TAR 9, Episode Six: Geek, Interrupted
or
Gargling at the Fountain of Knowledge By ilse

Previously, on The Assholes, Revisited...

Well, normally in this spot, you’d get a brief recap of last week’s show, in case you had something better to do during that time, like snake the bathtub drain, or have a wart removed, or stare at the wall until the voices in your head stop screaming at you. Although as much as this show sucks this season, those would all be pretty much lateral moves.

No, this week, we get an overview of the entire show to date. This is the network’s attempt to draw people in who would normally be tuning in to watch something else in this time slot, because CBS switched TAR from Tuesdays at 10 (which is already an hour later than it was last season) to Wednesdays at 8. What the hell?

See, there’s this new, gritty show called “The Unit” that they want so badly to succeed they’re putting it on between two acronymic crime dramas (NCIS and CSI) and hoping the Nielsen families mistake it for porn. And they really want “Criminal Minds,” the offal in the 9 o’clock Wednesday slot, to attract a larger audience, so they’re moving their Emmy-winning, loyally-watched reality show (no, the one with Phil) to Humpday, and hoping that people are too stupid or lazy to operate their remotes. Or that viewers can forget Mandy Patinkin as either the Elmo in Grouchland villain with the Andy Rooney eyebrows, or Inigo Montoya. Which I can’t. But then, I do have to be at least a little grateful; I was going to be truly saddened if I had to abandon the Lady Terps playing Dook in the NCAA National Championship game so I could watch this dreck.

And dreck it is, dreck on parade, beginning in Colorado, then flying to Brazil, eliminating first The Happy Boys (“You say ‘in the closet’ like it’s a BAD thing”) and then the Saggy Old Broads (I’d suggest they act their age, but that would involve them holding very, very still in a six-foot-long box, and we don’t want Dweezil getting all excited this early in the summary). The teams moved on to Russia, then to Germany, saying good bye to the single mom/future single mom team, who were so stupid their fingers and toes were numbered (English on one hand, Spanish on the other). Italy was the next stop, and we joyfully witnessed the demise of the girls my co-workers refer to as “The Boobthings”, who dress like they shop at the Stupid Spoiled Whore Emporium. I’d really like to smack the crap out of them if I didn’t think it would fill up a room.

We begin with panoramic views of Sicily, and zoom in on an area called Segesta, which we are told was destroyed by the Vandals 2300 years ago, and although I’m not all that comfortable doing math without my printing calculator, that seems to me to come out to 300 B.C. Which is funny, because my history degree (and my world history book) tells me that the Vandals were an East Germanic tribe who invaded Sicily in the middle of the 5th century A.D. But what’s 750 years among friends? I mean, it’s not like the difference between the Magna Carta and the moon landing...oh, wait, yes it is.

This is the Pit Stop, from which the remaining teams will leave. The first ones to depart are BJ & Tyler (The Bear was unavailable, still doing promo tours for his sweet gig in King Kong), the Haight-Ashbury Summer o’ Love (Yes, Goth, I did nearly spell that with one ‘m’) wannabees. Please note their resemblance to the contemptible Ethan Zohn and the quirky Spin Doctors front man, Chris Barron, respectively.

The first leg of their trip is to Catania, a city all the way on the east coast of Sicily (from an official Sicilian tourism site: “Catania is certainly worth seeing -- at least for a brief visit.” Now THAT’s a glowing recommendation. Screw Disneyworld, kids...we’re going to Catania!). They’ll find their next clue in the ruins of an old Roman amphitheater. Jeez, how hard could that be? I mean, there must be one on every corner; they were like the Starbucks of the ancient world.

Cultural note: The patron saint of Catania is St. Agatha. According to a Catholic website about patron saints, the standard representation for Agatha is a “virgin martyr wearing a veil and bearing her severed breasts on a silver platter.” She’s the patron saint of wet nurses, volcanic eruptions, and jewelers, and there’s a pearl necklace joke in there somewhere, but I’m certainly way too much of a proper lady to mention it.

However, in recognition of Holy Week (Hosanna, Hosannadanna), I will include other patron saint references throughout, where appropriate (or not). So, technically, by reading this, you will have fulfilled your religious obligations for the week, and can take Easter Sunday off to stuff your face with candy and read “Me Talk Pretty One Day.” I mean, come on -- isn’t that what Easter’s all about?

