Charlie, will you accept this rose? Fine. Just don't choose Russ, he's Satan.
Bob, will you accept this rose? Fine. Just don't choose Russ, he's Satan.
Greg, will you accept this rose? Fine. Just don't choose Russ, he's Satan.
Ryan, will you accept this rose? Fine. Just don't choose Russ, he's Satan.
Mike, will you accept this rose? WHAT? I honestly don't think she chose him the first time I watched this episode on Wednesday night. Does anyone have the time-space continuum handy so I can check that out and get back to you? Thanks. Oh, and blah Russ blah blah blee Satan.
Rob, will you accept this rose? Don't. Choose. Russ. As. He. Is. Satan.
Jamie, will you accept this rose? Diablo!
Chris steps forward because only those schooled in the subtle art of Game Show Hostery have the university-taught skill of "counting to one," telling Trista that it's "her final rose of the night." Sure nuff, professah!
Russ, will you accept this rose? As Trista pins the flower on his lapel, fire and brimstone rain down over Encino, the heavens turn black as coal, and the true, unhidden face of Our Dark Father spreads across the heavens, announcing, "Now my progeny will take human form and destroy all of humanity" before bursting into flames and taking a better part of nearby Glendale with it. The petals of Russ's rose turn black and scatter to the floor as he cocks his head back against the sky and breathes flames onto the remaining unlit candles, engulfing the hand-sewn rung in flames and causing a recently-ousted Josh to exclaim, "Finally, a single opportunity to before I disappear into television obscurity forever to note something even more flaming than I am!"
And still, no image fabricated above could compare to the disturbing sight of being able to count the individual pores on his tongue over fifty television minutes ago.
Jeff shakes Trista's hand graciously, and tells us that "that's life." Brook tells Trista to "take care," and tells us, "I don't know what she's looking for." He doesn't seem that upset, frankly. Honey, they may be through. But you'll never hear him complain. 'Cause he's got friends in low places. Where the whiskey drowns. And the beer chases. His blues away. And he'll be okay. He's not big on social graces. Think he'll step on down to the oasis. 'Cause he's got friends. In low places.
"The end result," Trista reminds us, "is for me to fall in love." The remaining guys toast Trista and Guy lays out some fresh towels.