LAST EDITED ON 08-10-04 AT 01:21 PM (EST)Official Survivorblows Summary
The Amazing Race 5, Episode 4
”I Promise Not To Caviar In Your Mouth”
Welcome to my summary of episode four of the show that airs on CBS on Tuesday nights at 10 PM Eastern. You refer to it as TAR. I tend to refer to it as The Not Particularly Amazing and, Come To Think of It, We’re Not Really Very Sure It’s Actually a Race, but I’ll stick with TAR because TNPACTTIWNRVSIAR is sort of unwieldy and doesn’t translate well from its native Sanskrit.
By the way: I’m phoning this in. I just got back from England. I’m sick as a dog—I will have this computer keyboard disinfected before I use it again, and in fact may have my self disinfected before I use me again. I had to put a beloved cat to sleep yesterday, before the show aired. I’m working two jobs, both of which are making demands that do not correlate with physics as we know them. No, really, I don’t make this stuff up. My life is a swirling nasty mess of stress and horror right now, although my sex life is super, thanks for asking.
I mean, not to go all Dr. Philophile on you, really, because you know me perfectly well and you know that I’m not about that sort of maudlin tripe around here. “Here” being OT, which is where I actually live. I just visit these Basher thingies from time to time.
But I have no idea why I watch this show, which causes me to visit this Basher thingie from time to time. I mean, it’s not like anything that Mark Burnett doesn’t produce doesn’t suck, right? As I have noted before, this here not-particularly-amazing thing is a Jerry Bruckheimer production. Yeah, Jerry Bruckheimer, the guy who made Cuba Gooding scream about money, the guy who made Johnny Depp a lisping syphilitic pirate, the guy who’s usually off blowing things up. So why isn’t he blowing up contestants on this show? Or turning Phil and his curvaceous manmaries into a lisping syphilitic pirate? I like that one, come to think on it, don’t you?
No I don't. That was a trap, you sick weirdo.
Actually, I do know why. It’s because I’m fascinated with blue taxis. But they don’t have those in London. They’re black, which doesn’t require me to put in font coding. Okay, I’m starting to ramble. Maybe this is a normal Landru summary after all.
So yeah, this summary? One ringy dingy, two ringy dingies, have you reached the party to whom you were trying to speak? Settle in. This summary’s gonna suck like a Jerry Bruckheimer production.
Previously on the show that airs on CBS on Tuesday nights at 10 PM Eastern: Patagonia. Mud. Short persons running in the night. Bickering at the airport, because this batch of contestants is a particularly pushy, obnoxious, rude bunch, even for TAR contestants. Mass stupidity. Our weekly dose of adventuresomeness, in the form of paragliding. Phil tearfully informs that old guy who’s still bleeding from the last episode of this crockery that I was in a position to watch, and his dumba$$ daughter, that they are the last team to arrive and that they are to be fed to gauchos, served rare with a raw egg broken over them, and that they suck almost as bad as the Argentine national futbol team, which just lost to Brazil’s B-team on penalty kicks after having been tied in stoppage time, setting off a wild celebration among the largely Brazilian population of a suburb embedded in my media market which, in case you’ve forgotten, is vastly superior to your media market, unless you’re one of my homies, who aren’t getting shoutouts because I’ve given those up for Lent, or you’re a certain Blowhevian named relative to a certain object that orbits the Earth, who also isn’t getting a shoutout because I’ve given those up for Lent. Although if I hadn’t, she’d certainly be getting one. Which she isn’t.