And now, back to our program, already in progress.

The Hippies, in confessional: We’re ahead of the frat boys, but we totally need to extend our lead. I mean, they’re really, really, really, really dumb, but that’s only one more “really” than us. No, look, there they are behind us! No, like, right behind us, man! It’s totally freaking me out! Oh, my god, this is some good shit. Pass the Cheetos.

They stop to pet a stray dog (Patron Saint of mad dogs: St. Sithney, who was called by God to be the patron saint of girls seeking husbands, and begged off, saying he preferred his crazy bitches to have four legs), then hop in a waiting marked car. They easily find Catania on a map and plot a course to get there. The course includes a brief stop-off for rolling papers and Slurpees.

Back at the Pit Stop, the Frat Boys are ready to leave, because someone left their cage open.

The Frat Boys, in confessional: We’re learning as we go. Which is good, because if we kept getting stupider, someone would have to water us twice a week.

They have a map, and they think this gives them “a huge advantage.” Unfortunately, their map looks like this:



Remember: Map good. No map, bad. See? They’re learning! Next on the agenda: what bears do in the woods.

Speaking of purposeless pieces of crap, next up is HoJo.

Ho, in confessional: I’ve learned a lot about myself during the race. Like, before this, my ambition in life was to be a Hooters girl. But now, I want to be a Hooters HOSTESS. It’s this kind of motivation and inner strength that prove that I’m an asset.

She’s off by two letters, of course. So sad...a body that won’t quit and a brain that won’t start.

They don’t have a map (remember: no map, bad). They stop a stranger on the side of the road, who not only shows them where Catania is, but gives them his map (map good). HoJo are stunned at this turn of events.

Jo: No way in America am I stopping at 5 o’clock in the morning for strange people asking me for directions -- I might get murdered.

First of all, it wouldn’t take as much motivation as you think. Second of all, you’re in Sicily. Did you not see The Godfather? Don’t stop at any toll booths. (Patron Saint of protection against gunshots: St. Barbara. .)

The next to leave is Team FrankenBarry (I just love that...but does that make Ray and Yolanda Count Chocula?). Barry waxes nostalgic on being a Vietnam vet, and says that he and Fran thought that the war would tear them apart, but really, it was that commie bitch Jane Fonda. We’re not sure how this relates to the race. They have a tour book. It is unclear whether this is good or bad, in comparison to having a map.

The Hippies have arrived in Catania, and follow a taxi driver to the amphitheater. They run to the iron gates, only to find them closed, with a sign stating that the amphitheater opens at 8:30 a.m. We prepare to witness The Bunching, a time-honored TAR tradition: no matter how large a lead the first couple of teams have, there will be at least one spot like this one that allows the teams in the back to catch up.

Beej, who seems, unlike most TAR contestants, to have actually watched the show once or twice, recognizes this as the designated Bunching spot. Ever the cutup, he makes a little notebook-paper sign-in sheet, mocking the Bunching, and places it above the “open at 8:30” sign on the gates. Take one step forward if you think no one would ever be fooled into thinking the crumpled bit of paper has anything to do with the Race...not so fast, Frat Boys.

Back at the Pit Stop (yes, there are teams still leaving), we see Lake & Michelle, who miscount their money, and whine, and are generally horrid and passive-aggressive to each other (Patron Saint of difficult marriages and verbal abuse: St. Monica).

Lake, in confessional: She needs to shut up. She’s always nagging me about not listening...or some shit like that, I don’t know.

Close on their heels (although we don’t really have any idea) is Dave & Lori, the Wonder Geeks. You know what’s funny? I just Googled “+geeks +’in love’” and the #5 link was Dave & Lori. How cool is that? (Further aside: the #3 link is entitled “The Joy of Tech,” which I think is a site dedicated to knitting gags for insufferable morons.) The Geeks want to stay positive and “keep on truckin,” although I fail to see how either Robert Crumb or Jerry Garcia is going to help them, here.

And, finally, Ray & Yolanda. They look very tired, but Yolanda is near-bubbly with wuv.

Yolanda, in confessional: I love him more watching him in the race. He’s strong, he’s smart, and he’s FINE. He climbs things, and lifts things, and drives, and he exudes manliness from every manly pore in his manly body.

