The Apprentice, Season 2 Finale/Reunion: Official Summary
No Donald, What Do You Think?

So here it is. The end of the second season of The Apprentice. And I have just one question for those of you reading this. Why? Seriously, why are you reading this? Wasn’t watching this debacle once enough punishment? I mean we’re talking about the worst 3 hours of television since the entire run of Forever Eden here. Why would anyone want to relive it? And yet here you are. Me? I have to be here. My fate was sealed months ago when I promised Webby and AyaK that I’d chronicle the finale episode. But you? You have choices. And so I’m only gonna say this once, and then you pain freaks get what you get: Turn. Back. Now. Don’t say I didn’t warn you…

Still here? You, my friend are a brave soul. Now, I’m a brave soul too, but I’m not stoopid. And just like Maverick needed Goose, I need a wingman. And no, I don’t mean in some Light-Beer-Commercial-Drunken-Frat-Boy-Picking-Up-Hoochie-Mamas-at-Last-Call way. I’m talking about a true wingman. I’m talking about someone who will take anti-aircraft fire for you so you can complete your mission. I have enlisted the help of summary writer extraordinaire Landru to provide some much needed analysis to help us all swallow this jagged little pill. So without further ado, or tortured metaphors, let me introduce you to the man willing to die in a fiery wreck so you can read about a man named Donald and the fate of the two remaining DAWs seeking entry into his Nouveau Riche Kingdom, as seen through the eyes of a cast of a thousand people whose names and opinions you’ll forget by this time tomorrow.

Landru, what are we in for in this, the last 3 hours of The Donald’s hideousness that is/was The Apprentice, Season 2?

Thanks, mah homie. What I think we’ll see tonight is a lot of scintillating, reality-based debate, strongly resembling a real-world business-type environment, with Mr. Donald Trump making his final hiring decision based on objective factors with criteria fairly applied to these two outstanding candidates.

Yeah, okay, you busted me. What we’ll see tonight is a stinking pile of organic waste, much of it classified as biohazardous. No fewer than two dozen egos will be on parade here, with plumage displays unmatched in normal daily life. The Human Hairpie made up his mind during auditions that he was going to hire soulless Sturmbahnfuhrer Kelly Perdew, because it was obvious even then that Kelly met his requirements, namely a shiny, progressively apple-polished resume, a complete lack of wit or imagination, a penchant for defecating all over teammates and competitors, and a willingness to submit to unimaginable forms of degradation in the quest to deeply and lovingly kiss Donald Trump’s a$$. I’d also expect a major effort to blacken the reputation of the moderately robotic but otherwise reasonably inoffensive Jennifer Massey, a hypercompetent person who has the misfortune of possessing two X chromosomes and a modicum of the kind of relentlessness that it obviously requires to emerge from the pack of barking snakes that casts a season of this once-entertaining program. Along the way, we’ll see plenty o’ ordinary sniping, b!tching, whining, whinging, mewling, and puking, along with insufferable cattiness, snarky hypocrisy, and no small amount of whorish obeisance from the unbroken ranks of febrile sycophants who will populate this three unendurable hours of the dregs of American television.

Sturmbahnfuhrer? Isn’t that like the German equivalent of Mr. Goodwrench? Anyway, thanks for those, uhm, splenetic opening thoughts. I can see that we’ve already set the expectations bar exceedingly low for what’s about to unfold. But before we get to that, EPMB needs to remind us what has brought us to this moment. So, despite the fact that we’d all like to forget the previous 3 months, he’s contractually obligated to shove it down our throats in a 10-minute montage. And so, in ascending order of importance, here’s the Tale of the Loozers…

1) Rob (a.k.a. “Redshirt”) – Heh, Rob. Remember him? Rob was an amorphous slab of meat—a blob, if you will. Frankly, I think you give him too much credit.
2) Bradford…Oh Bradford, how do we sum up your Apprentice experience? You were…Fester, the phrase you’re looking for is “puckishly stupid”. Why yes, yes it is.
3) Stacie J. as in “Just Plain Schizoid”. And I mean that in only the least racially offensive way. She also had really unfortunate hair. Not sure if the 2 are connected.
4) Jennifer C…any thoughts on her, Landru? She’s a racist ho. Maybe, but you’ve got that heirloom urn with the “Native American” markings. Just sayin’.
5) Pamela, whom you treated so harshly earlier this season, oh Evil one. Has a couple of months softened your view of her? She’s a hyperaggressive, relentlessly self-promoting transsexual. Hmmm, guess not.
6) John, who had the charisma of middle management…in its entirety.
7) Rachel Dratch Stacey R, who just. never. shut. up.
8) Wow, how would you describe Elizabeth’s not-so-graceful exit? You mean how she was punched into submission by yowling rabid cats? Yeah, something like that.
9) Raj wasn’t very good at either coming on to the ladies (whether they be famous, semi-famous, or “hey, aren’t you…” famous) or home improvement. Sort of a Tim Allen in a bowtie.
10) Fes, Chris had a New York accent that grated on The Trump’s nerves. That, and he couldn’t lead his way out of a paper bag.
11) Maria
12) and Wes were so useless, each in their own special (short-bus) way, that The Trump simulcanned them,
13) Andy is not only a disgrace to his name, he’s prone to being shouted down by b!tchy women,
14) And Ivana is simply an ignorant whore.

Oops, sorry. Kind of took over your summary there for a second. ‘Sall right. You were on a roll.

Well, that pretty much brings us up to last week, where, after a round of interviews conducted by The Donald’s closest four friends needing the kind of visibility only fifteen minutes of exposure on a sagging network can provide, Kevin was fired, presumably because he’s too educated (maybe a mind isn’t such a terrible thing to waste, after all) and Sandy was let go because, well, they thought she lacked the ability to comprehend the complexities of BIG BUSINESS, which, as Landru will tell you, is code for “Papa don’t want no dim-witted and mouthy possessors of neither the relevant experience nor any qualities save playing ring-around-the-collar with a certain portion of His anatomy making any kind of decisions that might, oh I don’t know, bankrupt one of Papa’s holding companies”. (And yes, for those of you scoring at home, that was one sentence. My public high school English teacher is somewhere drowning her failure with a bottle of mescal and a migrant worker named Julio. At least she was at 4 o’clock this morning when I dreamt it.)

