Is this the first commercial break? I hate it when they overwork the recapper.
More shots of Britney's old-ass performance. Again, Trevor tells us that he likes Britney for five reasons. The screen fills with the list again. Reason #2: "She's damn fine." Reason #3: "She's pretty fine."
These poor kids have to fly Southwest? That ain't right. Having a plastic boarding pass and shit. How will Ashley and Erik get to sit together? Anyway, Vegas. Dan reminds us that when they went to this thing last year, everybody was trying to talk to Christina or Brian McKnight and they were all, "Oh, the Making the Band kids." This time they're calling O-Town by name, asking them to sit and chat with each sad DJ. The entire convention is filled with fake enthusiasm. Dan tells us that they toured the country in an hour and a half. He means "tortured," though. We then get a montage of DJs, which in that level of concentration makes me both terrified and nauseous. I know I've said it before, but I'll say it again. I hate DJs. With those voices, and the tendency to hold out vowel sounds longer than necessary. With those stupid laughs, and "speaking of"s. DJs are just standup comics that sucked the life out of every open-mic night, and then continued to make sure you couldn't escape them by doing their shitty routines in your car on your way to work. Hate the DJ. Hate it. Worse than shoe salesmen, with their snotty tones and they way they look at your feet like you're causing them grief. Like it's so hard to go in the back and pull out a box in size 8 when your entire job consists of going in the back and pulling out a box in size 8. Jacob's pupils are crazy dilated. I think that boy's on the pot. Trevor says that they "make music," which is a statement I don't think would hold up in a court of law. And for the record, "until the breaking of the dawn" is the worst lyric ever written. Worse than "Thank you, India." I love that they have to blur out all of the other non-DJ or non O-Town people standing around because their faces are probably registering pure disgust.
Boston Mike is back, talking about how pretty the "aawahhd" is. They ask him to explain what he's talking about. The RMA award is apparently some kind of crystal microphone kind of thing. Doc Holliday -- who I call No Name, if some of you have forgotten (because I refuse to call him Doc Holliday) -- is back, saying he's sure the boys are going to win the award. Erik is pretty sure the award is going to go to "Lady Marmalade." Oh, Lord! Have y'all seen the forearm tattoos Jacob put on himself? Some kind of Led Zeppelin-looking thing just over each elbow? Someone needs to save that child from himself. Erik tells us that they might win the award. The boys all try to figure out who they should thank when they go up to accept the award. They remember Clive Davis. Fans. Things like that. Ikaika. Oops! No, they didn't. Ashley says he was anxious to find out who was going to win.