What's So Amazing?
Monday, September 25, 2006
The Amazing Race, Season 10, Episode 2:
Huh-Huh-Huh…I’ll Bet She’ll Make a Game
Outta Your…Uh, Never Mind By Landru
Aren’t you surprised? It’s me again. It was supposed to be somebody else, but what happened was, she gave birth. I mean, like eight years ago. And as a result, she had a pretty crappy evening, and I agreed to take over so as to make this here episode disappear. Actually, we both had a pretty crappy evening, but she’s taken a few more bullets than I have today, so duty, honor, and country demand, quite reasonably, that I be the one to step up and do the things that must be done. After all, before all of these crappy events occasioned by her giving birth (eight years ago) happened today, she had gone to work, and picked up and dropped off the birth-results (my vehicle has mysteriously disappeared into the Black Hole of Automotive Service, for like four freakin’ days), and dealt out most of the adverse consequences of her giving birth (eight years ago) that did not accrue to us, and sat in traffic. A lot. All I did was sit at home and supervise the maids and play NCAA Football 2007 and yell at the Black Hole of Automotive Service and pick up the pizza for dinner (in her car) and take a few phone calls from the school that is responsible for the daily management of the thing to which She gave birth (eight years ago), that thing being, according to wildly divergent accounts, a charming and intelligent little eight-year-old boy person with some unfortunate problems, or Damien, or Ted Bundy, or Mike Steele, or something in between that may actually not deserve to be chained up and dropped in Loch Ness, but the jury’s still way the hell out on that one and will likely stay there until somewhere around 2015, but we’ll try to give you fair warning on the verdict, when a meaningful trend can be discerned.
Anyway, poof! It’s gone. The episode, I mean, not my Jeep.
Okay, it’s not gone yet, but it will be, really soon. I mean, you’re not getting the full ten thousand word treatment here, mmkay? There’s gonna be a lot of brakage. Especially in the parts where nothing funny is happening, or when my vocabulary is so choked up with anger that I can only be bitterly angry, instead of just bitterly angry in a sort of marginally entertaining way.
Most of the latter, by the way, will involve Kar/Lyn. Actually, so will a lot of the former, come to think on it.
Okay, so let’s see…previously on The Amazing Race, I wrote a few thousand words of sarcasm and gave all of the teams insulting names and reminded you that the show is hosted by a not-at-all-winsome and extremely-well-padded transvestite named Dixie Melons. Some other stuff happened in the show that the producers thought important, to wit, the token Amputees preboarding an aircraft and pissing off various teams, most especially the token Welfare Mothers, who appear to be easily pissed off, and went to Beijing, and some freakishly annoying religious fanatics got eliminated unexpectedly, and the token Amputees struggled up the Great Wall, and teams arrived at the pit stop in some mostly irrelevant order and varying states of disarray, and Apu and Manjula got there last and were, therefore, shat out into the world by Dixie Melons and the TAR production crew.
Credits roll, and we’re off to:
Commercials:
Another enervating AOL commercial, for AOL; a chick on a couch writing about menstruation on her laptop, for some drug that evens out things that bleed for five days and don’t die; skinny models, for a laxative, and it’s really nice to see that TAR got all the cool Survivor reject sponsors; billboard painters and the apparently otherwise unemployable Jon Lovitz, for Subway; and CBS, for a load of shitty CBS television programs.
So we start at the Great Wall of China, which I was, sadly, unable to visit during my trip to China. This may seem to you to be unconscionably stupid. And I suppose that it is. However, it’s a day trip to the Great Wall from Beijing, and I was in China being employed, and those employing me had many needs that I was expected to fulfill, so I was pretty much lucky to get a plate of kung pao at a tiny little homestyle place across the street from the place where the wankers all ate fish eyes last week, let alone get away from my duties as a holder of hands and an offerer of wet-nursing and a shill for whoever it was I was working for, let alone slip out for the eight consecutive hours required to go visit the Wall, since I was also in a hurry to get the fuck out of China, which is a shithole (albeit a far more interesting shithole than, for instance, Seattle), and back to my beloved wife-person, who had, for that weekend only, temporarily stowed the things to which she gave birth in some place that did not involve us for 48 glorious hours.
Dixie Melons gives us some narrative that is intended to create some form of suspense. It doesn’t. Instead, I’ll just tell you that the teams are headed for Mongorea, where they will encounter Mongoreans, who have torn down Shitty Wall, which was, as you know, built by the guy who owns and operates Shitty Wok.
They must go to Mongorea by bus and train, ending up in the capital of Mongorea, Genghisville (actually, it’s Ulan Bataar, but who the fuck cares?), and there doing whatever it is that Dixie Melons and that crazy production team have dreamed up for them.
Mongorea is interesting. For a given value of interesting equalling “not interesting.” It is a desert, and it is such a gigantic mongomofo desert that it dries out Beijing, hundreds of miles away, and covers it in dust and sand, regularly. This will be an interesting discovery made by thousands of people descending upon Beijing for the 2008 Olympics, or possibly for the 2007 China Bowl, which the NFL just announced yesterday as a panacea for the unfortunate problem of 1 billion people on this planet not giving a flying fuck about the NFL. While thousands of unwilling Chinese laborers are planting millions of fucking trees to act as sand and dust breaks against the relentless natural action of this gigantimongomofo desertification, I am here to tell you that this doesn’t work, because the shithole part of Beijing that distinguishes it most from a run-of-the-mill dank and yeasty shithole like Seattle is that it’s really dry, and dusty, and polluted.
My, how I do tangentialize. So we’re on the way to Mongorea, whereat we will observe some religious ceremony and claim cluefulness.
The Gaywad Drug Addict Models, not to be confused with proto-Asians Gaywin and Gayerwin, leave first, after confessing about how happy they are that they’re no longer practicing junkies. Bad Daddy and L-Girl are next, with Bad Daddy once again affirming that he is an absolutely fuck-awful person who should be beaten senseless by dildoes wielded by remorseless, humorless lesbians who hate men (as opposed to remorseful, funny lesbians who want to do a threesome with me and Ilse; Lucy Liu comes to mind as an appropriate candidate). The Token Amputees are next, with Gimpgirl whining incessantly about her fucked-up bionic leg. The Beauty Queens are next, and we get a gratuitous glimpse of thongs under their sweatpants as they climb over a fence. The Daters confess about how they’re going to kill each other in their sleep, because he’s psychotic and she’s not only more psychotic, she’s a super kingkong mayamaya beeeeeitch. This group is the first bus to Mongorea.
The second bus to Mongorea, two hours later, is peopled by the GameCock Cheerleaders, who do, in fact, appear to be game for…uh, never mind. Gaywin and Gayerwin are next, followed by the Flamers, who need to be bitchslapped, and the Angry Welfare Mothers, and the Hillbillies, who have gotten neither smarter, nor more articulate, nor more palatable since we last ran into them, one short week ago.
We were so innocent then, weren’t we? So many bad, bad things had yet to happen.
There is much camaraderie. The Hillbillies tell us that they ain’t never been around queers and nigras and slopes and lesbians and all manner of other weird and offensive and godless types. I’m not shitting you.
But it’s all okay, because most of those people have never been around dirt-stupid hillbillies whose teeth are still crooked even after they’ve been pulled out to save money on dental work and replaced with randomly arranged pieces of old bones jammed together into something that will masticate roadkill.
But it’s okay. Mrs. Hillbilly likes them queer fellas, and Mr. Hillbilly doesn’t seem to be beating her for it. At least not on camera.
Bus ride. 99 bottles of beer on the wall. Back at the bus station, people are dancing and having fun, activities wholly inappropriate to the gravity of the task at hand. The bus ride yields to a train station. No notice is made of the fact that we are, once again, crossing the Chinese frontier, a thing which, I am here to tell you, is not a thing that is small. Oh no. That bottle of Aquafina in your flight bag feels like a brick of fucking heroin when you’re being stared down by a motherfucking Chinese Border Guard. And that $60K in hard currency that you’re carrying strapped around your waist so you can pay off anyone who needs to be paid off during the course of a 350-person, three-quarters-of-a-million-dollar conference in a dirt-poor totalitarian Commie country? Let’s just say I was a lot more comfortable shooting up that day-care center, back in the day (to be fair to dirt-poor totalitarian Commies, it was no picnic conveying the not-inconsiderable remains of that gigantimongous wad of cash back into our own very fine country). No, it is no small matter to cross the Chinese border in any fucking direction, even in the direction of Mongorea, which is close personal friends with them there dirt-poor totalitarian Commies. I am left wondering how much it cost TAR to make it happen without hitchery.
Conspiracy occurs in the train station. The Gaywad Drug Addict Models foil a plot by the BQ’s to keep a secret. They are abundantly proud of themselves for outsmarting platinum blondes. The blondes are too stupid to be proud of anything but their hair.
The scene in front of the train station is far more disturbing. The Amputee and her own personal Fetishist are being stared at by the assembled provincial Chinese persons. She begins to dance and show off. The Fetishist attempts to collect money from those watching. What a fucking reprehensible, steaming pile of cabbage-induced shit. This asshole needs to be struck by lightning, except slowly, agonizingly, the world’s longest and most self-aware lightning strike evar, and even that’s too good for this smug, debilitatingly insensitive vulture.
The second bus ride gets to the station before the train departs, enabling yet more bunching. And oh, shit—it turns out we’re not in Mongorea yet, we’re in Erenhot, which is out in some portion of the fuck-all nowhere of China. So that whole frontier-crossing diatribe? Just move it up here, mmkay?
During the train ride, we’re subjected to yet more self-reflection from the Gaywad Drug Addict Models, who really should be holding hands with the Amputee Fetishist when he’s struck by that long, drawn-out bolt of lightning.
So everyone hops into taxicabs. The Super King-Kong Mayamaya Beeeeitch gets splashed by some street water because she’s riding with the window open. “Can I get diseases from that?” she whines. No, you lachrymose uberhostile twat, you’re far more likely to get diseases from the swine you allow to penetrate your needy and not-at-all desirable body. Now die slowly, you most severely gruesomely fuckugly of Ugly Americans. And scream while you’re doing it, except quietly so I’m not distracted by it.
Frenzy, much frenzy, people jockeying for places faster than we can about tracking. There are varying levels of depression and paranoia and confidence and gloating and other forms of distracting noise that do not involve annoying persons dying slowly.
A short person in a mask greets the first teams to arrive, and there is some dancing and clanging and suchlike, followed by some clue-giving. The clue instructs the not-at-all-loveable losers to steal a surplus Russian military jeep (the official motorized conveyance of Mongorea, which was, before it became one in socialist brotherhood with the dirt-poor totalitarian Commie Chinese, a satellite of the Soviet Union existing only to reduce the footage of border that the Soviets would have to guard against Chinese incursions in the Border War that the two Commie fucktard giants waged for about 40 fucking years), drive to some village, ride horses to a meadow, and get a clue that will presumably lead to a prostitutional and conniving Detour, or a ronery Roadblock.
The jeeps are, as you’d expect of a Commie-era motor vehicle, useless and obstinate pieces of shite. The spacing of the religious rituals guarantees some artificial spreading of the teams, and this after we went to so much trouble to bunch them up in a train station. There are various acts of intra-team aggression perpetrated by various shitheels. I will not waste your time or mine by describing them in any detail.
The trip to the village is really irksome. The Gaywad Drug Addict Models are the first to break down; they get a flat tire. Various teams pass them by. The GameCock girls’ Jeep stalls. No one passes them by, because they’re way behind and lost anyway. There are various expressions of self-pity before we head off to:
Commercials, brought to you by the awesome Excedrin/CVS/CBS Axis of Evil:
an evil axis, for Excedrin, CVS, and CBS; Jason Whatshisnugget and the other guy, in yet another in their series of stupid, insipid, not-at-all funny, untruth-laden Mac commercials; a kid swimming in Froot Loops, for a Froot Loops ripoff undertaken by Cheerios; various fat firefighters, policemen, and construction workers, for Quiznos; a trailer, for a DVD about a cartoon monkey, which I will not name because I quite seriously fear that to type or speak the name of this cartoon monkey in this household will set up a hue and cry of demand for this fucking DVD, which I will not abide, mostly because I am, according to some denizens of this structure, an extremely Mean and Cranky Old Man; an Audrey Hepburn impersonator for the Gap, and while I am reminded that I will not shop at the Gap, I am reminded that it’s a damn shame that I wasn’t around to try to nail Audrey Hepburn back when she was so eminently nailable; and CBS, for some number of television programs that are not, in any respect, amusing.
And we’re back, where the Drug Addicts receive assistance for their flatness problem, and the Game Cock Girls are hampered by their lack of flatness.
So down at the horsey place, the teams must strap on Official Mongol Horseman helmets. One of the BQs demands to be paid tribute in Mongorean barbecue. She thinks this is funny. It isn’t.
The Hillbillies get stuck in the mud. We do love a joke that writes itself.
So there’s some attempted comedy associated with riding. And a lot of bitching, mostly by the Super Kingkong Mayamaya Beeeeeitch, who takes a tumble. And whimpers. A lot. I enjoy her pain.