I think we know what they spent their time doing during the “mandatory rest period.”

They ask directions from a Danny Aiello lookalike. However, they still do not have a map, and as we know, no map, bad.

Catania awakens from its slumber. Old pruney women open shops, old drunk men look for a pickup bocci ball game...Christ, isn’t anyone in Catania under 75? Oh, there they are, both of them, sucking face on a park bench. They better hurry up and get bizzay if they’re going to repopulate the island.

The Frat Boys find the amphitheater and discover the sign-in sheet. They sign it. A local walks up with a petition to outlaw nude beaches, and they sign it. A Scientologist walks up with a donation pledge form for $5,000, and they sign it. They are presented with a petition to allow fishermen to use live puppies as shark bait, and they sign it. Suddenly, the 15 watt bulbs over their head fade in, and they question the authenticity of the sign-in sheet. They actually debate about it for a couple of minutes before the Hippies take pity on them and let them in in the joke. Outwitted by Hippies...not something to put on one’s resume. (Patron Saint of state schools: St. Martin de Porres, who also happens to be the first African-American saint.)

FrankenBarry have arrived in Catania...sort of. They’re lost. From the grafitti, it appears they have successfully discovered Italian Harlem, which settles the question: tour book is not the same as a map. No map, bad.

The clock chimes 8:30, and no other teams have arrived. The Hippies and the Frat Boys go down into the sunken amphitheater to pluck their clue from its box-lair. The task is simple: around the outer perimeter of the amphitheater is a fence, and approximately every other fence post is topped with a small head. They must run around the amphitheater, do a head-count, and then find the groundskeeper. If they give good head-count to the groundskeeper, they will recieve their next clue. This takes each team approximately 3.5 seconds, as there are only 41 of the heads. Thank goodness there aren’t any all-girl teams left, or they’d never be able to count to 41 (wait for it....two teams...fingers and toes and...yes, there you go).

Detour alert! Today, our task choices are:

a. Big fish
b. Little fish
c. Red fish
d. Blue fish

For Big Fish, teams walk to a certain street vendor, and each member picks up a 32-pound swordfish, and then carries it 1/3 mile to Storico la Pescheria (“Ye Olde Fishe Shoppe”). Once they find a particular fish vendor, he will trade them their fishes for their next clue (and a couple of loaves). For Little Fish (a.k.a. The Lamer Task), the teams walk directly to Storico la Pescheria, where they will take over a merchant’s stall and sell 4 kilos (somewhere between 200 and 300 pounds, I think. I dunno, I’m an American, I don’t know from metric) of small Sicilian fish to earn their next clue.

This seems like a no-brainer. It’s approximately the same distance in travel; the only difference is that it might take a bit longer to walk it carrying a swordfish. But the time difference would certainly be less than the amount of time it would take to sell 500 pounds of small fish. (Patron saint of fish: St. Neot, who was reportedly only 15 inches tall. Riiiiiiiiiight.)

Both teams decide to take my advice.

FrankenBarry are now somewhere in Apulia, and Barry will not shut up about how screwed they are, and what a poor choice they made. His head is so far up his ass, he could chew his food twice, if he had his own teeth. I say again: no map, bad.

Here we have a commerical break. I don’t usually comment on commercials, but I’ll interject briefly on the Hallmark ad. No, there’s nothing particularly wrong with the ad, but I recently had a bad experience with Hallmark, and I’m going to use you as a captive audience to bitch about it. If you’re competely uninterested, tough noogies. Long story short, I had in my hand a card costing $2.25. I had no cash on me (as usual) and handed the cashier my debit card. She asked for my driver’s license, then informed me that she couldn’t accept my debit card for payment, because the name on my debit card did not match my driver’s license, and “frankly, ma’am, I don’t think this looks like you.”

