Previously on The Surreal Life, Michael Jackson was accused of dry-humping little boys who are dying of cancer while their parents sat in corners, grinning and counting their bags of money. Wait a second. Wrong channel. Okay. The cast went to Vegas, where Vince prayed, Jerri squealed, Manny cackled, Hammer danced, Gabby bitched, Brande drooled, and Corey sobbed because his foolproof plan to salvage his film career through this show has fallen apart. How fitting that both Michael Jackson and Corey Feldman, two former friends, committed career suicide on the same night. Michael's came through his confession of his insatiable desire to bang the shit out of children on their deathbeds, while Corey's was cemented after a marathon defecation session which we'll get to a bit later. Ain't that America for you and me?
Everyone's waking up in the house. We see Jerri waking up with Mercedes in her bed. Seriously, that little cocker spaniel has seen more ass than a proctologist since she's been in that house. Gabby and Vince are downstairs making scrambled eggs and whiskey sours for breakfast. Jerri's not ready to get up, but she guesses she will. Damn. If everyone on the show had that kind of lackadaisical attitude where they wanted to lay in bed all day and cuddle with cocker spaniels, this show would be boring enough for PBS to secure the syndication rights.
Jerri and Brande leave the premises to take Mercedes for a walk. Maybe it's just me, but I would think the Surreal Estate would be big enough that they could just let Mercedes out the back door, let her go take a dump, eat it due to an iron deficiency in her Cocker Spaniel blood, and then come back inside. Does the dog really need to be walked? Oh. Uhhh...yeah. I forgot about exercise. Sorry -- I'm a TWoP recapper. The concept of actually walking away from the computer and getting some exercise eludes me sometimes. While walking Mercedes, Jerri and Brande come across another dog walker. The dogs sniff each other's asses, and the cameras pan away before we can get treated to some down and dirty dog humpfest. In a voice-over, Brande says she wants to meet Mr. Right, and that he needs to be honest, have integrity, and be sure of himself, but that it's hard to find a guy in Los Angeles with those qualities. I may not live in L.A., but I think I could be her dream man, since I honestly believe I could nail her ass like it's never been nailed before. How's that for honesty, integrity, and self-assurance, Brando? Returning back to the mansion, the gals spot a hot guy taking groceries out of the trunk of his car. Brande mentions to Jerri how fine she thinks he is and yells across the street to ask if he's single. He is. Does he have a girlfriend? He doesn't. Is he gay? He doesn't say yes or no, but in his defense, he's standing in the street yelling his answers to a stranger in front of his house. You're not going to find too many guys who'll scream their sexual orientation in front of their neighbors. Brande tells him that if he ever wants to come say hi or perhaps pork a Playboy Playmate, he should just pop on in. To say that he's dumbfounded would be putting it mildly. The guy looks lobotomized.