I also enjoy the pain of one of the BQs when she tumbles from her horse and is dragged by one foot. It’s a dangerous place, Mongorea.
Over at the Place of Cluefulness, Dixie Melons cheerfully tells us that we are facing a Detour, involving a choice between two traditional Mongorean tasks. The choices are Fuck a Sheep, or Nurse a Goat. Some teams’ choice will be driven by their possession (or lack thereof) of the proper equipment for the task. In Fuck a Sheep, a male racer must insert his penis into a sheep (of any gender), and deliver a convincing rogering. In Nurse a Goat, a female racer must breastfeed a goat until it stops bleating.
It is my sincere hope that the foregoing paragraph is the worst grouping of words, bar none, that you have ever been forced to read in all your years of digesting my reality television summaries.
So the actual task involves packing up a tent and getting a camel to pick it up, or loading water jugs onto an ox-driven cart and using them to fill a water barrel.
Seriously, my way was a lot more interesting, right?
Brak brak brak whining, bitching, whimpering, bickering, as the teams undertake their sheep-fucking and goat-nursing. The Hillbillies get a new Jeep to replace the one they sunk in quicksand. Several teams are bitching uncontrollably about the horse-riding, before they even get to the sheep-fucking and goat-nursing.
Amputee and Pervert change tasks. He barks at her when she protests. He is a complete fuckhead.
Those hauling water are having trouble because the jugs are unstable (the water jugs, you fucking freaks), and so are the oxen. Various oxen stampede, including the ox under the nominal control of the Amputee and the Pervert. The Amputee is in tears—it is rapidly becoming apparent that this is her usual modus—and he becomes a pedantic, smug, overbearing piece of shit. Sadly, she does not destroy him in his boots. I feel the tiniest itty bitty twinge of sympathy for her, even though she is completely fucking dreadful. Their ox stampedes again, before it is time for:
Commercials, brought to you by Sprint:
Peyton Manning in a wig and moustache, for Sprint; Peyton Manning in a giant rubber bladder, for Gatorade; Peyton Manning and his father and brother, for eggs checking to pancakes; Peyton Manning in an apron, for some credit card; Peyton Manning in a dress and lipstick, for the United Transvestite College Fund; Peyton Manning in a tutu, for the Hold Me Closer Tiny Dancer School for Prima Donna Ballerinas; Peyton Manning skydiving, for some trampoline company; Peyton Manning trapped in a fishing net, for Uncruel brand Dolphin-safe tuna; Peyton Manning in strappy mules, for DSW; Peyton Manning giving his brother a wedgie, for the NFL on CBS; Peyton Manning in a gay adult bookstore, for some AIDS prevention campaign; Peyton Manning hugging Mike Steele, who claims that the Washington Post threw Oreos at him while falsely accusing him of raping Peyton Manning’s kittens; Peyton Manning in a wig and moustache, again, for Sprint, again; and Peyton Manning, for My Local News.
And we’re back, with oxen running wild. The Amputee and the Pervert return to camel-loading. Kar/Lyn beg Jesus for assistance in loading their camel. He makes them do it anyway. The Daters bicker. I’m guessing that in this case, she’s the one who’s gonna hit him.
The BQ’s finish pouring water, but one of them has lost her Mongol helmet and has to go find it.
Ilse thinks “Mongol helmet” is really funny. Sometimes I just don’t understand her. But then I slap her ass a few times and everything becomes more clear.
Bad Daddy and L-Girl finish watering and get clued up; they are to drive to yet another village, where the Hotel Mongorea awaits.
Here’s the difference between me and everyone else who writes summaries: in anyone else’s summary, except maybe TechNoir’s, you’d have had to deal with a joke involving the Eagles right there. Not here. No way. Don Henley must die, I tell you.
Kar/Lyn abandon Jesus and their camel, heading off to haul water. The BQs keep looking for a helmet, not hitting on the simple idea of stealing someone else’s. Stupid twats. The Daters continue to bicker; Super Kingkong Mayamaya Beeeeitch is in deep tears.
Nothing worth mentioning occurs for the next four or five minutes of footage. This is good, because it’s getting late and I’m tired of this summary. The next noteworthy thing that occurs is that the BQs find their Mongol Helmet. Ilse is laughing. Excuse me, I’m going to slap her ass and see if I find clarity.
Bitching, moaning, whining, complaining, felching. Bad Daddy and L-Girl get passed by the Amputee and the Pervert, and then by the Gaywad Drug Addict Models. The simple expedient of driving faster does not seem to occur to Bad Daddy.
Three teams are plagued by breakdowns; Gaywin and Gayerwin stop by the side of the road, while the Game Cock Girls and the Welfare Mothers can’t even get their surplus Soviet pieces of shit to start. Gaywin and Gayerwin are the first to get rolling again while, back at the meadow, the Game Cock Girls are the first to get help. A local Mongorean handcranks their surplus Soviet piece of shit back to life. The Welfare Mothers are surprised to find that two cute, perky Southron girls who asked nicely got help before two crabby, self-important, trash-talking nasty Bamas. Karma, she’s a bitch, but before Karma plays out her hand, we’re off to:
Commercials, brought to you by Sprint, and you know what that means:
Peyton Manning in a wig and moustache, again, for Sprint, again; Peyton Manning with a big head on a little body, accompanied by Derek Jeter’s big head and some other big damn heads on little bodies, for the Hydroencephaly Society; Peyton Manning at the bottom of the ocean, for a Talking Heads album; Peyton Manning in a car, for NASCAR on Fox; Peyton Manning as a cartoon, for the Curious George movie…aw, shit; Peyton Manning in a casket, for CBS police shows; Peyton Manning dry-humping Jeff Probst, for Survivor; and Peyton Manning in a chalk outline, for My Local News.
And we’re back.
So over at cluefulness, the Amputee and Pervert find that the Ronery Roadbrock involves shooting a flaming Mongorean arrow at a target. When the target’s burning, the racers can run like hell for the Pit Stop.
The Pervert finishes first, as the Gaywad Drug Addict Models look on in disgust. The Amputee and Pervert dash to the Pit Stop, where Dixie Melons awards them a trip to Mexico and a threesome with the Travelocity Gnome. They rant about how cool they are. The Amputee confesses that she’s done with the Perv after this show is over, and she’ll be back in the Hustler personals. For, y'know, anyone who's interested.
So, people shoot flaming arrows, and the Gaywad Drug Addict Models come in second, followed by Bad Daddy and L-Girl, after L-Girl manages, after about forty or fifty tries, to launch an arrow into the target. The Flamers are shooting at the same time, but whichever Flamer is doing the Roadblock is doing a very creditable job of shooting an arrow like a girl, if such a thing is possible. However, the blind squirrel finds an acorn and they manage to finish.
The Daters bicker over the arrow-shooting; Mister Hillbilly is almost as lame as the Flamer; and a blonde whisks the BQs into next place. Other arrow-shooting occurs; Super Kingkong Mayamaya Beeeeeitch sinks one, and the Daters finish nextish. The Hillbillies get in next, as the non-limping Mrs. Hillbilly whines about how badly she’s fucked up her ankle.
Suspenseful drama is being set up on the back end, as the producers are unwilling to tell us who, between the Game Cock Girls and the Welfare Mothers, is more lost. Gaywin and Gayerwin finish next, and the Welfare Mothers get to the shooting range while the Game Cock Girls once again ask directions and establish that they are hopelessly, fuckall, no-shit, Truly Effing Lost. The Welfare Mothers come in ninth.
Finally, as the sun sets, the Game Cock Girls fire flaming arrows at the targets, setting a whole field on fire. Eventually, they give up and trudge off to the Pit Stop, where Dixie Melons titslaps them into tearful irrelevance. They babble. In the morning, when their confessional is filmed, their tears have passed and they are once again hopelessly perky in their pursuit of Game Cock. And so we beat off, sails unfurled uselessly against the prevailing wind, which carries a distinct whiff of Tony Chang’s Mongorean Barbecue and Third-Floor Whorehouse, on H Street between Seventh and Eighth, in My Local Nation’s Capital.
Commercials:
Peyton Manning fucking a gnome, for Travelocity; Peyton Manning overdosing on Oxy, for Excedrin, CVS, and CBS; Peyton Manning in lip gloss, for Victoria’s Secret; Peyton Manning as Robin Williams running for President; Peyton Manning in Massachusetts, fucking a goat and nursing a sheep (he just can’t get anything right there); and Peyton Manning promising me sunny skies on an overcast day tomorrow, for My Local News.
Next week on TAR: Bad Daddy pimps out L-Girl at a Mongorean bus stop, and the Flamers have a hissy slap-fight with the BQs about who has the deepest throat.
Thanks tons for reading, and for bearing with this late substitution. ¶ 11:09 PM 10 Comments
Huh-Huh-Huh…I’ll Bet She’ll Make a Game
Outta Your…Uh, Never Mind By Landru
Aren’t you surprised? It’s me again. It was supposed to be somebody else, but what happened was, she gave birth. I mean, like eight years ago. And as a result, she had a pretty crappy evening, and I agreed to take over so as to make this here episode disappear. Actually, we both had a pretty crappy evening, but she’s taken a few more bullets than I have today, so duty, honor, and country demand, quite reasonably, that I be the one to step up and do the things that must be done. After all, before all of these crappy events occasioned by her giving birth (eight years ago) happened today, she had gone to work, and picked up and dropped off the birth-results (my vehicle has mysteriously disappeared into the Black Hole of Automotive Service, for like four freakin’ days), and dealt out most of the adverse consequences of her giving birth (eight years ago) that did not accrue to us, and sat in traffic. A lot. All I did was sit at home and supervise the maids and play NCAA Football 2007 and yell at the Black Hole of Automotive Service and pick up the pizza for dinner (in her car) and take a few phone calls from the school that is responsible for the daily management of the thing to which She gave birth (eight years ago), that thing being, according to wildly divergent accounts, a charming and intelligent little eight-year-old boy person with some unfortunate problems, or Damien, or Ted Bundy, or Mike Steele, or something in between that may actually not deserve to be chained up and dropped in Loch Ness, but the jury’s still way the hell out on that one and will likely stay there until somewhere around 2015, but we’ll try to give you fair warning on the verdict, when a meaningful trend can be discerned.
Anyway, poof! It’s gone. The episode, I mean, not my Jeep.
Okay, it’s not gone yet, but it will be, really soon. I mean, you’re not getting the full ten thousand word treatment here, mmkay? There’s gonna be a lot of brakage. Especially in the parts where nothing funny is happening, or when my vocabulary is so choked up with anger that I can only be bitterly angry, instead of just bitterly angry in a sort of marginally entertaining way.
Most of the latter, by the way, will involve Kar/Lyn. Actually, so will a lot of the former, come to think on it.
Okay, so let’s see…previously on The Amazing Race, I wrote a few thousand words of sarcasm and gave all of the teams insulting names and reminded you that the show is hosted by a not-at-all-winsome and extremely-well-padded transvestite named Dixie Melons. Some other stuff happened in the show that the producers thought important, to wit, the token Amputees preboarding an aircraft and pissing off various teams, most especially the token Welfare Mothers, who appear to be easily pissed off, and went to Beijing, and some freakishly annoying religious fanatics got eliminated unexpectedly, and the token Amputees struggled up the Great Wall, and teams arrived at the pit stop in some mostly irrelevant order and varying states of disarray, and Apu and Manjula got there last and were, therefore, shat out into the world by Dixie Melons and the TAR production crew.
Credits roll, and we’re off to:
Commercials:
Another enervating AOL commercial, for AOL; a chick on a couch writing about menstruation on her laptop, for some drug that evens out things that bleed for five days and don’t die; skinny models, for a laxative, and it’s really nice to see that TAR got all the cool Survivor reject sponsors; billboard painters and the apparently otherwise unemployable Jon Lovitz, for Subway; and CBS, for a load of shitty CBS television programs.
So we start at the Great Wall of China, which I was, sadly, unable to visit during my trip to China. This may seem to you to be unconscionably stupid. And I suppose that it is. However, it’s a day trip to the Great Wall from Beijing, and I was in China being employed, and those employing me had many needs that I was expected to fulfill, so I was pretty much lucky to get a plate of kung pao at a tiny little homestyle place across the street from the place where the wankers all ate fish eyes last week, let alone get away from my duties as a holder of hands and an offerer of wet-nursing and a shill for whoever it was I was working for, let alone slip out for the eight consecutive hours required to go visit the Wall, since I was also in a hurry to get the fuck out of China, which is a shithole (albeit a far more interesting shithole than, for instance, Seattle), and back to my beloved wife-person, who had, for that weekend only, temporarily stowed the things to which she gave birth in some place that did not involve us for 48 glorious hours.
Dixie Melons gives us some narrative that is intended to create some form of suspense. It doesn’t. Instead, I’ll just tell you that the teams are headed for Mongorea, where they will encounter Mongoreans, who have torn down Shitty Wall, which was, as you know, built by the guy who owns and operates Shitty Wok.
They must go to Mongorea by bus and train, ending up in the capital of Mongorea, Genghisville (actually, it’s Ulan Bataar, but who the fuck cares?), and there doing whatever it is that Dixie Melons and that crazy production team have dreamed up for them.