Oh, and Landru misses two consecutive episodes during his trip to London and comes in cold to write an EP4 summary after copping an upper respiratory infection and a recently deceased beloved pet. Not that he’s bitter about it or anything. No, for bitterness about writing TAR summaries, see my famous blue taxis summary, which was, as I recall, written the night that Kathy O’Brien peed on John the nurse’s hand on the beach in the Marquesas and someone else got to write the summary for it. I’m sure someone will look up a link for you. But here? No, no bitterness. Just the credits and some:
Red and blue cars, for Mazda; confusingly named people who appear to have a relationship in which one of them purchases things for the other, for WalMart; an irritated woman and an animated white-clad he-man, not that there’s anything wrong with that, for Mr. Clean; some model, for an Olay product that traps you in a reverse feedback time loop and causes you to become younger, until you were never born at all; Denzel, for Denzel’s latest flick which appears to really sorta suck, which will not keep Satan’s Little Helper from her usual state of being a heartbeat away from dumping me to go madly hump away on Denzel; people enjoying themselves immensely while on Adkins, for Friday’s; and CBS, including Rob Lowe and Joe Pantoliano for a bad new show, affirming CBS’ latest marketing policy of getting bigger and bigger stars to do suckier and suckier shows, and some shilling for contestants for the next rendition of TAR, which I don’t particularly understand because the casting for TAR appears to consist of building a base of two or three beautiful couples and then stacking the deck with freaks, geeks, and people who were reviled on other CBS reality shows.
And we’re back.
We’re at some pit stop in Patagonia, which is in Argentina which has, as I just mentioned, a particularly bad national futbol team at this particular time, not that they bother to tell you on TAR that Argentine futbol players whinge and cry and dive and wheedle for red cards and penalty kicks and generally carry handbags, which they lift comically as they cringe to avoid speeding futbols that might otherwise hit them in the testicles they don’t have.
Following about 30 seconds of exposition and another 15 seconds of headsplittingly bad foreshadowing, we get to our first team, Team Colin, which consists of Colin and some chick who seems to be following him around…oh, yeah, her name is uhm…Not Colin. They are annoying. Yes, this applies to every single one of these teams—I truly do not care who wins this iteration of this stupid show, and have not cared much about this show since the days of Uberreichen and Chippenfuhrer—but I’m in the habit of writing summaries for this show ever since I acquired my fascination with blue taxis, and I would be remiss if I did not point out that Team Colin is pretty danged annoying. Team Colin leads off the festivities, being, apparently, in first place, and they discover that we’re going from Argentina to St. Petersburg, Russia. This is a heinously long journey, even by TAR standards. I mean, we’re talking something like 14-15 hours on airplanes, with concomitant layovers, following what is apparently a 20-hour bus trip to the airport. We’re talking nontrivial hemispheric change, since we’re going from South America in summer to Russia, and quite near the bloody top of bloody Russia, in winter. It didn’t work for Napoleon or Hitler, what makes us think it’s going to work for these twerps? In short, CBS is paying one hell of a lot of money for a drastic change of scenery, which is, I gather, a good idea since the two episodes I missed appear to have consisted largely of trooping about the muddiest bits of Argentina, home of rare beef with raw eggs broken over it and mincing national-team futbol players. Not that I have, by the way, anything particular against Argentina (I certainly adore rare beef, as my right coronary artery will attest) other than its futbol team and that whole Falklands War thing.
About which (the Falklands War, not the futbol) I saw a great deal during my recent visit to the Imperial War Museum in the Lambeth section of London, near Waterloo Station, and my slightly more recent visit to the National Army Museum near the Royal Hospital in near southwest London. The British, it appears from these two highly enjoyable visits, will go anywhere and fight anybody over anything. And then they’ll create a couple of museum exhibits about it. But then they’ll boil your dinner, unless you go to one of London’s many fine restaurants that do not feature traditional English cooking. But I digress, and badly. For further information on what a great city London is and why you should go there and, probably, stop being such a damn American, feel free to contact me privately. It is even remotely possible that I will answer you.
Team Tattoo, which is super-maya-maya annoying, is next. One of them is, it seems, very short. The other is just stupid. It appears, because they whine about it at some length, that they are universally reviled. Some will try to pretend that it’s because the taller member of the team, who has a seriously nasal whine and will never enjoy the love of a man (or a woman, if that’s what she’d prefer) is obnoxious and annoying, or that she’s a lawyer, or that they’re the same thing, but it is quite obvious that they’re just prejudiced against less-tall humans. Obvious to me and the very short chick, anyway.
