Outside somewhere, Rob opines, "It'd be more fun to go on a trip alone with Trista." See, Rob, the phenomenon you're referring to is a common condition in society known as "actual dating," and it tends to happen to a cross-section of the population called "people not on TV" who are often have names like "Not Trista." As the men slap each other on the back and wish each other numerous non-gay tidings, a black limo pulls up to The Beefcake Factory and Trista observes, "I'm really looking forward to tonight. I think it will be a lot of fun. I mean, especially in Vegas. I mean, who doesn't have fun in Vegas?" And as much as I want to bust on Trista's self-assurance that she is The Mouthpiece For All Humans' Collective Unconscious by naming some far afield subgroup who doesn't have fun in Vegas (the poor? The Amish? The UNLV Division III Chess Team? The ever-lengthening trail of brokenhearted Mirage cocktail waitresses loved and left by a callous and capricious Siegfried?), you've got to agree with her reasoning: Vegas totally rules.
Cut to a shot of Trista entering the house wearing a pair of mirrored sunglasses so gigantic you can hear the swell of "Whoaaaa" come from the impressed television-viewing demographic known to advertisers as "Enthusiasts of '70s biker porn." Y'know. Them. Rob is first to greet her, giving her a hug and letting the sentiment "I am sincere about how sincerely fugly I find your sungla...hey, wait, I can see myself in there" play around his own exposed eyes. In a quick interview, Brook non-contextually tells us, "I think if there's a thing called love at first sight -- which I believe there is -- Rob has it." You think there's love at first sight if Rob has it or you think Rob has what you believe to be love at first sight? Come quick, doubters of Brook's intelligence; this simple farmboy has just solved the equation of love by employing the mathematical if/then laws of syllogism. At the lavish Vegas buffet, he's clearly the pi. Hey, Brook? The rest of us are gonna get on a plane to Vegas. Why don't you stay back here a bit and try and do some work on roping the conditional. They say it's even harder than roping a steer.
The black limo pulls up to a chartered jet, and Brian S. (leave off the last "S" for...still don't know who you are) observes, "I've never done that before -- get a chance to pull up to a small private plane in a limousine, and jet away to Vegas." Is this an event so common he can't believe it's eluded him until now? Brian S. sounds so surprised that he's never once woken up and been Frank Sinatra, circa 1964. Poor Brian. That might be the last thing he ever says on this show. He's so gone. At the lavish Vegas buffet, he's clearly the toast. Or whatever would be served with a fork stuck in it. Anyway, the plane takes off and we cut to the obligatory Vegas Strip montage, where familiar shots of neon glitz are accompanied by the kind of Setzer-esque brass arrangement you can only play if your big-ass horn section is swinging back and forth in campy unison. We waste no time before cutting to the group of six inside of their limo, where they toast with champagne flutes and Trista announces, "Vegas, baby, Vegas." Well, that took about eleven seconds. The rest of the guys whoop in drunken, I-drank-something- blue-on-the-plane agreement and repeat her sentiment, each guy making a mental note to spend the night referring to numerous things as "so money."