Robin says goodbye to Clay, and he easy-breezily says, "Bye, have fun!" in this we're both totally above this, aren't we, so there's no shame here, and I'll see you at the salon way...to which she's vastly and adorably immune. "…You, too!" Back inside, Carolyn breathes, "This was a tough Boardroom." George is pensive and very fucking indulgent as Trump intones, "Not an easy one, but you have to rely on the past." By which -- I don't know if you know this -- he means "history." Rebecca goes hopping ahead of Randal into the suite, where I'm guessing it's champagne and impromptu dances and songs all around.
Crazy Taxi, verbatim: "Rebecca and Randal don't have any creative bones in their body, and they don't have a chance at all as a team. They are going to lose the next task horribly, especially with Rebecca with her broken ankle. [WHAT? Is the next task a cross-country race?] I feel sorry for the three people on Capital Edge that are left, especially for Adam and Felisha, because they're going to see a different side of life, because now that I'm gone, Alla doesn't have anybody to pick on -- and they're next."
(Thanks to MartyBru01 for the thalkboard, to Muwarr90 for the Roadblock, to Listen Lady for the karate chop, to Newmy for the XM channel 45 info, gastrolyor for Welcome to the Suck, the too-clever-by-'alf Jeebus Shuttlesworth for the M.I.A. comparison, and to sofa addicted for the Machiavellian Rebecca Hopping Concept.)
Next week's two back-to-back hours -- fucking give thanks, Jacob -- in which at some point one team totally sabotages the other (and it's Excel! Rock on!) and there's some fucking Shania Twain. Because if there's one thing that will make me long for the days of Adam's fucking Ambiguously Gay Cirque De Roadshow, it's goddamn Shania Twain. And then, after two whole stupid hours, there will be a Final Four. Which is kind of exciting, but I should mention to Everybody Who Doesn't Have TiVo: NBC wanted me to tell you to fuck right off. Don't shoot the messenger!
But let's talk about what we've learned. While Trump would have you believe that the point is a "Creative Balance," I think it's more along the lines of five simple words: You're. Not. Fucking. Angela. Chase. Nobody's listening to your imaginary voice-over, nobody has a magic mirror that can see your entire life and history and soul and judge accordingly, nobody cares where your parents are from, nobody cares about any of your bullshit. As Buffy said, courtesy Jane Espenson, in the controversial episode "Earshot" -- stay with me, if you will, because it's good stuff, I know I'm an irritating Of course, Buffy! person but that doesn't mean I can't lay some fucking wisdom on you now and then -- "My life happens to -- on occasion -- suck beyond the telling of it. Sometimes more than I can handle. And it's not just mine: Every single person down there is ignoring your pain because they're too busy with their own. The beautiful ones, the popular ones, the guys that pick on you, everyone. If you could hear what they were feeling: the loneliness, the confusion. It looks quiet [out] there: It's not. It's deafening."