Previously on Crumpling Moppet Theater: Costa Rica was the bunching capital of the world, and also the intrigue capital of the world, as the Paolos Yielded the Weavers. Phil refers to this as "conspiring," which...man, don't crank the morality machine, Phil; there's already smoke coming out of the gears. The Weavers responded by holding fast to Jesus' general distaste for blue-collar workers, and by explaining that the Gadzookskis are bad people because they have breast implants. And wear hoochie shorts. Oh, never mind, I'm thinking of someone else. At a coffee-bean-hunting Roadblock, Tammy was the unlucky recipient of the invisible needle in the imaginary haystack, and the Gaghans fell behind. Despite God's efforts to again Yield the Weavers by getting their van mired in the mud, the Gaghans finished in last place, breaking hearts everywhere with their sniffling dignity. Now that there's no one on the show who's really worth giving a flying fig about unless you like the Bengals or blondes, who will be eliminated next?
Credits. Man, look at all the nice teams that are gone. Imagine how different this entire thing would look if you had Aiellos instead of Weavers. Of course, you could also have Schroeders instead of Bransens or Rogerses instead of Gadzookskis, so perhaps I should be grateful for small favors. I also would like to say how much I resent being teased with a large elephant clearly being ridden by a local in some elephant-riding locale, because we are clearly not going to be seeing that. Tease. [BOMP.]
Commercials. Oh, man. Anne Heche is in a schmaltzy Christmas love story now. Some people really have a way of making everyone else's lives look really boring. Actually, the creepiness of that commercial convinces me we should abandon the coverage of commercials for the remainder of the recap, because this is already going to be long enough. So Anne Heche is it on this front until next time.
The FauxDeans play an upbeat guitar riff as we return to Costa Rica, its lush forests and lingering mists reminding us that we are likely not in the United States or any of its thoroughly oil-drained wildlife refuges. Phil tells us that here in Quepos, things are "sleepy." I'm a little sleepy myself, come to think of it. Also, it's a "surf town." It's nice that you can still be a surf town, what with all the kids and their iPods and their text messaging. Phil strolls on a beach while explaining that this was the pit stop, and I note that his jeans don't look nearly as strange as usual. I even kind of like the tangerine shirt. I believe I will envision Phil as a scoop of sherbet. Teams stopped here at the beach to rest, et cetera. Phil wonders whether the Paolos can keep doing well now that they're not using all their energy to berate each other, and whether the Weavers can "survive being outcasts." Like they care. Blessed are ye when men shall revile you and persecute you, Phil. Don't you know anything?