Is this the part where Trump goes all Probst and fights his away through the jungle with the thing and drops out of a helicopter or whatever? I swear that happened last year.
Guess not. Wouldn't want to take away from the unending dead air at the end. Trump points to his kids in the audience and says once more that they both graduated from the Wharton School of Business, which I bet whenever they go to Arby's, he's like, "My lovely daughter, who I think we can all agree is a sexy piece of ass, graduated from the Wharton School of Business, and she would like a roast beef and curly fries." DJ talks like his dad even more when Trump's around. He offers no opinion whatsoever on the Final Two, and loves them both. Trump jokes about "thanks for the help," and Ivanka gives dad a speech about how she "concurs completely" so "essentially, it's back to you, Dad." Man, I adore her. The thing is that nobody will admit that the reason they don't care who wins is that they don't care who wins.
Randal is wearing the coolest suit, if a little busy, and he looks great, and he's in the audience, and refuses to do anything but plug his website in the crappiest and tackiest possible way, like throwing a cheeky grin on top of it is going to change the fact that he just did that. I just lost a lot of respect for old Randal, I'll be honest. "Who else? Who else?" asks Trump, but nobody cares. Everybody just wants a drink and for this to be over so they can go home because it's a Monday night and nobody wants to be doing this boring shit about these two boring people on a Monday night. Trump points out that Lee is a "native New Yorker" and the youngest finalist ever on the show. He comes out and does some douche actions, and his parents are kind of a disaster. Lee hugs the front row of firees, but VERY interestingly reaches past Lenny to high-five Pepi. Sean comes out looking...the same...and Trump tells us that he lives in Miami. I don't know that I knew that. I think I would have hated him a lot sooner if I'd known that.
It's possible to live in Miami and be awesome, but it's not possible to be anything like Sean and live in Miami and be worthwhile. I just have this image of him standing in line forever to get into some sticky club in some sad metro suit that is just a little too much for his coolness, and finally passing the guy a fifty to get in, because what does he spend his money on? Nothing. Gadgets. Maybe he's got a cat. He doesn't have a hell of a lot of friends, and if he does, they aren't fun. They don't go out, and if they do, it's to the place that was cool last month, and maybe not even that, maybe it's like one of those sad theme places with like shepherd's pie. REM and Oasis on the jukebox, trivia contests on Thursday nights. Buying twice the rounds that anybody else does, because what's all that income for, if not making people happy? And when they ask him to do an Austin Powers voice, he'll actually do it. Sober, he'll do it. And he will feel universally accepted and loved and included in the American dream while they are laughing. Looking for the girl who's just blurry enough that she'll leverage the accent against the rest of the package, and meanwhile his meathead friends are pulling ass left and right, and he gets too drunk on Red Bull and Vodkas and maybe dances alone in a corner or lectures some random person about something, and the meathead friends are like, "That's our crazy British friend, isn't it sad," and then they finally have to stick him in a taxi and when he gets home the last thought as he snuggles into bed is, "What a kick-ass night."