Mongorea is interesting. For a given value of interesting equalling “not interesting.” It is a desert, and it is such a gigantic mongomofo desert that it dries out Beijing, hundreds of miles away, and covers it in dust and sand, regularly. This will be an interesting discovery made by thousands of people descending upon Beijing for the 2008 Olympics, or possibly for the 2007 China Bowl, which the NFL just announced yesterday as a panacea for the unfortunate problem of 1 billion people on this planet not giving a flying fuck about the NFL. While thousands of unwilling Chinese laborers are planting millions of fucking trees to act as sand and dust breaks against the relentless natural action of this gigantimongomofo desertification, I am here to tell you that this doesn’t work, because the shithole part of Beijing that distinguishes it most from a run-of-the-mill dank and yeasty shithole like Seattle is that it’s really dry, and dusty, and polluted.
My, how I do tangentialize. So we’re on the way to Mongorea, whereat we will observe some religious ceremony and claim cluefulness.
The Gaywad Drug Addict Models, not to be confused with proto-Asians Gaywin and Gayerwin, leave first, after confessing about how happy they are that they’re no longer practicing junkies. Bad Daddy and L-Girl are next, with Bad Daddy once again affirming that he is an absolutely fuck-awful person who should be beaten senseless by dildoes wielded by remorseless, humorless lesbians who hate men (as opposed to remorseful, funny lesbians who want to do a threesome with me and Ilse; Lucy Liu comes to mind as an appropriate candidate). The Token Amputees are next, with Gimpgirl whining incessantly about her fucked-up bionic leg. The Beauty Queens are next, and we get a gratuitous glimpse of thongs under their sweatpants as they climb over a fence. The Daters confess about how they’re going to kill each other in their sleep, because he’s psychotic and she’s not only more psychotic, she’s a super kingkong mayamaya beeeeeitch. This group is the first bus to Mongorea.
The second bus to Mongorea, two hours later, is peopled by the GameCock Cheerleaders, who do, in fact, appear to be game for…uh, never mind. Gaywin and Gayerwin are next, followed by the Flamers, who need to be bitchslapped, and the Angry Welfare Mothers, and the Hillbillies, who have gotten neither smarter, nor more articulate, nor more palatable since we last ran into them, one short week ago.
We were so innocent then, weren’t we? So many bad, bad things had yet to happen.
There is much camaraderie. The Hillbillies tell us that they ain’t never been around queers and nigras and slopes and lesbians and all manner of other weird and offensive and godless types. I’m not shitting you.
But it’s all okay, because most of those people have never been around dirt-stupid hillbillies whose teeth are still crooked even after they’ve been pulled out to save money on dental work and replaced with randomly arranged pieces of old bones jammed together into something that will masticate roadkill.
But it’s okay. Mrs. Hillbilly likes them queer fellas, and Mr. Hillbilly doesn’t seem to be beating her for it. At least not on camera.
Bus ride. 99 bottles of beer on the wall. Back at the bus station, people are dancing and having fun, activities wholly inappropriate to the gravity of the task at hand. The bus ride yields to a train station. No notice is made of the fact that we are, once again, crossing the Chinese frontier, a thing which, I am here to tell you, is not a thing that is small. Oh no. That bottle of Aquafina in your flight bag feels like a brick of fucking heroin when you’re being stared down by a motherfucking Chinese Border Guard. And that $60K in hard currency that you’re carrying strapped around your waist so you can pay off anyone who needs to be paid off during the course of a 350-person, three-quarters-of-a-million-dollar conference in a dirt-poor totalitarian Commie country? Let’s just say I was a lot more comfortable shooting up that day-care center, back in the day (to be fair to dirt-poor totalitarian Commies, it was no picnic conveying the not-inconsiderable remains of that gigantimongous wad of cash back into our own very fine country). No, it is no small matter to cross the Chinese border in any fucking direction, even in the direction of Mongorea, which is close personal friends with them there dirt-poor totalitarian Commies. I am left wondering how much it cost TAR to make it happen without hitchery.
Conspiracy occurs in the train station. The Gaywad Drug Addict Models foil a plot by the BQ’s to keep a secret. They are abundantly proud of themselves for outsmarting platinum blondes. The blondes are too stupid to be proud of anything but their hair.
The scene in front of the train station is far more disturbing. The Amputee and her own personal Fetishist are being stared at by the assembled provincial Chinese persons. She begins to dance and show off. The Fetishist attempts to collect money from those watching. What a fucking reprehensible, steaming pile of cabbage-induced shit. This asshole needs to be struck by lightning, except slowly, agonizingly, the world’s longest and most self-aware lightning strike evar, and even that’s too good for this smug, debilitatingly insensitive vulture.
The second bus ride gets to the station before the train departs, enabling yet more bunching. And oh, shit—it turns out we’re not in Mongorea yet, we’re in Erenhot, which is out in some portion of the fuck-all nowhere of China. So that whole frontier-crossing diatribe? Just move it up here, mmkay?
During the train ride, we’re subjected to yet more self-reflection from the Gaywad Drug Addict Models, who really should be holding hands with the Amputee Fetishist when he’s struck by that long, drawn-out bolt of lightning.
So everyone hops into taxicabs. The Super King-Kong Mayamaya Beeeeitch gets splashed by some street water because she’s riding with the window open. “Can I get diseases from that?” she whines. No, you lachrymose uberhostile twat, you’re far more likely to get diseases from the swine you allow to penetrate your needy and not-at-all desirable body. Now die slowly, you most severely gruesomely fuckugly of Ugly Americans. And scream while you’re doing it, except quietly so I’m not distracted by it.
Frenzy, much frenzy, people jockeying for places faster than we can about tracking. There are varying levels of depression and paranoia and confidence and gloating and other forms of distracting noise that do not involve annoying persons dying slowly.
A short person in a mask greets the first teams to arrive, and there is some dancing and clanging and suchlike, followed by some clue-giving. The clue instructs the not-at-all-loveable losers to steal a surplus Russian military jeep (the official motorized conveyance of Mongorea, which was, before it became one in socialist brotherhood with the dirt-poor totalitarian Commie Chinese, a satellite of the Soviet Union existing only to reduce the footage of border that the Soviets would have to guard against Chinese incursions in the Border War that the two Commie fucktard giants waged for about 40 fucking years), drive to some village, ride horses to a meadow, and get a clue that will presumably lead to a prostitutional and conniving Detour, or a ronery Roadblock.
The jeeps are, as you’d expect of a Commie-era motor vehicle, useless and obstinate pieces of shite. The spacing of the religious rituals guarantees some artificial spreading of the teams, and this after we went to so much trouble to bunch them up in a train station. There are various acts of intra-team aggression perpetrated by various shitheels. I will not waste your time or mine by describing them in any detail.
The trip to the village is really irksome. The Gaywad Drug Addict Models are the first to break down; they get a flat tire. Various teams pass them by. The GameCock girls’ Jeep stalls. No one passes them by, because they’re way behind and lost anyway. There are various expressions of self-pity before we head off to:
Commercials, brought to you by the awesome Excedrin/CVS/CBS Axis of Evil:
an evil axis, for Excedrin, CVS, and CBS; Jason Whatshisnugget and the other guy, in yet another in their series of stupid, insipid, not-at-all funny, untruth-laden Mac commercials; a kid swimming in Froot Loops, for a Froot Loops ripoff undertaken by Cheerios; various fat firefighters, policemen, and construction workers, for Quiznos; a trailer, for a DVD about a cartoon monkey, which I will not name because I quite seriously fear that to type or speak the name of this cartoon monkey in this household will set up a hue and cry of demand for this fucking DVD, which I will not abide, mostly because I am, according to some denizens of this structure, an extremely Mean and Cranky Old Man; an Audrey Hepburn impersonator for the Gap, and while I am reminded that I will not shop at the Gap, I am reminded that it’s a damn shame that I wasn’t around to try to nail Audrey Hepburn back when she was so eminently nailable; and CBS, for some number of television programs that are not, in any respect, amusing.
And we’re back, where the Drug Addicts receive assistance for their flatness problem, and the Game Cock Girls are hampered by their lack of flatness.
So down at the horsey place, the teams must strap on Official Mongol Horseman helmets. One of the BQs demands to be paid tribute in Mongorean barbecue. She thinks this is funny. It isn’t.
The Hillbillies get stuck in the mud. We do love a joke that writes itself.
So there’s some attempted comedy associated with riding. And a lot of bitching, mostly by the Super Kingkong Mayamaya Beeeeeitch, who takes a tumble. And whimpers. A lot. I enjoy her pain.
I also enjoy the pain of one of the BQs when she tumbles from her horse and is dragged by one foot. It’s a dangerous place, Mongorea.
Over at the Place of Cluefulness, Dixie Melons cheerfully tells us that we are facing a Detour, involving a choice between two traditional Mongorean tasks. The choices are Fuck a Sheep, or Nurse a Goat. Some teams’ choice will be driven by their possession (or lack thereof) of the proper equipment for the task. In Fuck a Sheep, a male racer must insert his penis into a sheep (of any gender), and deliver a convincing rogering. In Nurse a Goat, a female racer must breastfeed a goat until it stops bleating.
It is my sincere hope that the foregoing paragraph is the worst grouping of words, bar none, that you have ever been forced to read in all your years of digesting my reality television summaries.
So the actual task involves packing up a tent and getting a camel to pick it up, or loading water jugs onto an ox-driven cart and using them to fill a water barrel.
Seriously, my way was a lot more interesting, right?
Brak brak brak whining, bitching, whimpering, bickering, as the teams undertake their sheep-fucking and goat-nursing. The Hillbillies get a new Jeep to replace the one they sunk in quicksand. Several teams are bitching uncontrollably about the horse-riding, before they even get to the sheep-fucking and goat-nursing.
Amputee and Pervert change tasks. He barks at her when she protests. He is a complete fuckhead.
Those hauling water are having trouble because the jugs are unstable (the water jugs, you fucking freaks), and so are the oxen. Various oxen stampede, including the ox under the nominal control of the Amputee and the Pervert. The Amputee is in tears—it is rapidly becoming apparent that this is her usual modus—and he becomes a pedantic, smug, overbearing piece of shit. Sadly, she does not destroy him in his boots. I feel the tiniest itty bitty twinge of sympathy for her, even though she is completely fucking dreadful. Their ox stampedes again, before it is time for:
Commercials, brought to you by Sprint:
Peyton Manning in a wig and moustache, for Sprint; Peyton Manning in a giant rubber bladder, for Gatorade; Peyton Manning and his father and brother, for eggs checking to pancakes; Peyton Manning in an apron, for some credit card; Peyton Manning in a dress and lipstick, for the United Transvestite College Fund; Peyton Manning in a tutu, for the Hold Me Closer Tiny Dancer School for Prima Donna Ballerinas; Peyton Manning skydiving, for some trampoline company; Peyton Manning trapped in a fishing net, for Uncruel brand Dolphin-safe tuna; Peyton Manning in strappy mules, for DSW; Peyton Manning giving his brother a wedgie, for the NFL on CBS; Peyton Manning in a gay adult bookstore, for some AIDS prevention campaign; Peyton Manning hugging Mike Steele, who claims that the Washington Post threw Oreos at him while falsely accusing him of raping Peyton Manning’s kittens; Peyton Manning in a wig and moustache, again, for Sprint, again; and Peyton Manning, for My Local News.
And we’re back, with oxen running wild. The Amputee and the Pervert return to camel-loading. Kar/Lyn beg Jesus for assistance in loading their camel. He makes them do it anyway. The Daters bicker. I’m guessing that in this case, she’s the one who’s gonna hit him.
The BQ’s finish pouring water, but one of them has lost her Mongol helmet and has to go find it.
Ilse thinks “Mongol helmet” is really funny. Sometimes I just don’t understand her. But then I slap her ass a few times and everything becomes more clear.
Bad Daddy and L-Girl finish watering and get clued up; they are to drive to yet another village, where the Hotel Mongorea awaits.
Here’s the difference between me and everyone else who writes summaries: in anyone else’s summary, except maybe TechNoir’s, you’d have had to deal with a joke involving the Eagles right there. Not here. No way. Don Henley must die, I tell you.
Kar/Lyn abandon Jesus and their camel, heading off to haul water. The BQs keep looking for a helmet, not hitting on the simple idea of stealing someone else’s. Stupid twats. The Daters continue to bicker; Super Kingkong Mayamaya Beeeeitch is in deep tears.
Nothing worth mentioning occurs for the next four or five minutes of footage. This is good, because it’s getting late and I’m tired of this summary. The next noteworthy thing that occurs is that the BQs find their Mongol Helmet. Ilse is laughing. Excuse me, I’m going to slap her ass and see if I find clarity.
Bitching, moaning, whining, complaining, felching. Bad Daddy and L-Girl get passed by the Amputee and the Pervert, and then by the Gaywad Drug Addict Models. The simple expedient of driving faster does not seem to occur to Bad Daddy.
