Bachelorette
Chargers: A Million / Dorks: Eight

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Encino Evil

Chez Guy. Another brave videocassette has completed its journey to the Valley and collapsed naked at the front door ("Pamie on Beat the Geeks" is scratched off the side of this one) waiting to be clothed and fed. Brian H. (leave off the last "H" for "Hoo"?) kicks it into the VCR, and we are greeted by the GamsCam shot from last week's opening montage. The guys actually hoot in appreciation, Russ stuffing a few spare hundreds into the VCRs tape slot and asking if it's free for dinner at, say, "Twelve, twelve, twelve." He'll hit on anything. Trista flirts, "By my outfit, you can probably tell what we're gonna be doing tomorrow." Oh, fun! We're going to Modells! Or, we're going to a photo shoot for the Monster Truck Rally Magazine swimsuit issue. Either way, Gnarly's next sentence is the most disgusting one ever spoken in the history of post-Babel linguistic development: "All of a sudden, you see that little silhouette between her legs, and you're like, 'Whoa!'" Oh, is that what we were all like? The remaining burn-off -- Jeff, Brian H., Charlie, Mike, and Greg -- are invited to "a day with the Chargers." Jeff also purports to speak for the totality of all human existence, letting us know, "That's everybody's dream, y'know? Go to a football game with a hot chick!" That is. Everybody's dream. Even Gandhi? Yes. His dream too.

Meanwhile, back at La Quinta (Spanish for "Sloppy Thirds" on the great Group Date Hierarchy,) Trista joins the guys in a hot tub, and as they toast the continuing unconstitutionality of the Eighteenth Amendment, we learn, "Trista basically said she was going to let us make the decision of who was going to get a massage with her." Bob ups the maturity ante: "We decided to square off in a little Rocks/Paper/Scissors." Ah. Just like the menfolk did to prove their valor and bravery in Olden Times. A fabled recreation of how the Europeans won Manhattan Island from the ignorant Indians (though historians note the game was, back then, known to New Amsterdam's residents as "Rocks/Unrefined Papyrus/Business End Of A White Man's Musket") ensues, with Jamie and Bob emerging as the two finalists. Jamie takes the prize (it so sucks we don't get to see what won), and Bob notes in an interview, "I gotta tell you, I know he cheated." You don't think he's funny? C'mon! The guy's funny! That is funny. Jamie notes in an interview the importance of having "alone time with Trista" and his strategy of "creating intimacy" by talking to her one on one. Oh, and naked. Cut to inside the La Quinta massage room, where Trista and Jamie lie on their stomachs, covered from the waist down, as two massage therapists tend to each of them, hiding their faces from the camera and thinking, "I may be shaming my whole profession right now, but at least I don't have to touch Bob Hope's wrinkly ass for one day out of the year. God, I hate Palm Springs." Trista touches on what Jamie decided last week the two of them have "in common" and asks about Jamie's illustrious basketball career. Jamie explains, "I only played for two or three months, in Sweden." This story gets more and more bizarre with each factually suspect iteration. In an interview, we learn that...wait, who the hell is that? Trista, looking about fourteen, is wearing a pink t-shirt thing and her hair is stick straight and she generally looks like she's joined the Witness Protection Program on a corporate underwriting grant from the fine folks at Laura Ashley LLC. She tells us that she doesn't doubt Jamie's intentions in being there because he passed up the opportunity to "go to Germany and play basketball." Jamie admits that during the massage he was "nervous," and we cut to the two of them hosing off afterwards in a shower, Jamie thinking "dead rats, dead rats" because he "didn't want to get too excited." He thinks he could have made a move, but Trista heads him off at the interview, noting that things between them sometimes seem "forced." But Trista notes at the end of the night that the five guys have forced her to reassess her feelings for the previous night's guys: "The feelings I was having for Russ are looking superficial to me right now." Good! Right! Use that! Just do not look him in the eye. Or all will be lost. "Dead rats"?

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