When You're Here, You're Family

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So, You Don't Like Italian?

While Lord Lunkhead goes to find a like-minded member of his species to help pluck burrs and nesting animal life out of his hide, Shannon sneaks in a quick wrap-up confessional: "There's a lot of concerns I have about gold-diggers. They could all be gold-diggers." Lord Lunkhead, meanwhile, shoots off the quick sentiment, "We really feel we could actually narrow down who would be right for Andrew in an intimate relationship," before spotting Dian Fossey lurking surreptitiously just over one of Malibu's rolling hills, holding a clipboard and writing furiously, and he scurries off on all fours, rejoining his pride and failing to find a modest way of covering his gigantic red butt.

Nobody loves a good date box quite like Livingston Taylor, so it's with the accompaniment of considerably gay strummy guitar noodling that Liz finds a gold-wrapped box sitting on a pedestal just outside the house. Since she found it and since she brought it in and since everything makes her cry like an overtired three-year-old who wasn't allowed to watch two episodes of Dora before bed, the girls defer to Liz and let her open the date box. She does so, and within finds a note addressed to Amber. The girls fake-cheer as Tennessina rolls her eyes extravagantly, and Amber sounds out a note (use your context clues, Ammbur!) reading, "Let's fade away under the stars." That's totally the name of the slim volume of Bachelor-themed, Ginsberg-esque poetry I'm going to publish through Mighty Big Press just as soon as this season is over. It'll be the most poetic-est! Kirsten snipes in confessional, "I don't think that if Shannon and Kevin knew that the last three times that she's been around alcohol and she's been really wasted, um, they would've have chosen her to go on a single date." Liz expresses similar skepticism about Kevin and Shannon's intentions as, back inside, we're treated to a wonderfully Fellini-esque moment of Amber standing in the living room, rocking an ice skate in her arms like a small child. Quiet down, bitches. The ice skate is sleeeeeeeping.

Darkness falls across the land. The midnight Amber is close at hand. A limo pulls up in front of The House That Spite Built, and from said car emerges Andrew "Little Lord Fauntler-goy" Firestone wearing a black zip-up sweatshirt thing over a black t-shirt. Are they on their way to drama tech rehearsal? Dorks. Andrew tells us that he's glad L&L chose Amber to go out with him, as "she's one of the ladies [he's] really, really interested in." Amber, meanwhile, tells us that she thinks tonight she'll be able to let her "true self out" because it will be a totally "normal" situation where there is "no one else around" except for a camera crew, a makeup team, the guy who holds that big-ass light, and some weird guy named Ted who's just always hanging out on set. Other than that, totally the most normalest. Meanwhile, Ted? Get a job, Ted.

Outside the house now, they share a laugh about the fact that they're going ice-skating. Amber asks Andrew if he's ever been ice-skating before, and I'm surprised at something he says for the first time. Rather than assert his inherent betterness in all areas of art, culture, commerce, and ice-skating (i.e. "My grandpappy invented ice, actually" or something like that), he just cops to never, ever having been ice-skating before. Amber's confessional tells us, "I don't think I'm very excited to go ice-skating, just because I feel like I'm going to be on the ice the whole night." There's a pause so glacial here that you feel the producers really could have cut the comment right there to continue developing the "Amber as simpleton" theme, but everyone's groggy from too much of that dee-licious Firestone wine to hit the "cut" button, and we're privy to the rest of her sentiment: "On my butt." She continues, "But I think it'll be cool because I'll be with Andrew." Okay, ladies. For the last time, they don't show him the dailies. You don't have to pour it on him every second. He already knows he's great, even without the behind-the-back lovefest. Such rhetoric is so excessive as to warrant a brand-new word to describe it. May I suggest "propagandrew," perhaps?

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