So, high and low IQ scores being dropped, like it's an intellectual figure skating competition, final tasks were assigned. Jen was given the job of managing a charity basketball event in Noo Joisey (Shouts to TJ. Whaddup, dawg?), emceed by Chris Webber. (Yes, that Chris Webber. The phantom-time-out-callin’, substance-abuse-rehabilitatin’, felon-associatin’, former member of Les Boulez-turned-cow-town-dissin’, selfish, ball whore. Y’know, just the sort of fella David Stern likes to have pimping his league. I guess Ron Artest was too busy napping after a tough recording session.) Kelly was assigned to manage a charity polo match, which means sucking up to millionaires—which is exactly what he’s been doing since he crossed our collective (and extremely tired) consciousness.

Just like last season, The Donald brings back the dead to help out, only this lot has been dead a really long time. Trump brings back firees 5-10, namely Pamela, John, Stacey R., Elizabeth, Raj, and Chris. Kelly picks Elizabeth, Raj, and John, while Jen selects Chris, Pamela, and Stacey.

Tony Bennett, micromanagement, and rain plagued Kelly, while Jen punted her primary responsibilities with primary corporate sponsors Genworth and the NBA, received a vote of no confidence from Genworth, then, to the surprise of no one who knows anything at all about the NBA, had MC Webb bail on her.

And so, here we are. ½ of a task, final boardrooms, a decision from The Donald himself, and some reunitin’. Surely there’s 3 hours of show to milk out of that…

But first, consumerism Landru-style:

Yet another scintillating set of marketing ploys, here, Fes, ranging from the abominably perky yuppie princess Sara Jessica Parker shilling for the Gap, to some weird thing about roses dipped in soap, for Dove, to suggestive trash for hair products, stupid families for chicken, the must-die David Spade for Capital One, and a bunch of tripe, including another Profiler ripoff, from NBC. It all makes me proud to be a capitalist, oh yes it does.

I got five dollars says you won’t last all three hours of commercial critiques.

Well, we’re back, and we’re just where we left off last week…with Jen ripping CWebb’s assistant a new one. Hey, good ploy. It certainly takes a CEO to yell at the hired help. Cripes girlfriend, it may cleanse your Karmic palate to unload bile on someone completely unable to get CWebb on an actual plane to Joisey, but it’s about as effective as yelling at his projected image on a TV screen. Not that I would have any personal experience in that department. Nosirree.

This exchange really shows off the personality fundaments of Jennifer’s chosen team, here. Chris views Jenn’s rough handling of some Webber functionary as a necessary thing, given the thorough and kissless screwing that the inconsiderate pampered sh!theel Webber is giving Jenn and the Genworth team. Pamela chooses to make—again—some comment on Jenn’s character, implying that it’s a bad thing for the task leader to be b!tchslapping an errant promissory. Pamela is completely mistaken, of course, primarily because she is truly a stupid, jealous, sniping, hyperjudgmental twat and should be relegated to some heinous duty like manually inflating basketballs, or wiping Laron Profit’s spit and snot and sweat from the floorboards, or valet parking. Meanwhile, Stacey is ignored in this sequence, as she should be, since she makes far too much noise to cost-effectively filter out the useful comments she occasionally contributes. Better to take the chance on shutting out her din and hoping that the useful bits will otherwise float to the top of this fetid stew of human interaction.

In any event, it’s now official. No CWebb. I know, you’re all saddened by this loss. Maybe they could track down Spud Webb at this late hour. Hell, probably half of the Genworth crew is expecting that dunking midget anyway.

Speaking of clueless white folks, over in Connecticut Raj and John have the extremely difficult task of putting together 400 gift bags for the Uberelite. The two of them are like petulant adolescent boys with all their complaining. It takes rocket scientist Kelly to explain to these knuckleheads that if they use the early 20th century technology of the assembly line, that this Herculean task might take, in its entirety, 30 minutes to complete. Hell, if they use their opposable thumbs, it might only take 20.

And Raj—who was willing to mingle his germs with Anna Kournikova’s, who ran around the concourse at Forest Hills in his BVDs, and who begged for a receptionist’s phone number on national television after being stomped and mocked by the Donald—thinks that stuffing gift bags is “undignified?” Where’d this guy learn English?

Meanwhile, the ever-observant Carolyn finds the Achilles heel in Kelly’s leadership “skills”. She calls him out for his arrogant stiffness (which sounds like code, but really isn’t. Trust me on this one.), and she’s right of course. Never mind the fact that I probably would’ve smacked both John and Raj in the face with a shovel by now, but that difference in leadership style is probably what eliminated me from contention on this show.

The ever-adorable Carolyn has truly grasped the nub here. Kelly is arrogant and robotic, and expects the help of these three fine people—all of whom were grievously wronged in the firing process, each in his or her own way, and any of whom would likely be a better candidate for the stead in which this pompous, clueless twit now stands—as his due. They should, to the last manjack, tell him to go shovel the doings of the polo ponies, while they crack the sponsors’ champagne and laugh at this jackbooted peacock as he thrashes about helplessly, incurring Carolyn’s wrath. The trouble being, of course, that something like eight of ten American males would be really, really turned on by Carolyn’s wrath.

Joisey, Night:
It’s Pamela’s turn to dish the dirt (then again, when isn’t it her turn), as she piles on Jen for wasting her time during the wee hours with menial tasks, when she should be focusing on big picture stuff. As if, had Jen asked any one of them to go run copies at 0-dark-thirty they would’ve jumped for joy and said “you go rest your little head, dear, we live to serve”. Still this just serves as further proof that Jen is really ultimately qualified as the pit bull underling of a CEO and not a company’s public face.

Connecticut, Night:
Kelly makes the mistake of taking the directionally challenged Elizabeth on his Kinko’s run, and they wind up driving around the suburban wilderness for close to an hour, during a time of night when each hour is really worth two.

Yes, it’s wonderful that the lesson Kelly learns from this interlude is that Elizabeth is stupid and he should have been more controlling. Good thing the Army has night-vision goggles and GPS, or this guy would’ve lost the entire country to a Venezuelan invasion. Oh, he was in Intelligence, you say? Make that a Vanuatuan invasion.

