ahead. Phil. Makeup. Lingerie. Man-boobs. Bar. Sailors.
Better?
The race actually has nothing to do with Denver; it starts out at the Red Rocks Amphitheatre well outside of town. The teams are being driven there in extremely high-class luxury, that being a fleet of beat-up old Chevy pickups. The teams ride in the back of these crummy old beaters, in the rosy dawn, freezing their hopeful little faces off. We now move into the phase where we must spend much time and many pages introducing these assholes.
The first team introduced is Lake and Michelle. Lake is a dentist and Michelle is his wife and dental hygienist. They are from Hattiesburg, Mississippi, extremely Southron, almost laughably stereotypically so, and not in a real good way. They are hard to understand, with deep Mississippi accents and matching attitudes. Michelle tells us that “Blake ‘n ah hayuv are reelayshunship sayut up so thet hayee is very much the leader.” This will have good and bad consequences, as we shall see, the good consequences stemming mostly from Michelle being really fucking stupid, as evidenced primarily by her marriage to Lake, and the bad ones stemming mostly from Lake being the most vicious, arrogant, wife-beating son of a bitch to grace this show since good old Jonathan. The fambly is shown on the deck, grilling food, their son sitting in Michelle’s lap. She snatches his finger out of his nose. On camera.
She compares herself to Scarlett O’Hara.
No, you stupid clod. You’re not Scarlett O’Hara. There’s no war. You don’t own slaves or a plantation, although it’s painfully clear that you’d do so quite cheerfully, given the opportunity, and it will become painfully clear that your cocky, hypercharged shit of a husband would welcome the opportunity gleefully, laying whip marks on them slaves his very own self.
Lake acknowledges that he is short on compassion, then comes out and trashes the rest of humanity. In his view, it’s tough shit for the rest of us that he’s a bastard.
Lake and Michelle will be Team DixieCup. If I have to explain to you the many levels on which this works, go away.
Next up are Dani and Danielle, identical and indistinguishable best friends and hooahs from Staten Island. They are blonde. They wear pink. They have collected, between the two of them, about sixty pounds of breasts. They are so overwhelmingly fuckawful that I am…well, overwhelmed by their fuckawfulness. But I’m a good trooper and I’ll go on, here.
Actually, I won’t. Their narrative consists entirely of telling us that they’re girls and they want to get laid. They are Team HoBag.
Next up are BJ and Tyler. I will relax for a moment here and let Mrs. Satan tell you all you need to know about them: “Jesus Fucking Christ, they’re the bastard sons of Doug Henning!”
She really said that. No lie.
These two poofs are exhibionist creeps, best friends from San Francisco. They are loopy and addled, but they’re pretty convinced that they’re interesting, and tell us so. At length. They are Team ChickenFucker, because they’re also reminiscent of the guy who ran the South Park bookmobile.
Ray and Yolanda are dating, a lawyer and teacher from, we are told, Chicago. They are the show’s token African-American couple. Yolanda tells us that they are smart and athletic. Ray tells us that he’s from the ‘hood and went to law school because the system is against them. They expect to be the team to beat. While it probably does them a disservice, because they seem to be perfectly fine and inoffensive young American human beings, they are, of course, Team Token. What the hell else could they be?
John and Scott are best friends from New England. They are the token extremely gay couple. Scott denies this, telling us that he loves John “like a brother and nothing more than that.” We do not believe him. He also tells us that his father calls John “his tallest daughter.” We do believe him. John flames and minces. Scott’s flaming and mincing is considerably more understated. They will be very annoying. But not for long. They are Team Mincemeat.
Joseph and Monica, the self-proclaimed Team MoJo, are dating, and are from Fayetteville, Arkansas, which is one of those places where you can make a 20-minute regional joke just by pronouncing the name. Monica is very, very blonde. Joseph looks disturbingly like my wife’s ex-husband. They blather about competitiveness and unstoppability. Given that they wear matching “Team MoJo” t-shirts with little Arkansas Razorbacks on the sleeve, they are Team HogSlop.
Eric and Jeremy are fratboy friends, a bartender and valet from Florida. They have absolutely no distinguishing personality characteristics and will make a lovely match for Team HoBag. My wife shrieked in fear when she saw that one of them has double nipple piercings. They admittedly have no ambition and no careers. They are Team Wastrel.
Lisa and Joni, the self-proclaimed Glamazons, are frosted blonde Texan nouveau riche fatbag sisters accessorized in lime green. They are shown donning tiaras and playing with sequins. They are redneck terrorists, loud obnoxious pushy first wives with a penchant for being…uhm…loud and obnoxious and pushy. There is much talk of underestimation, which will be exposed as pretty fucking silly when the race begins, because they like to go slow, get lost, and do stupid shit. While commenting on it. Loudly. And obnoxiously. They are Team TurdLoad, for reasons that will become apparent.
Y’know, the South is peopled with bright, funny humans who don’t all talk like they done stuffed their mouths with cotton. When will reality television decide to cast people who aren’t walking adverts for the Dukes of Hazzard? We get all manner of rednecks and crackers and Cooters and Daisy Dooks and evangelicals and wife-beaters and Aryan supremacists and princess-pimpers and Davey Crockett and Davida Crockette and good ol’ boys and Jamies and inbreds. When the fuck will they cast our Kimmah so that the whole world doesn’t think James and BobbyJon are the epitome of the South?
