Listen well, my friends, for I have a shocking and compelling story to fill this introduction space with. This past Saturday night, a loathsome clog plagued our kitchen sink. After a run to the store for some Drano, the problem was seemingly solved, as the water went down and eventually disappeared. Great. Time to return to my previously delightful evening of watching Riding the Bus with My Sister. Well, the sink had other plans. After a little while I heard some dripping, so my roommate and I returned to the kitchen, only to find that the “water” (if we can call it that, by this point it was more of a brown sludge) had risen up, up, up to the top of the sink, overflowed onto the counter, and was now gushing onto the floor.
After several minutes of vigorous shrieking and frenzied but useless pointing at the mess, we called both our landlord and our handyman. Neither answered, as this all took place at 12:30 at night. I called an emergency plumber, but they wouldn’t come over and do anything without the permission of the landlord. So it was off to the 24-hour supermarket to buy a plunger. A rather odd purchase for one in the morning, true, but we pulled it off with finesse and, I like to think, a microscopic shred of dignity. We returned to the gushing torrents and plunged away for quite some time, to no avail. Eventually we gave up and just started filling pots and pans with the sludge and dumping it in the backyard. It continued to gurgle and rise, as if to spite us, but at long last it stopped and we were able to clean ourselves up. This proved to be quite difficult, as apparently Drano and sink sewage combine to form a powerful alliance against hand soap.
I also knocked my roommate’s deodorant into the toilet during one of our many hand-washings. It was par for the course. And now, for another sort of sewage, here’s some Celebrity Apprentice.I missed the first fifteen minutes of the show when it first aired, but from the online full episode it looks like we just jump right into Trump giving the candidates their task. Was there no Ahmarosa firing reaction in the suite? Or was it too raucous for network television? The world may never know. I imagine it involved some sort of ticker tape parade, and/or a ritual sacrifice to the gods of reality television.
Trump blares that this week’s challenge is to create a sandwich for Quizno’s. Two catches this time: 1) it’s a speedy challenge, so they only have two hours to brainstorm and two hours to sell, and 2) they have to sell them to real mortals on the street, not their famous friends. How will this even be achieved? We already know that Stevey B isn’t allowed to interact with normal people. He always prompts too many calls to Animal Control.
Yes, hello? There’s a feral woodchuck in my van. Please remove it right away.
It is decided that Trace will be the PM since it’s his turn, so he and Stevey B brainstorm in the car. They come up with the Cowboy Club, then proceed to mock the fact that Piers will probably come up with a Lennox-themed sandwich. Yeah, what an original bastard, that Piers. He could never come up with the Cowboy Club. That’s the sort of genius that can only be conceived by a marketing wizard…who also happens to be a famous cowboy. Well done, dream team.
Then there’s the obligatory cut to Hydra, where Piers starts yelling that their sandwich will be called the Champ, and Lennox will be the one in the cutout holding the sandwich and saying it’s a knockout. There. We’re all happy now. It’s the same thing they’ve been doing for weeks, and we all know it. I’m surprised Lennox wasn’t used to promote that random crap art they sold last week.
“This used to be a human being before I punched it flat. It’s a knockout!”
Hydra asks the Quiznos guy about their best selling Sammy (which are so small, by the way, that they’re really only suitable meals for pixies and elves), and he shows them that it’s turkey, pepper jack cheese, and chipotle mayo. So what sort of completely original sandwich is Hydra going to pull out of their ass? Why, the exact same thing but with cheddar cheese, of course! Brilliant! Coming next from Hydra: the peanut butter and Jello sandwich. It’s a knockout!
Meanwhile, over at Dingbat Junction, Stevie B is yelling something about how they need to take pictures of Trace and himself in cowboy hats, and then the graphic designer will “put it together on the computer”. Well done, Stevie B. Your technological know-how truly impresses us all.
“You got Windows 3.1 on this thing, BROSEPH?”
Their sandwich has prime rib, onions, mozzerella, bacon, and also chipotle mayo, though I think everyone in this entire episode has firmly committed to calling it chipolte. Way to insult the Quiznos god, GUYS. Then Daryl Roth arrives. She’s Trump’s eyes and ears this week, and is a Broadway producer, so is therefore more than qualified to judge some celebrities’ half-assed attempts to throw together a few glorified tacos. She loves their fliers, then listens as Trace tells her and us all about his daughter, who, if you don’t recall, has severe food allergies and is the reason he’s here in the first place. Daryl looks sympathetic, but you can tell she also sort of wants to leave as soon as possible, most likely for an emergency Botox injection, as her face appears to be melting right before our very eyes.
