"I'm gonna pick Tara up in her favorite car," Jesse continues. The one you're not in, you mean? "Tara's gonna wear her favorite clothes." What it this, a junior high school game of M.A.S.H.? How many children is she choosing? 1, 2, 3, or 19? "I'm gonna wear the favorite clothes she likes on a guy." Pants that don't come off? "I will cook Tara's favorite dinner tonight." Er...not you soufflé?
Jesse enters the house confessionalizing that his last date with Tara was great, but that he felt she froze up in front of the cameras. What cameras? I don't see any cameras. Just a totally natural, uninterrupted view of six women fighting over one guy on TV. But if there are any cameras, they're keeping them pretty well-hidden. Jesse thinks that if she's "still skeptical by the end of the date," it's going to send him "a sign." That says, "Gone hitchhiking: Anywhere but here." They retire to Jesse's house, where he covers Tara's eyes and leads her into the house. He removes his hand to reveal what her confessional tells us is "a field of flowers that had every shade of peenk." Argh! Peenk! Ghost of Trista! Ghost of Trista! Out with you, foul specter! And, anyway, the peenk (Ghost of Trista! Ghost of Trista!) totally doesn't even read on television, and it looks like she's walking into a big ol' field of tabouleh. Mmmm...delicious tabouleh. They sit and toast to Tara's "favorite things." Jesse tells us that he's "not 100% sold" on Tara, even though Jenny feels Tara is the best catch for Jesse. Back at Tabouleh Tavern, Tara admits that she still needs to get to know him better, and wonders if people really can fall in love in six weeks on television. But Jesse tells us that his parents went on six dates and then eloped, which speaks for the universal totality of how it works for all couples on the planet. Ah, the self-righteous bullying of the narrow-minded. In a confessional, Tara pretends she's human and tells us, "I've never been in that situation, where I've fallen in love so soon." They retire to the fire as Jesse bemoans that he feels like he doesn't know "the real Tara." The one who drools at your hairy ape feet and who has to beg you to think she's a cool girl? I guess "hard to get" is five minutes ago.
"Are we gonna tap the keg?" Thank you, Suzie, for finally talking some reason around here. Back at the house, the girls frolic in their bikinis, do some keg stands, jump in the pool, play chicken, and act generally wasted. Uninvited to play in their reindeer games like in that HBO movie that was on all the time when I was young about the little girl who gets locked in the basement on the one day where it's sunny on the planet where it always rains that for some reason no one ever remembers but me, Trish sits inside at the kitchen table. She's frowning. She's clad in black. She knows that beer will make her evil brown sugar self melt away to just a pointy hat.