Sigh. Right, back to work.
Fran and Barry are an old married couple. They’re completely fucking useless and they whine a lot. We are shown old photographs from back before they were wrinkled and dried up. They are wearing foul-weather gear on a perfectly sunny day. They expect to destroy all of the young beef in their paths. They are Team Eisenhower.
Wanda and Desiree are a mother and daughter from Atlanta. Wanda wishes us to know how extremely Puerto Rican she is. Desiree wishes us to know that her mother is hip, cool, not like those other moms. Wanda tells us that she will have to suppress her impulse to keep her daughter from being a whore. Desiree does not particularly appear to be a whore—in fact, she appears to be reasonably well-centered, if a bit low-wattage. They call down every stereotype in the book in defining themselves, so I don’t feel bad about dubbing them Team Barrio.
Dave and Lori are dating. They are largish, lumpy Kansans who are deeply in love. I gotta tell you, these two are completely fucking adorable. They are self-admitted geeks totally devoted to each other, feeling lucky to be in love and together—and they probably are. They are really, really sweet, but not quite in a vomitorious way. They proclaim nerdiness to be one of their super powers. Sadly, they have no chance in hell of winning, because they’re just too damn big and slow. I’m having trouble coming up with a derogatory name for them, because I really like them more than I’ve liked any TAR team, in, like, forever. I’ll just go with Team Nerd until something better presents itself.
And so we reach the starting line. It’s time for a lecture from Phil, and lecture he does, about the rules, and the hazards, and the brak brak brak are we fucking done yet?
No. No, we’re not. We haven’t seen Phil’s arched drag-queen eyebrow yet. What the fuck is up with that? What the hell is Phil trying to convey with this gesture, which he cannot resist making all the fucking time? It’s a staple of race starts. He lifts that eyebrow into an impossibly Spockian twist, as he launches into his little countdown, telling them to travel safe and to try not to suck any cocks that he hasn’t already tested as they cross the parking lot.
Finally, we are off. Team DixieCup is heard from first, as Lake unnecessarily exhorts his wife/victim up the steps of the amphitheatre toward their bags. Team ChickenFucker makes a theatrical production out of opening their clue; it’s Magic! The clue is read in fragments of various voices.
Basically, we’re going to Sao Paulo, to the rooftop of the Hotel Unique, to look for our next clue. We can get there on one of three flights, which of course have limited numbers of seats reserved for the competitors, and we are driving cars to the Denver International Airport (the world’s only airport with teepees on the roof) to board those flights. We are to park in a specified parking lot, and we must not try to call ahead to reserve our flight.
There is much exhorting, and much whining about the altitude. Team ChickenFucker is first out of the gate, followed closely by Team HogSlop and Team DixieCup, and eleven minutes into the show, we’re rolling credits.
Having done the important work of introducing the nimrods and starting the race, I want to make very clear to you one crucial detail: you can stop after this paragraph, if you’d like, because absolutely nothing will happen for the remainder of this program. In two fucking hours, the sum total of tasks will be ONE, a Detour in Sao Paulo that involves riding a helicopter or assembling a motorcycle. A team will be eliminated, and it will be a gasping and fucktarded Team Mincemeat. Team Wastrel will win the leg and ten grand each. The order of finish will be not terribly far from perfectly predictable. That is all. The rest of the show—and of this summary—is pure, unmitigated filler. Do with this information what you will.
We are now going to drive to the airport for a while. There will be jockeying for position. Team ChickenFucker gloats and congratulates itself. Monica, of Team HogSlop, opines that the “hippies” must not have smoked pot for a while, or they wouldn’t be leading. Haw! That’s howlingly funny, you Sorority Barbie dimwit.
Not.
Back at Red Rocks, various teams are struggling with the concept of loading baggage into automobiles. Team TurdLoad and Team Mincemeat are taking it easy, making leisurely walks to their cars. Everyone whines about the altitude.
“Fasten joor seatbelts,” yells Wanda. “It’s gonna be a bumpy ride.” Team Mincemeat dubs Team TurdLoad “the Frosties.” This is funny, given that Team ChickenFucker is the team dressed like Froot Loops. Otherwise? Not so funny.
One of Team TurdLoad opines that they are off to Brazil, most likely to eat “monkey testicles or something.” Yes, that’s exactly the enlightened view of other cultures that we strive for on this expedition. Except you forgot to note that all Brazilians are transsexuals with AIDS. Keep up, you overblown Texas Republican snotbarrels.
Back at Team DixieCup, Lake is telling Michelle to make a left turn into oncoming traffic. She protests that she doesn’t want to get flattened by a truck. He reminds her that he’s invincible.
More driving. More driving. The Wastrels have decided that the HoBags are their type, by which I think they mean that the HoBags have breasts. Team Barrio is still screaming excitedly, and dubs itself Team Bouricua, feeding further into my stereotyping efforts. They also dub the Nerdlettes Team Einstein. This is an unfortunate slur on smart people. Fucking Puerto Ricans.