Team Stigmata consists of Brandon and Nicole, who want us to know, in a most relentless and unyielding fashion, that they are Christians. They also want us to know, in a relentless and unyielding fashion, that their religious values will not prevent them from being every bit as unscrupulous and unrepentant as--or, in some notable cases, egregiously more unscrupulous and unrepentant than--all of the other, non- or less-Christian contestants. At least they’re not being labeled as “virgins,” like that other annoying Christian couple from a season or two ago who spent all their time bleeding off pent-up anger that was mostly penting up because they were not bopping horizontally.
Team Eldersex, consisting of some gnarly old guy and his only slightly younger plaything, are next. They met while trolling for sex on the Internet. God Bless America. Did you know that Satan and Satan’s Little Helper hooked up on the Internet? Yeah. We were on a Web site dedicated to an interest she and I have in common, and it just sorta happened, even though it’s not a big trolling site and we certainly weren’t shopping around it trying to get some. So I’m all for this Internet thing, even if Team Eldersex, of whose uglies, let alone the bumping of which, I do not care to be reminded, met there. They are proud that they have, in their limited and fractured worldview, dispatched several “younger, stronger” teams, failing to consider that the three teams that have fallen by the wayside thus far consisted of a pair of bickering, braying jacka$$es, a wounded old guy and his not-very-bright daughter, and a stupid, domineering, reviled, wanton slut who publicly cheated on her teammate/boyfriend on a previous reality show. And failing to consider that, as we’ve addressed ad infinitum in our many, boring, and not particularly varied writings on this heinous excuse for a reality show, you don’t actually choose who you can eliminate in this game.
We take a brief break from exposition and self-important self-promotion (theirs, not mine, smarta$$) to go check out some rudeness at the bus station, which is this week’s Transportation Terminal Mob Scene. It’s 3 AM in Patagonia, all the futbol players have cringed off to bed with their handbags, and we’re all going to bunch up here until the buses start to leave, long after all of the contestants have arrived at the bus station. Colin, who is an unspeakably rude, arrogant, unreasonable, uncooperative, sh!theaded megaprick who should just slump over, calls the taller member of Team Tattoo rude. Omarosa stands in the corner, screaming “What did you just say about Argentine futbol players?”
Dayum, I love me some hot mixed-metaphor action.
Team Blonde consists of two blonde twin chicks. What the fvck is this show’s fascination with twins? These two appear to be pretty athletic, but they also appear to be monstrously stupid. I mean, vacuum-like, sucking-the-brain-cells-from-those-around-them stupid. And arrogant. Did I mention arrogant?
Team Sheer Mass is next. It consists of two large mothers who bowl. It is clear that they truly expect America to love them for being large bowling moms with the temerity to compete in a “race” against younger, more beautiful people with toyt bodies (Goldmember, Mike Myers). As best I can tell, we do not, although they certainly seem decent enough, with the exception of that whole media-whore thing.
Team Token is next. They are married parents. I do not understand what relevance this has to the show, or why it is better or worse than being unmarried parents. They are tired of being “bottom-feeders.” This, as it happens, is actually pretty damn funny and is much more elegant foreshadowing than we usually get from Jerry B, given what’s going to happen over the 55 minutes or so that are left in this hour.
Team Pizzaboy is last out of the gate. They are in inner harmony. They are also fat, dumpy, pasty brothers. Who are arrogant. And obnoxious. And not nearly as funny as they think they are. They are the next in the line of laughably impotent succession to Drew and Kevin, who will never, ever be matched, however long this stupid show continues its interminable death march toward eventual cancellation.
Everyone arrives at the bus station and agrees on the order in which they’re in line. This opens a path for Colin, who is on speed AND steroids, massively amping up his natural tendency to be an insufferable gobshite, to find out that there are two buses to the airport.
