The rest of the losers finally get invited on a date. Go, losers!

Trista and Rhymin' sit poolside, toasting with gigantic goblets of red wine, Rhymin' suggesting, "To dinner with Shamu." But the dolphin isn't at dinner, and...oh, never mind. For once, it's actually kind of a sentence. I'm not going to go diagramming it. Trista asks Rhymin' if he "has any concerns," and he hems that she's just "so right" for him as even the entirety of the animal kingdom realizes that this poor innocent just does not make for compelling television. Up from the poolside pop two dolphins, distracting us long enough to forget that...oh, wait. Rhymin' has written another poem. Since they give it to us in a huge chunk this time, I'll include the full text of what he reads:

Here I am, not knowing where I stand
Here I am, looking for a place to land

Nah, fuck it. That's it. It doesn't get any better. The refrain is "I'm falling for something about her," because it made Trista cry when Level 42 wrote it twenty years ago, and it still seems to be working like a charm now. God, I love that song. Rhymin' interviewizes that he didn't want to make her cry, and we cut back to Trista leaning in and kissing Ryan chastely. Trista tells us that he makes her heart flutter, and she feels like what they have could "work for a really, really long time." So all three one-on-one dates were perfect then, eh? Think she's the kind of person who falls in love easily or what? Back at the house, Charlie sulks by the pool as Rhymin' monotones that he's the real deal and Rhymin' is gray.

Maison de Men. Bob, Rob, Jamie, Greg (who?), and Mike (WHO?) are going "to the racetrack" and then "to the beach for a clambake." And then to a Brook Impersonator Show and a good ol' fashioned skeet shoot? Seriously, this is the trashiest thing ever. Mike tells us that he's "frustrated that Trista's gonna be forced to make a decision whether to keep me here or nor based on another group date." With an extra emphasis on the "or not" part, I don't think I need to tell you. More montage-y banter in the limo, during which you can practically smell Bob mouthing the words, "What is that, a fat joke?" in response to everything everyone says. Sadly, it probably was.