1/31--The NASCAR Emily Show

The "Money Shot" resorts to extreme measures for a rose.

Michelle Money performs the old "Tokyo chokehold" on a rival.

Bradley Picklesimer Womack is a man of courage. Or incredible stupidity, depending on your point of view. After being honest enough in interviews to admit that he fell hard and fast for his final girl--as early as their 1st date--the Pickle seems determined to immolate himself and make the remainder of his life a living hell. Somebody besides his cliche-spouting therapist needs to remind this guy that he plans on living out his life with one of these women...not 8 of them. Look dumbass, if you know which one you're gonna' hook up with when this is over, how about laying off the throttle a little bit. He's knockin' 'em down like nine pins out there. One kiss after another, one intimate moment after another; continued utterances of "she could be my wife." on each and every date. Mathematically speaking, Brad is spending only an eighth of his time with future Mrs., and 7/8ths of his time with women he knows he's not gonna' be shacking up with...all while mumbling sweet nothings within virtual earshot of a woman he has confessed in interviews is having real jealousy issues. "Every Monday...well, it's a long day...calls in the middle of the night...texts coming at all hours...at times she won't answer the phone until she calms down." Brilliant, dummy. And you already know who she is!! Dumbass. Are you telling me you didn't know she was jealous and possessive when you were informing every women in your harem how special they were to you? Did you forget there were cameras there? She has a TV, doesn't she? Nevermind. But speaking of his final gal, I'm afraid my intrepid investigations have led me dangerously close to the heart of the matter. You see, every Monday and Tuesday I write this, I'm getting a steady stream of texts blazing through my Blogger account. They are uni-directional, not a full conversation, and every time I try to erase them, the formatting on my blog goes nuts. They're going to be a distraction, but we're just gonna' have to live with them, so bear with me. Ok, here we go:

*Beep! Hey Baby! Almost time out here! I'm so excited to see us! I feel soooo much better than last week! Kiss!

Like I said, ignore those. Here we go.

Viva Las Wingman

Chris Harrison gets the ball rolling by storming the Cathouse and rousting the hangover crew at what appears a mighty early hour...say 10 or 11 AM by the looks of it. Harrison, looking like he's the son of a bitch on vacation not the women, comes wandering into the living room looking like he's ready for a round of golf and informs the gals that this week there will be one 1-on-1 date, one group date, and one of the dreaded 2-on-1-somebody-can-hit-the-bricks-date. But before the pressure cooker amps up, the women need to get their lovely rear ends in gear, cause it's time to hit the road. First stop, Las Vegas. Half of his work for the week done, Harrison grabs the wife and kids and heads for the strip. Lucky Asshole.

Meet Brad's Embalmer

The women arrive on the strip at the Aria hotel, which is obviously desperate for business in these tough times. They get a "sky suite" that looks like it costs around 5 grand a night and Brad leads them inside and tells them they are all in for a treat, they all get a date with His Wonderfulness this week. The Aria, or some other bunch of gullible dweebs got shafted this week. By far the best hotel digs I've ever seen on this show and the shopping spree that comes later looked to have some merchants crying a river. Anyway, Brad drops the date card and slips away as Michelle $Cha-Ching$ grinds her molars at having to read any other name besides her own on the date card. The one-on-one goes to the Merry Mortician, Shawtel Munster. She comes downstairs in some short shorts that show off some delicious gams. Turns out, the Pickle is going to take her on an unlimited shopping spree at some fancy pants mall. I doubt this trip was quite as 'unlimited' as Brad was told to make it sound, but it did look expensive anyway.

*Beep! Oh, yeah, that sure was fun. Sitting there on my ass watching her swing all that swag around. It's ok. I'm not mad.I know the producers pick these dates. But think of how few things you'd have to buy me when I move out there if I had a Bally's handbag. By the way, how are the malls in Austin? No prob. I'll check them out and let you know. Do they have a Bally's?