There is excitement among the teams when the windows open up. Some of the teams that consider themselves to be more beautiful rearrange the team order at the bus window to try to get on what is perceived as the more comfortable bus. There is bickering. There is rudeness. There is clear discrimination against Team Tattoo. All of this takes place in the context of which South American bus you’d rather spend 19 to 22 hours of your life on. Several teams, including Team Colin and Team Pizzaboy, take junior-high level pride in defecating all over Team Tattoo, which they go out of their way to insult, pretending that Team Tattoo, which is certainly an obnoxious pair of humans, is more obnoxious than Teams Colin and Pizzaboy, when not even the most sensitive metering technology on the planet could discern any difference in their relative levels of obnoxiousness. Team Tattoo believes that Colin is a criminal, and “can’t stand criminals,” which is funny since one-half of Team Tattoo is an attorney and is therefore a person who consorts regularly with criminals. I also think I heard somewhere that Team Tattoo is from Baltimore, which would tell me with pretty firm assurance that, being an attorney from that fine city and, A plus B generally equaling, in most theoretically descriptive taxonomies, C, the lawyer half of Team Tattoo is, in fact, and in all likelihood, a criminal its ownself. Not that I’m taking Team Colin’s side on this one, since Colin is a big jerk.
So Team Colin, Team Stigmata, Team Pizzaboy, and Team Token are now grouped and, in theory, cooperating. They go to a travel agent and buy air tickets before boarding the bus. There is some travel agentry going on, we’re talking times of arrival many time zones away, we’re barking orders at the travel agent, who seems to be a perfectly nice man with an extremely Germanic name, which is, unlike their national futbol team, one of the things I truly adore about the Argentines.
Team Tattoo, Team Eldersex, and Team Blonde, and Team Sheer Mass are now time-grouped by fate. They have no air tickets. They get on a bus. Team Blonde whines about having “no control over” its fate, despite having had time in the bus station to make phone calls, or to find a different travel agent, just like the arrogant snips who are taking the later bus.
The short-bus crowd apparently arrives at the bus station first, although the arrival times were supposed to be pretty much the same. They all get non-blue taxies. There is much bad Spanish of the sort created by putting an “o” at the end of each word. Team Tattoo, Team Sheer Mass, Team Eldersex, and Team Blonde, who annoy me more and more every time I see them, all hop rapido taxis to the internationalo airporto.
The express bus arrives 15 minutes later. Team Stigmata is trying to be sneaky. This does not conflict with their values in any way. They and the rest of the junior-high class troop off to the airport, Team Stigmata slipping the bonds of cliqueishness and going off on their own. They will attempt to be sneaky and furtive when they get there. I predict that the glow of piety that surrounds them in all their days and all their ways will cause them to be noticed by their pagan colleagues and that they will fail miserably at this endeavor. But it still won’t compromise their values at all.
Team Tattoo assaults the airport. The shorter member is shown running on her stubby little legs to try to keep up with the nasal lawyer. This is becoming a staple of this season, and it’s really getting a bit out of hand. Team Tattoo begs for standby mercy at the SwissAir counter. They’re getting no love.
Team Eldersex hits the Argentine Airlines counter and asks for a ticket to Russia. They are told that this airline goes to Madrid. Team Eldersex decides that this is close enough and bites.
Team Blonde and Team Sheer Mass decide to cooperate. Oddly enough, there is mutual love and respect between the two skinny, athletic blondes and the older, larger, significantly more mainstream bowlers. A fall wedding is planned.
Team Stigmata is trying to get an earlier flight. There is a beautiful moment of television in which, as Team Stigmata stands at a pay phone at the airport, a troop of nuns is shown riding down a nearby escalator. Holy choral music plays as Team Stigmata discovers that it can save an hour and forty-five minutes by shafting its buddies. This is one of the most random, non-sequitur attempts at linkage in Jerry B’s already pathetic history of bad non-sequitur randomness. It is heinous, and you know what? It is so fast, and so appallingly bad, that I didn’t even notice it until I replayed the tape, which is how I have time to blow out huge chunks of wordy goodness when I write these piles o’ crud.
Okay, now it’s the Immerse Ourselves in Airline Logistics phase of the show. I’d like to summarize this in a table or something, but Jerry B’s presentation is way too choppy for me to do something that clean and informative.
Team Colin is going through Sao Paulo and Paris to get to Saint Petersburg. We are led to believe that they are on the first flight out.