Three teams are plagued by breakdowns; Gaywin and Gayerwin stop by the side of the road, while the Game Cock Girls and the Welfare Mothers can’t even get their surplus Soviet pieces of shit to start. Gaywin and Gayerwin are the first to get rolling again while, back at the meadow, the Game Cock Girls are the first to get help. A local Mongorean handcranks their surplus Soviet piece of shit back to life. The Welfare Mothers are surprised to find that two cute, perky Southron girls who asked nicely got help before two crabby, self-important, trash-talking nasty Bamas. Karma, she’s a bitch, but before Karma plays out her hand, we’re off to:
Commercials, brought to you by Sprint, and you know what that means:
Peyton Manning in a wig and moustache, again, for Sprint, again; Peyton Manning with a big head on a little body, accompanied by Derek Jeter’s big head and some other big damn heads on little bodies, for the Hydroencephaly Society; Peyton Manning at the bottom of the ocean, for a Talking Heads album; Peyton Manning in a car, for NASCAR on Fox; Peyton Manning as a cartoon, for the Curious George movie…aw, shit; Peyton Manning in a casket, for CBS police shows; Peyton Manning dry-humping Jeff Probst, for Survivor; and Peyton Manning in a chalk outline, for My Local News.
And we’re back.
So over at cluefulness, the Amputee and Pervert find that the Ronery Roadbrock involves shooting a flaming Mongorean arrow at a target. When the target’s burning, the racers can run like hell for the Pit Stop.
The Pervert finishes first, as the Gaywad Drug Addict Models look on in disgust. The Amputee and Pervert dash to the Pit Stop, where Dixie Melons awards them a trip to Mexico and a threesome with the Travelocity Gnome. They rant about how cool they are. The Amputee confesses that she’s done with the Perv after this show is over, and she’ll be back in the Hustler personals. For, y'know, anyone who's interested.
So, people shoot flaming arrows, and the Gaywad Drug Addict Models come in second, followed by Bad Daddy and L-Girl, after L-Girl manages, after about forty or fifty tries, to launch an arrow into the target. The Flamers are shooting at the same time, but whichever Flamer is doing the Roadblock is doing a very creditable job of shooting an arrow like a girl, if such a thing is possible. However, the blind squirrel finds an acorn and they manage to finish.
The Daters bicker over the arrow-shooting; Mister Hillbilly is almost as lame as the Flamer; and a blonde whisks the BQs into next place. Other arrow-shooting occurs; Super Kingkong Mayamaya Beeeeeitch sinks one, and the Daters finish nextish. The Hillbillies get in next, as the non-limping Mrs. Hillbilly whines about how badly she’s fucked up her ankle.
Suspenseful drama is being set up on the back end, as the producers are unwilling to tell us who, between the Game Cock Girls and the Welfare Mothers, is more lost. Gaywin and Gayerwin finish next, and the Welfare Mothers get to the shooting range while the Game Cock Girls once again ask directions and establish that they are hopelessly, fuckall, no-shit, Truly Effing Lost. The Welfare Mothers come in ninth.
Finally, as the sun sets, the Game Cock Girls fire flaming arrows at the targets, setting a whole field on fire. Eventually, they give up and trudge off to the Pit Stop, where Dixie Melons titslaps them into tearful irrelevance. They babble. In the morning, when their confessional is filmed, their tears have passed and they are once again hopelessly perky in their pursuit of Game Cock. And so we beat off, sails unfurled uselessly against the prevailing wind, which carries a distinct whiff of Tony Chang’s Mongorean Barbecue and Third-Floor Whorehouse, on H Street between Seventh and Eighth, in My Local Nation’s Capital.
Commercials:
Peyton Manning fucking a gnome, for Travelocity; Peyton Manning overdosing on Oxy, for Excedrin, CVS, and CBS; Peyton Manning in lip gloss, for Victoria’s Secret; Peyton Manning as Robin Williams running for President; Peyton Manning in Massachusetts, fucking a goat and nursing a sheep (he just can’t get anything right there); and Peyton Manning promising me sunny skies on an overcast day tomorrow, for My Local News.
Next week on TAR: Bad Daddy pimps out L-Girl at a Mongorean bus stop, and the Flamers have a hissy slap-fight with the BQs about who has the deepest throat.
Thanks tons for reading, and for bearing with this late substitution. ¶ 11:09 PM 10 Comments
Monday, September 18, 2006
The Amazing Race, Season 10, Episode 1:
Amputee Corner by Landru
So here’s the thing: reality has lost its hold on me. No, no, not reality television. Reality itself. There used to be this world where I had a quiet life in a small cave in the deep suburbs, a life untrammeled by human contact, except maybe when Ilse would drop by to use me for her pleasure, or some unsuspecting college student selling magazine subscriptions would drop by to help restock my freezer. Since the last television season, that reality has completely evaporated, replaced by some hallucination in which I live in a large house in the not-quite-as-deep suburbs that is populated by not only Ilse, but some…I don’t know…small creatures? That she apparently created? And a cat. A really smelly, obnoxious, stupid cat.
Since this can only be a hallucination, I have determined that nothing that my apparently fevered brain is ascribing to what it thinks is my television set can possibly be real. For instance, my apparently fevered brain invented some fantastickal story about Survivor openly centering itself on race and ethnicity, pitting various ethnic slurs against each other for ratings. I figure I must be a pretty sick fuck, eh?
So I’m just going to write about this here hallucination that I think is The Amazing Race. Because I’m just egocentric enough to believe that you give a flying fuck about my hallucinations.
In this hallucination, Phil Keoghan is in Seattle, opening up a season of the show. I can tell it’s Phil because…well, you know how I can tell it’s Phil. Because this is a hallucination, Phil’s incredibly huge hooters have swollen to somewhere in the range of 44FFF, straining through the bra he’s wearing under the same fucking wardrobe he’s been wearing for 10 seasons now. His porn star name is Dixie Melons.
Brak brak brak race, brak brak brak teams of blacks, whites, Hispanics, Asians, brak brak brak sole survivor.
No, no, that’s not it. Sorry. Damn fever.
Brak brak brak race, brak brak brak million dollars.
And seaplanes. The teams are coming in on seaplanes, and now we’re going to meet them. The teams, not the seaplanes. Well, we’re meeting the seaplanes, too, but they’re not going to hang around this bad dream for quite nearly as long as the teams. Let’s meet my nightmare, shall we?
Peter and Sarah are easily the most frightening TAR team since Dolf and Thirdreichen. They are both scary blonde. Peter is an amputee fetishist. Sarah is an amputee. She alleges that she was born with one leg shorter than the other, but this makes very little sense, because her left leg is bionic. Peter and Sarah are triathletes, and they clearly believe that their triathleticism will propel them to victory. She loves him because he can fix her prosthetic leg. He loves her because he’s a sick freakazoid and hasn’t been this happy since he found a stash of old Hustler magazines with the “Amputee Corner” feature.
This has to be a hallucination, right? I mean, CBS couldn’t possibly be making this shit up. It’s gotta be another fucking malaria relapse. Right? Right?
Bilal and Sa’eed were born Desmond and Lamont, but subsequently converted to Islam, and are best friends and Cleveland Browns fans. They vow that their religion will take priority over the race, and that they will not hesitate to take five minutes to pray. For my part, I will not go all Michelle Malkin on these guys, and will instead focus on their much more obvious weakness. They’re fucking Browns fans? No one dumb enough to be a Browns fan could ever win this game. Actually, I’ll do a reverse and get Michelle to go all Michelle Malkin on me: there’s no way in hell these guys could possibly be more annoying in their religiosity than the Weavers. Especially since we’re not going to have to deal with them for very long.
I hear they no longer use quinine-based treatments for malaria, rendering ineffective my gin-and-tonic curative. This is clearly a plot by Big Pharma.
Rob and Kimberly are yet another pair of morons using the game as a vehicle for determining whether they should get married. He’s an arrogant piece of shite; she’s a bitch who claims to want him to lead, but she plans to top him from the bottom. She is strikingly identical to every other supposedly beautiful brunette who’s ever been on a reality show, except phonier-looking. It is painfully obvious that neither of them should, under any circumstances, be allowed to reproduce, ever. It is possible that it will be pleasurable to watch them explode on national television.
Maybe it’s not a malarial relapse; maybe I’m just a little sleep-deprived. This is starting to look more normal, hmm?
Dustin and Kandice have in common their excruciating blondeness, their hobby of blowing beauty pageant judges (one of them was Miss New York, the other Miss California), and parents who can’t spell. They used to be bitter, hair-pulling, tit-slapping rivals. Now they’re lovers. Can’t two kids get a break in this crazy, crazy world?
David and Mary are fat, pasty, white middle Americans who met when Mary dunked David’s left hand in the fryer at the McDonald’s where they both worked. He is a former soldier and a coal miner. She is just pasty, and is on the Race in the hope that David won’t beat her quite as much. They are Kentucky fans, and must therefore die. They are also hillbillies, of which America needs some to sustain its insatiable appetite for Springer guests.
Erwin and Godwin are gay Asian brothers, the sons of inexcusably whimsical parents, and highly competitive overachievers who may not be able to stop tormenting each other long enough to use their overwhelming intellectual superiority to crush their opposition. Or not, as we shall see.
Duke and Lauren are daddy and daughter, with every little bit of the associated psychosis you’d expect, and then some. It is rare for someone to stand out so clearly as an asshole after only a few words on national television as does Duke, who is crushed by the fact that his daughter is…gasp! A LESBIAN! He bursts into tears as he tells us that he’s just a little disappointed in his daughter’s proclivities. Lauren, who seems to be a perfectly normal human being in every respect, including her sexual preference, manages not to garrote this asshole to the choking death he clearly deserves in their opening interview.
Vipal and Arti are the first openly Indian-American couple to compete on TAR. From their CBS bios, it is clear that he is stereotypically assholic, and she is stereotypically passive. They are in this for a free trip. That’s a shame, because they ain’t trippin’ much after tonight’s episode.
Kellie and Jamie are the mandatory token Southron cheerleaders. One claims they’d both “have a conversation with a doorknob.” We’ll just not bother to tell them that they’ve been punk’d by a fraternity yet again—that wasn’t conversation, and it wasn’t a doorknob, if’n you know what I mean.
Tyler and James are “recovering drug addicts and models from Southern California.”
Sigh. I have to watch this shit through to the end, y’know. Kill me now.
Lyn and Karlyn are friends and single mothers from Alabama. They are the token black folk, since Islamofascists don’t count. They will be brutally sacrificed on the altar of intelligence somewhere in some godforsaken wasteland elsewhere in the world, probably by smart people Gaywin and Gayerwin (Note: I’m not generally homophobic. I am, however, extremely phobic about smart Asian homos. Those people are so going to make us all their bitches.). Lyn and Karlyn look a lot alike, except one of them is driving a kar.
Sorry. Sometimes the spirit moves me, and sometimes it just shits me out.
Tom and Terry are the token flamboyant open homosexuals. They are not nearly as interesting as other flamboyant open homosexuals we have experienced on this and other shows. Their show bio describes them as “fun and feisty,” which is pretty much a dead giveaway that they’re soulless twits. They are shown getting manicures and being bitchy about the other teams (which they had, of course, not yet met when they were interviewed).
Really. I don’t hate them because they’re gay. I hate them because they’re flaming.
Brak brak brak Who will win? Can we roll credits? No, we cannot, because it’s time for Dixie Melons to arch his eyebrows and lecture the victims. Brak brak brak My father’s race has many legs, with eight elimination pit stops.
Whoa. Eight eliminations for twelve teams? I can math up. There’s a double elimination somewhere. Now, while I have not yet seen this episode, which I am watching on tape because far more important things were happening when the episode actually aired, I am willing, based on an accidental visit to the front page of the show’s Web site, to venture that the double-headed Smoot is going to come tonight. I’m even willing to venture that all of those eliminated will be brown people of one shade or another.
Science. It’s a good thing.
Anyway, brak brak brak if you’re last, you’re shat out like yesterday’s beans. Brak brak brak there will be surprises. Brak brak brak arch Dixie’s eyebrow. Again. Brak brak brak read a clue, steal a car, and get the fuck outta tit-slappin’ range of these 44FFFs. Brak brak brak don’t take any wooden nickels, don’t talk to men in furry hats in bus stations, don’t push the red button that says “Don’t Push This Button,” and hurry up and get this over with so we can go do more useful things than watching this show, like nosepicking, bumwiping, and constant masturbation.
We become clueful. We are flying to Beijing on one of two flights, one United and the other Korean. This will mark, as near as I can tell, the first time we’ve pseudocircumnavigated the globe in a generally westerly direction.
You have no idea how lucky you are that I am writing this here summary. As it happens, I myself flew to Beijing this very year. And stayed there. Which will allow me all sorts of snide commentary, some of it entirely truthful, about the place they’re going in this here episode. Aren’t you lucky?
Wait a minute. I can’t hear you. Aren’t you lucky?
That’s better. Maggots.
The Islamofascists tell us that Allah is great. Wow, that was unpredictable. Gaywin and Gayerwin know their way around Seattle. Either the Cheerleaders or the Beauty Queens—it’s hard to tell them apart at this stage--can’t figure out how to work a vehicle. The Flamers are pumped. Fuck it, roll credits.
Credits duly rolled, we work our way through Seattle, where it is raining. Wow, that’s unpredictable. By the way, Seattle’s a shithole.