John minces about flying. He wants to fly on big planes. Scott reassures him that he personally is not gay and that they will fly on big planes. One of the Texazons tells us that she’s done being a doormat, and that she’s going to unsheath her womanhood. This prompts my smart friend Diane to call me and tell me that she’s very, very afraid of unsheathed womanhood. I must agree.
Team Token tells us that we may not reserve our tickets over the phone. Lake makes his wife stop to use a pay phone to reserve the tickets. She tells us in a confessional that he’s always right. They stop and make the call. He yells at her as she’s trying to talk on the phone. One gets the impression that this is not unusual. Because he’s, y’know, a complete ASSHOLE.
Team HogSlop gets to the airport exit, which is, I can attest, still quite some distance from the airport and the teepees. Joseph refers to the exit as “Penyay Boulevard”. There is no rationale for pronouncing the word “Pena” (“Pain-ya”), as in “Pena Boulevard”, i.e. the Denver Airport road, this way, except that maybe your entire vocabulary consists of “Oooooo….Hog! Sooey! Razorback!” Which his does.
Look, I’m really sorry. I’m a Southerner of sorts myself (Kimmah would disagree and very politely and without malice contend that I am a fucking Yankee, and that’s the sort of cultural diversity of viewpoints that makes our country great). But honestly, could one of these shows please put up someone from the old Confederacy who isn’t just a walking cliché?
Team ChickenFucker mocks Team HogSlop from behind, calling them “Ken and Barbie.” One of the ChickenFuckers calls Joseph “anatomically correct Ken.” Their interest in that aspect of Joseph’s personhood is, at best, disturbing.
For some reason, there is a lot of emphasis on speeding and not speeding. Why on Earth would you not particularly speed, during a race? Especially on a leg where you are driving anywhere between the Mississippi River and the Rocky Mountains, where it is virtually impossible to get a ticket unless you are a complete idiot? Are TAR producers watching your speedometer? Obviously not—last season, one of the skunk/skank Weavers got pulled over for speeding in some podunk town in Wyoming. Wassup wit this respect for the speed limit? It’s not like this show is doing anything to encourage socially responsible values; witness Lake and Michelle, ferchrissakes. Let ‘em drive, Bruck.
Back at the pay phone, Team DixieCup thinks it has succeeded in phoning in a reservation for tickets on the first departing flight. “I wish I wasn’t so stressed on it,” says Michelle. “You didn’t mess us up at all,” says Lake. Remember this.
People begin to arrive at the shuttle parking. Everyone is essentially going to arrive at the airport at the same time. Team HoBag tries to keep its shuttle bus from stopping for other players. There’s a clusterfuck at the parking area and on the buses. Teams TurdLoad and Mincemeat get on the same bus and greet each other squealing.
American, Continental, and United have paid for product placement for this leg of the trip. The American flight leaves and arrives first, followed by the United flight and the Continental flight.
Back at Team DixieCup, Michelle realizes that they’ve fucked up. Lake agrees that he didn’t read everything. “Dad gum it,” he says, as we go to:
Commercials, brought to us by Duracell:
an officious voiceover, for Duracell, which wants to remind us that the rainforest will die if we don’t use Duracell batteries; a trailer for a decidedly uninteresting-looking Chonny Depp vehicle called The Libertine; the fucking Gnome, for Travelocity; faux detectives conducting a faux investigation into text messaging, followed by Katherine Zeta-Jones, for T-Mobile; closet nutjob Andie McDowell, for some L'Oreal product; people giving out yellow t-shirts and pretending to save the world, for ethanol fuels and the GM vehicles that use them; and CBS, for the Mandy Patinkin crime show, and for CSI: Sipewicz, and for the stupid show that wants us to believe in Rob Morrow as a cop.
And we’re back, where Lake is apologizing to his wife/victim in his own fashion. “I’m sorry,” says her asshole husband. “That was…partially my fault, really.”
No, you wifebeating, arrogant, piece of slimefuck. It was entirely your fault. You didn’t read the fucking instructions, you bag of crap. Crawl back under whatever rock you live under and belly up to the responsibility bar, asshole, and pray that there is no deity available to strike you down for your self-delusional shit, you cocky fucktard. Then die anyway, because your behavior is remarkably beyond the bounds of what should be tolerated from living human beings.
Michelle does her best to simmer quietly and not provoke a beating from this insane redneck criminal.
There is a whole crapload of contestants on one of the buses. They converge on the American counter, except for a few smarter ones who head for Continental, which has more seats and less crush. In the midst of the crush at the American counter, the Chickenfuckers introduce themselves to the HoBags and ask if they can call the sluts Double D. “Sure,” reply the girls. “Everyone does.”
No lie.
The next bit is really boring and useless, as the teams do research and establish the arrival and departure times. Some of the smarter teams bail on American and head for United before the crush.
The HoBags, the ChickenFuckers, and Team Eisenhower get onto the American flight. Monica looks like she’s about to cry. Joseph asks her if she’s about to start to cry. She lies. They bolt for United.
The Nerdlettes stand at the United counter and tell each other how hot they are. They are so fucking adorable. They confess about their monstrously huge love for each other.