While back at the homestead, Raj and John, like two old porch dogs, aimlessly wait for their masters to return. Nature lover Raj mistakes a goose for a frog. Yes, the pop culture world completely escapes him. In addition to his anachronistic fashion sense and disco-era pickup lines, he seems to have never owned a See-n-Say.

After a few rounds of “Guess the Woodland Creature”, and not knowing what else to do, the two of them curl up on the very comfortable wooden porch furniture and go to sleep. Just watching that gave me a crick in my neck.

Wow, that new Cingular/Motorola Pokemon Phone/Ninja Weapon sure looks cool. Not. Meanwhile, I remain unconvinced that I want to see whatever movie they just trailered, and I’m pretty sure that nothing short of being dropped by my eighth or tenth heart attack will do what Nicorette is promising me. Meanwhile, NBC just sucks dead donkey dicks and deserves nothing short of foul bloody murder for its latest attempt at a sitcom, which appears to be compellingly and enduringly awful. Death to the ghost of Brandon Tartikoff, I say. Diseased screws also to Brian Williams and some touching holiday piffle starring the still-not-deceased Jennie Garth. On the other hand, this network affiliate’s version of My Local News rocks, as it has not gone out of its way to pi$$ me off by hiring rejects from a certain media market well to the northeast of here, and it also has retained your friend and mine, Drunk Naked Weatherman, beloved of all who hang out with my cop friend Ron, who gave up being a cop and a fellow executive in a failed dot-com to…well, I can’t tell you what he does now, because that would identify him and he’d have to send secret U.S. Government commandoes out to kidnap me and torment me until I renounced all that is unholy. Oh…uhm, sorry, Homie, did I spin out of control? What do you mean, again?

It’s all good. Besides, everyone here knows you have a deathgrip on the commercial thing anyway.

Back in Joisey, day has broken, and the court is coming together. Jen rationalizes her decision to shrinking violet her way through these proceedings, while dispatching every single important conversation with anyone holding any sway over The Donald’s final decision to Pamela. I personally couldn’t think of a person on this earth I’d less like to have stroking the egos of the folks who held my fate in their hands than MegaB!tch Pam. But then I’m not as self-sabotaging as Jen. Also, it’s readily apparent that Jen has the calming skills of Chicken Little.

Oh come on Fester, George’s discomfiture, and that of the Genworth people, is pure corporate a$$-covering. Jenn can’t really win here, in the eyes of these corporate sponsor types; if she tells them how she’s doing it, she’ll be overbearing, and if she lays back and tries to sooth them—as she’s doing—then she’s not taking a proactive role. My usual response to these sorts of corporate fartbiters is to tell them to crawl back into the primordial ooze from which they issued, which I suppose goes a long way toward explaining why I’m no longer a corporate fartbiter.

OK, I’ll give you that much, but Jen’s denial is working overtime by proclaiming that the sponsors were “pleased”. Please. I’m watching this through expensive lenses provided by Burnett & Co. and all I see is a group of people looking for a bridge to throw themselves from.

Checking back with Kelly’s polo party, Elizabeth’s got her wrath out, but it’s about as intimidating as Raj’s wardrobe. After being rebuffed by Raj and John in some trivial duty, she takes off after them in a utility cart, finally catching up with them in the clubhouse. She bickers with Raj about pecking order until Kelly goes Dr. Phil and tells them blithely to play nice.

Elizabeth’s behavior here is inexplicable. The poor dear is so tightly wrapped from getting a rep as a passive roundheeled cheerleader that she’s gotta run out and kick her some a$$. Her announcement that she’s a dictator is simply ludicrous. And Kelly’s pronouncement that “there’s no problem” is even more so. And what leadership! “Could you both try to be nicer?” Wow. Why couldn’t he have led us in Vietnam?

Raj pays Kelly a compliment in confessional about his “people skills”. This must have absolutely killed him. It certainly made me wince.

Meanwhile in Joisey, the players arrive and commence to serious X-box playing (which may or may not be code, I haven’t decided). It appears that X-box is another sponsor that Jen has pawned off, until…dramatic pause…the power goes out. What follows is some genius, if only because of snark level and all around over-the-top bitchiness, grousing by the X-box dood, who bears an uncanny resemblance to Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons. He follows Jen around like a lost puppy, demanding satisfaction, while Jen’s rebuttal is “what? I called the super.” Jen then retreats to the subterranean levels of the complex to yell at yet another underling about available power sources.

While over at the polo grounds, a problem has arisen for Kelly. It seems the painting of the “Wisk” logo on the goal lines of the field (at a cost to the sponsor of $250k—that’s a pricey paint job) was aborted due to concerns of the club manager that such a thing would spook the horses. This sends Kelly off in a tizzy. Of course, this “crisis” is a total red herring, as the Wisk folks will simply tell him to find another suitable location. But these are the sorts of things that make the final cut when you’ve got a 3 Hour Show to produce.

The thing is thoroughly loaded toward Kelly. His “impossible challenge” turns out to be that horses don’t like corporate logos, which gives me newfound respect for the intelligence of horses. Everything about the way Burnett has structured and edited this season, and these challenges, manifests his clear hatred of Jennifer Massey, which I suspect she incurred by refusing to follow in the footsteps—well, actually, the kneeprints, if’n you get my drift—of Jenn C, Maria, and most especially Ivana and Sandy.

We go to break with Kelly perspiring and storming toward the castle.

Gosh, I love mah main man Snoop. And I sure wonder who that woman is, the one who looks like the Traitor B!tch Majel Barrett Roddenberry but clearly isn’t old enough to have done the grievous disservice that Majel did by pillaging the Star Trek franchise so mercilessly that I still have to read Gregg Easterbrook whining (rightly) every freakin’ week about the travesty that is Enterprise. I mean, what kind of demented hallucinating toad thinks Scott Bakula makes a compelling starship captain? Sure, that whole periodically rubbing down Jolene Blalock with “decontaminant” is pretty cool—I’ll be happy to take care of contaminating her—but I need to clear an hour out of my week for that? But I’m getting obsessive, so let’s discuss this Fascist Nazi Lite Beer being brewed cold thing...y’all do understand that this doesn’t make a whit of difference, right? I mean, Germans make pretty good beer without freezing it, don’t they? And finally? NBC and Fear Factor must die.

