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Slice Up the Beefcake

Out by the pool now, Trista and Chris sit down at a table decorated with so many candles it can be described less in terms of how beautiful it is than how contained it is. She admits to being "excited and nervous," and that it's an experience "she can't wait to start." Yeah, neither can we. Chris, playing the devil's advocate, asks, "You think you can find a husband in this process?" Trista, playing the devil, responds, "You can find a husband in any process." After a salt-pouring beatdown in which Chris deigns to again mention Trista's failings with Alex, Chris then attempts to build her back up with the peppy "I've had a lot of women tell me, and I'm sure they tell you, 'You go, girl!'" They tell Chris, "You go, girl"? Chris must know a lot of people from The Past. Clearly, much of this advice comes from Chris's social interactions with either manufacturers of late '90s kitschy key chains or the syndicated cast of Moesha. But Trista agrees that "women in society these days have powerful roles," but that she's "not normally the power person in a relationship." Chris volleys that the men the producers have picked are right up Trista's alley ("Are most of them normally the power person in a relationship?" Trista's helpless doe-eyes seem to ask), and that they include such calendar-model-worthy professions as "pilots, several firemen, a few pro athletes, including a bull rider" -- he left out such strong, silent Real Men clich├ęs as frontiersman, gladiator, and actual grizzly bear, which will all have to wait until next season I guess -- "and even a breast implant salesman." Oh, thank goodness. A walking punchline. Now a fat guy would just be a bonus. He tells Trista that her "life is about to change," and she resolves that it will change for "the better" before standing up and walking ahead of Chris to get back to the house, stopping only three times to ask the ABC production staff for directions. Silly girl!

It's nighttime at The Beefcake Factory, Trista and Chris exiting through the open front door ("If someone takes a spill, it's me and not you...") and standing out on the front walk. "Trista," he tells her, "here comes the first limo. Let the journey begin." Chris -- perhaps suddenly embarrassed he's used such overblown, Magic, the Gathering-esque dork language to preface twenty-five sets of cheekbones stepping out of rented prom cars -- slinks off.

Meanwhile, out of the first car steps:

Jamie, a drawn-to-scale Ken doll with sculpted blond hair and teeth so gleamingly, whitely present that as he walks toward the camera he accidentally bursts through the fourth wall and eats three jellybeans in a candy dish on my coffee table. And he never. Changes. Expression. Someone must have slapped him on the back when he was a child and his face froze like that forever. He must have appeared to be a very happy child. He shakes Trista's hand and kisses her cheek, and in an interview we learn that he "turned down a contract to play pro basketball." Wow! "In Germany." Oh.

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