We learn that the first Date Box has already arrived, and Chris sends Kelly-Jo out to get it. Why he specifies her for the trip is anyone's guess, but I sincerely hope it's because (1) there's a bucket of acid sitting on top of the front door that will fall onto Kelly-Jo's head when she opens said door, causing the bucket to fall onto her head as she stumbles around for our amusement, at least until she completely disintegrates; or (2) the Date Box is, in fact, a flaming bag of poop. Either way, Kelly-Jo returns inside moments later carrying a yellow suitcase with black trim that she rests on The Biggest Ottoman Ever. Chris bids the women a cryptic and malevolent farewell: "Enjoy this house. Enjoy the dates. And I'll see most of you at the next Rose Ceremony." Mwah ha ha ha ha ha. Chris takes off with a "so long," and the girls begin applauding. Whether it's for the thing that's square, interchangeable, and lifeless or whether it's for the suitcase is anyone's guess. But before Chris is even out the door, fourteen girls -- minus one little piggy -- are crowded around the Date Box like it's glowing with the meaning of life. One of the Lindsays (I think) snatches an envelope from the inside the box and reads off the participants of the first date: Krazy-Eyes Brooke, No Distinguishing Physical Characteristics Meredith, Karin, Antoinette, and Kelly-Jo. Hey, Mr. Producer? I don't want to freak anybody out, but Antoinette is actually...ah, never mind. Oh, and there's a handwritten note from Bob! Here's what it says: "Let's take our hearts to San Francisco for the day." No wonder they let him write a whole book. His story editors write the way people talk! There's actually an audible "aaaaaw" from the girls. It's true: if this prose is any indication, that book he wrote is going to be amazing. Look! That sentence is even in iambic pentameter! Except with an extra two syllables at the end! Which is, like, two BETTER than Shakespeare. Let's name his classic book before it even hits the stands in November. I nominate the title One Hundred Years of Bobitude.