It develops that it’s the beauty queens who can’t work a vehicle, but it’s no big deal, because Loretta Lynn’s Daddy cain’t, either. “Uh doan’ knuh hah t’ git ‘er ‘n geer,” he grunts. Way to go, CBS. Yet another fine job of presenting us with Southrons who don’t know toilet tissue from wrapping paper.
Duke and Lauren can’t work a car, either. The BQ’s solve their problem by switching drivers; Loretta Lynn’s Daddy solves his problem by mouthing around his chaw. Lauren applies sophisticated lesbian technology to the matter and gets Duke into gear. There is whining.
Followed by the mandatory direction-getting, in this instance by the Buff Not At All Gay Former Drug Addict Models (BNAAGFDAM, for simplicity). They want to know how to get to the airport.
So there’s a reason I’m not too awful at writing these here TAR summary things, which reason being that I been a few places. Not so much on that whole world level, although as I noted, it is true that I have, in the recent past, been to this Beijing place that we’re off to now. But I have been to and navigated about many of the American places that these alleged racers frequent, and Seattle is one of them. In fact, I know enough about Seattle to say with unswerving conviction that it is a shithole. You may disagree, particularly if you live there, and that’s fine. So it ain’t a shithole for you. Fair nuff. But you’re not writing, and I am. It’s a shithole, a low-grade industrial port city that is rarely anything other than dank. The dank is leavened, for me, by some coffee shops, a few okay bars, some nice places to eat, and a crapload of close friends who I love to visit. But it’s a shithole.
In addition to being a shithole, Seattle is a remarkably simple city. It’s long and thin, and I-5 runs right through it and dumps you pretty much inexorably at the airport. It is unforgiveably stupid to have to ask for airport directions in Seattle. You do not have to be the Prince of Fucking Geography to find Sea-Tac. You might could get a little confused by Boeing Field, which is right by the highway on the way to Sea-Tac, but that confusion should be cleared up by the giant “Boeing Field” sign that faces the highway. Which, by the way, runs through pretty much the shittiest part of the shithole that is Seattle.
Anyway, the teams make their way to I-5, which is pretty much impossible to miss; their way to the highway is marred and frustrated by…uhm, mostly their complete inability to fucking read.
There is a designed-to-be-touching mandatory confessional from the amputee and her pervert boyfriend. Fuck ‘em. Brak brak brak. There’s also a quick cameo with Apu and Manjula, and I’m sure they’re very sweet and touching. Ilse thinks Manjula is hot. I’d hit it, but she’s no Kelly Goldsmith.
Loretta Lynn’s Daddy and his wife are having awful trouble articulating the fact that they ain’t never been outside a the holler. Other teams are trying to follow various other teams, an enterprise compounded by the fact that most of the teams are, in fact, fuck-all stupid. The hillbillies ask for directions, and are told to take the worst possible route, one that is traffic-choked and goes through a particularly gruesomely shitty, whore-and-pancake-house-laden part of town, rather than the highway, which may well be traffic-choked—surely more so than down the holler—but is, at least, a limited-access highway unburdened with dirty pirate hookers who can give you a dose at 300 yards.
And so it is—traffic-choked, that is—because there’s been an accident. The amputee and the perv artfully slide around on side streets. The hillbillies are fortunate, at least for now, to have avoided the interstate. Mrs. Hillbilly tells us (as near as I can tell) that LLD makes all the decisions, but that ain’t goan be t’ case here, if’n they want t’ win this here race-thing.
The Gimp and The Perv are the first into the airport, followed by the Hillbillies. The Islamofascists pray in traffic—hmm, maybe I was wrong about that whole Weavers thing.
Dixie Melons tells us that six teams can fly on each plane, and that the second plane will arrive nearly a full hour after the first!
The Hillbillies meet the BQ’s on the airport parking lot bus. They’re duly impressed; Mrs. Hillbilly just about pees her union suit.
There is much noise. The Daters prove, once again, that TAR is a really crappy venue for deciding your suitability for marriage. The Islamofascists fuck up. Duke rants as L-Girl sulks in the back seat, cursing the father that abused her into switching teams. The Daters continue to bicker and threaten. Wow, are they gonna esplode. There is universal weeping and gnashing of teeth as we head into:
Commercials:
an idiotic commercial, for AOL; a guy wedged on top of a filing cabinet, for Sprint; a flying tablecloth and a very bad rendition of Magic Carpet Ride, the best movie song in history, for Wendy’s; designer crap, for Pier 1, which is better than Kirstie Alley for Pier 1; sexy models, for a laxative; and CBS, for a bad new Mark Burnett/AOL joint venture, and for Dave, and for Survivor: Hatin’ On Yo Peoples.
Commercials just ain’t what they used to be.
We’re back, with the line in the airport parking garage, and then with people heading into the airport. Other teams are met, greetings are exchanged. Snide commentary must, by law, ensue.
Long story short: Gimp ‘n Perv, the BQs, the Hillbillies, BNAAGFDAM, Bad Daddy and L-Girl, and Lyn and Kar-Lyn make it onto the United flight. Apu and Manjula are turned away and sent scurrying to KAL.
Over at KAL, one of the Islamofascists refuses to shake hands with one of the cheerleaders “because of my religion,” and permanently loses any interest I had in being nice to him. I say to you, Sir, Fuck Your Religion. Assimilate your religion more or less into the dominant cultural paradigm, if that’s not too disruptive, or do not whine to me about how you are persecuted. For the record:
Shaking Hands With Women: Not disruptive.
Eating Pork: Plenty disruptive.
We clear? Y’all are way over into Weaverville.
On the KAL flight: The Flamers, the Cheerleaders, Gaywin and Gayerwin, the Daters, the Islamofascists, and Apu and Manjula.
Gaywin and Gayerwin are busted for carrying loaded squirt guns. I’m not fucking kidding. So much for their superior fucking intellect.
Boarding for the United flight introduces us to this crew’s capacity for being complete fucksticks: they all simper and whine as Gimp ‘n Perv preboard, by virtue of her amputational superiority. Guess what, morons? It doesn’t matter in what order you board the airplane. It matters in what order you deplane. Perv, however, gloats about how much use he and his little amputee honey expect to get out of the crip card.
Planes take off. The Islamofascists ostentatiously pray in the gate lounge. Incredibly, this does not appear to delay the flight.
So, Beijing. Remember that whole “shithole” thing? Beijing is partially it. It is, of course, wondrously alien and teeming with life and, in parts, beautiful and strange. It is also dry, dusty, teeming with life and germs, heavily polluted, choked with traffic, and ruled by persons who do not find it odd that they are carrying automatic weaponry in their pursuit of enforcing jaywalking laws.
The United flight is, of course, delayed. There is more bitching about Gimpgirl; “She can run the Ironman but she can’t stand in line?” simpers either Lyn or Kar-Lyn. Bad Daddy and L-Girl make it to a taxi first.
We’re going to a restaurant called the Gold House. Gimp ‘n Perv, Kar/Lyn, the Hillbillies, the BQs, and BNAAGFDAM trail behind. The Hillbillies gulp and choke around some language reflecting their relative lack of travel experience. “We ain’t done been outside Kintuhkee oar Tinnuhsee,” gulps one of them. There is much pidgining at the Beijing taxi drivers who, I must credit, are a surly and undecipherable lot.
Kar/Lyn continue to snipe at Gimp ‘n Perv. This should be way cool. They’re really graceless bitches, these two are.
The second flight apparently arrives, because the Flamers and Cheerleaders pile into cabs, the Cheerleaders offering up some Gamecock cheer for their driver. The Daters assert that they aren’t tired (bullshit—Beijing is the exact fucking opposite of North America, time-zone-wise, and after 14 hours in business class, you’re utterly destroyed—it’s fucking impossible that you’d jump off the plane perky after flying in cattle). The Islmaofascists grab a cab, followed by Apu and Manjula, with Gaywin and Gayerwin bringing up the rear, as befits idiots who think it’s okay to brandish fucking squirt guns in a fucking airport.
Bad Daddy and L-Girl arrive at the Gold House, which is, as near I can tell, around the block from the hotel where I stayed in Beijing. It’s already time for a Roadblock brak brak brak only one person (brak brak brak), and we’re gonna jump right into the Bad Food motif, the bad food in this case being fish eyes, a ritual I was, thankfully, not called upon to perform during my stay in China (I was pretty lucky at the formal banquets I attended).
So what they gotta do is actually pluck the eyes out of a bowl of fish heads. And eat them. Yum!
Bad Daddy undertakes the task, and either Kar or Lyn interrupts her bitter bitching about Gimpgirl long enough to do the thing what must be done. Well, almost. She’s distracted by Gimp ‘n Perv’s arrival, but still finishes first, just barely averting a puking. Insert inappropriate cultural food joke here.
Bad Daddy and L-Girl are close behind, and continue the bad-mouth tradition, referring to Kar/Lyn simply as “Alabama.” Owie.
So we’re going to the Forbidden City, which is neither forbidden nor a city. Discuss amongst yourselves.
Once there, we’ll be picking a departure time, and encountering, Dixie promises us, a big surprise. Other than his 44FFFs.
Gimp ‘n Perv hurry to choke down the remaining fish eyes and catch up. The BQs arrive at the wrong place. Meanwhile, Mrs. Hillbilly tries to pick through the fish eyes, as LLD harangues her. BNAAGFDAM are close behind. Mrs. Hillbilly asks a taxi driver if he knows where the Forbidden City is; he doesn’t. He’s lying. It’s like, only the most spectacularly requested tourist destination in the whole fucking city. He just doesn’t want to haul hillbillies. BNAAGFDAM escape a few minutes ahead of them. Horrors!
The Flamers arrive as the Cheerleaders are consuming fish eyes. Oddly, neither team has trouble consuming grotesque, slimy things. The BQs are still hopelessly lost; they are in the wrong neighborhood, and stunningly, no one has ever heard of this one restaurant in Beijing. I wouldn’t have, either, if I were a local and I thought that this would induce two statuesque Western blondes to eat in my joint.
But it shall all remain unsolved, because we’re off to:
Commercials, brought to us by Excedrin:
Voiceover for Excedrin, CVS, and CBS, in an awesome display of cross-marketing; lots of noise and neon, for…wait for it…I’m guessing something IPod-related…kaching; willowy chicks and a bad 80s cover, for Kohls; various largish women, getting progressively thinner as the commercial continues, for Crystal Light; a bodybuilder with a squeaky voice, for Citi’s identity theft thing; sizzling food, for Stouffer’s; and CBS, for CSI: Crockett and Tubbs, and for Jeff Probst’s Race War 2006.
And we’re back, with the BQs looking desperately for both English speakers and the right restaurant. Meanwhile, back in the taxis, the Daters and the Islamofascists are annoying, Apu and Marjula are frightened, and Gaywin and Gayerwin are snide.
Several teams mill about the gates of the Forbidden City; Gimp ‘n Perv get there first, followed by Bad Daddy and L-Girl, then Kar/Lyn. All get departure times of 7 AM; so do BNAAGFDAM. The Cheerleaders and the Flamers show up to grab 7:15 departures; the Cheerleaders rub up against the Flamers. Literally. Ew. The Hillbillies likewise get a 7:15 time.
The BQs get out of the restaurant, followed by the Daters. Apu chokes down a plateful of eyes, as the Islamofacists start to crumble. Gaywin and Gayerwin fail to arrive at the restaurant until after everyone else is gone.
The remaining teams grab 7:30 departures, except there’s one tag that says “Last Team.” Apu and Manjula have trouble finding the Forbidden Fucking City. This is fucking ridiculous. It’s the south fucking side of Tiananmen Square, which is like the center of the fucking city. You can find it blindfolded, even if you’re stupid. I did (I was stupid and soaked like a drowning rat, although not, per se, blindfolded).
Gaywin and Gayerwin grab the next-to-last departure ticket, just after Apu and Manjula, and just before the Islamofascists. Uh-oh. There’s a mat. Here comes Dixie Melons. Pa-DOW!!! You fucking Brownie-fan bitches are eliminated! One of the Islamofascists tries to argue. The other turns it into a religious diatribe. Go back to the Dawg Pound, annoying persons.
The mood of all the other teams—assembled for the express purpose of watching this humiliation—crumbles as they suddenly realize that they survive at the pleasure of Jerry Bruckheimer and Dixie Melons. You’d think that they’d be smart enough to have recognized that when they…I dunno…READ THE RULES? But no. They’re crushed, and we’re off to:
Commercials:
Meat, bread, and other foodstuffs, for Wendy’s; a voice on the phone, for Dell, which is pretty tragic, considering that the Dell laptop on which I have composed for you so many very nearly witty and almost funny summaries has recently developed some horrible aversion to being touched in the USB ports, yielding a series of BSOD errors and a lot of time on the phone with Dell Support, leaving me to compose this on the lighter but slower and creepier laptop I bought to take with me to…Beijing! And which is now the computer that Ilse is allowed to use…yeah, I’m funny; Gorillas, or quite possibly persons in gorilla suits, for Jeep; svelte people, for a laxative, again; the stupid guy wedged in a file cabinet, again, for Sprint, again; CBS, for some show involving Ray Liotta, and for the dumbass Mandy Patinkin show, and for CSI: Sipewicz, and for Dave; talking fruits (no, really) for My Local Grocery UberMegalopoly; pseudoscience, for Subway; and My Local News, for itself.