OK dood, you have got to get out more. Back to the matter at hand, which is the crises in the respective tasks…

Jen finds a generator. Problem solved, but not without one final dig from Comic Book X-box Guy. And the other “crisis” is solved before anyone not named Kelly breaks a sweat over it. As predicted, the Wisk folks just told Kelly to put it somewhere else. I’m sure they threw in a “why the fvcking hell are you calling us with this piss-ant concern”, but that wouldn’t have suited Burnett’s editing needs, so it was probably the only dialog in the entire task that hit the cutting room floor.

Look up in the sky! It’s a bird! It’s a plane! It’s one of Trump’s penile substitutes! Yes, The Donaldcopter is arriving in Joisey, much to the complete ignorance of Jen, who is still at least 3 levels underground. Was that Dick Cheney she passed in the hall just there?

Meanwhile, super stud David Stern takes over CWebb’s emcee duties, while Pamela, clearly needing a crash course in “what not to wear” has some half-shirt/hip-hugger ensemble that makes her look like some teenager’s mom trying to look hip.

Eventually, Jen makes her way out of her hermetically sealed bunker in time to walk Mr. Trump to his box seat, introduce him to Bob Lanier, and promptly duck the fvck back out of public view.

Wow, that’s quite a little Popemobile they arranged for The Trump. He clearly enjoyed that more than the stroking that Jenn gave him. And Pamela’s continued support for her team leader in her confessional about the ceremonies is just touching. Have I mentioned that Pamela is a bitter, self-serving piece of monkey feces? I’d rather hand-feed hamburger to a shark than work for or with this trippin’ turdlette. And I’m being generous with the feminine, there, y’know.

Yeah, I hear that, and her drooling musings about NBA players and their bodies made me throw up in my mouth.

After the NBA infomercial, the team completely falls on its face in trying to A) locate Trump and B) maneuver him to the VIP reception. How hard could it be to find this guy? Doesn’t he have a camera crew following him? Don’t these lackeys have camera crews following them? Don’t these camera crews work for the same people? Don’t you think they might also be wired to communicate to each other? Short of that, don’t you think if you can’t see the man from where you’re standing that you might want to, say, move to a different vantage point? This is what Jen gets for delegating the bigwigs to people not nearly as invested.

We go to break as Pamela runs out of the tunnel only to see the copter taking off. Perhaps the single funniest moment in the entire 3 hours. Come to think of it, it was perhaps the only funny moment in the entire 3 hours.

What a touching memorial we have here to Dave Thomas (the Wendy’s one, not the SCTV one). Don’t you love it when capitalists trade on mawkishness? And speaking of the dead, how about this revisionist movie tripe about fabulously wealthy nutbar Howard Hughes? I sure hope they show us Lenny DiCaprio in the later Hughes years, with the 42-inch fingernails and the disease phobia. Moving along, it’s really too bad I don’t wear makeup, because I’d do anything Beyonce told me to. But we round out the set with minimalist efforts from Genworth and Volkswagen before moving into the NBC phase of our commercials, and if any of you watches this new sitcom, I’ll personally hunt you down and make you watch Enterprise instead.

The guest have started to arrive in Greenwich, with Elizabeth acting as Welcome Wagon.

It’s really touching that Elizabeth cares so deeply about the outcome of this event. Utterly incomprehensible, but touching.

Amen to that. For all of Kelly’s shortcomings, at least he picked the better squad to surround him. She’s even trying to send code under Carolyn’s radar. As if.

Back in the Trumpcopter, The Donald is taking out his hurt feelings on being dissed at the game on the folks working on his latest colossal eyesore. “Tell them to work faster”, he barks into his cell phone. I’ll bet $100 there was no one on the other end of that “call”. Is it wrong to call him a Cheesy Fathead Opportunist? Because if it is, I don’t wanna be right.

Up in the clubhouse, Carolyn is going the passive-aggressive route with Kelly, who is buried up to his sphincter in spreadsheets. She subtly hints that it might behoove him to get his rigid ass down to the tent and press the flesh with these bluebloods.

Finally, the Trumpcopter arrives at the polo grounds, and The Donald is greeted by Kelly and Carolyn. He’s taken to his seat, which Kelly has paid exactly ZERO mind to. Consequently, The Donald’s box is dirty and broken (and that is definitely code). Trump turns to Carolyn and says “you wouldn’t have it that way”. To which Carolyn responds, with a smirk a mile wide, “no, I wouldn’t”. Kelly wets himself.

Over in Joisey, the VIP event, featuring an NBA memorabilia auction, is slow to take off. Bob Lanier is hawking his size eleventy-seven shoe (which makes every woman in the joint cringe), to no avail. Finally, Jen steps in and bids on it. My guess is so she can hang it above her bed with a sign that reads “you must be this big to enter”. Not that her intentions matter, because she’s quickly outbid by the Genworth CEO, who looks like the illegitimate child of Ron Howard and The Joker from Batman. Don’t you love it when the corporate sponsor saves face like that? It’s so touching I can feel a lump rising in my throat. No, wait, that’s just residual vomit from earlier. Sorry for the false alarm.

Switching back to Greenwich, where the polo match has kicked off, or whatever signifies the beginning of a polo match.

Some of these horses are wearing knee socks. What the fvck is up with that? You’d think they could just wear sneakers without socks…

Kelly discusses the pageantry of polo. Trump and Carolyn discuss the dangers of polo, while the 6th generation billionaires behind them mutter their hatred for the Nouveau Riche. At the end of the affair, Kelly gives The Donald a proper send-off. Not that it matters a hill of beans toward the actual success of the event, but this simple 5-minute gesture will probably win the damn thing for him. (Not that it wasn’t pre-decided anyway. I’m just sayin’.)

No sooner does Trump exit, then Tony Bennett’s arrival becomes imminent. It seems that his manager has arrived before him and is unsatisfied with the condition of the restrooms. Jesus, you’d think that people with estates the size of the GDP of 2/3 of the globe would know how to wipe their ass properly and flush the damn toilet when finished.

Y’know, it’s not every day you get a look at a clogged toilet on national television. This is quality television, here.

So Kelly has to dispatch Raj and John to go hip-deep in excrement for him. And Raj is a guy who thought making up gift bags was undignified. Dood, Karma so exists. The next five minutes was pure bad sitcom material, as John and Raj run around cleaning up the clubhouse, while Tony Bennett’s caricature of a manager disses them to whomever he’s talking to on his cell phone.

