Brant is still throwing up, and now we get to see the result in the gutter. Oh, man, that beer was inside him so briefly that the puddle of vomit has a head of foam on it. He goes back inside and asks her to finish up for him. She's like, nope, sorry, can't. Which is, unlike the beer itself at this point, just cold. Dude threw up and you can't throw him a line? He chokes the rest down, and that should take care of him giving her beer-kisses for a good long while; he'll probably never want a beer again after this, and she deserves zero kisses. They're in seventh place, but she thinks they're in last, because she's not reading the subtitle right there on the screen.
Jordan and Jeff arrive after they're gone. "When we saw that we had to drink beer, I knew that would be so good because he likes to drink beer!" Jordan interviews. Incisive analysis as always, Jordo. Between giant chugs, Jeff calmly declares, "I'm a champion." That's what I'm talking about. Tall, brown-haired, Midwestern beer-drinkers named Jeff represent!
Brent and Caite arrive at Beatles-Platz, Jeff finishes their beer in last place, but still gets a round of applause from the impressed bar-goers. He must have really put it away. Now Brent and Caite are lost on the Reeperbahn, and Team BB11 are in their cab. "If we get eliminated, I'm going back to that bar," Jordan says, which is the most brilliant thing I've ever heard her say. They get dropped off at the Beatles thingy. "Let's ask older people," Jordan says, I guess on the logic that older people are more likely to have known the Beatles. Brent and Caite are still trying to find the damn place, plus Caite's legs still aren't working so well. Jordan nearly leads Jeff into a strip joint, and let's hope that's not the last time someone ever types that sentence. "Oh, I see, it's right in front of us," Caite finally says. They wander in and Phil asks them, "Expecting bad news?" Phil tells them they're actually team number seven, and still in it. Caite's verklempt. "Lucky number seven, three times the charm," she says, whatever that means.Finally Jordan and Jeff walk in and Phil watches their approach like a doctor with bad news. Paul McCartnot welcomes them to Germany, and Jeff graciously thanks him. "It's pleasant here, I like it." And they saw more of it than anyone. Phil tells them they arrived last, and a drum on the soundtrack makes a noise like a coffin lid slamming. That may have been a bit much. "This race wasn't easy for you, was it?" Phil says. Jeff knows they could have done better. "I'm a little sick. I don't know if it's the sauerkraut or just coming in last." "Four legs of the race," Phil remarks. Jeff corrects, "Four legs and a boot of beer." Please note if you will that Phil has yet to eliminate them, because they certainly haven't. Finally he tells them that it's a non-elimination leg, so they're still in it. And that, Julie Chen, is how you fuck with someone's head.
Jeff interviews, "When you're down and out and you have nobody or nothing and we have to do the rest on our own, that's when your true personality comes out...I feel like we're gonna rebound from this and it should make us a stronger team." Maybe because it's made him realize that unlike last time, he can't carry her eighty percent of the way to the end and still watch her win.
M. Giant is a Minneapolis-based writer with a wife, a son, and a number of cats that seems to have settled at around two. Learn waaaay too much about him at Velcrometer, follow him on Twitter, or just e-mail him at M.Giant[at]gmail.com