The Wastrels are the first on the United flight, and the TurdLoads are first on the Continental. Team Mincemeat wanders back and forth. Team DixieCup storms into the airport last, Michelle bemoaning their fate, and her tormentor telling her to “shut the fuck up.”
I’m serious. This guy is a class A piece of shit who seriously needs to be beaten and assraped by an African-American motorcycle gang, then sold into slavery. And really, even that won’t have much of an impact on his attitude.
Team Barrio and the Nerdlettes make the United flight, along with Team Mincemeat. Everyone else sprints for Continental, needlessly, because they’re all going to be on the same last flight. Lake exhorts his victim, yelling “that black girl can outrun you, come on!”
Great. Not only is he an arrogant, wifebeating piece of shit, he’s a racist as well. What a pretty picture he makes.
Team HogSlop uncharacteristically shows a flash of brilliance, refusing to get caught in an unnecessary footrace to the Continental counter.
Team DixieCup pretends to like black people, introducing themselves to Team Token at the Continental counter. “Lake, like the ocean,” says the violent abusive arrogant piece of shit. “Ray, like the sun,” says Ray.
No lie.
I bet Ray’s dick is bigger.
A lot bigger.
So the DixieCups, Team Token, and Team HogSlop all make the Continental flight. Continental goes through Houston (and speaking from personal experience, let me advise you that, if you ever happen on an opportunity to connect in Houston on Continental, you should immediately avail yourself of an opportunity to take a different airline), American goes through DFW, and United goes, inexplicably, through Washington Dulles, despite its hubs at Denver and Chicago.
Of course, bizarre things happen on connecting flights, and the arrival order is shaken and stirred. United gets there first, followed by American and Continental. Phil speaks to us from the rooftop of the Hotel Unique. He clearly got there faster, and changed his clothing. He is wearing a tight black rayon shirt that, as usual, accentuates the protrusion of his mighty orbs.
So we get to the airport and it’s time for us to pile into taxis. Sadly, they are not blue. This disappoints me beyond measure, because we established many, many seasons ago that while we are perfectly prepared to tolerate non-blue taxis in most countries, Brazil is not one of them. I am crushed.
We get a swirly montagey collection of Brazilian street life, but it’s brief. We get a brief cut to an old-fashioned airport arrivals board, spinning through airlines and points of origin. Team Barrio is the first to get into a taxi, and Mama Barrio can perform the amazing trick of speaking to taxi drivers in Spanish! Sadly, Brazil is a Portuguese-speaking country, but apparently she speaks a bit of that, too.
Team Wastrel talks to its taxi driver about Team Barrio’s boobs. It seems the taxi driver noticed them, as well. Apparently, as we shall see in a poignant and touching scene later in the show, noticing breasts is a not-unusual hobby among Brazilian men.
Team Mincemeat boards a taxi. John pats the driver’s shoulder. The driver clearly does not being touched and winces, fearful that John has given him the gay.
The ChickenFuckers arrive on the American flight, which apparently got in about the same time—within 5 minutes, it appears—as the United flight. They display their newfound knowledge of Portuguese, complimenting the size of their driver’s penis and instructing him to mow down any American-looking travellers in cold blood, just in case.
The HoBags’ driver asks them if they’re celebrities. They acknowledge that they are.
Meanwhile, the Continental flight arrives—the editing makes it appear that the flights come in very close together.
Teams HogSlop, DixieCup, Token, and TurdLoad catch cabs; one of the TurdLoad sisters opines that she thought Spanish was the universal language of the world and is dismayed that their driver speaks Portuguese. At least she doesn’t try to speak Spanish by putting the letter “o” at the end of every word.
The Hotel Unique is a cool-looking building—sort of a filled-in half-circle suspended off the ground. The Box of Curing Cluelessness is situated on the roof, which affords a really cool view of Sao Paulo. The teams have no time to linger over the view, however, because as Team Barrio discovers as it is the first to arrive, they must get to a famous bridge called the Viaduto Santa Efigenia, travelling by taxi through traffic-choked streets. This destination’s name produces an interesting variety of pronunciations by the various overly American competitors.
The teams arrive in turn at the hotel—the Wastrels, Team Mincemeat, the ChickenFuckers. Team Barrio discovers that it is in first place. The ChickenFuckers once again do a little exhibitionism as they raid the cluebox. It’s Magic! The Nerdlettes kiss tenderly in the back of the taxi, which at least has blue stripes, as they find the hotel. Team Eisenhower is next to arrive, and has the good sense to make its taxi driver wait, forcing the Wastrels to go find a new cab. The HoBags arrive, ogling Team Wastrel on the way in. The ChickenFuckers beat Team Mincemeat to a cab, which will turn out to be the demise of Mincemeat. The Nerdlettes get in a taxi and perform a ridiculously complex handshake. This ritual will be surpassed momentarily in a spectacularly retarded fashion by another team. The HoBags get another cab, bitching about Team Wastrel, whom they will later express a clear desire to fuck.
Over at the Viaduto, Team Barrio bails from the taxi and climbs up to the bridge. The ChickenFuckers and the Wastrels are close behind, or so we are to believe. Team Mincemeat took the wrong taxi—their driver has no clue where he’s going. Scott’s pretty laid back about it, and John rips into him for not being bitchy enough.