Finally, Tony arrives and shakes the hand of the two men who have just been unclogging the john five minutes earlier. I’m sure Tony loved watching the replay of this with his friends and family. Anyway, he settles in and does some not-so-subtle scrutinizing of his own.

Wow. Tony gives the countertop in the clubhouse a white glove test. Who is he, my grandmother?

Eventually, Tony drags his ancient carcass out to the interbred hemophiliac blueblood tent to perform.

In the words of TechNoir, how old is this guy, 104? And y’know, they just don’t make suits that shiny any more.

You say that like it’s a bad thing. Well, the octogenarians really seem to be digging his beat.

Oh, look at that dancing. I told you Elizabeth wanted Raj.

Yeah, and I want some Pepto.

As the tasks wind down, the teams both pat themselves on the back, hug, and congratulate each other as if they didn’t spend the previous two days wishing them dead. You really just have to stand back and admire that kind of two-facedness.

Pamela has the balls to tell Jenn that she did a good job? After all that b!tching? I mean, I’m not one to argue with the notion that Pamela has balls—the size of that package in her pantsuit makes that pretty clear—but this two-faced shite is getting way past tired.

And Carolyn’s grace is similar to Pamela’s; after 12 hours of whining about Kelly’s performance, she reverts to the party line and decides to forget that Kelly wanted The Trump to sit in sewage. And Kelly’s Kipling rant confirms what we knew. This guy’s head is the size of flower-shop balloon display, and approximately as full of gas.

And with that, we break for these messages…

When I am in charge? There will be no Coke. But there will be no Pepsi Edge commercials, either. And frankly? I’m way sick of the people going through a carwash for some shaver. They’re dead to me. The rest of this lot? Not worthy of my attention, except to remind you of my position that if you watch this stupid new NBC sitcom, I will, in fact, be forced to come treat you as if you are Osama in Afghanistan. I’m not kidding. I’m talking Rangers, F-117s, bunker busters, cruise missiles, full military honors. I will dig you out.

NYC, Last Boardroom Preparations:
Jen and Kelly have returned to NYC, having both narrowly avoided humiliation of dramatic proportion (much to my eternal chagrin, because what this show needs more than anything is some drama, somewhere). Now it’s time for the obligatory confessional noise sessions prior to the big showdown with The Donald. In other words, prepare thyself for every cliché ever conceived for a business-oriented motivational poster. I’d break down the rhetoric by finalist, but what’s the fvcking point? They both said pretty much the same damn thing. “It’s a life changing event.” “I’m on a new path if I win.” “There’s a lot at stake.” “The sky is the limit.” “Are you willing to fight for what you want?” “I have the drive and the determination.” Landru? Please give me something I couldn’t read off of a fortune cookie that sums up what we’re about to witness.

I’m sorry, Fester. The cookie says, “a wise man gathers no moss.” Perhaps it’s a cryptic reference to the polo grounds. Or to Stacey’s desperate need for a bikini wax. What should be on the cookie, of course, not that this will actually answer your plea, is this: “Dear Kelly, everyone loves your robotic a$$ and will praise you until all of the oxygen is gone. Dear Jenn, your last words will be ‘BUS!’."

Trump Tower, Last Boardroom
The B!tch and The Robot arrive, only to watch the 6 minions who did their tasks for helped them in their final assignment walk past and into the boardroom.

I’m amazed they can still walk, what with the whip marks and all.

Once inside, The Donald wastes no time in diving in to get the scoop on what these loozers think of the 2 finalists. After all, it’s not like he hasn’t had 3 months to watch these two, or had continual input from the people who do the real legwork in his company on a weekly basis. No, I think it’s time we heard from 6 people who haven’t been a factor in this show for at least a month. That’s valuable time.

Pamela and Chris roll Jen under the bus, saying it was merely a “job done”, and that she delegated every responsibility dealing with anyone with a modicum of importance in this task. But she did lay into CWebb’s assistant, and the facility electrician.

Stacey R. took up for her, though, probably just out of her innate contrariness. She asked The Donald if he wanted someone to be an ambassador, or someone who gets things done, to which he should have said…”Umm, both, frankly.”

Kelly’s gang was much more supportive. John, with the backing of Raj’s simian head-nodding said it was a job WELL done. Set up and slam. Thanks for the opening, Pammy. Elizabeth, in her passive-aggressive way, said “Yeah, but he didn’t cater to the customer as well as he could have.” The Donald, like a big mouthed bass, took the bait right off that line and said he heard that she finally, 2 weeks late and well over 2 bucks short, came up big. If its one thing Elizabeth is good at, it’s extracting compliments from folks that she totally planted.

Raj then said that, while he’s overly competent, Kelly is, at his core, a soulless automaton. To which The Donald said, “Well, duh.”

In the endorsement round, Stacy and Chris both said they’d hire Jen, while Raj, John, and Elizabeth all backed their guy, Raj adding that Kelly would have to grow a second X chromosome before he’d want to spend any non-obligated time with him, though. Pamela punted, to the shock of absolutely no one.

The Donald then mentioned for the first of at least 5 times in this migraine-inducing absurdity of a finale that they should all be proud for making his little weenie roast out of the OVER ONE MILLION APPLICANTS. WTFever, Donald. The day I congratulate these nakedly ambitious attention whores for anything other than contributing to the devolution of human kind will be the day that you recognize that, sometimes, too much gold plating can be a bad thing.

Exeunt lackeys.

Pamela didn’t just punt. She shanked it for a net of about three yards. Her non-endorsement of Jenn was so ringing that it constituted an endorsement of Kelly—with whom Pamela did not work. Once again, her jealousness is burning with the consumptive power of a tuberculosis epidemic in the Black Hole of Calcutta. Have I mentioned recently that I really, really, really dislike this b!tch? And by the way, I’m really tired and I’m so done with commercials here, but we’re off to them anyway. Brak brak brak Soap, Brak brak brak My Local News. Satisfied?

We return from the break with the Parkinson’s Bobble-Head Donaldald doll, thrown up in what can only be assumed as “Actual Size” grandeur by the shills at NBC (causing me to throw up elsewhere), telling Robin to send in our glorious finalists. (Turns out it was just the intercom and bad timing on the part of the Chiron operators at The Peacock.)