And we’re back, with everyone pretending to be disappointed that the scary-looking Muslims have been Dixied. “They looked like cool guys,” someone says. “I’m glad we won’t have to go through airport security with them again,” no one says.
So it’s the next morning, and we’ll be leaving the Forbidden City, which forms the south side of Tiananmen Square, apparently in the sidecars of motorbikes, where they have to go on some madcap dash to some place with pedicabs. Or pedicures. I dunno, I can’t be bothered. This shit is really tiresome.
Gimp gets upset because her fake leg is leaking hydraulic fluid. Perv can’t fix it. Kar/Lyn do some chest-puffing, claiming that other teams are disappointed that they did well, and blaming it on The Man.
Dear TV Producers,
Would it be too much fucking trouble for you to stop perpetuating every nasty racial, cultural, and ethnic stereotype in the book?
Yeah, I know, what the fuck am I thinking? Never mind.
Peace Out,
Landru
BNAAGFDAM are first to leave for real, after telling us how cool they are because they’re former drug addicts. Bad Daddy and L-Girl are next, and the dash down the Avenue of Heavenly Peace begins.
Oh, look. Pedicabs tastefully decked out in red and yellow. We must be somewhere. Where we are is at a Detour (brak brak brak choice between two tasks, one prostitutional and the other communistic brak brak brak). The choice is between laying paving bricks in a specific pattern, or doing some stupid Chinese dance steps. Wow, shades of German knee-slap dancing. Either way, we gotta ride a pedicab to get there.
There’s more whinging. The Daters are profoundly serious. Apu and Manjula are trepidatious. Gaywin and Gayerwin are assholes.
It appears that everyone is doing the bricklaying thing.
Gimp ‘n Perv start laying the bricks, as do Kar/Lyn. BNAAGFDAM are the first to correctly suss out the incredibly simple pattern that is necessary for continued cluefulness. The Cheerleaders and the Flamers become the first teams to go after the dancing task. Apu and Manjula get lost. Badly lost. We’d better go to:
Commercials:
an ordinary guy, for Sears; a trailer, for a movie that includes Leo Decaprio, Matt Damon (Matt Damon!), Marky Mark, and Jack Freakin’ Nicholson, and how could a thing be any more studded with starstuds?; a woman on a sinking ship, combined with a Greek god motif, for Excedrin; I don’t care, for some air freshener product; shrimp, for Red Lobster; happy rigid people, for Botox; and CBS, for CSI: Top Gun, and for the dumbass show with the President from 24, and for CSI: Original Recipe.
And we’re back. Apu and Manjula finally get unlost, and decide to lay some brick. Gimp ‘n Perv do a little better. BNAAGFDAM finish the bricklaying first, and have to take a taxi to the Great Wall, which they must scale like Mongoreans, except using ropes, to get to the pit stop, where some poor sumbitches will be DixieMeloned. Gimp ‘n Perv finish bricklaying and hit the road. Kar/Lyn, who are way the fuck behind, use some undoubtedly unimportant time to bitch some more about Gimp ‘n Perv.
Hateful.
Bitches.
We can look forward to a time when these two no-account, tude-poisoned hobags bitch themselves right out of the race. I hope.
And remember, I don’t even like Gimp ‘n Perv; she’s trading on a disability, and he’s both trading on her disability and indulging his sicko fetish.
The BQs pass BNAAGFDAM in the street and spend some time talking about how cute they are. Bad Daddy and L-Girl finish. Gimp ‘n Perv lie to get a taxi cab ahead of some other people. BNAAGFDAM have trouble finding a taxi, which is not surprising, since the ride is like an hour or an hour and a half. BNAAGFDAM are disgusted.
There’s more bricklaying. Kar/Lyn finally finish up, and lend encouragement to any team that doesn’t include an amputee. The BQs finish next. The Daters are squabbling bitterly, until they finally figure out the secret of the brick border.
The Flamers and the Cheerleaders head for their dancing activity and start to practice. The locals are appalled.
Gaywin and Gayerwin try to steal bricks from the hillbillies. Sadly, violence does not ensue.
The Cheerleaders start to show off.
Gimp ‘n Perv are busy nattering about their great love as Bad Daddy and L-Girl blow by them. Gimp starts to gasp climbing up the stairs. No one has figured out the ropes yet. Gimp ‘n Perv blow by the ropes as Perv tells Gimp how great she is.
BNAAGFDAM hit the ropes first, bragging all the way. Bad Daddy has trouble climbing. Gimp has serious trouble, as you might expect from a person with one leg. And on we climb. It’s pretty fucking dull, except for the part where Gimp is crying about not being able to do this, even with the incredibly superior upper-body strength she was bragging about not five minutes ago, in show time. Perhaps we ought to go to:
Commercials:
people drinking tea, for some weird Lipton product; various people working, for TIAA-CREF; that damn guy on the file cabinet, again, for Sprint, again; a shoplifting runner, for MasterCard; models I wouldn’t hit with Gothmog’s pecker, for Victoria’s Secret; CBS, for a bunch of shit that isn’t really funny; a fake farmer, for Bob Evans restaurants; a car, for itself; talking fruits, for My Local Grocery Megalopoly, again; children dressed all sporty and rad or something, for some vehicle; and My Local News, for itself, again.
And we’re back, with Gimp melting down almost totally. BNAAGFDAM spit on her panting, panicking corpse as she hauls it up the ropes, and get in first. They win $20,000. They brag on themselves.
Doods. You’re fucking drug addicts.
L-Girl bursts into tears as Bad Daddy grunts and pants to the top of the rope. L-Girl beats the Perv to the top, and Bad Daddy and L-Girl come in second. She’s still weeping, mostly because her dad is such a fucking asshole. Gimp ‘n Perv come in third.
Meanwhile, back at the bricks, the Hillbillies are bickering, hugely, but finally finish. It oughta be cute seeing her haul her fat hillbilly ass up a rope, hmm? The Daters finally finish.
Kar/Lyn, being fat fucking welfare mothers who do nothing but bitch, are eying the ropes with some trepidation. They’re whining, a lot, forgetting that a woman with one leg just got up ahead of them.
The BQs come in fourth, as the Flamers, then the Cheerleaders, finish dancing.
Gaywin and Gayerwin finish laying brick, leaving Apu and Manjula still working. They rescue the Daters from a potential lost-ness experience, laying a claim to good karma.
There’s a lot of moaning and bickering at the wall, as Apu and Manjula finally finish bricklaying. Hillbillies are bickering, Kar/Lyn are bitching, Flamers are flaming, and we’re in:
Commercials, brought to us by Sprint:
that fucking scrunched-up asshole, again, for Sprint, again, and I’m really sick of this; a sleepy guy, running into Abe Lincoln and a badger and wait a minute, wasn’t this TJ’s fucking nightmare a few nights ago?; the freakshow Andie McDowell, for L’Oreal; Buggy, for Arm and Hammer; meats, breads, and other foodstuffs, again, for Wendy’s, again; CBS, for CSI: Crockett and Tubbs, again; a car, for itself, again; people staining a carpet, inexplicably, for the Maryland Lottery; some woman and Peter Graves, for Geico; and My Local News, for itself, again.
And we’re back, but things are no less boring/annoying. There’s still bitching and whining, and twisting, and general doom and gloom. This is really not entertainment.
The Daters actually come in fifth, followed by the Cheerleaders. Meanwhile, Apu and Manjula are lost. Very lost. They appear to be going to the wrong place on the wall. Gaywin and Gayerwin come in seventh, followed by the flamers. Mrs. Hillbilly is stuck on the wall, but then again so are the Bitches. Kar/Lyn gets there first, and Kar/Lyn come in ninth. They are feeling very accomplished. Kinda like climbing that rope with one leg, huh?
The Hillbillies toddle in tenth. They are surprised not to be last. Apu and Manjula are the last to arrive, after the sadistic fucks who make this show force them to climb the fucking ropes, even though everyone else is already done. They go out sweetly and nicely, and there are, truly very nice young people. I’m almost sorry that I so cruelly named them Apu and Manjula.
Next Week: The Daters bicker in some agricultural nightmare. Horses drag teams to their very deaths. Gimp ‘n Perv are not eliminated, since we’re viewing footage of them having trouble with horses that don’t speak English.
Thanks for visiting the site, and don’t forget to visit our sister site, Survive This! where staffers other than me will be chronicling the ruination of Western civilization, as interpreted by Mark Burnett. ¶ 10:52 PM 10 Comments
Amputee Corner by Landru
So here’s the thing: reality has lost its hold on me. No, no, not reality television. Reality itself. There used to be this world where I had a quiet life in a small cave in the deep suburbs, a life untrammeled by human contact, except maybe when Ilse would drop by to use me for her pleasure, or some unsuspecting college student selling magazine subscriptions would drop by to help restock my freezer. Since the last television season, that reality has completely evaporated, replaced by some hallucination in which I live in a large house in the not-quite-as-deep suburbs that is populated by not only Ilse, but some…I don’t know…small creatures? That she apparently created? And a cat. A really smelly, obnoxious, stupid cat.
Since this can only be a hallucination, I have determined that nothing that my apparently fevered brain is ascribing to what it thinks is my television set can possibly be real. For instance, my apparently fevered brain invented some fantastickal story about Survivor openly centering itself on race and ethnicity, pitting various ethnic slurs against each other for ratings. I figure I must be a pretty sick fuck, eh?
So I’m just going to write about this here hallucination that I think is The Amazing Race. Because I’m just egocentric enough to believe that you give a flying fuck about my hallucinations.
In this hallucination, Phil Keoghan is in Seattle, opening up a season of the show. I can tell it’s Phil because…well, you know how I can tell it’s Phil. Because this is a hallucination, Phil’s incredibly huge hooters have swollen to somewhere in the range of 44FFF, straining through the bra he’s wearing under the same fucking wardrobe he’s been wearing for 10 seasons now. His porn star name is Dixie Melons.
Brak brak brak race, brak brak brak teams of blacks, whites, Hispanics, Asians, brak brak brak sole survivor.
No, no, that’s not it. Sorry. Damn fever.
Brak brak brak race, brak brak brak million dollars.
And seaplanes. The teams are coming in on seaplanes, and now we’re going to meet them. The teams, not the seaplanes. Well, we’re meeting the seaplanes, too, but they’re not going to hang around this bad dream for quite nearly as long as the teams. Let’s meet my nightmare, shall we?
Peter and Sarah are easily the most frightening TAR team since Dolf and Thirdreichen. They are both scary blonde. Peter is an amputee fetishist. Sarah is an amputee. She alleges that she was born with one leg shorter than the other, but this makes very little sense, because her left leg is bionic. Peter and Sarah are triathletes, and they clearly believe that their triathleticism will propel them to victory. She loves him because he can fix her prosthetic leg. He loves her because he’s a sick freakazoid and hasn’t been this happy since he found a stash of old Hustler magazines with the “Amputee Corner” feature.
This has to be a hallucination, right? I mean, CBS couldn’t possibly be making this shit up. It’s gotta be another fucking malaria relapse. Right? Right?
Bilal and Sa’eed were born Desmond and Lamont, but subsequently converted to Islam, and are best friends and Cleveland Browns fans. They vow that their religion will take priority over the race, and that they will not hesitate to take five minutes to pray. For my part, I will not go all Michelle Malkin on these guys, and will instead focus on their much more obvious weakness. They’re fucking Browns fans? No one dumb enough to be a Browns fan could ever win this game. Actually, I’ll do a reverse and get Michelle to go all Michelle Malkin on me: there’s no way in hell these guys could possibly be more annoying in their religiosity than the Weavers. Especially since we’re not going to have to deal with them for very long.
I hear they no longer use quinine-based treatments for malaria, rendering ineffective my gin-and-tonic curative. This is clearly a plot by Big Pharma.
Rob and Kimberly are yet another pair of morons using the game as a vehicle for determining whether they should get married. He’s an arrogant piece of shite; she’s a bitch who claims to want him to lead, but she plans to top him from the bottom. She is strikingly identical to every other supposedly beautiful brunette who’s ever been on a reality show, except phonier-looking. It is painfully obvious that neither of them should, under any circumstances, be allowed to reproduce, ever. It is possible that it will be pleasurable to watch them explode on national television.
Maybe it’s not a malarial relapse; maybe I’m just a little sleep-deprived. This is starting to look more normal, hmm?
Dustin and Kandice have in common their excruciating blondeness, their hobby of blowing beauty pageant judges (one of them was Miss New York, the other Miss California), and parents who can’t spell. They used to be bitter, hair-pulling, tit-slapping rivals. Now they’re lovers. Can’t two kids get a break in this crazy, crazy world?
David and Mary are fat, pasty, white middle Americans who met when Mary dunked David’s left hand in the fryer at the McDonald’s where they both worked. He is a former soldier and a coal miner. She is just pasty, and is on the Race in the hope that David won’t beat her quite as much. They are Kentucky fans, and must therefore die. They are also hillbillies, of which America needs some to sustain its insatiable appetite for Springer guests.
