Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Tampa, Florida, location of The South Florida Human Genome Lab For Reality Television Contestant Breeding. I love that we always manage to end up in South Florida. Tampa must have used a private contractor to pull in tourists via a lucrative product-placement deal with Next. I'm not kidding. Corporations and, I'm sure, even cities, do that all the time. And it would surprise me not at all for there to be a "Producers Wild Card" bachelorette planted in this city, whom Bob is contractually obligated to keep on the show until the client (in this case, "Tampa") gets its investment back. It's all rigged, Mary. Read the writing on the wall. It's too far away, you say? Well, squint a little harder and maybe move your glasses further down your nose a little? Gooooood.
Whoosh! The Stock Footage Film Festival shows its classic "Plane We're Supposed To Think They're On" retrospective as a plane takes off into the blue L.A. sky. Montage-y moments later, we're in a black Suburban, simultaneously wasting the limited natural resources of gas, electricity, energy, class, good taste, civility, and ethics, all the while driving underneath a big green road sign trumpeting, "I-275 North / Tampa." Meh. Florida. Do you guys know I was somewhere last night that someone actually made a "hanging chads" joke? Isn't that amazing? How dare he, right? I thought the very same thing. If you've ever done that, don't. If you're doing it right now, stop. Or it'll make me wonder aloud if your brain hadn't been upgraded correctly for Y2K. See how annoying that is? Yuck. I hate Florida.
Though himself at an age at which my own mother already had three children of her own, Bob wants us to know, "[Mary] certainly wants immediately to have a family, and I don't know that I'm at that same stage in my life at this point." Yeah, but you still can't bail until you use the word "Tampa" in a sentence five more times, so make with the local-color chat already. "But, at the same time, if things are right, you've got to move forward with them, too." Holding a bouquet of store-bought, wilting, it's-not-the-heat- it's-the-humidity flowers in hand, Bob arrives at Mary's door. She bounds for the door with the full extent of nutritional supplementation as the Centrum Silver will allow, and then pulls open the door with a hearty creeeeeeeeeeeak (oops, bones, sorry), hugging Bob and hoping that the kids somehow get her hair texture instead.
The lovahs lounge on a Florida-patterned (you know what I mean) couch in Mary's house, Bob reading something asking him to "Describe [his] perfect Saturday." What is this, love by the light of a Cosmo quiz? Either way, Bob rephrases the question, "You know what? Better than that, describe the perfect Sunday." What? It's been a long time since I've had a proper career that allowed for two days weekly of fun and frolic, but from what I remember, the two days were virtually indistinguishable from one another: in my case, volunteering at the soup kitchen from 9-7 both days. But I guess Bob is only half as virtuous as I am, so it's his free, God-ignoring Sundays he'll bear in mind as he remembers his favorite day of the week while standing in line at the pits of Hell. And just remember that, some time in the very recent past, Mary told us all that her perfect Sunday was spending the whole day watching football. Which sounds almost exactly like how she remains true to herself now: "Waking up in the morning and looking at you, making breakfast together, and then taking our two boys and a girl to go to the park or the beach." Bob interrupts with a defensive rat-tat-tat-tat, machine-gun- from-Dick-Tracy laugh, and the primary-colored gangster's houses all have big, perfectly-round holes in them when the rats and tats die down. Interesting time to become a commitmentphobe, buddy. Especially in light of such a confessional as this, compliments of Mary, Queen Of Desperate Codependence: "I don't need any more time to figure out what my feelings are for Bob, because I already know what they are. I'm in love with him, and I want him to be my husband and I want us to have children together. Many children." In some ways, this is all very charming, in a childhood wish fulfillment kind of way: Mary saw someone on TV she thought was dreamy, so she constructed an elaborate fantasy where he comes to rescue her, marry her, and they have a million babies together and live happily ever after. ["Just like I have done with Trey Parker. Wait, did I just say that out loud?" -- Wing Chun] It's just too bad that stupid, actual Bob has to make it literal and make our dreams all creepy and literal. Oh, and Mary wants the two of them to "grow old together." Fish in a barrel, people. Y'all don't even need me. Mary asks if there's anything Bob wants out of life, and he makes the necessary facial maneuvers necessary to condition a response, but it's the unfortunate reality that his tongue just happens to be in her mouth at the time.