The Donald launches into Jen, berating her for making him look like an idiot (not that he needs much help in that department, but I digress) by completely dissing him after the game. Jen defended herself by saying, in essence, that someone had to prep the goodie bags at the VIP tent.

George followed that vein, reiterating that she could’ve at least thrown the sponsors a damn bone and that the Genworth folks generated enough stomach acid over her “leadership” to keep the Tums folks in business until the sun goes nova. Jen, in a growing state of denial, said she did a five-minute walkthrough with them and what the hell else did they want anyway and despite your first-person contact with them, and all evidence to the contrary, that the event was an unparalleled success. This was followed by more bickering about how much delegation is too much delegation, with the consensus of everyone not named Jen being that you just can’t hand off the ultimate responsibility to your client/sponsor/sugar daddy.

Not loaded at all, of course. I mean, can you imagine how fast those corporate sucktoads would’ve been on her a$$ had she marched in and told them how things were going to be? Total no-win situation for Seven of Nine.

Kelly’s grilling focused on his inability to motivate his staff and that he spent too much time behind the computer and not enough time sucking up to the millionaire guests. Unlike Jen, however, Kelly’s response was “You’re totally right. I suck.”

The Donald asked Kelly if Jen is a good leader, trying to stir up some amount of drama out of him. Expectedly, Kelly merely said he’d never seen her lead. Asked the same question, Jen pulled out the integrity card, calling him a gossipmongering wimp. This got the closest thing to a rise out of Kelly in the entire 3 hours. His retort was something like “Jen, you ignorant slut.” Undeterred, Jen continued her middle school complaint session, whining incessantly about how he was always whispering behind her back with the others. Either it never dawned on her that it might be the others originating said whispering, or she just had a good rage up and didn’t much care about the truth. She finished her rant by pouting that “Kelly is manipulative, and he’s doing it right now.” Hello, Pot? I’ve got a collect call from Kettle. Will you accept the charges?

Yeah, but wasn’t it a thing of beauty? I mean, what can the stupid fvckstick do at that point, whimper, “No, I’m not!”? Shriek “I’m rubber, you’re glue!”? Beg for his mommy? Ask Jen to put on the thigh-high black PVC boots and get out the quirt and say it like she means it?

Having dispensed with the torturous “why shouldn’t I hire the other one” blather, The Donald moves on to the equally torturous “why should I hire you” blather. Jen stays the course with smart, ambitious, passionate, while accusing Kelly of possibly being an android. Kelly’s response boiled down to I won…a lot. Look it up. Oh, and I lead, too, unlike Ms. Shirker. Again, The Donald reminds Kelly, Jen, and the viewing audience that, win, lose, or draw (DRAW? You mean this thing might go to overtime? Aww, Christ. There goes my holiday plans.), they are the final 2 of over One. Million. Applicants. We heard you the first time Trump. It doesn’t make us like these two any more knowing that. Now, it’s time to confer with the henchfolk.

George likes Jen because she’s fiery. Sure, she’s abrasive, but that kind of spunk in a gal gives him the tingle in places long dormant. Kelly, he says, is too wooden, while Jen gives him…well, I think we covered that.

Carolyn likes Kelly because he wins and leads and gosh darn it, people like him. Jen, on the other hand, is a loudmouth bee-otch who couldn’t prioritize responsibilities if her life depended on it.

Completely unsatisfied with that kind of rehearsed totally spontaneous disagreement amongst his closest associates, The Donald turns to the camera and says “I want to know what you think. Right now.” And for a moment, I think he’s looking at cameraman Joe Blow of Cameramen Local 151, Queens, NY, and asking him for his qualified opinion, having followed these schlemiels for 3 months. But no, he’s asking us, the folks at home. How could we possibly give him our opinions? Unless… <cue false boardroom backdrop explosion and wild cheering> OH. MY. GOD. They’re LIVE! I? Am totally fooled. Landru? Don’t tell me you saw this coming.

*sigh* I keep telling you, Fester. I see everything, whether or not I actually did. This moment, right here? This is The Day The Music Died, the Kennedy assassination, 9/11, and Pearl Harbor all rolled up into one neat package for this here television program. Would that a giant hole opened up in the Earth and swallowed us all for all eternity, at this very moment. Oh…wait…it did, it’s just that clocks measured “eternity” as “one hour and twenty-four minutes.” Sure seemed eternal.

You are looking live at Lincoln Center and a shrieking mob of the Great Unwashed 1,000 of The Donald’s closest friends. He kicks the live portion off, pretty much the way he’s spent the last hour of this dreck, by asking for a show of hands. “Who likes Jen?” he asks. <Crickets> “I said who likes Jen?!” <Mild applause…and a wolf whistle from the 3rd deck> “OK, OK, simmer down. Who likes Kelly?” <Mad, thunderous applause and panties fly toward the stage>

Yet despite all his observations, the input of the cast, and his two closest associates, The Donald is still conflicted. Who to pick? Oh, the humanity! He needs help. He needs a sign from above. He needs…Regis Philbin? Enter The Reeej to the delight of the crowd, including one Omarosa Manigault-Stallworth. Oh great, that’s just what this show needs to complete the drain circling. The Donald says The Reeej will be helping him make his decision, but really he’s just there to be The Donald’s personal microphone jockey.

I believe that The Donald hasn’t made up his mind. I also believe that Jack Ruby did not shoot Lee Harvey Oswald, tinfoil hats will prevent nuclear war, and the cast of “Drawn Together” is real.

His first task is to “interview” Bill Rancic, winner of Apprentice Season 1, and a guy who regrets every day of his life that he didn’t pick the LA golf course job (at least that’s what he would be doing had God given him a functional frontal lobe).

Reeej: Bill, who would you pick?

Bill: <smoke and bluster about how they’re both winners, yadda, yadda> BUT, since Jen is such a hateful b!tch, I’m going to have to go with the guy who won all the time.

The Donald: Hey Bill, did you enjoy being the Apprentice?

Bill: Isn’t “Yes” what I’m contractually obligated to say?

The Donald: Yes it is. Now go fetch me a pot pie, b!tch. Hey Reeej, get Allen Weiselberg. He’s my CEO, and a guy with a face for radio. Allen, who do you think should win?

Allen Weiselberg: Kelly. He wins. All the time.