Team HogSlop gets to the hotel, followed closely by the DixieCups. Monica is irrationally exuberant about finding the clue, bouncing up and down. Unfortunately, her Team MoJo t-shirt is not particularly close-fitting. The DixieCups are obsessed with “that black team.” Thanks for the validation, there, wifebeater.
Back at Team Token, Ray is getting a little nervous, wanting to know if they’re getting close. Yolanda scolds him cheerfully, asking him how he’d feel if he had a big black man sitting behind him, asking, “Are we close?” They crack up giggling. They really do seem to be very nice people, possibly even smart and funny, although we have many hours of footage to cull through before we will be able to reach a final judgment. For now, we’ll just fervidly hope that they at least get the opportunity to destroy Team DixieCup in single combat. They arrive at the hotel in tenth place and get clueful, followed by the TurdLoads, who are already spouting defeatism.
Over at the bridge, Team Barrio raids the cluebox and discovers that they are facing a Detour.
A Detour, for those of you who live in sensory deprivation tanks and therefore have never watched the show and are not reading this summary, is a choice between two tasks, each of which has advantages and disadvantages. The choices are, in this instance, assembling a motorcycle from a scattering of beat-up-looking parts, or riding a helicopter to find one of three specific buildings in which clues have been thoughtfully hidden somewhere near the roof. The tasks have not been very well-thought-out, because it’s obvious that the helicopter task will be faster, even though the motorcycle shop is closer to the hotel and it may take some time to get to the airport, identify the right building in the pilot’s guide, procure a ticket, and complete the task. Only an actual gearhead should even be thinking about attempting the motorcycle task. While four teams will attempt the motorcycle task, only two will finish it.
Team Barrio heads for the airport, followed by the ChickenFuckers, who think helicopters are cool. The Wastrels clearly understand that motorcycle assembly would involve actual work, and follow suit. The Nerdlettes also, adorably, decide to take the helicopter ride.
Team Eisenhower can’t find the clue box. They walk up and down the bridge, repeatedly walking by the repositoire d’clue, which is, of course, brightly marked with the traditional TAR burgundy and gold. They are idiots. And they whine about it. A lot.
And we’re off to:
Commercials:
a trailer, for some futuristic costume drama about a totalitarian society; lobsters, for Red Lobster, which is clearly the place to go if you want quality previously frozen lobster; dust mites living in a carpet, for Dyson vacuum cleaners; faux Eurotrash unpimping some guy’s ride, for VW, in a really, really disturbing little vignette that I hope never to see again; some chick, for some makeup; My Local News, teasing some crap I don’t have time for; guys driving an old car in a nighttime race, for Mercedes; lampshades and parasols and the ever-locally-popular Lady Luck, for the Virginia Lottery; some car, for itself; and the improbably named weatherman Topper Schutt, wearing a striped shirt that is making the entire DC metro area’s eyes bleed and way too much makeup for a news guy, for My Local News and his weather.
And we’re back in Sao Paulo. Let’s see, now. Team Eisenhower still can’t find the painfully obvious clue box, still walking by it again and again and again.
Wanda is getting upset because the ChickenFuckers have caught up to them. Her daughter, who really, really wants to be hot, confesses that her role on Team Barrio is to keep her mother from flying off the hinge and becoming a total looming psychobitch from the inner circle of Hell. Team Barrio, the ChickenFuckers, and the Wastrels all catch taxis to the airport where helicopters live. The Nerdlettes are edited as not terribly far behind.
The HoBags find the cluebox easily and decide that they’re biker chicks; amazingly, Team Eisenhower is paying no attention to them, searching in other neighborhoods for a cluebox that is sitting, in the open, on a bridge, right where the fucking clue told them it would be. Apparently, they have never watched this show before and don’t know what a cluebox looks like.
Team Mincemeat is busily freaking out in the back of its cab, which is apparently piloted by a hydroencephalic moron. John scolds Scott, trying to bully him into leaving the cab, which would deposit them in an unknown location in the middle of one of the world’s largest and most bustling metropoli. Where they don’t speak the language. Or understand the local culture. Or have any fucking clue where they are. Darwinism is kicking in.
The place where helicopters live is, apparently, on or near some form of military installation. Team Barrio goes to the wrong entrance. So do the ChickenFuckers and the Wastrels, and the Nerdlettes are the first to arrive at the supersecret heliport, followed closely by the ChickenFuckers and Wastrels. Inexplicably, Team Barrio is nowhere to be seen.
The Wastrels establish that their pilot’s name is Martinez. After all three teams board helicopters, Team Barrio finally catches up and arrives at the helihangar.
I don’t really give a shit which team is going to which building. Do you? No. No, you really don’t. So some helicopter riding takes place. There is much exclamation and woo-hooing and general joy.
The HoBags get to the motorcycle place, asking who will help them put together a motorcycle, kissing several of the local layabouts in an effort to enlist assistance. The winning layabout has no idea what they’re talking about. “These American whores are completely fucking insane, but I’ll bet they’ll fuck Brazilians,” he says to his companions. The HoBags begin to shed clothing, in an effort to get someone to put a motorcycle together for them.