Team PizzaBoy and Team Token discover Team Stigmata’s subterfuge, in which Team Stigmata has grabbed the last two seats on an earlier flight. Various name-calling is undertaken. Team Stigmata is flying through Sao Paulo and London on British Airways.
Team Tattoo is running through the airport after SwissAir rejects their attempt to check the shorter member of the team as baggage. Meanwhile, Team Pizzaboy and Team Token will fly through Madrid and Frankfurt on an unidentified airline that apparently refused to pay a product placement fee.
Team Eldersex is having issues because they are dealing with multiple airlines, one of which is only open at exceedingly odd hours, and they bought business class tickets, and only Phil is allowed to fly business class. They begin to cry.
Team Tattoo is whimpering its way through the airport, looking for some airline that will pony up for their scheme of checking the less-tall one as baggage. The lawyer looks mournful. And we go to:
Olympic athletes, for Allstate; Paw prints, for some Lysol cleaning product in a commercial that directly takes a shot at the aforementioned white-garbed fellow; some slick rockstar manager pseudoguy, for Verizon Wireless, which a little birdie told me positively sucks as a cell phone provider even though it consistently tops surveys for best service, leading me to wonder, as my cellular provider, which shall remain technically unnamed, drops about fifty percent of my calls in a region in which it started its business, what exactly constitutes bad cellular service; a subway and a smarmy-looking guy in a lawn chair, followed by many other smarmy-looking persons who are now singing and dancing, for some Oral B temporary mouth cleanliness product; Bananarama and some Hawaiian chick with flowers, for yet another in the line of Venus leg-shaving machines; a model, for some Ponds product that includes cucumbers, but don't be getting all excited because they're sliced or pureed or something; a trailer, for the DVD version of Hellboy, which is not an appropriate thing to call your good friend Satan, as I cast about between many domains, not just that one; a chick in her underwear and her self-righteous sister, for some contact-lens related product that turns out to be Renu; and CBS, for Dave, and for 60 Minutes.
And we’re back, where Team Tattoo is still whimpering and Team Eldersex is finally stopping its whining as it gets on a Lufthansa flight.
Team Blonde and Team Sheer Mass are going Madrid-Paris-Saint Petersburg; Team Eldersex is going Madrid-Frankfurt-Saint Petersburg. They’re all on the same Madrid flight, but Team Eldersex gets to Saint Petersburg later. After more insufferable whining, Team Tattoo gets on a Lufthansa flight through Frankfurt. Apparently Lufthansa paid for product placement after all, because it turns out that’s how Team Pizzaboy is getting through Madrid and Frankfurt. In fact, it turns out that Team Pizzaboy, Team Token, and Team Tattoo are all on the same Frankfurt-Saint Petersburg flight.
Are you excited yet? I’m not. Let’s get the fvck to the Saint Petersburg part, shall we?
Saint Petersburg is, of course, snowy. Team Colin gets there first, followed by the conniving and devious, but perfectly holy Team Stigmata. We are going to the Battleship Aurora, which was a crucial player in the Russian Revolution, thus working in tonight’s completely unelaborated-upon bit of education. Yessirree, it’s really worth our while to check out the Aurora, which we do for not even twelve freaking seconds before we find out that we are headed to a detour in which we will either play goalie in hockey or drink a shot of vodka by balancing the glass on a sword. It appears that it’s a longer ride to the vodka. It’s block five shots or drink one shot, get it? Ay.
As Phil explains the detour concept to us for the four hundred and eighty-third time, he is wearing a giant parka that artfully conceals his giant honking manmaries.
Team Colin is way up for the vodka-swilling. This is going to turn out to be one of those detour deals where some teams actually choose each of the options. This rarely happens, because one of the hallmarks of this show is the producers’ mortal ineptitude at assessing the difficulty of tasks. But we’re actually going to get about half and half here. No, that was not code for something, you filthy-minded perv.
Team Stigmata heads for the hockey rink because their values don’t permit them to drink vodka. Their faith is the most important thing to them. They want to live pure lives in which they do not drink vodka, which apparently allows them to occasionally engage in subterfuge and lie to those around them. Or something. I don’t quite get the math there.
