Everybody lines up against the wall and the choosing begins. Heidi picks Derek first, because he's the best. Frank picks Carey, because... that is supermotherfucking fishy, isn't it? After the sixteen gay panics over the course of this show, the first two picks are also the two gay guys, and this somehow reflects... well on Trump? That's the reasoning here, and it makes me queasy. Heidi takes crunchy-looking Aimee; Frank picks the next hottie, Tim; Heidi takes Marisa; Frank picks the next hottie, Aaron. As usual, we're going in hotness order, just like every season, and like every season I'm sure there are some panties in a bunch somewhere, but you know what? Real world. Learn it, live it. This isn't some kind of weird effect, it's the way the world works. Use that to your advantage and stop wishing things were different. They're not and they won't be. Just get hotter and you won't have a problem. And on that note, shut the eff up, Martin. He hypothesizes that it's so weird because normally he's picked as "either one or two" in like every project. Other things that are totally weird: how he's very nervous and he is never, ever nervous.
Projects For Which Martin Has Been Picked First, Historically:
Left-handed screwdriver procurement.
One-person, time-consuming committees.
The down-low, if it comes down to Martin or the twitching schizophrenic in the bushes who might not even be in this public park for anonymous sex with married men, but even so: tough call.
The Quiet Game.
Heidi takes Angela, Frank calls the strange empty space called Nicole ("Hi, boys!" she says as she approaches -- hmm), Heidi requests Surya's permission to call him, Frank takes the wonderful James. Heidi takes Kristine and her glasses, Muna please, and Jenn; Frank takes poor Stefani and Michelle, and through the dastardly machinations of long division, is forced to take Martin. Trump laughs his ass off about Martin being picked last, and it's strangely adorable. Martin interviews his sudden apperception that there's some kind of "popularity thing" going on, but quickly drops that poker-hot concept -- with which he needs to fucking acquaint himself already -- in favor of one of his favorite bedtime stories, how once there was a little boy named Martin whose mommy told him he was the most precious thing in the world, and engineered the violent accidental deaths of anybody who was ever mean to her precious little boy, and sometimes she would make him wear a dress and stand out on the porch for some reason, but that's all in the past, and the little boy Martin grew up to be a whiny, pissy, lazy little man who dressed like the acid trips of nerds, and a most amazing thing would happen with him, where people immediately and correctly recoiled from him at first contact, but slowly and over time they grew to like him, and none of this was his problem or his responsibility, because other people's "standoffishness" has nothing to do with your greasy personality, horrible sayings from Fortunecookia, total allergy to effort, or the creepy love-hate-stalker-chronic masturbator relationship you have with yourself, or your creepy bi-curious vibe.