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