The Donald: Now, I’d like to ask my good friend, the head of Unilever (which is NOT code for anything, so stop snickering every time I say it), Shrek, what he thinks. Who should I pick, you bald Scottish ogre?

Shrek: Why ar-r-r-e ya asking me, when ya know I have a ha-yuge mancr-r-r-ush on Kellah? He’s dr-r-r-eamah. What e’er ya do, dinna hir-r-r-e that Jen. She’s a dunkay.

The Donald: Was that English? I need someone I can relate to. Matthew Calamari, who do you think I should hire?

Squid dood: Jen sucks. By which I mean…Oh crap, I’m on live TV, ain’t I? <commense total brainlock>

The Donald: Heh, heh. Oh Matt, you’re so funny. I love that guy! How about the guy with the cartoonish lips? Y’know, the Genworth guy.

Cartoonishly lipped Genworth guy: I met Jen. I’d hire Kelly. ‘Nuff said.

And on and on it went. We heard from Troy (with his Sonic the Hedgehog hairdo) and Amy (in the finest hot pink satin gown with fringe one can purchase from Frederick’s of Hollywood) from Season One (both of whom apparently needed NBC’s wardrobe people and stylists to keep them from looking like complete freaks). They both picked Kelly. This was followed by meaningless blather from Kelly’s and Jen’s former bosses and obligatory shots of the dworky office parties being thrown in their honor.

Honestly, that’s the first time in recorded history that I wouldn’t do Amelia Henry.

Still unsure of his decision, or wanting to continue Jen’s humiliation, The Donald then trolls the crowd for opinions. It was around this point when the voices in my head started saying “Kill. Kill them all. KILL THEM ALL!!!” so I’m not sure who said what, but it was a lot of Kelly love and one plant random face in the crowd in favor of Jen.

Throwing yet another monkey wrench into the proceedings, The Donald wants to bring out the 16 LOOZERS and ask their opinions…some of them for a second and third time this hour. Here’s the LOOZER verdict:

Ivana Tramp: Kelly.

Wes: Kelly…or Jen…no, wait…Kelly. (He thinks, but don’t quote him on it.)

Andy: Raj. Or Jen, whatever.

Chris: Kelly. (So much for “I’d probably hire Jen.”)

John: (Not that anyone asked him…or provided him a microphone) Stop Jen-hatin’. Not that I’d vote for her, but still.

Kevin: Kelly.

Sandy: Kelly.

Newly-bleached-‘n-chemically-treated Pamela: Jen. She has ethics. (and a stare that can melt titanium. Not that Pamela would know that first-hand, of course.)

Reeej: That’s a lot of opinions.

The Donald: Yep. I guess I have to decide, eh?

Reeej: Not until after the break, and another look at this clip where Sandy and Jen make Andy pee his pants.

I love that clip. I like to fantasize about grabbing Sandy by the hair, swinging her around by it in a giant circle three or four times, and just letting go in the direction of a 51st story window at one of The Donald’s giant phallic real-estate symbols. Did you know she lives in Montgomery County, Fester? Does that just make you wanna go do some crimes, or what? And I told you. I’m way done with commercials.

Reeej: Now it’s time to bring out the finalists! But first, meaningless compilation reels for those of you with “Memento” attention spans…

<Jen’s reel: Jen is hypercompetitive. Jen is a shirker. Jen is a b!tch. Nice edit, Burnett.>

Enter Jen
The Donald: Having fun?

Jen: You ARE kidding, right?

The Donald: Tough night.

Jen: Yeah, in the same way Lincoln had a “tough night” at the theatre.

The Donald: You’re in for the fight of your life.

Jen: As if.

<Kelly’s reel: Kelly is a military robot created during the cold war by the CIA.>

The Donald: OK kids, duke it out.

Jen: I’m smart, ambitious, and I will cut people for you sir. Do you hear me? I WILL CUT THEM.

Kelly: I was in the military.

Jen: My education kicks Kelly’s in the sack. He got his post-grad degrees from U of Surf’s Up.

Kelly: I won. She didn’t. I led. She didn’t.

Jen: I got stuck with bickering wenches, and yet I survived. I ate them for lunch and picked my teeth with their bones.

Kelly: I stepped up every week.

Jen: He’s a lying, lying, liarpants. I totally rool! Kelly is a cold fish, devoid of personality.

The Donald: Kelly, you’re not doing too well here. C’mon, give me something. I’m LIVE fer chrissakes. Tell me you hate Jen. Tell me something, dammit.

Kelly: My programming makes me incapable of hatred. That is a human emotion.

Jen: Mr. Trump, can I get one last dig in?

The Donald: No. It’s time.

Jen: Please? It’s a good one!

The Donald: Nope. Sorry. I’ve milked this for every last second I can. Jen, I love how you destroy your competition in the boardroom. Unfortunately, it means that you were in the boardroom a lot more than you weren’t. Kelly, I wonder about your leadership potential, but my IT people think they may be able to upgrade your CPU with a leadership program. So, I have to say…

Jen? You’re fired. Kelly? You’re hired.

<cue aging and distended O’Jays> Money, money, money, money….MO-ney Gosh, I never tire of that song. Speaking of that song, and I try not to as a rule, is the irony that a song about the perils of greed is being used overtop the so clearly pro-capitalism credits for this so clearly pro-capitalism show only apparent to me? On second thought, try not to think too much about it, because if you did, you’d question the very reason you’re watching the very sweaty O’Jays singing to a very sweaty Donald in front of a very sweaty crowd, when you could be getting very sweaty your damn self somewhere else. You might even be able to drum up some company. Either way it beats where you are now, which is watching Kelly gallivant, shake hands, hug some folks (and clearly NOT others), while the aforementioned sweaty crowd cheers like it’s Game 7 of some sports series or other and you (yes, you) yawn, because A) it’s approaching 10:30, and B) you (and I and everyone else) saw this coming.

Hugs, etc. dispensed with, The Donald invites Kelly to the grown-up table with him, George and Carolyn. He even tries to pull Carolyn’s chair out for her. That action, which in a different forum might’ve gotten him immediately canned, is met with derisive laughter from his new boss and a “don’t even think about doing that again” stare from Mistress Carolyn.