Now, as many of you know, I married recently (I love being married. There’s nothing quite like finding that one special person you want to annoy for the rest of your life), and changed my name from Ilse Q. Smith – the name on the debit card -- to Ilse Q. Jones, the name on my new driver’s license (the Q. being the first letter of my maiden name, Smith being my ex-husband’s last name, and Jones being my new husband’s last name). The cashier said that unless I had a picture ID with the name on it that has not been my legal name for three months, or my marriage certificate, I could not make a purchase. I even produced my Social Security card, in the name of Ilse Q. Jones, and my plea was again rejected. It should be noted that in the 3 months I’ve been Mrs. Jones, this is the first instance in which I’ve been denied a purchase anywhere, and it was for a $2.25 card from Hallmark. If you’re more concerned about the possibility that someone is going to commit fraud over $2.25 than you are about common-sense customer service, then fuck you, Hallmark, you fascist pigs. (Patron saint against false witness: St. Felix of Nola.)

Just goes to prove there’s no vaccine against stupidity. Speaking of which, we’re back to the show. FrankenBarry are still lost.

We’re treated to another episode of “As My Stomach Turns,” starring Lake and Michelle, who are also lost and stuck in traffic. Lake asks Michelle if she recognizes anything. She hasn’t yet recognized that he’s a total ass, so I’m guessing no. He points. “Whut’s thayut?” “It’s yaller, it must be a school bus,” she says.

It is an airport shuttle, but thank you for playing. We have some lovely parting gifts for you, including a $20 gift certificate to Wal-Mart and the DVD boxed set of “The Jeff Foxworthy Show.” Oh, wait, you already have those. Never mind.

Those Adorable Geeks are jammed up with the masses, as well. Ray and Yolanda are not, but that’s only because they’re nowhere near the city yet.

HoJo pulls up to the amphitheater and begins counting heads as the Frat Boys and Hippies arrive at the fishmonger. They each drape a swordfish across their shoulders and begin jogging to the market. The smell makes the Frat Boys miss the Double D’s. Tyler remarks that after a while and a little LSD, the fish stops feeling like a wet cat and starts feeling more like an ice pack.

HoJo finish counting. Jo got 40; Ho got 41. To Jo’s credit, he defers to Ho’s number; to his shame, he is accepting without concern the fact that he was unable to successfully complete a Kindergarten-level task. They race down the steps of the amphitheater to find the groundskeeper, who confirms Ho’s number and hands them the clue. They, too, decide to do the fish-hauling. She’s concerned she can’t carry 30 pounds of excess dead weight, but she seems to balance her head on top of her neck just fine.

The Boy Teams have arrived at the market and are now trying to find the right merchant. Say what you will about the Got-Damn Hippies, but I have to commend them for two things: first, they always know at least a few words of the languages of each country they’ve visited (so far), and don’t attempt to speak Pig-Latin Esperanto to cab drivers. Second, they truly seem to appreciate the scenery and the cultural experience around them. I’m not saying that I don’t want them to slump over, just that they can take their time. If Dave and Lori can’t win (Patron Saint of impossible causes, St. Rita of Cascia), then I don’t hate the idea of it being the Doug Henning Bastard Children.

The swordfish are deposited and the clues distributed at the same time, which we can tell isn’t one of the sneaky camera tricks they use to make the race seem closer, because they’re all in the same shot together. In lieu of that, however, Bruckheimer insists on another annoying contrivance: captioning the teams “Currently in 1st place” and “Currently in 2nd place” when they received their clues at the same time and are standing next to each other. This is probably still proper, though, because the Frat Boys can’t think without moving their lips, much less read, so the Hippies are a half-step ahead.

They must now drive themselves to Siracusa (Syracuse), Sicily and find some place I can’t spell to find their next clue. They wend their way through the streets back the way they came. HoJo passes them going the other way, and BJ hugs Ho, in what at first seems to be a friendly gesture. A moment after he departs, however, she exclaims, “That smell – ohmigod, fish blood on my shirt!” Like that’s the worst sort of stain she’s ever had on her clothing. Other than that, Ms. Lewinsky, how was your tour of the White House?

From this point, the editing begins switching wildly between the remaining teams. I will do what I can to make some sense of the mess we’re presented with, but forgive me if it gets choppier than a stammering woodcutter’s convention.

FrankenBarry finally find the amphitheater. The boy teams find Siracusa on a map (map good) and agree to cooperate to find it together. FrankenBarry count 41 heads, and rush down below. Fran begins screaming “hello” every 3 feet, like the groundskeeper is on a cell phone that keeps cutting out. They eventually find him, and he hands over the clue. They decide to sell the small Sicilian Brasifish, the only team to make this choice, because “The tourbook said it’s FUN! That, and we’re so old, we fart dust.”