Team HogSlop finds the cluebox; Team Eisenhower is lucky enough to be watching as they find it. God DAMN those gerifarts are dumber than fucking dirt. HogSlop goes flying; the Eisenhowers think they can build a bike. They whine about it. A lot. They decide it wasn’t there the whole time.
The DixieCups and the Tokens dash up the bridge. Team HogSlop correctly identifies Lake DixieCup as “Scott Peterson.”
No lie.
The DixieCups decide to build a bike, because Lake is good with his hands. Michelle defers to him. He screams at her not to second-guess him.
Nope. No reason for that, not when you don’t bother to read the fucking clues.
Dickhead.
The Tokens also decide to build a bike. Meanwhile, the TurdLoads are stuck in traffic, and whining about it. One of them farts, and the other calls her on it. Team Mincemeat is still stuck in traffic too, and they finally bail from the cab and start seeking help from passersby, all of whom ignore them. As they whimper and flame and mince about it, we decide to bag them, because we want some
Commercials:
a trailer for Denzel Washington’s next vehicle, in which he will be either a police officer, a soldier, a coach, or an athlete…do you really care which?; Mongols or Huns or Kazakhs or something, for Circuit City; kids in wonderment, for Disney; fake doctors, for a subpar cholesterol medication; CBS, for Dave, and for some new show starring the President from the original season of 24 and the guy who played the liquid metal Terminator in T2; loud noise, for some local furniture store; a model whose looks are not improved by eyeglasses, for Hour Eyes; constipated persons, for some fiber pills; house shoppers, for some real estate Web site; and My Local News, yet again, once more pimping something about which I do not give a fuck.
And we’re back. We’re about halfway through, by the way, but remember my original admonition; nothing is going to happen, Team Mincemeat is going to go down in flames, and I’m trying very, very hard to stick to mockably fine points in the two hours of nihilism that constitutes this television program.
Team Mincemeat has a ridiculous fight about what to do, now that they’re lost in Sao Paulo. The TurdLoads become depressed over their traffic-jammed condition. “They live lahk this, they don’t know any better,” opines one of these vile creatures. “They would probably be out of place where we live,” answers the other.
Yes. Yes, they’d probably be out of place in a suburban Dallas mcmansion where the only brown people are gardeners and servants. Yes, they probably would.
So back where we’re helicoptering, we’re still…well, helicoptering. Some helicopters land, some clues are found, specifically by the Wastrels and the ChickenFuckers. Awe is inspired, exclamations uttered. Wow, it’s all very cool. The clue instructs the teams to travel to a grungy warehouse in a scary neighborhood and witness a scary, snake-involved religious ritual performed by practitioners of a religion unique to Brazil. The Nerdlettes, meanwhile, land at their building some miles away and locate their very own clue in an office kitchen. Team Barrio’s clue is even farther away, in a luxury hotel suite of some sort.
Team HogSlop tries to get its taxi driver to go to the right location. They are still speaking Spanish to the unfortunate Brazilian driver, who has no clue of how to reach a destination that is, visibly, across the fucking street from where they are, as we head off to:
Commercials:
annoying guy trying to reach customer service, for Citi; a trailer, for a Bruce Willis vehicle in which he is either a police officer, a soldier, a coach, or an athlete…do you really care which?; girls dunking Oreos, for Oreos; the Mardi Gras parade, for Zatarain’s; claymation and an inexplicably Hispanic-accented voiceover, for Nasonex—actually I think the reason for the accent is that some things, like “Chonny Depp,” just sound cool with an accent; leaves and horses, for…a car? Oh, it’s a Mustang, I get it; anthropomorphic toothbrushes, for a Colgate product; and CBS, for Dave, and for some CSI product, and for some other CBS crime show…really, how are we supposed to distinguish among all these CBS crime products?
And we’re back, where nothing will happen, but we’re still watching Team HogSlop try to give instructions to their retard of a cab driver, and wait a minute!
Okay, I had to pause the tape to catch this clearly, but Joseph HogSlop is, in this shot, very, very clearly wearing a rubber glove on his right hand. I can only infer that he fears Third World germs. And believes that a rubber glove will prevent their transmission.
Back at Biker Alley, the HoBags are falling out of their clothing as they attempt to assemble a bike. Team Eisenhower arrives as the HoBags are departing. But Team Eisenhower isn’t bright enough to pull it off, either. After watching them for a few moments, Team HoBag decides to blow town and ride helicopters.
The DixieCups arrive, with Lake screaming at his wife/victim. He promises to help Team Eisenhower after he finishes assembling his own bike. Michelle protests; in an unusual display of lucidity, Lake points out that the Eisenhowers might help them later on. Team Token arrives, and Lake claims that Ray will never assemble a bike as quickly as he can. Of course not, Lake. Every one knows black people have no mechanical aptitude.
Yolanda now being by far the most attractive human in the vicinity of the bike shop, the Tokens draw quite a crowd as they work in their bike. Ray is having a little trouble focusing on the bike, since he very clearly wants to go clear him out some local color, but he manages to stay on task. Yolanda picks up parts, giving the crowd a clear view of her stretch-fabric-covered ass to keep them entertained.
