Previously on The Bachelorette: No, seriously, wait a sec...he seriously owned a marble factory? Seriously?
We open this week on a swooping aerial shot of The Beefcake Factory, the helicopter surveillance hovering at a safe distance of a few hundred feet above pool level, approximately just above the level of Brian's (I'll tell you which one...no one cares is which one!) tallest, most potentially fuselage-puncturing mousse spike. Wait, do helicopters even have fuselages? Meh. Too bad someone sent the pilot packing. The helpful geographical notation of "Guy's House" appears on the screen and labels the sprawling complex as such. Um, "sic"? SIC! Who in the name of Mike Fleiss is "Guy," and how does he feel about sharing his quiet corner of Encino with fifteen boozers so blitzed on free liquor from Disney-owned minibars that they're practically pushing IV poles filled with Naddy Light and sucking on straws coming out of beer cans attached to visors reading "I'm Drucking Funk!" and "Retired...and Loving It!" Heh. "Guy's House." The title is so intricately clever on so many levels that one can only assume it (a) was thought up by the guys themselves, and (b) narrowly beat other such worthy frontrunners as "House For Guys," "Guys Rule," "Gizz-uys in the Hizz-ouse," "The House That Russ Built," "The Phallus Palace" (that one was Ryan's idea, natch, because of how it rhymes and all), "Name It 'The House That Russ Built' And I'll Give You Guys All A Hundred Bucks In Cash Right Now, You Guys, I Swear" and "Beer." But I'll bet the voting was close. Down on ground level, a hapless-looking Chris "But I Can't Make You Love Me" Harrison announces in a pinched voice from the living room, "Guys, if you would, come into the house, have a seat." And, in true Night of the Living Knobs fashion, bohunks slime in from each room, using their own trails of slime and assorted "wet look" gels to propel them forward into the common area. In from the pool, out from their rooms, in from the kitchen, and, in Gay Josh's case, through a set of beaded curtains through which he emerges dressed campily as a late-era Gloria Swanson, throws one half of his pashmina sarong over his shoulder using the hand not holding the Cosmo, and muttering just loud enough to be heard over the pervasive beat of the Legs Diamond soundtrack wafting gaily from his room, "The place may be garishly big, but the feng shui is just absolutely awful." Or maybe, instead of all that, he "wears a hat." Whatever.