Meanwhile, over at Hydra, Carol is shitting the bed all over the place with her inability to procure some fliers. She sent them off to the printers, but they are apparently unable to get them ready and shipped out in time for Hydra to use them. I don’t know why you’re trying anyway, kids, Empresario is light years ahead of you in the technology sector anyway. Those Commodore 64s sure can design a mean poster.
Piers, naturally, launches into a big speech about how Carol is useless and “cocking it all up” (a phrase that I love and will now be using with a fair bit of frequency) and blaming it all on other people. Trump didn’t get where he is by falling at the knees of women who say it’s all the men’s fault, Piers explains, in another women-bashing jab that certainly doesn’t help refute Ahmarosa’s homosexuality claims. Though I think we can all agree that Ahmarosa was really just confusing gayness with Britishness. It’s a common mistake. Piers dances some more outside the store and ominously declares that Carol will be exposed for the liar that she is. Oh calm down, Piers. Get back in your closet.
“I’ll just convey my love of sandwiches through the magic of dance.”
Meanwhile, Empresario’s marketing strategy is apparently to station a retarded man outside the store and have him pass out fliers and yell nonsensical phrases at hapless people walking by. Oh wait, that’s Stevie B. My bad.
“Sammiches are yummy! Put ‘em in your face hole!”
He continues to flail about all over the sidewalk like an injured monkey, thrusting fliers into random hands and assaulting every pedestrian within a three block radius. He also begins talking to himself, eventually coming to the conclusion that “I’m crazy!” Nice work, Stevie B. The first step is admitting it. “…For Jesus!” he adds. You know what, Stevie B? I just got off the phone with Jesus, and it turns out he’s not so much a fan of crazed celebrities violating complete strangers with frenzied yelling and pictures of pretend cowboys made “on the computer”. Weird, huh? Just a pet peeve of His.
Hydra’s fliers finally arrive and Piers begins to hawk them on a street corner, where he is universally ignored. He just can’t understand why New Yorkers refuse to listen to the loud, cheeky, seemingly homeless Brit yelling at them on a street corner. Go fig. He does, however, admit that he “gets off” on ritual humiliation, which sure explains a lot about his home life.
Okay, enough of this circusry. Time for the selling period to begin. Trace is parked outside the store, and through the sheer power of his melodious, God-like voice, summons many fans of both country music and cheap sandwiches. Stevie B explains in an interview that Trace has surprised everyone with his creative ideas, and all you have to do is “throw a Stevie B cherry on top of that, and it’s yummy, dude.” Well. So much for keeping my breakfast down.
No one wants to hear about your “cherry”, Stevie B. Please, think of the children.
Over at Hydra, the place is hopping. Carol is hawking Sammies left and right and the customers seem to love the exciting, new, completely original creation. Except for one guy, who orders two of them without cheese. Dude! That cheddar cheese is a highly innovative concept! It’s the glue holding The Champ together! What are you, clinically insane??! Lennox, meanwhile, hangs out outside, poses for pictures, and picks fights with people who have no business throwing a punch his way.
“I will crush you, tiny woman.”
Ivanka arrives to survey the scene. She says that as tired as it is, the tactic of using Lennox to sell does work, and why mess with perfection? She then brazenly cuts to the head of the line and viciously steals a sandwich away from the poor masses who have been waiting patiently. She declares it to be delicious, it not a little unoriginal, then announces to the ravenously hungry peons that it will be worth the wait. “Oh thank you, Miss Ivanka!” they cry. “Please allow us to lick your Manolos as you leave!”
Stevie B, meanwhile, is yelling a lot about something or other. He’s behind the counter, selling his sandwiches, and what happens? They run out! Well, Stevie B is still quite intent on spreading his cherry around (shudder), so he hops right into the kitchen and starts making Sammies himself. Word of caution to any potential customers: be sure and check your sandwiches for rubber bands and paper clips. Sometimes Stevie B gets confused.
Stevie B also has a part-time gig as a ghost. He does birthdays and haunted houses.
