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