Next, we arrive at a Hollywood soundstage, where we see that Traci Bingham is the next has-been itching to get on the trolley o' fame. A pop-up grabs us by the collar and shakes us, blurting that Traci was the first African-American to be exploited for ratings on Baywatch. Like Trishelle, Traci was also in Playboy and hates messy people. Gosh: to paraphrase Forrest Gump, they should get along like motherfucking peas and carrots. Unfortunately, Traci can't go to the mansion with the rest of her housemates because she's doing a "shoot." She never says what shoot she's doing, but I'm guessing it has something to do with hauling out the boobles and jiggling them in a camera lens. Tammy Faye admits that she has no idea who Traci is, but thinks she's beautiful. Personally, I wouldn't put much credence in Tammy Faye's idea of "beautiful" after seeing what she looks at in the mirror every morning. Trishelle dismisses Traci as being very plastic and artificial, adding that she feels Traci will be grating on every single one of her last nerves. Unless there's plenty of alcohol in the house to cope with such matters. And then she'll be too busy vomiting to care about Traci.

The trolley finally makes it to the house as Ron throws the doors wide open and steps over a mumbling, drooling Glen Campbell crawling around in his own vomit and promising that he'll be leaving the premises momentarily. Tammy is shocked at how "crappy" the house looks. Everything's red and...surreal. I let out a big, fat, obnoxious "duh" when she says that. Erik says it's the ultimate bachelor pad, with a stocked bar. You know -- if the bachelor is a blind alcoholic. Ron and Trishelle hang out at the bar, where Ron admits that he doesn't drink that much, and Trishelle eyes the bottles lustily. She says she wants to tear the bar up. This girl's got more issues than a Barnes & Noble magazine rack. Ron goes to pour Trishelle a glass of wine, instructing her to "say when." Trishelle watches him slowly pour the wine, and finally loses her patience with him to fill the glass to the rim and bellows, "When!" out of frustration. Guzzling her wine, Trishelle admits that having been on a reality show before, she knows the most important thing is to go claim your bed first, so she takes off for the bedrooms. With the lush stumbling around upstairs, Ron is reduced to holding a conversation with Tammy Faye, who says that there's nothing wrong with drinking a little wine -- Jesus drank wine; you just can't overdo it. Overdo it and you're hellbound, sister. Ron admits in a confessional that he's a bit hesitant about being in a house with Tammy Faye for twelve days because she's worked for several years basically to put his industry out of business. It's like if someone wheeled the corpse of Sam Walton into a mom-and-pop grocery store in Kalamazoo, and dumped it out on the floor in front of the front door. Eventually, it'd get uncomfortable. Not to mention a bit rank. Talk turns to music, and Tammy Faye tells Ron that she loves music, and that she owns an organ that used to be in Frank Sinatra's house. Ron counters, "I have an organ that has been in 1,700 movies." Tammy Faye squirms, and Ron apologizes too quickly. Like 98\% of American males, I heart Ron Jeremy.