With ten minutes left, Piers informs us that Lennox is the best marketing tool in the world, and I’m quoting directly: “short of finding Nelson Mandela and the pope, bringing back Elvis Presley, and putting them all together on a horse.” Piers’ bedroom fantasies are getting stranger and stranger. The lines are out the door for both teams, and as the selling period draws to a close both teams feel as if they won.
By the way, is anyone else desperately hungry at this point? The past half hour has been nothing but shot after shot of cheesy, meaty sandwiches rolling out of a toasty oven. I’m seriously about to eat my own hand.
But that’ll have to wait, because it’s boardroom time. I’ll just eat some chipotle mayo out of a jar as I watch. Daryl and Ivanka both tell The Donald that each team did a good job, though in all fairness Ivanka is probably just still giddy from all of the line-usurping and Sammy-stealing she did earlier. Anyway, the results are read and it turns out that Hydra outsold Empresario by about 70 sandwiches. Trace and Stevie B get all pouty. Should have gone with the “Save a horse, ride a Cowboy Club Sammy” catchphrase, boys. Marketing genius = me.
“You were right, Trace. I shouldn’t have mooned those elderly pedestrians.”
Trump asks Trace what went wrong, and Trace simply says that they worked as hard as they could, they had a solid concept, they sold their hearts out, and they couldn’t really have done anything any different. He fully admits to making most of the decisions as the project manager, while Stevie B fully supports him and refuses to throw Trace under the bus, claiming that they only reason they lost was probably because they had one less person on their team. But we all know the real reason they lost: Jesus hates onions.
So basically the next ten minutes of boardroom is exactly the same thing repeated over and over. I know some people have commented that these recaps are a little on the short side, and I agree and apologize, but honestly there’s no way to recap The Donald asking every single person on the team who they would fire if they were him. I feel like since these people already have “careers”, they don’t really care much about being fired, so Trump grilling them is like pulling teeth. It’s nice to make money for their charities and all, but at the end of the day they really just get to go home to their mansions and pool boys and continue drinking champagne out of diamond-encrusted goblets. (Note: There’s a slight chance I may have a skewed vision of what rich people are actually like. But probably not.) None of them fight especially hard, because their entire lives haven’t led up to this moment, not like the usual batch of MBA’s and small business owners and desperate corporate wannabes whose sole purpose in life is to win the affection of a middle-aged, badly coiffed billionaire. So all in all I have to say that most of the boardroom sessions this time around have been pretty dry, with the exception of the Gene Simmons fiasco and Piers’ man-on-cowboy kiss.
Oh, and the amusing little portion of this week wherein everyone agrees that Empresario is a festering disease of a team. Even the name is bashed, mostly by Trump himself. “I HATE THAT NAME,” he blares. “I HATE SAYING IT. BOY, I HATE THAT NAME!” Somewhere, in the middle of a poorly planned television set, Nely is weeping and crying out in a mixture of English, Spanish, and Stupid.
There is some talk of whether or not the sandwich itself was a good call, as Hydra’s was a little more generic and possibly more marketable. Also, not a lot of New Yorkers knew who Trace was. If this contest had been held in Nashville, he points out, they would have won hands down. Then WHY didn’t you harness the massive star power of Stevie B, native New Yorker and overall winner at life! He clearly knows how to draw in the crowds! Just look at this face!
Nothing screams “Buy a sandwich!” more than a mentally challenged Baldwin screaming “Buy a sandwich!” at innocent tourists.
So now Trump is in a difficult position. Trace was the PM and is taking all responsibility for the loss, but he’s clearly stronger than Stevie B in terms of creativity and the ability to raise money for his charity in the final task. So who stays? The sultry-voiced singer with a heart of gold but an empty sandwich cash drawer? Or the Jesus-loving nincompoop who reads at a third-grade level and can’t even catch a ride on the short bus? The Donald only has one photo left in his hand. Who will it be?
Oops, wrong show. Trump asks them to leave so that he may discuss this predicament with his minions. Out in the hallway, Stevie B leans over to Trace and whispers in the creepiest way possible, “I think they like you more than me.” Seriously, someone should make this guy star in a remake of a Japanese horror movie. He’s far more terrifying than deadly videotapes or zombie children.
“I’m going to chew your eyelids while you sleep.”