HoJo find the swordfish and attempt to carry them like they’re firelogs. Ho is visibly distressed and disgusted. She is also upset about having to carry a fish.
Lake Asswipe and Wife are still in traffic, and still bitching at each other (this is clearly their steady state). Dave & Lori are having The Eternal Male-Female conversation: “Why won’t you ask for directions?” “Because I’m not lost!” (Other popular riffs on this tune include “Toilet seats: up or down?” “What a Thermostat is For” and “How many goddamn pairs of shoes do you need?”/”How many holes does that underwear have to have before you throw it out?”)

Lori, to Dave: “I’m glad you’re being unilateral in the decision-making.”

I’m just glad that someone on this race is using a word like “unilateral,” and can pull off sarcasm.

Ray & Yolanda, who think that “unilateral” is something they can work on with their Bowflex machine, decide that they will completely circumvent the traffic and walk to the amphitheatre, hoping that they will encounter someone along the way who can tell them how to get there. Ray, however, is having a problem – everyone he walks up to and says “Theatre Romano?” just says “No,” and walks away quickly, like he’s the Black Panther Amway Salesman.

FrankenBarry try to sell fish by screeching “pesky, pesky fresco” at people. They are not having any luck, because the locals are not interested in purchasing bothersome paintings.

HoJo are schlepping the swordfish (which is not code) and Ho is complaining the entire time. “EW, fish guts, fish juice, ew, it’s all over me!” Gods, she’s such a species-ist. I mean, sure, human bodily fluids of any kind she’ll gladly wallow in on any given Saturday night, but put scales on the fluid provider, and she gets all squeamish. (Sicilian Word of the Day: The word “Stuppaghiara” literally means “a girl who can suck the cork out of a wine bottle.”)

HoJo try to deliver the fish to the wrong guy, who has no idea why they’re delivering swordfish to him. They wait expectantly for the clue that is not forthcoming. (Patron Saint of the mentally challenged: St.Christina the Astonishing.) Ho begins to cry. Boy, if she doesn’t develop a higher threshold for stress, she’ll never make it to Patron Sainthood. HoJo go off in search of the right guy, shouting his name, but pronouncing it incorrectly.

FrankenBarry sell a few pesky frescos. HoJo are still looking for the right guy, and some other merchant finally tells them how to pronounce his name. Ho drops the fish onto the ground and insists that she just can’t carry it anymore. Her makeup is running in streaks down her face, and we have to question her choice of non-waterproof mascara. She whines, “This is the worst thing I’ve ever done, besides screwing the entire Razorback football team.”

She’s about as useless as the Pope’s testicles. Maybe the commercial break will give her enough time to collect herself.

Nope. “Just tough it out,” Jo encourages her, with an edge to his voice that adds, “you whiny little skank.” She sniffles, the weight of the world on her shoulders, and hefts the fish dramatically, waiting for her Oscar. They finally find the right vendor, and get the clue. “Drive yourself to whatever,” Jo reads, anxious to be on their way. “Siracusa,” Ho snivels. Good to know that she’s never too defeated to quibble and correct him. Nothing more attractive than that. Jo: Pay attention, dood. This is the rest of your life, right here.

FrankenBarry are still trying to sell fish, and they’ve finally sold the requisite 650 pounds of ichthyophagous. They think it was fun. But then, they add a little Metamucil to their decaf for the extra kick.

HoJo are finally back at their car. They try to proceed down the clogged city streets with little luck. “I’m going to smell like a fish all damn day,” Ho moans. She continues to harp on this topic by pointing out various women on the street who are cleaner than she and smell less fishy, like the crack whores. I don’t suppose it would occur to her to change clothes; I doubt it’d be the first time she exposed herself in public. Jo tries to chew off his own arm to escape. (Patron Saint of trappers: St. Hubert of Liege.)

FrankenBarry check their map (ooh, a map now...map good) and attempt to find moss on the north side of Barry’s leg to get oriented. Lake Asswipe finally find the amphitheater. Lake motions to FrankenBarry for help as they drive away, but FrankenBarry pretend not to notice, and say, “Yeah, I don’t think that’s gonna happen.” For one brief, shining moment, I giggle.