Erwin and Godwin are gay Asian brothers, the sons of inexcusably whimsical parents, and highly competitive overachievers who may not be able to stop tormenting each other long enough to use their overwhelming intellectual superiority to crush their opposition. Or not, as we shall see.
Duke and Lauren are daddy and daughter, with every little bit of the associated psychosis you’d expect, and then some. It is rare for someone to stand out so clearly as an asshole after only a few words on national television as does Duke, who is crushed by the fact that his daughter is…gasp! A LESBIAN! He bursts into tears as he tells us that he’s just a little disappointed in his daughter’s proclivities. Lauren, who seems to be a perfectly normal human being in every respect, including her sexual preference, manages not to garrote this asshole to the choking death he clearly deserves in their opening interview.
Vipal and Arti are the first openly Indian-American couple to compete on TAR. From their CBS bios, it is clear that he is stereotypically assholic, and she is stereotypically passive. They are in this for a free trip. That’s a shame, because they ain’t trippin’ much after tonight’s episode.
Kellie and Jamie are the mandatory token Southron cheerleaders. One claims they’d both “have a conversation with a doorknob.” We’ll just not bother to tell them that they’ve been punk’d by a fraternity yet again—that wasn’t conversation, and it wasn’t a doorknob, if’n you know what I mean.
Tyler and James are “recovering drug addicts and models from Southern California.”
Sigh. I have to watch this shit through to the end, y’know. Kill me now.
Lyn and Karlyn are friends and single mothers from Alabama. They are the token black folk, since Islamofascists don’t count. They will be brutally sacrificed on the altar of intelligence somewhere in some godforsaken wasteland elsewhere in the world, probably by smart people Gaywin and Gayerwin (Note: I’m not generally homophobic. I am, however, extremely phobic about smart Asian homos. Those people are so going to make us all their bitches.). Lyn and Karlyn look a lot alike, except one of them is driving a kar.
Sorry. Sometimes the spirit moves me, and sometimes it just shits me out.
Tom and Terry are the token flamboyant open homosexuals. They are not nearly as interesting as other flamboyant open homosexuals we have experienced on this and other shows. Their show bio describes them as “fun and feisty,” which is pretty much a dead giveaway that they’re soulless twits. They are shown getting manicures and being bitchy about the other teams (which they had, of course, not yet met when they were interviewed).
Really. I don’t hate them because they’re gay. I hate them because they’re flaming.
Brak brak brak Who will win? Can we roll credits? No, we cannot, because it’s time for Dixie Melons to arch his eyebrows and lecture the victims. Brak brak brak My father’s race has many legs, with eight elimination pit stops.
Whoa. Eight eliminations for twelve teams? I can math up. There’s a double elimination somewhere. Now, while I have not yet seen this episode, which I am watching on tape because far more important things were happening when the episode actually aired, I am willing, based on an accidental visit to the front page of the show’s Web site, to venture that the double-headed Smoot is going to come tonight. I’m even willing to venture that all of those eliminated will be brown people of one shade or another.
Science. It’s a good thing.
Anyway, brak brak brak if you’re last, you’re shat out like yesterday’s beans. Brak brak brak there will be surprises. Brak brak brak arch Dixie’s eyebrow. Again. Brak brak brak read a clue, steal a car, and get the fuck outta tit-slappin’ range of these 44FFFs. Brak brak brak don’t take any wooden nickels, don’t talk to men in furry hats in bus stations, don’t push the red button that says “Don’t Push This Button,” and hurry up and get this over with so we can go do more useful things than watching this show, like nosepicking, bumwiping, and constant masturbation.
We become clueful. We are flying to Beijing on one of two flights, one United and the other Korean. This will mark, as near as I can tell, the first time we’ve pseudocircumnavigated the globe in a generally westerly direction.
You have no idea how lucky you are that I am writing this here summary. As it happens, I myself flew to Beijing this very year. And stayed there. Which will allow me all sorts of snide commentary, some of it entirely truthful, about the place they’re going in this here episode. Aren’t you lucky?
Wait a minute. I can’t hear you. Aren’t you lucky?
That’s better. Maggots.
The Islamofascists tell us that Allah is great. Wow, that was unpredictable. Gaywin and Gayerwin know their way around Seattle. Either the Cheerleaders or the Beauty Queens—it’s hard to tell them apart at this stage--can’t figure out how to work a vehicle. The Flamers are pumped. Fuck it, roll credits.
Credits duly rolled, we work our way through Seattle, where it is raining. Wow, that’s unpredictable. By the way, Seattle’s a shithole.
It develops that it’s the beauty queens who can’t work a vehicle, but it’s no big deal, because Loretta Lynn’s Daddy cain’t, either. “Uh doan’ knuh hah t’ git ‘er ‘n geer,” he grunts. Way to go, CBS. Yet another fine job of presenting us with Southrons who don’t know toilet tissue from wrapping paper.
Duke and Lauren can’t work a car, either. The BQ’s solve their problem by switching drivers; Loretta Lynn’s Daddy solves his problem by mouthing around his chaw. Lauren applies sophisticated lesbian technology to the matter and gets Duke into gear. There is whining.
Followed by the mandatory direction-getting, in this instance by the Buff Not At All Gay Former Drug Addict Models (BNAAGFDAM, for simplicity). They want to know how to get to the airport.
So there’s a reason I’m not too awful at writing these here TAR summary things, which reason being that I been a few places. Not so much on that whole world level, although as I noted, it is true that I have, in the recent past, been to this Beijing place that we’re off to now. But I have been to and navigated about many of the American places that these alleged racers frequent, and Seattle is one of them. In fact, I know enough about Seattle to say with unswerving conviction that it is a shithole. You may disagree, particularly if you live there, and that’s fine. So it ain’t a shithole for you. Fair nuff. But you’re not writing, and I am. It’s a shithole, a low-grade industrial port city that is rarely anything other than dank. The dank is leavened, for me, by some coffee shops, a few okay bars, some nice places to eat, and a crapload of close friends who I love to visit. But it’s a shithole.
In addition to being a shithole, Seattle is a remarkably simple city. It’s long and thin, and I-5 runs right through it and dumps you pretty much inexorably at the airport. It is unforgiveably stupid to have to ask for airport directions in Seattle. You do not have to be the Prince of Fucking Geography to find Sea-Tac. You might could get a little confused by Boeing Field, which is right by the highway on the way to Sea-Tac, but that confusion should be cleared up by the giant “Boeing Field” sign that faces the highway. Which, by the way, runs through pretty much the shittiest part of the shithole that is Seattle.
Anyway, the teams make their way to I-5, which is pretty much impossible to miss; their way to the highway is marred and frustrated by…uhm, mostly their complete inability to fucking read.
There is a designed-to-be-touching mandatory confessional from the amputee and her pervert boyfriend. Fuck ‘em. Brak brak brak. There’s also a quick cameo with Apu and Manjula, and I’m sure they’re very sweet and touching. Ilse thinks Manjula is hot. I’d hit it, but she’s no Kelly Goldsmith.
Loretta Lynn’s Daddy and his wife are having awful trouble articulating the fact that they ain’t never been outside a the holler. Other teams are trying to follow various other teams, an enterprise compounded by the fact that most of the teams are, in fact, fuck-all stupid. The hillbillies ask for directions, and are told to take the worst possible route, one that is traffic-choked and goes through a particularly gruesomely shitty, whore-and-pancake-house-laden part of town, rather than the highway, which may well be traffic-choked—surely more so than down the holler—but is, at least, a limited-access highway unburdened with dirty pirate hookers who can give you a dose at 300 yards.
And so it is—traffic-choked, that is—because there’s been an accident. The amputee and the perv artfully slide around on side streets. The hillbillies are fortunate, at least for now, to have avoided the interstate. Mrs. Hillbilly tells us (as near as I can tell) that LLD makes all the decisions, but that ain’t goan be t’ case here, if’n they want t’ win this here race-thing.
The Gimp and The Perv are the first into the airport, followed by the Hillbillies. The Islamofascists pray in traffic—hmm, maybe I was wrong about that whole Weavers thing.
Dixie Melons tells us that six teams can fly on each plane, and that the second plane will arrive nearly a full hour after the first!
The Hillbillies meet the BQ’s on the airport parking lot bus. They’re duly impressed; Mrs. Hillbilly just about pees her union suit.
There is much noise. The Daters prove, once again, that TAR is a really crappy venue for deciding your suitability for marriage. The Islamofascists fuck up. Duke rants as L-Girl sulks in the back seat, cursing the father that abused her into switching teams. The Daters continue to bicker and threaten. Wow, are they gonna esplode. There is universal weeping and gnashing of teeth as we head into:
Commercials:
an idiotic commercial, for AOL; a guy wedged on top of a filing cabinet, for Sprint; a flying tablecloth and a very bad rendition of Magic Carpet Ride, the best movie song in history, for Wendy’s; designer crap, for Pier 1, which is better than Kirstie Alley for Pier 1; sexy models, for a laxative; and CBS, for a bad new Mark Burnett/AOL joint venture, and for Dave, and for Survivor: Hatin’ On Yo Peoples.
Commercials just ain’t what they used to be.
We’re back, with the line in the airport parking garage, and then with people heading into the airport. Other teams are met, greetings are exchanged. Snide commentary must, by law, ensue.
Long story short: Gimp ‘n Perv, the BQs, the Hillbillies, BNAAGFDAM, Bad Daddy and L-Girl, and Lyn and Kar-Lyn make it onto the United flight. Apu and Manjula are turned away and sent scurrying to KAL.
Over at KAL, one of the Islamofascists refuses to shake hands with one of the cheerleaders “because of my religion,” and permanently loses any interest I had in being nice to him. I say to you, Sir, Fuck Your Religion. Assimilate your religion more or less into the dominant cultural paradigm, if that’s not too disruptive, or do not whine to me about how you are persecuted. For the record:
Shaking Hands With Women: Not disruptive.
Eating Pork: Plenty disruptive.
We clear? Y’all are way over into Weaverville.
On the KAL flight: The Flamers, the Cheerleaders, Gaywin and Gayerwin, the Daters, the Islamofascists, and Apu and Manjula.
Gaywin and Gayerwin are busted for carrying loaded squirt guns. I’m not fucking kidding. So much for their superior fucking intellect.
Boarding for the United flight introduces us to this crew’s capacity for being complete fucksticks: they all simper and whine as Gimp ‘n Perv preboard, by virtue of her amputational superiority. Guess what, morons? It doesn’t matter in what order you board the airplane. It matters in what order you deplane. Perv, however, gloats about how much use he and his little amputee honey expect to get out of the crip card.
Planes take off. The Islamofascists ostentatiously pray in the gate lounge. Incredibly, this does not appear to delay the flight.
So, Beijing. Remember that whole “shithole” thing? Beijing is partially it. It is, of course, wondrously alien and teeming with life and, in parts, beautiful and strange. It is also dry, dusty, teeming with life and germs, heavily polluted, choked with traffic, and ruled by persons who do not find it odd that they are carrying automatic weaponry in their pursuit of enforcing jaywalking laws.
The United flight is, of course, delayed. There is more bitching about Gimpgirl; “She can run the Ironman but she can’t stand in line?” simpers either Lyn or Kar-Lyn. Bad Daddy and L-Girl make it to a taxi first.
We’re going to a restaurant called the Gold House. Gimp ‘n Perv, Kar/Lyn, the Hillbillies, the BQs, and BNAAGFDAM trail behind. The Hillbillies gulp and choke around some language reflecting their relative lack of travel experience. “We ain’t done been outside Kintuhkee oar Tinnuhsee,” gulps one of them. There is much pidgining at the Beijing taxi drivers who, I must credit, are a surly and undecipherable lot.
Kar/Lyn continue to snipe at Gimp ‘n Perv. This should be way cool. They’re really graceless bitches, these two are.
The second flight apparently arrives, because the Flamers and Cheerleaders pile into cabs, the Cheerleaders offering up some Gamecock cheer for their driver. The Daters assert that they aren’t tired (bullshit—Beijing is the exact fucking opposite of North America, time-zone-wise, and after 14 hours in business class, you’re utterly destroyed—it’s fucking impossible that you’d jump off the plane perky after flying in cattle). The Islmaofascists grab a cab, followed by Apu and Manjula, with Gaywin and Gayerwin bringing up the rear, as befits idiots who think it’s okay to brandish fucking squirt guns in a fucking airport.
Bad Daddy and L-Girl arrive at the Gold House, which is, as near I can tell, around the block from the hotel where I stayed in Beijing. It’s already time for a Roadblock brak brak brak only one person (brak brak brak), and we’re gonna jump right into the Bad Food motif, the bad food in this case being fish eyes, a ritual I was, thankfully, not called upon to perform during my stay in China (I was pretty lucky at the formal banquets I attended).
So what they gotta do is actually pluck the eyes out of a bowl of fish heads. And eat them. Yum!
Bad Daddy undertakes the task, and either Kar or Lyn interrupts her bitter bitching about Gimpgirl long enough to do the thing what must be done. Well, almost. She’s distracted by Gimp ‘n Perv’s arrival, but still finishes first, just barely averting a puking. Insert inappropriate cultural food joke here.