Oh, wait, maybe I do. Is it possible that they’re lying hypocrite scum who, by their own standards, should writhe in eternal hellfire for selectively applying their stated value system when it apparently benefits them and blowing it off when it doesn’t? Yeah, I gotta say that the math makes sense that way. Thank you, Team Stigmata. I’m man enough to admit that I didn’t really want to like you anyway.
Team Colin arrives at some palace where there is some Cossack partay going on, at which they will apparently imbibe wodka. I myself could not, under similar circumstances, manage to avoid asking the way to the nuclear wessels, but that’s just me. So the participants in this shindig are in native costumes and dancing to native tunes. The women look like chicks in that mail-order brides catalog I…uhm, never mind. Colin takes his shot like a trooper. So does the team member who isn’t Colin. They run off to find a statue of Peter the Great, who was, by the way, far more amazing than this “race.”
Team Stigmata is bickering about their values. Nicole wants to drink and fvck. Brandon, who is an a$$, understands that he wants to be a TV preacher some day. Nicole is way pi$$ed. She can’t skate. She is not tolerant. We cut away to Team Colin, which has found the statue and is heading for some restaurant somewhere in the town of Pushkin.
Team Stigmata gets to have both members playing goal. This should not be difficult. It is, but they manage it. Brandon is happy. Nicole is whining. After they block five shots, Brandon skates off the ice in a hurry, leaving the hapless non-skating Nicole to crawl back to the bench. He’s such a nice boy, that Brandon.
Team Pizzaboy, Team Tattoo, and Team Token hit town at the same time. Team Token is convinced they’re in last place.
So we get to this restaurant, which is of course a roadblock, one where a team member must eat a kilogram of caviar. That’s 2.2 pounds of fish eggs, kiddies. Ewwwww. To further bloat our disgust, Phil is wearing, as he tells us what a roadblock is, a turtleneck that enhances his gargantuan manmaries.
Not-Colin agrees to undertake the task. She also very quickly comes to agree with me about caviar. It is nasty, seriously nasty stuff. Fish eggs, ladies and gentlemen. Christie is very irritated by Colin’s efforts to be helpful. Or by the fact that she has to eat 2.2 freaking pounds of fish eggs. Or perhaps that she has to eat 2.2 pounds of just about anything. I myself, despite being a gruesomely fat, Jabba-like individual, would balk at consuming 2.2 pounds of anything other than fine rare Argentine beef.
Team Tattoo and Team PizzaBoy head off to drink shots. So does Team Token. Team Tattoo is bickering about who should make decisions. Neither of them wants to make decisions. The taller one, who, you may recall, is apparently a lawyer and a criminal in addition to being an obnoxious nasal whiner, does not want to be the one to make all the decisions. They decide to abandon their vodka-swilling plan and go play hockey. If they were not pushed into this by the producers, I’ll eat a freaking bug. Which would undoubtedly taste better than 2.2 pounds of fish eggs.
Back at the hatchery, Not-Colin is whimpering severely. You would too. This is beyond cruel. This is worse than farfaru. Colin moves around to hold Not-Colin’s hair as she simultaneously eats and pukes.
So Team Tattoo hies off to play hockey, where the shorter member b!tches relentlessly about playing hockey—despite the fact that I have her on tape as saying that she’d prefer to play hockey. These people really should understand that I have them on tape, no?
Team Pizzaboy handles their vodka with aplomb, but then unaccountably starts following some very sketchy-looking people to the statue of the Great Peter. It quickly becomes apparent that they are being kidnapped.
Hockey players waste no time in discovering that Team Tattoo is both short and lame. They quickly tire of the complete lack of a challenge, however, and start clanking shots off the posts and the crossbar just to put a stop to the nasality of it all.
Team Token downs their shots, while Team PizzaBoy continues to whine every step of the way about their kidnapping, which they could have avoided by the simple expedient of not being cheap bastards, and hiring a taxi of any color, and about their knees, which hurt because they’re fat and stupid. Team Token blows their doors off on the way to the Great Peter.