Lake Asswipe counts to 41, then goes downstairs in search of the groundskeeper. They run up to the first guy they see and inform him that the correct number is 41. The random tourist they’ve selected gives them a high-five, and that’s it. Suddenly they realize, hey, this isn’t the groundskeeper (all foam, no beer, those two). They are aggravated at the tourist for not being the groundskeeper (and who wouldn’t be?), but eventually find the old fellow and get their clue. They decide to do Big Fish. Michelle heads for the car, insisting it would be faster to drive to the market. “It says walk, ding dong!” Lake vociferates helpfully.

FrankenBarry continue to drive. Their left turn signal is on the whole time.
Ho is about two seconds away from rolling down her window and asking to borrow clothes from passers-by. Jo slumps down in his seat, trying to pretend he’s a cab driver who doesn’t know this walking public health warning. (Patron saint of venereal disease: St. Fiacre.)

Lake Asswipe finds the swordfish vendor. “What if this isn’t the guy and we’re stealing his fish?” Michelle panics. A rejection letter from MENSA wouldn't be too much of a surprise for you now, would it?

They walk to the fish market and find the right guy without much difficulty and get their clue. While they are running back to their car, someone on the street says, “Hello” to them. In English. Lake responds, “Hola!” This guy couldn’t dump water out of a boot if the instructions were on the heel.

The WonderGeek Twins are still looking for the right place, and finally ask directions – and immediately find a guy who will lead them there. “Thank you, I love you (especially when I’m right),” Lori says. “Love you (I hate when you do that),” Dave replies.

Ray & Yolanda are still looking for the amphitheater on foot, and finally find someone who doesn’t think they’re refugees from a 50 Cent video to help them.
Lake Asswipe are looking for Siracusa on a map. “Go this way, then turn that way,” Michelle suggests, looking at the map. “No, I’m overruling you, I’m just gonna ask this guy to lead us out of this damn town,” Lake insists. They make a turn, then see the sign for Siracusa. Lake whoops. “Kiss me darlin’! Boy, did we ever get lucky on that one!” “No, I’m just smart,” Michelle reminds him.

Pop quiz: How many members of each of their families died right after uttering the phrase, “Hey, watch this!”?

It’s a trick question. Their family trees don’t branch all that much.

Ray & Yolanda have found the amphitheater and are counting. They count 41, find the groundskeeper, and decide to do Big Fish. Dave & Lori park and follow the same pattern.

Ray & Yolanda pick up their fish and begin the haul to the fish market. Dave &Lori count to two score and one, find the groundskeeper, and get the clue. They, too, decide to do Big Fish, and brak brak brak.*

Meanwhile, the Frat Boys find the place that I can’t spell, and guess what? It’s a Road Block. One member of the team must play in a kayak polo match and score a goal to earn their next clue. This is a total lie, because as far as I can tell, there’s no “match” to be played. The Racer gets in a kayak, paddles near the goal, has someone pass him/her the ball, and tosses it into the net, unopposed. These are the most simplistic, retarded tasks I’ve ever seen. Next leg, the tasks are going to be mouth breathing and drooling, and there’ll STILL be someone who will find a way to fuck it up.

One of the Frats (does it matter which one? They’re both the sort of guys you’d use as a blueprint to build an idiot) gets in a kayak and pushes off with his hands. He is literally in a canoe without a paddle, and he has obviously never paddled anything before. He’s thrashing around like a pesky fresco out of water.

Ray & Yolanda deliver their fish, get back to their car, and start the drive.

Dave & Lori, while carrying the fish: “Love you. Is this not fun?” “This is awesome.” They are just cute as a cupcake. I can hardly stand it.

They find the right guy, get a clue, buy a map (map good), and drive.

The Frat Boy scores a goal. It’s the first time he’s scored since Lake’s mom needed bus fare.

The Hippies arrive, stowing their copies of High Times under the car seats. “Wow. Kayaking in Italy, man. WALSTIB.”

The Frat Boys get the last clue, directing them to the Pit Stop of Fonte Aretusa, a natural spring that’s so close by, they are told to walk there. They take off running like it’s dollar day at the whorehouse.

BJ quickly hops in the kayak and tosses in an easy goal. They, too, get the clue, and high-tail it to the Pit Stop.

