Beachfront scenes and white-capped waves abound as we location-scout our way to a sign announcing, "Welcome To Huntington Beach." Generically surf-sounding music kicks up on the soundtrack as Brian Wilson waits expectantly for the ringing of his phone in hopes that his band will once again be called upon to reunite. Call him up, Fleiss. Throw the man a bone. In the past twelve years alone, he's already thought of six more tropical locales that vaguely rhyme with "Key Largo." Glaring dully out of the window of a moving car and believing (with a lack of knowledge that's nearly pre-natal in its cognitive reasoning ability) as a result of the passing palm trees that his first hometown date exists entirely inside the pages of The Lorax, Jesse "In My NFL, The 'F' Stands For 'Formerly Of'" Palmer breathes heavily out of his mouth and doesn't think at all about math. "This week, I'm going on hometown dates to meet the women and their families," he chalkboard-and-pointers, pleased that he'll be able to spend some time near the water, particularly considering the monster's innate fear of fire, flaming torches and otherwise. "My hometown date today is with Jessica B." -- as opposed to bachelorette Jessica Tandy, I suppose -- "I'm gonna meet up with her on the beach and then we're gonna head back to Jessica's parents' place, where I'll meet her family." We'll montage there fast and then we'll speak really slow. That's where we wanna go. Way down to Koko-NO.

Down on the beach, we discover Jessica B. frolicking on an empty beach under threatening skies, and the lord thy god Himself is unceremoniously let go from The Bachelor's production staff for failing to show sunshine on the day the camera crew was dispatched to shoot b-roll. Fleiss: one. Yahweh: still at the gate. Jesse continues sounding out past seasons' transcripts, compliments of the fine folks at Burrelle's Transcripts, speechifying in the most well-thought-out, animated way he knows how (parse that clause and you will grow to learn that it is not, in fact, a compliment), "Jessica's got so many things about her that I absolutely love" -- and we're looking at the top two of them right now in that tight-ass scoop neck -- "and that's why I get along with her so well." And also because of your mutual appreciation of the early works of Virgil. No, sorry. I actually meant "early works of Garfield, the hilariously fat cartoon cat." Don't you guys, like, always get them confused, too?

"The thing I need to figure out now is whether I can spend the rest of my life with her." Electric word, "life." It means forever and that's a mighty long time. So when you call up that shrink in Beverly Hills. You know the one. Dr. Everything'll be all right. Sorry. I was once so taken aback by the sheer ludicrousness of the two of these adolescent-minded Neanderthals contemplating the notion of "the rest of my life" that I defaulted to my happy place where everything that happens can be sung as a Prince song. Except for the songs recorded between 1990 and 2003. And the time he tried to convince us he was a "slave." And anything having to do with anything having to do with a Batman movie. Or anything that isn't "Pop Life," the best song ever.

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