Team Stigmata also puts the chick on the fish-egg eating detail. Brandon tells Nicole that she’s got a taste for the good life, suggesting that she swallowed far worse things when she was Miss Texas. Nicole actually admits that it’s a lot like swallowing the sorts of things she was often called upon to swallow in carrying out her Miss Texas duties of keeping the runner-up from having to…uhm…swallow things. Turns out it’s a bad day for fish-egg-eating chicks; Not-Colin is essentially having a nervous breakdown. Team Stigmata is afraid, very afraid. So we’d better take a break for some
Cars, for Hyundai; office guys, for some crunchy cereal that turns out to be some version of Raisin Bran; kicky young people singing and dancing for Tahr-zhay; CBS, including Harry Smith and Les Moonves’ girlfriend, who still has a bobble head, but whom I would no longer do because she’s become way too nasty of a little ho-bag for my standards, and you would think I didn’t have any, but that would be kind of insulting to Satan’s Little Helper, even though she’s pretty much out of my league and stuff, for the Early Show; My Local News, which is vastly superior to your local news brak brak brak, and My Non-Drunk But Ridiculously Named Weatherman, telling me about massive flooding in My Media Market; some chick, talking to her dog, or her pet pig, or something, for Nationwide; a dripping wet chick by a pool and some other rich gits, for Mercedes; and a running dog, for imperialist lackeys…no, no, wait, it’s for Disney…so, yeah, shoulda stuck with my first impression, my bad.
And we’re back to Not-Colin and her still not-empty bowl of disgusting fish eggs and her massive nervous breakdown. This is interspersed with footage of happy taxi riders who do not suspect that 2.2 pounds of fish eggs are lying in wait for them. Team Token natters happily and foreshadowingly about being able to pass people at the roadblock. Chip takes on the task and begins to plow through the caviar. This is a truly impressive feat of reality-show giant testicularity. He’s making the chicks sicker and more demoralized with each bite. Team Pizzaboy shows up, talking confidence but immediately deflating after the first bit of smoky decayed fishy eggy goodness.
Team Tattoo breezes in; the short person will eat for them. Chip, of Team Token, is a freakin’ machine. He is cheerfully destroying fish eggs, ignoring the awed praise of his fellow contestants, methodically disappearing this huge bowl of oily effluvium as everyone else in the room continues to whine and cry and choke and puke. Chip finishes first, easily and without a word of complaint, as the other teams look on in stunned dismay. It is now obvious that Team Token will go from almost worst to first.
Catherine’s Palace is the next pit stop, Catherine apparently having been the Great Peter’s wife, or maybe his hoochy-mama, and teams will access this palace by horse-drawn sleigh. I am deliberately avoiding jokes about Russian women named Catherine and their horses, but you know what I’m talking about. Sure you do, because you’re erudite. That means “dirty-minded.”
Not-Colin and Nicole are playing with their food. Meanwhile, Team Tattoo’s short person is working through her slimy disgusting fish eggs at a reasonable pace, despite the clear disadvantage of having less body mass to absorb large quantities of disgusting food. Upon seeing this progress and being appalled by the prospect of Team Tattoo actually getting ahead of them, Not-Colin sucks it up, realizing suddenly that she swallows far worse every time she and Colin hit the sack. People applaud Not-Colin as she finishes blowing what has to have been a one-hour lead over the pack with her whining and simpering. They get the hell out as the other teams continue to scarf down fish eggs.
Over at Catherine the Not-So-Great’s Palace, Phil, his Himalayan manmaries concealed by the parka, waits with a guy who could only be Rasputin, and they confirm that Team Token is, indeed, in first place.
Back at the aquarium, Nasal Lawyer Criminal is being supportive of the short person as she continues to double her body weight. Team Stigmata is having difficulty; Nicole is way sick. Team PizzaBoy is looking for a place to hurl as they make their way out.