FrankenBarry continue to drive, as does HoJo. Upon arriving at the Road Block, Barry decides to be the one to kayak. Jo volunteers for their team. Ho has managed to change; sadly, just her clothes, not her attitude. (Patron Saint against vanity: St. Rose of Lima.)

To get to Philamina and the Doormat of Fate, the teams have to run across a bridge and squeeze by a concert band playing a catchy tune. We see the Frat Boys running, and BJ & Tyler running, in that exasperating editing that makes it look like it’s anyone’s leg to win, but stick with the chalk: the Frat Boys get there first, and they also win a cruise. BJ & Tyler come in next.

Back at the kayaks, Jo scores a goal. Barry is making an effort, but in the words of his loving wife, “He’s pathetic. And he can’t score a goal, either.”

HoJo get their clue and hoof it to the pit stop. Barry finally scores (perhaps he could have used a Little Blue Pill beforehand) and they get their clue. How the hell they are managing to stay in this race is beyond me.

Lake Asswipe arrives, inexplicably wearing laser tag targets on their chests, and decide that Michelle will do the Road Block. She sucks at it worse than Barry. She bites so hard she leaves tracks. She finally scores, despite shouted criticisms thinly disguised as encouragement provided by her husband. “Make your way on foot,” she reads, when she gets the clue. “Foot, yes, foot! Foot!” Lake hoots. Thank you, Lake, we’re all challenged by your unique point of view, although I’ve put things on fishing hooks that are smarter than you.

The camera cuts to Philamina dancing like a frog in a blender to the music. (Patron Saint of rhematic chorea: St. Vitus.) He settles down, and greets HoJo with the news that they are Team Three. FrankenBarry arrive fourth. Lake Asswipe arrives fifth.

This leaves two teams. These are the same two teams who vied for last place on the last leg, just like the first two teams are the ones who were also the first two to arrive on the last leg. This is due largely, in my humble opinion, to the lack of Bunching. I thought Bunching was boring, and have campaigned against it, until I saw an Unbunched leg. This was the most boring.leg.ever. Now? I’m a big fan of the Bunching.

Ray & Yolanda and Team Dwork are searching for the kayak place. Ray & Yolanda find it first, and decide that Ray will take the plunge. He tosses the ball, misses worse than Vanderjagt in the AFC Championship Game, and flips over. He splutters, climbs back in, scores, and they set off for the Fonte.

Dave & Lori arrive, and Dave gets in the kayak. “May the force be with you,” Lori says. I’m sensing that one of them owns a Slave Girl Gold Bikini, and I’m thinking that’s her, since Dave is definitely more in the Jabba the Hutt mold. He misses once, then hits. They get the clue, ask for directions, then jog.

We see Ray and Yolanda jogging, too. This would create some suspense if we hadn’t seen Dave & Lori arrive at the Road Block as Ray and Yolanda were finishing. Team Lando have no shot, short of Ray or Yolanda pulling a hammy, but unfortunately, they are in decent physical condition, and they arrive sixth.

Dave & Lori, not being utter schlubs, realize they are last. As they are jogging along, Lori jokes, “If this is a non-elmination leg, we’re going to be stuck in these fishy clothes for the rest of the race.” Dave shows his dedication to her by saying, “If this IS a non-elimination leg, I will wash your fishy clothes tonight.” “Love you’s” are exchanged as they approach Phil.

But it IS an elimination, and they are done. They’re both tearful, but they have the good grace to thank Phil for the experience. In their final confessional, they gush some more about how in love they are. They’re just SO GODDAMN ADORABLE.

Dave leaves us with a final thought: “Nerds rule.” (Patron Saint of computer geeks: St. Isidore of Seville.)

Drape the Circle Of halls in black, pilgrims, and let there be songs of mourning and dirges of pain: The Nerds are dead. Long live the Nerds.

Next week: Olympic-style rasslin’, and Fran learns that you don’t list your actual greatest fear on the TAR application.

In conclusion, as we contemplate the events of Holy Week, meditate on this question: If Jesus was Jewish, why did he have a Mexican name?

Thanks for reading.

* Landru invented that, you know. What? It’s not a TAR summary unless it has braks.  ¶ 10:09 AM