Team Mincemeat is still lost. They finally ask some cops, who correctly direct them. They get to the clue on the bridge a bit ahead of Team TurdLoad. They choose the helicopter ride, which John minces and whines about. The TurdLoads agree to hit the helicopters, too.
The Wastrels pump up Martinez’ confidence, asking him how many girls he gets on account of being a helicopter pilot. Martinez, figuring his wife might be watching, denies it. They land, the ChickenFuckers not far behind them. They run into Team HogSlop; Monica is bouncing up and down excited, but hasn’t tightened up her shirt at all. She remains excited as they board and take off.
The Nerdlettes return to the heliport, still deeply in love. Team Barrio are not far behind. Everyone boards cabs. Wanda tells us that this is a rat race, and that New York is not comparable in its rat-raciness. Wanda is deluded.
The HogSlops find their clue, bouncing back to the helicopter. I really don’t like them at all, but I’ll give them one thing—Monica’s joie de vivre is pretty impressive and heartening. And yes, that means what I think it means.
The Eisenhowers are frustrated, having intense trouble with their motorcycle. The DixieCups are succeeding, but Lake is pissed off at the machine, grunting at it constipatedly, “Don’t…be…mah…demise!”
I really hate this guy.
The Tokens are moving along with their bike, to the delight of the assembled crowd (apparently, hanging around in front of motorcycle shops is vastly preferable to employment, in a burg like Sao Paulo). The Eisenhowers continue to whimper, as the DixieCups’ cycle roars into life. Lake tries to give some assistance to the Eisenhowers, but they’re too dumb to handle it. He even asks the Tokens if they’ve got it right. The Eisenhowers are whining more and working less as we head off to:
Commercials, brought to us by T-Mobile and some Web contest it’s running:
the faux detectives and their faux investigation, again, for T-Mobile, again; a trailer, for a Disney film that I refuse to identify; a car, for itself; women wearing clothing, for Talbots; a poofter in a tophat and other Victorian garb, playing the harpsichord, for NetFlix; CBS, for Dave, again, and for that other reality show, where we won’t believe what’s buried in the Ark of the Covenant, and for the Jennifer Love Whorewith show, and for some other annoying CBS product; My Local News, where Topper still hasn’t changed his fucking striped shirt and now I’ve got a nosebleed from it; foodfor Subway; a fake press conference, for local car dealers who are still running a holiday sale; and a yellow polka dot bikini, for Yoplait, which is clinically proven to make you less of a fat pig, unless you’re my wife, who isn’t fat.
And we’re back, where the Eisenhowers really need to die, soon, because I’m sick of their fucking whining about being old and stupid and useless, and I might must teleport myself into the timeline they’re currently occupying and cause some form of fatal anti-American soccer riot in the street on which they are failing to assemble a motorcycle. They continue to whine as they decide to go do the helicopter thing. And thereafter. Since they’re out of the street where I tried to conjure up a soccer riot, I’ll have to root for a cement-truck rollover, or something.
The Ho-Bags arrive at the helicoptery place and select a building to raid, taking off as the HogSlops are landing. The HogSlops run out to catch a cab, becoming the next in a long line of self-important TAR contestants to proclaim to someone that this is an emergency.
What the fuck is it with these people? Why the fuck do they think their personal quest to win a million fucking dollars on a television game show is a fucking emergency? If I approach them after they win the money and tell them it’s a fucking emergency and I need ten grand because I’m out of blow, will they help me?
The TurdLoads finally arrive at the heliport. They pick a building and try to get gone, as the Eisenhowers arrive. The TurdLoads notice, and earn their name as one of them sees that arrival and exclaims, “Crap a big load of turds!”
No lie.
Then the Mincemeats arrive, and the TurdLoads go batshit screaming crazy. Really. They begin to scream at every little bit of news. Both of them claim they are urinating in their battleship-sized underwear. They thank Jesus, but not in a smarmy sort of way—they’re just looking for someone else to scream at. They regain their equilibrium and begin to focus.
Team Mincemeat has trouble locating a building to fly to. The TurdLoads resume screaming as their helicopter lifts off. The Eisenhowers catch a helicopter and head for some building. Team Mincemeat bickers. Then they whine. Then we go to:
Commercials:
Some dried-up chick, for Curel; a trailer, for the latest Harry Potter DVD; a car, for itself; various persons performing various tasks, for Visa; loud noise and science, for a Gillette product that involves many, many blades and perhaps a vibrator; some faux noir guy, for Flonase; a trailer, for the Johnny Cash movie starring people very badly cast as Johnny and June Carter Cash; and CBS, for the Mandy Patinkin thing and some CSI thing and the new show with the 24 guy.
And we’re back, where Team Mincemeat is panicking over the tininess of helicopters.
Over in the scary neighborhood, the Wastrels are the first to arrive at the scary warehouse, go through the scary snake ritual, and get directions to the pit stop, which is at a soccer stadium. All of the participants in the ritual, including a very, very large snake, love them, and they are on their way without incident, the ChickenFuckers hot on their heels.
Over at the pit stop, soccer players and Phil’s breasts await the racers. The Nerdlettes hustle into the religious ritual not terribly far behind, light their candle, and accept their clue. Team Barrio is just behind them. Wanda loves it, of course. It is unclear which of them catches a cab first.