Team Colin arrives second; Not-Colin is way depressed. They are, in fact, two grim mofos. Suck it up, twits, you’re in second. Team Tattoo escapes as Nicole descends deeper into madness and illness. She is one seriously sick little puppy, it appears; not even the sight of the much-reviled Team Tattoo skying out for the pit stop can revive her. No, it will take far more serious stuff, and we’ll find out what that is after the
a chick in the bathroom for Olay Daily Facials which do not, to my disappointment, involve a common porn fantasy; Emeril, loudly, for Crest, and I think I wore out your anti-nausea capacity with this one the last time I wrote about it; a guy leaping into his pants and other stylish, sexy people, for Kmart; a screaming nerdette, for something called Veet that makes your legs smoother, not to be confused with a similar-sounding product that frightens insects and gives you cancer; a trailer, because let’s face it, it just wouldn’t be a Landru summary without me getting to mock the latest M. Night Shamalamadingdong movie; more ugly cars, in the same commercial that we opened the show with, for Mazda; annoying children, for Wendy’s; CBS, for Big Brother and for some annoying new series about baseball and Christopher Lloyd, and for the ever-enlarging franchise that is CSI; My Local News, just because it’s bigger and more robust and wears whiter clothes than your sissypants local news; and an animatronic bear, for Deer Park water;
And we’re back, where Nicole is moaning. She’s sick. She goan dah.
Which brings us to Team Sheer Mass and Team Blonde arriving in town. After some demonstrations of stupidity, we get to Phil and Rasputin informing Team Pizzaboy that it is in third. Team Blonde and Team Sheer Mass head off to drink. We’re at that point where exposition fails us—we’ve completely immersed in fish eggs and stuff, and it’s time to just close this puppy out. This is hammered home by the futility of Team Eldersex arriving in town, as Team Tattoo finds out that its fourth.
Team ElderSex heads off to play hockey. Team Sheer Mass and Team Blonde both handle the shots and head off to the statue. And y’know, it’s not gonna be either the first or the last time that the blondes do shooters and head off to swallow disgusting things. Okay, I’m about done with that joke now, thanks. Over at the hockey rink, Team ElderSex blocks shots like they’re Olie Kolzig, but they’re still way behind Team Blonde and Team Sheer Mass.
Meanwhile, back at the vomitorium, Team Stigmata is still hanging around. Vomiting, mostly. Nicole is shaking. The fish eggs are going to beat her. But wait, maybe not, we’re getting a surge of energy, and now we’re in a big tent dancing and singing and she’s healed, oh yes she is, she can walk, praise Tammy Faye Bakker! Nicole does it, but Brandon still won’t kiss her on the lips, since she smells like vomit and fish eggs. They’re in fifth.
Team Blonde and Team Sheer Mass get to the restaurant, and time’s getting short, because we’re going into a crazy kaleidoscope thing of eating and shouting and desperation. In the midst of the kaleidoscopery, we find that one of Team Blonde—the eater—has horrible teeth. Team Sheer mass handles the fish eggs in short order, and they’re in sixth; Team Blonde comes in seventh, with the eater in bad shape, unable to speak as her twin exults over finishing next to last.
Team ElderSex arrives at the restaurant long after everyone else is gone, assuming that the producers aren’t screwing with the chronology of things. They eat the fish eggs anyway. This is SO cruel. Yes, they actually make her eat the damn fish eggs, even though they’re already way out of it. This is the most heinous thing done to anyone in the history of television. They move along, and Phil tearfully informs them that they’re last, and that the whole fish eggs thing was just a big joke, and we go to
My Local News, with Badly Named Weatherman Guy; people, for WalMart; a blonde woman wearing white in a white environment, for Pepcid; similar-looking models, for Suave; Olympians, again, for Allstate, again; and CBS, for more damn CSI.
And we’re back, briefly.
Next week: Everyone gets hurt in the desert in front of the pyramids, probably because of some ancient Egyptian curse. Yeah, Egypt. We sure gave a whole lotta time to that Russia thang, huh? Team Stigmata does the nasty, on an open train in front of seething masses of humanity. And Team Tattoo does Indiana Jones.
Thanks, as always, for reading.