Shawntel returns to the room and parades her bags of pelf in front of the other girls, who all look like they want to snatch them out of her hands and toss them out the window. The Money Shot examines the supposedly $5,000 handbag and drools on it before giving Shawntel a look that says, "be careful what you drink bitch!" Shawntel heads upstairs with a beautiful dress she bought, and I must say I was really looking forward to seeing her reveal. She comes back down the stairs with the gorgeous dress encasing her awesome body, but her beautiful face was framed by a hairstyle that looked like Ruth Buzzy's on Laugh-In. What's the matter, no hairnet? She just needed a mop and bucket to complete the washerwoman look. It was truly awful looking. Regardless, Womack arrives and takes her up onto the roof of the Aria and they have dinner. It gives us a good idea just how little he's spoken with Ms. Munster when we hear he doesn't even know she's a mortician. They sit down to dinner and she drops the bomb. "Huh? What? You're a what?" She explains she is a funeral director by trade. Ever sincere, ever compassionate Picklemonster asks a few leading questions about how the art form is practiced and she fills him in over Chicken Parmesan. Brad fights hard to keep a straight face while she cuts up her chicken and tells him about replacing blood with chemicals. He pushes his plate away and busts up laughing. "Just drain the vein." Ha hahahahah! I'm betting Brad didn't need his vein drained after that. Fireworks erupt from the upper roof of the hotel and once again, she leaps into his arms like on their action movie date and they trade a few lukewarm kisses. The other girls are seen rushing to the suite's windows and watching the pyrotechnics while Brad holds Shawntel aloft.

*Beep! Can I ask something? Just how many times did you 'over the threshold' carry this woman? You know I won't be mad.

Brad and Shawtel kiss with torpid disinterest as the fireworks crackle overhead.

*Beep! Woo Hoo! Hot stuff! LOL. You looked like you were kissing your aunt Edith. Did she smell like formaldehyde? LOL. yeah, that was mean.

Ashley Squared

Just to make things even more confusing than they generally are, the producer's decide to pick the two Ashley's--Sweetums and Sherbert--for the 2-on-1-and-I'll-friggin-see-ya-never-again-date. They also decided it was the best way to introduce the audience to the theme of cruelty for the night too; seems Ashley and Ashley are best friends in the house as well. The second Munster-babe reads the names for the group date, both Ashley's know they've been paired up. One looks upset and the other starts to bawl. (Guess which one got booted?) Just for the helluva it, all the other girls who are going on the group date start crying too. Hey, is trapping women together in a hermetically sealed room the way this show does make them start to cry like when they all cycle their periods together? Or like going to bathroom? How come you gals all piss in tandem anyway? Or is it like when one person yawns everybody starts? I just wondered cause it always seems to happen. Anyway, they all cry...except guess who? Yeah, the Money Shot gets to announce that all the broads surrounding her can hit the bricks. I'd like to see her hit the bricks...from about forty stories up.

Viva Las Gayness

Brad takes the two Ashley's to the Vegas version of Cirque du soleil called "Viva Las Elvis". Boy, talk about combining the very worst of two cultures. Cheesy gymnastic routines performed by homosexual teenagers dressed in gold lame suits--delicious. Anyway, some big shot or another greets them at their gay rehearsal and let's Brad and the gals know that they will be trying out for the show. In a complete ripoff of last season's Lion King lameness, the two Ashley's and Brad try out for the show, bouncing around on wires and doing kiddy-level gymnastics. Sherbert is by far the more comfortable and more athletic of the two and voiceovers all but spell the end of this for us. The slice and dice edit gets going and various scenes of Sweetums are shown where she beats herself up as never being able to find love. By the time they split for dinner, the writing is on the wall like East L.A. graffiti. Neither look interested in the food, and Brad hardly even pauses before he grabs the rose and tells Sweetums: "You're gonna' make a great wife, but not for a Texas stud like me who owns lots of bars. I need a woman who is dramatic and manipulative. Sorry, you're just too sweet." He then hands the crazy Sherbert the rose and walks Sweetums to her limo of doom. The producer's must not have liked the limo footage she gave them because her exit interview looks like they let her take off her make up, put her nightie on, and fall asleep before they woke her up and filmed up so she would look completely dreadful. Or they canned it from three nights previous when she was drunk and having menstrual cramps. Whichever, it's sad nonetheless. Back at the Aria, some dirty-looking roadie comes into the women's suite like a nighttime crackhead looking for an easy score, and snatches Sweetums' bag away. The women all react with various levels of shock, disgust and sadness. While Sweetums rides away we are whisked back to the show where Sherbert, dressed like an airmail letter, and Brad, dressed like the gayest G.I. Joe doll in history, fly around on strings for the crowd.

*Beep! That was so sad. I can't believe you kept that nut and sent that sweetheart home. What does that say about me?

