Trista tells us in an interview, "Tonight, I've enjoyed everyone's company but..." But who? But Brook? But that other weird guy with the face and the hair and the return ticket home with the non-negotiable date stamp, "The moment tonight's credits roll"? But the makers of bras and other undergarment finery? Let's hear it according to Brook: "She picked the guys she wanted to have time with. There might have been something that she liked about them that I didn't have." And, after all, Cowboy, who but you offers the extra incentive of leprechauns searching for the pot of gold at the far ends of your perfectly bell-curve-shaped hair? No one. What did they have that you didn't? Nothing. You, sir, are perfect.

Back at The Scansion Mansion (Ryan gets a double-word score for naming it that because it not only rhymes but it is also about poetry), there's a-hootin' and a-hollerin' coming from the inside, and Bob brings us up to speed: "We decided to basically just live it up, y'know." And you've gotta give all parties credit for leaving this footage in, because this scene is hilarious in such a cliché frat-party way I'm expecting Belushi to wander into the room in a toga and incite someone to naughty behavior with his scandalous mid-'70s use of the word "tits." That Keanu-ish guy who once sang really loudly with his car window open as he drove on the Interstate loop around the outskirts of Nashville finally treats us to a bit of the old pickin' and strummin'. Jamie jams behind him in an exaggerated air guitar so incorrectly postured that he may have accidentally lapsed into jamming on the air lute. Jack, meanwhile, is a stumbling mess, his wasted ramblings far more innocent than others whose alcohol consumption habits, say, make them prone to hooking up with Russ. The scene culminates with the rest of the guys carrying his bed out on the front lawn while he's completely passed out, and Brian H. observes from the couch, "I really hope Jack gets offered a rose at the next ceremony. But his chances don't look good, considering he's on the front lawn" before giggling helplessly and practically pitching himself off the couch and onto the floor. Oh, just make out already, all of you. But still. Brilliant telelvision. And, Trista who?

L.A. montage! Walk of Fame! The Whiskey!