Oh, dude, they're at The Palms, the same hotel where the cast of The Real World Las Vegas stayed. Nice to know that the hotel management is almost as whorish as the group they housed, though the producers must be bummed that they lost out on the opportunity for a wacky reality show crossover episode ("Hi! I'm Irulan and we're the cast of TV's The Real World Las Vegas! Why, what are The Simpsons doing in New Orleans?"). ["On a related note, I think The Palms must employ a team of forty-eight publicists on round-the-clock shifts. I am always reading about that hotel, or seeing it on C.S.I., or what-have-you. They have really gotten the word out. Not that I would ever actually stay there, but still: good job, forty-eight publicists!" -- Wing Chun] Gambling shots abound as a Brook voice-over tells us, "To come to Vegas is one thing, but to be able to come to Vegas with Trista is just outrageous." Having already "lost her shirt" in the least euphemistic of ways before the first penny is bet, Almost Topless Trista toasts the guys with a new drink, and the roulette begins in earnest. They hoot and holler, someone hoping for "Big Bucks" (though I believe the outcome, sadly, is "Whammies"), and Brook howls at the table in defeat and makes the eminently avoidable mistake of referring to actual money as "so money." Not cool. Meanwhile, back in the land of linear recapsville, there's another kind of drama unfolding. We spy Russ sitting next to Trista at the table, and Rob letting us know, "It's like musical chairs. You try to strategically find your seat. And Russ is on the money. He's got the best seat in the house." Pause for audience endearment. "A little creepy, if you ask me." Check. We agree. As they amble drunkenly through the casino, Brian S. adds that Russ is the kind of guy who would "smother her," as opposed to himself, the kind of guy who would "disappear from her sights forever and ever." But, word. Every unctuous shot captures Russ leaning in on Trista, whispering in her ear, and generally compromising her personal space while mentally refining his airtight "yeah, but dressed like that she was asking for it, right?" rationalization he spent his college years perfecting as he explained it to various local courts of law. At the lavish Vegas buffet, Russ is clearly the coal-eyed tertiary-character- in-a-Bret-Easton- Ellis-novel sociopath who is either in league with Satan or is actually Satan. Sigh. Fine. I guess that would make him the "deviled eggs."