NASCAR Emily's Traumatic Return to Where She Practically Lives

In a show of remarkable producer-cruelty, they stage a date at the Las Vegas Motor speedway so Nascar Emily can suck up all the drama for a week like sinkhole in Savannah. The group harem arrives at the Speedway in limos and as soon as they get out, a Nascar comes toodling up and out pops Brad. He promptly performs a commercial for the Speedway about an upcoming Nascar race, and then informs the babes that they will all be racing cars. The cars actually looked like real racers too, but considering the way the women drove, they may have well just held it at Uncle Waldo's Go-Cart Land. Regardless, the women take turns driving around the track like they were on their way to the grocery. All except ZipperRipper Chantal, who apparently crammed the pedal on the floor and blew around the oval like a dart. "Holy crap!" Brad observed as she tore around the track. What is it with Brad and chicks who drive like hell? Anybody remember DeAnna's fixation with gas-piston engines? Anyway, amidst the fun and exhaust fumes, Dr. Pickleheimer, being the therapy-altered, all-observant and sensitive man he is these days, notices that something is wrong with Nascar Emily. Hark! Are those strains of drama that I hear? He hauls Emily aside for a sit-down on the infield and she tells him that her late fiance was a Nascar driver. Brad looks like he ate something bad for lunch. "I feel like a jerk!" You do? Why? It's not like it was your idea to bring her there pickleboy. The next fifteen minutes the Bachelor gives way to the Nascar Emily Show as she suddenly has the engagement rock on her finger that Ricky gave her and she has to woman up and take a spin about the track. She hops into the car and starts to bawl as half a string orchestra gets going in the background. Brad ducks in her window and tells her she doesn't have to do this. They all can all leave right now if she is uncomfortable. But Nascar bravely goes forward and saunters around the track in 1st gear. The other women, either giving in to their nascent humanity, or being ordered by the creepy producers, all cheer her on as she slowly circles the oval, led by the ZipperRipper. It's damned effective TV. Give these ghoulish assholes some credit; they know their shit. In reality? Ha. Emily, who has worked for the Speedchannel covering Nascar races and is reported to have dated Dale Earnhardt Jr. (a guy damned familiar with losing loved ones in racing), and is still considered a member of one of racing's most powerful family's, is shown to be traumatized by the whole thing and having a "transformative" moment to get on with her life. Great TV, but in truth, it was about as traumatizing as watching Michael Jordan return to a basketball court. But great TV nonetheless.

At the required, bikini-bash that always follows a group date, Brad waits a total of ten seconds before he hauls Emily aside again for some more private time. The women glare daggers. The ZipperRipper tries to defend him: "It's just because he's worried about her. She was crying." This prompts Alli Booty to cut loose with one of the most insensitive and absolutely truthful remarks in this show's history: "So, the person with the worst story gets all the attention!?" Yep, that's about the size of it, Alli. If you'd like some private time with Brad, you'll need to dredge up a dead relative or two. Get with the program, girl. Brad corrals Emily and lays it out for her: "Mly, I really, really like you!" They discuss her date and he then takes her to a lounger by the pool and confesses that he feels like he's battling a ghost for her affections. She whines about how all men shut down when they hear her story. Lisa from Oz gets her first chance to speak in weeks by playing therapist to Emily. Emily relates Brad's reactions and shrugs, "If you take me to a race track, it's gonna' come out." Fair enough. I think most viewers understand that Emily has adjusted to her tragedy and has moved on, but with this coerced date and Soap Opera edit, the causal viewer is under the misconception that Emily hears birds chirping on a May morning and looks out the window and sees burning plane wreckage. Total BS, but great TV. Has she moved on? Hell if I know. The scene shifts and we see that Alli Booty, despite her lack of a dead relative, gave them a soundbite they KNOW they're gonna' use and scores some screen time with Brad. She bawls and whines that she doesn't feel special. Brad asks her not to cry and hugs her like she's a bag of tile grout. I'm rather amazed she's still around. The scene shifts again, and suddenly Brad's alone on the loungers with the Chantal. The ZipperRipper is as bombed as a moonshiner's apprentice, but she struggles and manages to sound sane and sober for at least a moment or two until the veneer slips and out comes the "L" word.. "I defended you to the other girls. You were just helping Emily. It makes me love...no, that's the wrong word...makes me like you all the more." Brad's exhausted, drunken eyebrow pops up. "Back to the love comment? I heard it." She tries to get away from the comment but he presses. Finally she melts altogether and bawls," If you don't feel for me, send me home!" He begs her not to cry and she tries one more rally before she collapses onto his chest bawling. POW! Brad's zipper explodes. But "Mly" gets the rose. Date over.

*Beep! OMG! People will think I'm crazy!

Shrink Time

Now, I don't want you folks thinking I'm one of those lazy bloggers out there. Since we have two Shawntel/Chantal's and they're both pronounced the same way, I thought I'd do some research into the name. Now it's obvious that the "Shawntel" is just a bastardized American version of the original French name, so I went over to an online Frog to English dictionary and did some research. I wasn't surprised by what I found and I'll bet you won't be either. Here's the entry:

Chantal: Pronounced Chann-Taaal; American: Shawn-tel; Texas: SHAN-TELL; translation: She who makes pants vanish.