Bad Daddy and L-Girl are close behind, and continue the bad-mouth tradition, referring to Kar/Lyn simply as “Alabama.” Owie.
So we’re going to the Forbidden City, which is neither forbidden nor a city. Discuss amongst yourselves.
Once there, we’ll be picking a departure time, and encountering, Dixie promises us, a big surprise. Other than his 44FFFs.
Gimp ‘n Perv hurry to choke down the remaining fish eyes and catch up. The BQs arrive at the wrong place. Meanwhile, Mrs. Hillbilly tries to pick through the fish eyes, as LLD harangues her. BNAAGFDAM are close behind. Mrs. Hillbilly asks a taxi driver if he knows where the Forbidden City is; he doesn’t. He’s lying. It’s like, only the most spectacularly requested tourist destination in the whole fucking city. He just doesn’t want to haul hillbillies. BNAAGFDAM escape a few minutes ahead of them. Horrors!
The Flamers arrive as the Cheerleaders are consuming fish eyes. Oddly, neither team has trouble consuming grotesque, slimy things. The BQs are still hopelessly lost; they are in the wrong neighborhood, and stunningly, no one has ever heard of this one restaurant in Beijing. I wouldn’t have, either, if I were a local and I thought that this would induce two statuesque Western blondes to eat in my joint.
But it shall all remain unsolved, because we’re off to:
Commercials, brought to us by Excedrin:
Voiceover for Excedrin, CVS, and CBS, in an awesome display of cross-marketing; lots of noise and neon, for…wait for it…I’m guessing something IPod-related…kaching; willowy chicks and a bad 80s cover, for Kohls; various largish women, getting progressively thinner as the commercial continues, for Crystal Light; a bodybuilder with a squeaky voice, for Citi’s identity theft thing; sizzling food, for Stouffer’s; and CBS, for CSI: Crockett and Tubbs, and for Jeff Probst’s Race War 2006.
And we’re back, with the BQs looking desperately for both English speakers and the right restaurant. Meanwhile, back in the taxis, the Daters and the Islamofascists are annoying, Apu and Marjula are frightened, and Gaywin and Gayerwin are snide.
Several teams mill about the gates of the Forbidden City; Gimp ‘n Perv get there first, followed by Bad Daddy and L-Girl, then Kar/Lyn. All get departure times of 7 AM; so do BNAAGFDAM. The Cheerleaders and the Flamers show up to grab 7:15 departures; the Cheerleaders rub up against the Flamers. Literally. Ew. The Hillbillies likewise get a 7:15 time.
The BQs get out of the restaurant, followed by the Daters. Apu chokes down a plateful of eyes, as the Islamofacists start to crumble. Gaywin and Gayerwin fail to arrive at the restaurant until after everyone else is gone.
The remaining teams grab 7:30 departures, except there’s one tag that says “Last Team.” Apu and Manjula have trouble finding the Forbidden Fucking City. This is fucking ridiculous. It’s the south fucking side of Tiananmen Square, which is like the center of the fucking city. You can find it blindfolded, even if you’re stupid. I did (I was stupid and soaked like a drowning rat, although not, per se, blindfolded).
Gaywin and Gayerwin grab the next-to-last departure ticket, just after Apu and Manjula, and just before the Islamofascists. Uh-oh. There’s a mat. Here comes Dixie Melons. Pa-DOW!!! You fucking Brownie-fan bitches are eliminated! One of the Islamofascists tries to argue. The other turns it into a religious diatribe. Go back to the Dawg Pound, annoying persons.
The mood of all the other teams—assembled for the express purpose of watching this humiliation—crumbles as they suddenly realize that they survive at the pleasure of Jerry Bruckheimer and Dixie Melons. You’d think that they’d be smart enough to have recognized that when they…I dunno…READ THE RULES? But no. They’re crushed, and we’re off to:
Commercials:
Meat, bread, and other foodstuffs, for Wendy’s; a voice on the phone, for Dell, which is pretty tragic, considering that the Dell laptop on which I have composed for you so many very nearly witty and almost funny summaries has recently developed some horrible aversion to being touched in the USB ports, yielding a series of BSOD errors and a lot of time on the phone with Dell Support, leaving me to compose this on the lighter but slower and creepier laptop I bought to take with me to…Beijing! And which is now the computer that Ilse is allowed to use…yeah, I’m funny; Gorillas, or quite possibly persons in gorilla suits, for Jeep; svelte people, for a laxative, again; the stupid guy wedged in a file cabinet, again, for Sprint, again; CBS, for some show involving Ray Liotta, and for the dumbass Mandy Patinkin show, and for CSI: Sipewicz, and for Dave; talking fruits (no, really) for My Local Grocery UberMegalopoly; pseudoscience, for Subway; and My Local News, for itself.
And we’re back, with everyone pretending to be disappointed that the scary-looking Muslims have been Dixied. “They looked like cool guys,” someone says. “I’m glad we won’t have to go through airport security with them again,” no one says.
So it’s the next morning, and we’ll be leaving the Forbidden City, which forms the south side of Tiananmen Square, apparently in the sidecars of motorbikes, where they have to go on some madcap dash to some place with pedicabs. Or pedicures. I dunno, I can’t be bothered. This shit is really tiresome.
Gimp gets upset because her fake leg is leaking hydraulic fluid. Perv can’t fix it. Kar/Lyn do some chest-puffing, claiming that other teams are disappointed that they did well, and blaming it on The Man.
Dear TV Producers,
Would it be too much fucking trouble for you to stop perpetuating every nasty racial, cultural, and ethnic stereotype in the book?
Yeah, I know, what the fuck am I thinking? Never mind.
Peace Out,
Landru
BNAAGFDAM are first to leave for real, after telling us how cool they are because they’re former drug addicts. Bad Daddy and L-Girl are next, and the dash down the Avenue of Heavenly Peace begins.
Oh, look. Pedicabs tastefully decked out in red and yellow. We must be somewhere. Where we are is at a Detour (brak brak brak choice between two tasks, one prostitutional and the other communistic brak brak brak). The choice is between laying paving bricks in a specific pattern, or doing some stupid Chinese dance steps. Wow, shades of German knee-slap dancing. Either way, we gotta ride a pedicab to get there.
There’s more whinging. The Daters are profoundly serious. Apu and Manjula are trepidatious. Gaywin and Gayerwin are assholes.
It appears that everyone is doing the bricklaying thing.
Gimp ‘n Perv start laying the bricks, as do Kar/Lyn. BNAAGFDAM are the first to correctly suss out the incredibly simple pattern that is necessary for continued cluefulness. The Cheerleaders and the Flamers become the first teams to go after the dancing task. Apu and Manjula get lost. Badly lost. We’d better go to:
Commercials:
an ordinary guy, for Sears; a trailer, for a movie that includes Leo Decaprio, Matt Damon (Matt Damon!), Marky Mark, and Jack Freakin’ Nicholson, and how could a thing be any more studded with starstuds?; a woman on a sinking ship, combined with a Greek god motif, for Excedrin; I don’t care, for some air freshener product; shrimp, for Red Lobster; happy rigid people, for Botox; and CBS, for CSI: Top Gun, and for the dumbass show with the President from 24, and for CSI: Original Recipe.
And we’re back. Apu and Manjula finally get unlost, and decide to lay some brick. Gimp ‘n Perv do a little better. BNAAGFDAM finish the bricklaying first, and have to take a taxi to the Great Wall, which they must scale like Mongoreans, except using ropes, to get to the pit stop, where some poor sumbitches will be DixieMeloned. Gimp ‘n Perv finish bricklaying and hit the road. Kar/Lyn, who are way the fuck behind, use some undoubtedly unimportant time to bitch some more about Gimp ‘n Perv.
Hateful.
Bitches.
We can look forward to a time when these two no-account, tude-poisoned hobags bitch themselves right out of the race. I hope.
And remember, I don’t even like Gimp ‘n Perv; she’s trading on a disability, and he’s both trading on her disability and indulging his sicko fetish.
The BQs pass BNAAGFDAM in the street and spend some time talking about how cute they are. Bad Daddy and L-Girl finish. Gimp ‘n Perv lie to get a taxi cab ahead of some other people. BNAAGFDAM have trouble finding a taxi, which is not surprising, since the ride is like an hour or an hour and a half. BNAAGFDAM are disgusted.
There’s more bricklaying. Kar/Lyn finally finish up, and lend encouragement to any team that doesn’t include an amputee. The BQs finish next. The Daters are squabbling bitterly, until they finally figure out the secret of the brick border.
The Flamers and the Cheerleaders head for their dancing activity and start to practice. The locals are appalled.
Gaywin and Gayerwin try to steal bricks from the hillbillies. Sadly, violence does not ensue.
The Cheerleaders start to show off.
Gimp ‘n Perv are busy nattering about their great love as Bad Daddy and L-Girl blow by them. Gimp starts to gasp climbing up the stairs. No one has figured out the ropes yet. Gimp ‘n Perv blow by the ropes as Perv tells Gimp how great she is.
BNAAGFDAM hit the ropes first, bragging all the way. Bad Daddy has trouble climbing. Gimp has serious trouble, as you might expect from a person with one leg. And on we climb. It’s pretty fucking dull, except for the part where Gimp is crying about not being able to do this, even with the incredibly superior upper-body strength she was bragging about not five minutes ago, in show time. Perhaps we ought to go to:
Commercials:
people drinking tea, for some weird Lipton product; various people working, for TIAA-CREF; that damn guy on the file cabinet, again, for Sprint, again; a shoplifting runner, for MasterCard; models I wouldn’t hit with Gothmog’s pecker, for Victoria’s Secret; CBS, for a bunch of shit that isn’t really funny; a fake farmer, for Bob Evans restaurants; a car, for itself; talking fruits, for My Local Grocery Megalopoly, again; children dressed all sporty and rad or something, for some vehicle; and My Local News, for itself, again.
And we’re back, with Gimp melting down almost totally. BNAAGFDAM spit on her panting, panicking corpse as she hauls it up the ropes, and get in first. They win $20,000. They brag on themselves.
Doods. You’re fucking drug addicts.
L-Girl bursts into tears as Bad Daddy grunts and pants to the top of the rope. L-Girl beats the Perv to the top, and Bad Daddy and L-Girl come in second. She’s still weeping, mostly because her dad is such a fucking asshole. Gimp ‘n Perv come in third.
Meanwhile, back at the bricks, the Hillbillies are bickering, hugely, but finally finish. It oughta be cute seeing her haul her fat hillbilly ass up a rope, hmm? The Daters finally finish.
Kar/Lyn, being fat fucking welfare mothers who do nothing but bitch, are eying the ropes with some trepidation. They’re whining, a lot, forgetting that a woman with one leg just got up ahead of them.
The BQs come in fourth, as the Flamers, then the Cheerleaders, finish dancing.
Gaywin and Gayerwin finish laying brick, leaving Apu and Manjula still working. They rescue the Daters from a potential lost-ness experience, laying a claim to good karma.
There’s a lot of moaning and bickering at the wall, as Apu and Manjula finally finish bricklaying. Hillbillies are bickering, Kar/Lyn are bitching, Flamers are flaming, and we’re in:
Commercials, brought to us by Sprint:
that fucking scrunched-up asshole, again, for Sprint, again, and I’m really sick of this; a sleepy guy, running into Abe Lincoln and a badger and wait a minute, wasn’t this TJ’s fucking nightmare a few nights ago?; the freakshow Andie McDowell, for L’Oreal; Buggy, for Arm and Hammer; meats, breads, and other foodstuffs, again, for Wendy’s, again; CBS, for CSI: Crockett and Tubbs, again; a car, for itself, again; people staining a carpet, inexplicably, for the Maryland Lottery; some woman and Peter Graves, for Geico; and My Local News, for itself, again.
And we’re back, but things are no less boring/annoying. There’s still bitching and whining, and twisting, and general doom and gloom. This is really not entertainment.
The Daters actually come in fifth, followed by the Cheerleaders. Meanwhile, Apu and Manjula are lost. Very lost. They appear to be going to the wrong place on the wall. Gaywin and Gayerwin come in seventh, followed by the flamers. Mrs. Hillbilly is stuck on the wall, but then again so are the Bitches. Kar/Lyn gets there first, and Kar/Lyn come in ninth. They are feeling very accomplished. Kinda like climbing that rope with one leg, huh?
The Hillbillies toddle in tenth. They are surprised not to be last. Apu and Manjula are the last to arrive, after the sadistic fucks who make this show force them to climb the fucking ropes, even though everyone else is already done. They go out sweetly and nicely, and there are, truly very nice young people. I’m almost sorry that I so cruelly named them Apu and Manjula.
Next Week: The Daters bicker in some agricultural nightmare. Horses drag teams to their very deaths. Gimp ‘n Perv are not eliminated, since we’re viewing footage of them having trouble with horses that don’t speak English.
Thanks for visiting the site, and don’t forget to visit our sister site, Survive This! where staffers other than me will be chronicling the ruination of Western civilization, as interpreted by Mark Burnett. ¶ 10:52 PM 10 Comments