Somehow forgetting that the O’Jays just friggin’ played that damn “Money” song five seconds ago, Reeej introduces them again, pimps their new album, and allows them to perform the song for the second of what seemed to be four or five times. This time, the women get up to shake their groove thangs, led by Omarosa herself, wearing some sort of outfit that redefines Business Whore. It’s a suit, of sorts, but has a tight, high-riding skirt, and? Shows off her belly button. I’m wondering if one can buy this little number at Talbots, or if you can only find them in stores that have beaded curtains. The men, meanwhile, look pensive with that White guy stare that means “I’m expected to dance at this moment, aren’t I? Oh, sh!t. And I don’t have enough time to pound a couple beers first.” The funniest part of this is that once they uniformly commit to dancing, the music stops. Thankfully. If you thought Raj’s rap was weak, you should see him try to dance to anything made after Bill Haley recorded “Rock Around the Clock”.

Now it’s time for The Donald to present Kelly with his choice of job. Now we all know how badly Bill blew this one last year. Does anyone expect this year to be any different? Didn’t think so, and yet, here are the options…

1) The Trump Vegas Tower, which will reduce a Vegas institution to cinders before becoming the ugliest building in a city full of ugly buildings. Good thing it will be the tallest, too. We wouldn’t want Utah to miss out on its splendor.
2) Trump Place in NYC, which undoubtedly will put thousands of folks trying to scrape out a living in Manhattan out on their ear so more Nouveau Riche can move in and drive the property values through the ceiling.

Kelly needs exactly 1.5 seconds to make up his mind, but The Donald tells him to cool his jets and save the answer for the other side of the break. Now anyone who has watched more than 5 minutes of Kelly knows that if his answer is immediate, there’s about a 0% chance that choice is Vegas. So another attempt at suspense is crushed. Once back from the break, Kelly tells us that despite his love of Vegas, he went on this show to stick his head as far up Trump’s butt as he possibly can, and the reach is much better from New York. What a completely predictable dolt Kelly is. Trump says he’s “in love” with Kelly’s answer, mostly because it means he won’t have to fly to Vegas to yell at him, he can just go down the hall to do it.

Thus concludes the business end of this program. What’s left is the lamest attempt at a reunion show in the brief history of reunion shows. I swear, I will never complain about another Survivor reunion. This disaster makes those early Bryant Dumbbell reunions look like Emmy material. Still, for the sake of documentation, here’s what transpired.

Reeej introduced a reel about the pressures of the show, which included Stacie J.’s wigout, Elizabeth’s meltdown, Jennifer C.’s anti-Semitic remarks, Maria’s control freak denials, and Kevin b!tchslapping Elizabeth. Attempts to patch up some sore feelings followed with the panel. The Donald told both Stacie and Jennifer that they were terrific people, despite evidence to the contrary. Jennifer told us that she doesn’t have a prejudiced bone in her Aryan Youth body. Stacie reminded us that she has a Subway restaurant in Harlem, and probably would’ve handed out coupons if there was time.

Next was an interview with Sugar Ray Leonard about Burnett’s next failure, The Contender. “It’s not a reality show”, Ray told us. “It’s a movie about real people.” It’s right about here that the logic motor in my brain began to burn oil.

A second reel documented the best fights of the season, including Elizabeth v. Maria over the budget, the very not racist Jen C. v. Stacy R. over some old Jewish bags, Raj v. John over OCSIA-regulated lunch breaks, and yet another glimpse at the Andy, Sandy, Jen M. ménage-a-trois. The Donald asked Andy what happened. Andy responded that he was happy to go out like that. Happy to go out like that? Reduced to a quivering pool of jell-o in front of millions in the field he’s spent his life cultivating—debate—and he’s happy? He was shouted down like a toddler who won’t put that toy back where he found it, and he’s happy? Yeah, I believe that.

Now it’s time for the Raj reel. Shots of him going down in flames with Anna Kournakova and Robin, the receptionist, follow, as does a lame interview where Raj claims to have had coffee with Robin. For the record Raj, standing next to her in line at Starbucks doesn’t count as a date.

Feeling the need to rehash as much old footage as he can, Burnett drags out the “Sex Sells” reel, containing John’s attempts to flirt with some gay guys, Jen M. and Sandy tarting it up to sell candy, and the now infamous Ivana skirt-dropping incident. Afterward, The Donald asked Ivana if she would do it again. Ivana hemmed and hawed until The Donald told her to say “No. I wouldn’t do it again.” Kevin supported Ivana’s actions by saying that she was a true team player for “going the extra mile”. Trump said, no one’s talking to you, and what do you know about sex anyway, nerd? Kevin reminded The Donald about his answering the phone shirtless. Trump told Kevin he was a fine looking man. It’s about here that I started to lose consciousness.

And just when I thought they’d forget to get to her, Reeej asks Omarosa for her two cents. Not having change handy, Omarosa gave him about a dime’s worth. It had to do with double-standards and Pamela being a b!tch, or something, but I really couldn’t hear the details over my shrieks of agony. I did hear her say that it’s better to be respected than liked, and that she respected Jen M. Which, while it may be a professional compliment, sounds, to my ears, like a personal diss.

Finally, we were shown a preview of The Apprentice, Season 3, which is debuting January 20. (Jesus Trump, why don’t you let this show breathe for chrissakes?) This time it will be “book smarts” vs. “street smarts”, because everyone loves contrived competitions. To hype this gimmick, the two sides talk about how much they’re going to kick the other side’s ass. Yippee. I can hardly contain my enthusiasm.

As we head to credits, The Donald sends Kelly to the after-party in a limo, while the rest of the Loozers presumably have to walk or take public transportation. Reeej pimps the Apprentice Auction, because, honestly, who wouldn’t want a boardroom chair with Kelly’s backsweat? Then he pimps Apprentice Season 4, which is currently in the application process. Damn, Trump’s created more jobs in 12 months than Dubya has in 4+ years.

Reeej congratulates The Donald. Kelly heads out to his limo, and, betraying his android nature, actually does a fist-pump or two. Wow. Who wasn’t just thrilled by that display? OK, me neither, but it was worth a try. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to shower…for about a week. So, on behalf of Landru, who slumped over around the end of hour 2, this is Fester wishing you all the Happiest of Holidays and Newest of Years. Thanks for reading.

Fester

Mega-thanks to my brother in arms, Landru, for his invaluable assistance in this summary. You simply rock, my friend.