Well, that was a new low. Things start off shitty -- Arrow actually cheering Frank's return -- and get worse and worse. Task: design a line of swimwear for Trina Turk, who's apparently yooge in the business, and then have a fashion show at the overcast beach for swimwear buyers. Stupidly enough, the winning team won't even have to participate in next week's task. Nicole "steps up" and refuses to do anything interesting, remarkable, or useful as Arrow's new PM. Carey designs the gayest swim trunks in the universe, causing Aaron to freak out in a gay panic and several of his disgusting teammates to veer real fuckin' close to getting backhanded; nobody stops him from creating the awful things, putting them on, running around in them, or working the catwalk. On Kinetic, Heidi and Marisa get headstrong with each other, and Marisa gets a little Lady MacBeth about the whole "Perpetual PM" concept. The entire world is shocked at the fashion show by Carey's pink, spandexy, boy-cut, paisley monstrosity, but only Derek has the presence of mind to laugh his ass off. Arrow loses by like a thousand bucks, and things get fucking sickening: Reward? Playboy Mansion. Relevant? No. Appropriate? No. Gross? To the max. Tits and whores and social diseases! Thanks, Trump. Awesome. Awesome how there is exactly one straight man on the entire team, who is not a fucking pig and probably won't enjoy it either. They seem to make the best of it, surrounded by actual literal prostitutes and the pants-shitting incontinent symbol of all that is wrong with Trump, "Hef" -- though you wouldn't catch me going in that pool. Meanwhile Arrow decides to blame the failure on Michelle. Who? Exactly. Not Carey, who designed the horrid thing, or Nicole, who is worthless, but Michelle. Trump sees through this immediately and zeroes in on Carey, then acts like fifteen fucking kinds of jackass about the gay swimsuit previously worn by Carey: he refuses to even touch it, tossing it onto the desk with a pen. This horror about the filthy gay swimsuit worn by Carey overrides Trump's judgment entirely, and...what does it take to go from "gross" and "a sad comment on our world of today" to "actual fucking evil"? Playboy Mansion, for starters, but Trump gives every indication -- between the looks of disgust, stupid cracks, weird Freudian slips, and the tongs -- that he knows damn well he's firing Carey almost entirely for being gay. Or black, I don't know anymore. I do know you can't spin it, though: Playboy Bunnies; faggot jokes; being so grossed out by the black guy you can't even touch the clothes he wore. This is the worst goddamn show on television.
Last week, while you were watching Desperate Housewives (or Cold Case, Celebrity Island, Hogan Knows Best, The L Word, or Without A Trace, or whatever was in reruns on some other channel, if you were smart), stuff supposedly happened. That's not really how I remember it, but at least it wasn't the flaming ram-rod of death that this show's turning out to be. So Trump explains, in the Previouslies, what would appear to have happened, including how they'll now be making up new rules and twists thirty-seven times an episode. Trump says, in last week's boardroom, that it is in fact "all about winning," fires Martin... and Frank shakes his head, disappointedly, staying silent; too classy to, say, throw a thumbsucking immature classless Superbowl Shuffle on his own behalf. Just like last week! (This is not at all how it went. You are being fucked with, America.)
"Business is full of complexities. That's what makes it so interesting. Anyone who thinks it's boring hasn't given it much thought." -- Donald J. Trump, Chairman, Trump University
Right out of her overdramatizing, grade school ass, Nicole pulls the probability that there's "more than a 50% chance" nobody comes back from the Frank/Martin boardroom. Her compatriots on Team Frank buy it, because... I don't know why... and jump around shrieking, "Oh my God, really? Really? Oh my God! That's bad news!" It would seem that you go crazy a lot faster when you're living in the third world. That kind of groupthink, random assignment of authority, and clairvoyance to things that will be happening six seconds from now doesn't generally start breaking out on like Big Brother until around the tenth week. So of course, Frank -- all 100% of him -- immediately shows up, breathing hard, and his compatriots all jump around shrieking "Oh my God, really? Really? Oh my God! Frank is back!" They circle around him and climb him like monkeys and scream and shout because they're so glad he's back. I think also because he was once their PM, and they're so used to kissing ass that they... will ultimately triumph on this stupid game show. There are so many hugs, you guys, and so much hyper, scary babbling.
Frank doesn't do anything heinous this week, except for this part, and we're going to mostly boop-bleep past it because it's obnoxious as shit, but basically, he immediately starts lecturing us in interview, and the teammates in the yard, for a million billion years, about how special and important his day was, and what a drama it has been to be Frank today, and how he overcomes and is amazing, and how he -- or his fellows at the auto shop, maybe -- has given himself at some point in his horrible life the incredibly embarrassing nickname "Frankie Suits," which I will not be calling him unless irony is on the menu. Kinetic watches this depressing, adrenaline-aided performance, over the hedge, and laugh at him. It's like if you took how sad and annoying Glengarry Glen Ross is, re-cast it with illiterates, and gave them each a bag of cocaine and no expertise in any field. Team Frank's eyes are bright and stupid as he lectures them. It's like, "For the first time now you see who 'Frankie Suits' is about!" and "Listen to me! This is how we do it back at home!" and various other [sic]kening talk like this. Considering he's pretty decent the rest of the episode, it's not the best way to get things started, but whatever. I mean, how can you hate someone like this? "Frankie Suits." That's just touching, is what that is.