Brandin walks down the hall, not skipping, not clapping, not all happy like he usually is. Even his white belt sags. In the audition, he sings a very sad but pretty rendition of the anthem. The judges clap. No "woo"s. CRACKSOULER are hanging around, licking their chops, grinning hugely. Beastie asks animatedly, "Did you smash your guitar?" What a dick. Brandin hangs out as they go into their rendition, which it kills me to say actually was pretty rockin'. Those fucks! But they did a good job. I still hate them, though! Not getting soft on you! The Miami Heat guys throw them a bone, saying they've heard hundreds of renditions and theirs was great. Okay, SOULCRACKER did a good job, okay? OKAY! Am I fired now? ["No. I liked their rendition too." -- Sars] They totally win it, Brandin says he's "relieved" to not have to do it, and we cut to a hysterical interview with Rex (who is looking quite mad, you know), who says, "Let me tell you a little story about bonus opportunities. THEY SUCK. Pure SHITE." Hee! And the VH-1 censors totally don't catch the word "shite," so it's unbleeped. Heh.
Bonus opportunity number two: "One of the hottest clubs" in Miami is "re-opening," and the first band to find this so-called hot club and confirm their booking gets to play the party. Oh, and models will be prancing around. At that salacious detail, Dom pricks up his ears. I mean, his cock starts stirring in his pants. I mean -- oh, there's no way around it. Dom runs and runs and leaves Rex and Brandin in his cologne-soaked wake as they wheeze, "No running!" Rex says, "Our lungs were BURNING." Hee. Sutton and Beastie duck into some restaurant and get help from the locals. Dom peers into a darkened nightclub just as Rex finds a flyer on the ground with the club address -- and they realize they've gone the wrong way. Rex and Brandin hop into a cab and collapse against each other all Patsy-and-Edwina-ish, Brandin gasping, "I'm gonna die." Beastie runs into the club, pushes his tongue against the club owner's anus, and confirms their gig. Fuckers.
The oh-so-steaming-hot-like-poo nightclub is called The Goddess, which sounds like a Chinese restaurant. It should be called The Panda Goddess, or The Golden Noodle Goddess, or something. Beastie salivates about how cool it is, and Fletcher and Dominic say defensively that hey, they were INVITED and are going to hang out "with the models or whatever." Hey, if they didn't go, I think I'd worry. But Dom takes his Valtrex twice a day, like the ad says, and can go swimming and horseback riding and to parties with models just like a normal person. SHITSPITTER takes the stage to a roomful of very thin, all-black-wearing, arm-folded, tight-lipped, rosy-cheeked-yet-severe-looking "beautiful" people. They plug their upcoming BoB gig with their "buddies FLICKERSTICK," at which Corey and Rex barf down their sleeves. "Buddies" -- yeah, right. Then they start playing that song that goes, "I'm a JERK, leaving you all by yourself," and the models prance out, and it has to be the most mismatched models-to-music I've ever seen. And I watch Fashion File a lot. It's just a bad match. Dom drools at all the scantily-clad females. Apey says they played a good set and that "people liked [them] even though they weren't a typical rock audience." God, Apey is so goddamn smug! He can tell everything about a person just by looking at them! Dom tries to hit on a model named Monica, but gets yelled at by the stage manager. Hey, he really needed to talk to her! It was important! Then Apey earns my pity by saying that they "got to look at really hot models" when they were done playing. "Look"? AP, there's this magazine called Vogue. You can "look" at models there. But when you're in the same room as a person? You can actually go up and talk to them. Maybe even dance a little, like Corey and Bob and Beastie and Ramsey are doing. See? You too can interact with members of the opposite sex! But don't do that little shooting the pretend gun, blowing it off, and sticking it back in the holster thing that Beastie does. That's just lame.