Steve cracks open a bottle of champagne and offers Randi a mimosa. "I don't drink in the morning," she snarks, but she laughs at her own rank horror when the bottle bubbles over and he curses and runs back into the kitchen. He returns with the bottle wrapped in a towel and sits down, burps, burps again, shovels in eggs, tears off a chunk of sausage, gets a steak, eats it, burps, and announces, "Beef! It's what for breakfast." Randi waits until he burps one more time before losing her temper and announcing, "You can't be like that with my parents. My family is very scary. My dad, first off, is very intimidating. My mom, on the other hand, is the most judgmental. My brother has not liked any of my boyfriends." Oh, they sound awful. I mean, I would never get away with bringing someone like that home either (because of the part where I like my family enough not to), but I wouldn't place the blame on my "scary" family because of it. Oh, look. Today I was better than someone on Fox. Dear Mom: today I smelled slightly better than trash.

Randi advises that Steve stick with her sister, and Steve volleys, "Try to avoid my sister." When pressed for a reason why, Steve cackles, "My sister once chased me down the street with a butcher knife," which he follows by wolfing an enormous bite of pancakes and laughing shrilly. Elegant timing. But I'm still giving the whole thing an "F" on general principle, so y'all can just stop trying. Randi fishes in the deep hollows of Loch You'd Better Compliment Me Genetic Inferior Dude, asking if Steve's parents will be okay with her. "Most of the chicks I bring home are a little...run down, I guess?" Okay, "run down" is funny. I'm sorry, but it is. Randi worries that he's twenty-nine and that he still "parties it up," and Steve tells her, "I don't think I drink a lot, but there are occasions that it takes me a long time to figure out where the hell I am." In this run, he also drops that his father is an alcoholic and that he thinks he'll stop partying at thirty. Nicely done, Steve. Yeah, so...I'm still giving it an "F."

Oh, look. Here's The Host. The wedding invitations are going out tomorrow morning. Eleven days! Eleven days! Randi stares in horror as The Host says that she arranged their first date -- a day of treatment at a spa. Steve will have the deep tissue up his nose massage, I'll bet. And if there isn't a "shiatsu" "god bless you" exchange somewhere during this date, it's only because they edited it out. My heroes.