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.
After bringing in special guest star Stephen Hawking to do the math for them, the cast finds out that there are only five beds for six people. Erik immediately puts dibs on the princess room. Ron thought it was wrong of Erik to do, and that this frilly ladies' room should go to Tammy Faye. "Who'd you fuck to get the best room?" Ron asks Erik. Erik responds, "Tammy." I choke on my NyQuil at that mental image. Trishelle and Tammy Faye look in the closet of the princess room, and Tammy Faye says she doesn't mind sleeping on the floor of the closet. Erik says that's fine with him. I say, let Erik have the bed, because he's probably slept on enough floors in the last fifteen years. Meanwhile, Ice has found a bedroom; he says he doesn't want a pimp bed, and that the couch is really starting to look appealing. He then pulls out a switchblade, tears the pimp bed to shreds, and waves it slow and menacingly in front of Tammy Faye's face, growling, "Try something, bitch. Just try something!" Ron and Trishelle decide to share a room with three single beds. Trishelle thought, when she first met Ron, that he'd be a perv, and she has slowly found out that she was right. Ron mentions playing "hide the bacon" or "shoot the sherbet" or "pound the weasel until he gets dizzy and vomits." Trishelle admits that Ron doesn't have ripped abs, and has a great sense of humor, which are two turn-ons for her. We then get a glimpse of Ron shirtless and in sweats, which makes me feel a lot better about my own physique. Plus...hey...I don't have ripped abs and have a wonderful sense of humor, if you're into bathroom humor. I wonder if I could boink Trishelle. I think I could as long as I brought along a bottle of Boone's Farm and a video camera. Ron admits that while he didn't think he'd be shooting the sherbet while in the mansion, he certainly wouldn't turn it down. The guy shoots sherbet for a living and still wants more without getting paid for it. Now -- there, America: there's a man who loves his job.