I think you'll agree her nickname is accurate. Anyway, Brad has seen too much crying caused by all his horndogging this week, so he calls Dr. Manwhore who tells him to tear through these women like toilet tissue. The Dr. finally says something deep before Brad falls asleep on the phone: "You have to let them in to know you. Strength and vulnerability go hand in hand." Decent advice. Now armed with his default mission statement and medical permission to whore around, Brad heads to cocktail hour at the Tearful Bar & Grill.

Cocktail Dominatrix

Back at the Aria, Chantal is sounding weepy again, so Marissa the Mannequin is allowed to speak so we'll remember who she is when she's booted and to wind Chantal up a little more. "...he just sent the person he gave the first impression rose to home; so if you think you're something special, you're crazy!" Drama scene set, Brad comes waltzing in looking like he'd wished he'd worn that Nascar crash helmet. "Uh, lot of emotion this week about how you're all feeling. I'm here to find my wife, and my shrink says that's healthy, so I'm going to screw as many of you as I can, so tough!" The ZipperRipper moves in first and gets him before the Money Shot can kidnap him and here we go. "I saw a side of Chantal on that group date that I'd never thought I'd see in a million years. Emotional is one thing, but dramatic is something else." He then utters the second most famous version of a redneck's last words: "I don't need drama in my life."

*Beep! I beg your pardon! Drama Queen?

They have a talk and she starts out calm and mature-looking. This terrifies Brad: "I'm going to be perfectly honest with you, all the girls felt like that date was sitting around watching you and Emily." Brad backpedals like a clown on a unicycle: "Let me explain that. Anytime I see a woman cry, I'm going to stop and comfort her. It wasn't about forming a special connection or anything--I swear!" But then he shrugs at her when she assures him they are in a good place and warns her to "...stop giving me so much crap." That is followed by a smartassed look I've never seen from him before that I can't read--a half-grimace, screw you! look. Beats me. She, however, has the prescription for what ails him. She drops the mature woman bit, giggles and grins like a little girl, and lays her head on his chest like a teenager. POW! Alli Booty is up next and he gives her a little cake or something and has the script boy tell him what Alli was wearing night one so he can make a lame comparison to the little cake. Ok. Marissa the Mannequin gets to speak again and hands Brad a pile of notes since she can't pester him with text messages. She then talks about how she has put herself out there. Kiss of death. He tries to speak with the anorexic Bony Britt but can't utter three words before the producer's cram Michelle's nasty mug back into our faces to remind us about what a bitch she is. Brad hauls her away next and she goes all $1,000 a night Dominatrix on him. She seals him in a room, sits on his lap and forbids him to speak. She then orders him around, mimes slapping his face, and finally smooches him before demanding that they go send some girls home now. "You can speak next time." Brad is either nauseous, terrified, or has a world-class boner...or all three. The wingman comes in, his golf shoes clicking on the tile floor and a spare tee tucked in behind his ear, and tings his glass calling the party over.

*Beep! OMG! That's just gross! Do I need to buy a bullwhip?! Gross! Gross! Gross! Ur such a pig! Don't even try calling me!

Dump 'Em Danno!

Already safe: Nascar Emily, Ashley Sherbert, Shawntel Munster

The wingman runs some interference before Brad comes in.

Roses:

1) The Money Shot--I guess it was all 3...or at least the last one.

2) Alli Booty--crying and mean comments pay off.

3) Bony Britt--totally silent this week. Please go get something to eat!

4) Jackie Gordon--the new invisible woman.

The wingman reenters clicking on the tile and looks at the camera: "Allow me to recap dramatically: There is but a sole flower remaining. The contestants are: Marissa the Mannequin, whom you've heard speak a grand total of 4 times in one month; Lisa from Oz--go ahead and tell me one thing about her besides from the fact that she owns a pair or ruby-red slippers. Go ahead, I dare you! And the narrator for most of this season and the reason our seamstress is spending six hours every week repairing Brad's pants, ZipperRipper Chantal." (Turns to Brad) "When you're ready..." and departs with the golf glove bouncing from his rear pocket.

Brad pauses dramatically.

5) ZipperDestroyer Chantal

She accepts the rose with a "I'd be glad to. You're killing me." (Translation: I'll kill YOU later for this.)

Lisa and Marissa, both aware they're about to miss out on more world travel, start crying and depart. Both bawl like all hell. Lisa says more than we've heard from her all season.

Next week: Costa Rica! See ya then!