Back in Motor Alley, the Tokens are still working the cycle thing. After a terrifyingly large number of kicks, the cycle coughs into life, to the cheers of the assembled ass-watchers.
The Whores, and the Eisenhowers, the TurdLoads, and finally Team Mincemeat, fly to buildings and gather up their clues. One of the TurdLoads helpfully informs us that her panties are falling down. Scott wants us to know that he isn’t gay, and that he is very proud of John not peeing in his panties over the excitement of flying in a helicopter.
Brak brak brak returning to the heliport, heading to the snake ritual, brak brak brak. The DixieCups get there, Lake attempting to set some Brazilians on fire with his candle before taking the clue and leaving. The HogSlops get there, happily soaking in local culture. Really…Monica’s level of excitement is this weird blend of really, really annoying and completely gratifying. As disagreeable as she and her boyfriend are, it’s really sort of nice to see someone so stupid and provincial take such joy in every step of what should be a great experience, rather than some chore that makes you whimper at and bite the head off of someone you love.
The helicopter landings are interminable; the TurdLoads get hung up trying to catch a taxi as they leave the heliport. But this needs to be a cliffhanger, because we’re going to:
Commercials, brought to us by Travelocity:
the fucking gnome, for Travelocity; Eva Longoria, for some hair care product, but I’d be a lot more inclined to listen to her if she were having sex with me; a trailer, for the reissued DVD of Lady and the Tramp; kids grubbing money for drugs, for non-pot-smoking; various aeronautical crap, for some SUV; those goddam faux investigators, again, for T-Mobile, again; CBS, for Jennifer Love Whorewit, and for another dumb crime show, and for the Rob Morrow thing, and for TAR and NCIS and the new show with the 24 guy, and for a new Julia Louis-Dreyfus vehicle that looks massively stupid, but which I must advise you to watch because my friend Jim’s sister is in the cast and I promised him I’d pimp the show; more of the Mini craze, several years late, for Ruby Tuesday’s; and My Local News, pimping a local-school horror story, among other things about which I do not care.
And we’re back, where the TurdLoads are still whining about being afraid to step out to the road and hail a taxi. But one pulls into the parking lot, and they loudly thank Jesus, again. Team MinceMeat also manages to find a cab.
Back at the stadium, we are led to believe that the Wastrels and the ChickenFuckers are in a close race to the finish, but they’re probably a good five minutes apart. The Wastrels are welcomed by Phil and a local soccer player, who is impressed with his own ball-handling skills. The Wastrels win $10,000 each. They proclaim the value of dropping out of school.
The ChickenFuckers are next, the Wastrels no longer in evidence. The Nerdlettes are apparently the next to arrive at the stadium, but Team Barrio beats them to the mat, because the Nerdlettes enter the stadium through the wrong gate, in time to watch Team Barrio get to the mat ahead of them. Phil compliments the Nerdlettes on how much they love each other.
Back at the voodoo palace, the Tokens get their clue. We are told they’re in seventh place. The Whores are stuck in traffic, and they’re not happy about it. The Eisenhowers get their clue, followed by the Whores.
The DixieCups arrive at the mat. Phil notices that Lake is an asshole. Michelle acknowledges that he is correct. Team Hogslop follows them.
The TurdLoads get lost on their way to the ceremony. Team Mincemeat invokes “Djinni Power,” although I’m certain they would spell it “Genie Power.” This involves John placing his arms in the “I Dream of Jeannie” position and making odd noises, while Scott shrieks that he’s not gay. It’s not gonna work.
Team Token arrives at the mat next, followed by the Eisenhowers, who are stunned that they’re not only not last, but managed to come in ahead of three other teams. They confess about how brilliant they are, usually, and express the hope that they’ll be less stupid tomorrow. The Whores are perfectly pleased not to be eliminated. The TurdLoads are still lost, and we’re all set for a photo finish between them and Team Mincemeat.
Naw, not really. Team Mincemeat is nowhere in sight at the TurdLoads leave the area. The photo finish is all in the editing, which doesn’t even bother to spend as much time as usual convincing us that it’s close. Phil fucks with the TurdLoads only briefly before telling them that they’re not Philiminated.
The music is, of course, touching as Team MinceMeat arrives at the mat to find out that they suck. They are extremely gracious. Phil notes how close they are. They hold hands as Scott reminds us that he’s not gay. There’s some more brakage, but we’re done here, and we’re out.
Commercials:
My Local News, for yet more shit I don’t care about; Felicity Huffman, for that outrageous Dove campaign, followed by yet another commercial in that offensive and insulting series of commercials intended to make us believe that Dove is anything other than a commercial concern; a cow and a boy, dancing for Jell-O pudding; a naked man in the backyard, for Purex; and CBS, for Dave, and for The Early Show, and for that other reality show.
Next Week: The Wastrels have sex with the Whores in a bus station restroom; one of the Whores takes acid and thinks she can fly; the Eisenhowers remain old and ineffectual; and Lake beats his wife, calls Ray “one seriously fine young buck,” and asks if he can spend a few minutes with Yolanda out in the slave quarters.
That’s all I got. Thanks for reading. ¶ 7:31 PM 6 Comments
