Vast cheers over the credits, in which we get basically the only glimpse of anybody associated with this show that is not Sean, Lee, and the constant leering head of Donald Trump. Coming back, Sean receives the following: cheers that are louder than Lee's, cheers that are longer than Lee's, and boos that are less numerous than Lee's, in that they are nonexistent. Damn it. Lee's going to lose. "Believe it or not," says Trump -- and there's a certain Catskills charm in drunkenly screaming, "WE DON'T!" -- "I haven't made up my mind!" Trump tells us to go to NBC.com for some reason I don't care about whatsoever, because of the immediate, visceral, poetic, intense meaninglessness of this entire exercise.
Sean worries about Andrea, who sits down with the doctor and makes a small face about how probably she has tuberculosis and no Ewan McGregor in sight to sing the softer hits of the '70s and '80s at her. Sean tells Tammy and Tarek that, though they are doing a great job, this is still kind of "uh oh," and that -- this intrigues me -- he hasn't yet "rolled up [his] sleeves for this yet," but apparently he's going to have to. Um? Cobra? Get those bitches rolled, Sean. Speaking of somebody who would give her life and lungs to get some shit down, no matter how pointless, Andrea's completely fine. She tells us that she was relieved that she was not dying, but that she felt bad about Sean losing manpower for the time it took her to make sure she wasn't going to drop dead, and that Sean deserves to be the next Apprentice. And you know what, I'm rooting quietly and in my own way for Lee, but "Sean deserves to be the next Apprentice" is kind of a multivalent statement, and I can't say I disagree with that either. Andrea returns and tells them she just burst a blood vessel in her sinus or whatever, and the way it's edited makes it seem like she was gone for about the length of a cigarette, but Sean said in an interview that it was more like four hours. Sean interviews that she's a "rock" and it's great to have her back, and you know what? It totally is: "I don't wanna talk about it, I just wanna get to work. What's up." Word. WORD, Andrea! I love you!
Lee and Roxanne welcome Lys for the walkthrough she demanded. I hope this is a bloodbath. I wish I were Allie right now so I could use her dark powers and make this even uglier than it's going to be. Lys comes in and immediately starts asking what the hell they think they're doing. Which is: nothing, and she knows that. "Tell me you don't have a script for halftime." They do not. "Do that." They try. "Tell me you know how the 'Shirt Off Your Back' raffle is going to go." They do not know what "shirts" are. Lenny and Lys get into a face-off thing where she starts turning into an asshole, like, Lenny says "Jamie Foxx" when he means "Michael J. Fox," and I guess she has a point that you don't want Michael J. Fox to hear you screw that up, because it's rude, but she corrects him in a condescending way that says she's not really thinking about that right now. I mean, again, I don't blame her for dicking around with them a little bit, because they are an embarrassment on every level, but that doesn't mean she isn't additionally a dick for doing it. The revenge is this: "Who's dealing with the players?" Lenny, they say, and have the class not to rejoice openly at the terrified face of Lys at this answer. Except it's not class, it's the fact that they are too dumb to know why this is terrifying. Well, Roxanne maybe, but she's not going to tell anybody but us, because that is how Roxanne rolls. Lys addresses us, with the Lenny fear still in her eyes, about how Lee might wanna "check out the weaknesses in his team" and how "maybe" Lenny is not a good choice to deal with celebrities. Or indeed, people of any kind. "But," Lys imagines, "that's a choice Lee made as the leader," she says, dropping a couple more flies in your wine glass, because please. Like Lee has made a choice since he saw Lenny back on the horizon. "Not the strongest choice," Lys says. Lys, you have no idea.