Case in point: Stevie B paces in the lobby while Trace tells him to stop it and just sit down already. Stevie B says that he has ants in his pants. “You’ve got the crabs or something,” Trace counters. “No, no,” Stevie B replies. “Those days are over.” So thank you, Apprentice editors. Now my mind has wandered over to Stevie B’s crotch and the multitude of venereal diseases that reside within. There are just some things you can’t unthink. I’m sending you my therapy bills.
So Trump brings them back in and there is more boring rehashing of the days events. Trump then asks who wants this more. Trace starts up again with his daughter’s severe food allergy story, which Stevie B quickly and effectively railroads by chirping “I have a food allergy!” Stevie B, who the hell asked you? You’re really going to have to work on not yelling out every thought that crosses your addled brain. I’m really surprised the guy is as able to walk down a sidewalk without screaming “I AM WALKING DOWN A SIDEWALK!”
The Donald goes on to say some very nice things about Trace, that he speaks softly but carries something…really special. Trump apparently fell asleep during the Teddy Roosevelt unit of seventh grade American history. Stevie B then yammers on for a while about how he and Trace agreed that if it came down to the two of them, neither would do anything to disrespect the other. Ivanka recommends that Stevie B be fired, since he hasn’t done such a good job of raising money over the past couple weeks. Or of passing himself off as a normal, non-brain-damaged human being. Not so good at that either.
I don’t really have anything to add. I just love this picture.
So after telling the guys that they’re both wonderful and he loves them both, Trump says that he has to look at the past and choose whomever he thinks will be able to raise more money in the last challenge, and that would be Trace. Which is a little funny, since Stevie B has won twice as PM and raised a shitload of money for his mother’s charity, whereas Trace has raised absolutely bupkis for his. But Trace has a lovely voice, can go five minutes without devouring a baby in the name of Jesus, and wears an amusing hat. So Stevie B is fired.
“I AM SITTING AT A DESK! ALSO I AM A LITTLE HUNGRY AND I MAY OR MAY NOT HAVE A SCORCHING CASE OF THE CRABS!”
Fare thee well, Stevie B. Now that you’ve successfully infiltrated two of my favorite reality television shows (the other being The Mole – if you speak ill of it I’ll RIP your HEAD off), I’m dreading the day your hideous face pops up on the rest of them. Celebrity Survivor? Stevie B finds an immunity idol and sets it aflame to prevent any false idolatry! Celebrity Amazing Race? Stevie B wraps Phil in a headlock and force feeds him an ill-purchased plane ticket! Celebrity Project Runway? Stevie B hijacks Tim Gunn’s patented Field Trip Van and plunges it into the nearest river, ignoring Tim’s desperate pleas to, ironically, “Make it work!” The possibilities are endless.
Wait, there’s more show? Dammit, I’m tired. Hydra is thrilled to see Trace return to the suite, and there are many hugs and congratulations and probably champagne spilled all over the floor. Meanwhile, Trump is blaring over the intercom for Annette to call the candidates back down to the boardroom. She complies to the best of her abilities.
“I don’t know where I am.”
The kids return and The Donald congratulations them for making it so far and for raising so much money for charity and for being overall pretty swell people. But like the Highlander, “THERE CAN ONLY BE ONE CELEBRITY APPRENTICE,” Trump blares. And the elimination process is to continue…right now. By the end of the night, not one but TWO more candidates will be eliminated. Dun dun DUN. Everyone looks shocked, while The Donald sits there yet again with a smirky grin like the mischievous rascal that he is, quite pleased with himself and his naughty little antics.
“I AM THE SPRIGHTLY GENERAL OF SHENANIGANS.”
So here we are. My guess is that Carol and Lennox will be fired next, as to create a showdown between the Jackass and the Nice…Cowboy…Ass. No one really cares about the other two. Anyone really want to watch Lennox grin emptily through yet another task? Not a chance. Any diehard Cryptkeeper Carol fans out there? Didn’t think so. So the producers are more than likely setting us up for one of two scenarios: either Piers will kick ass and prove once and for all that jerks really do get shit done, or Trace will (finally) make some money for his precious daughter’s charity and we’ll all have a nice happy ending. At this point, I’d really be happy either way, but I’m sure next week’s task and the subsequent obnoxiousness will change all that, as is the custom of the Apprentice final tasks. What do you all think? And more importantly, which Sammy do you prefer? Vote by sending me a sample of your favorite. Seriously, I’m STARVING.