Hi there. If youíre a typical denizen of The Apprentice world, thereís a very good chance that you donít know me. Thatís really a shame, there. But we donít need to dwell on that, because youíre either going to read this very, very long episode summary and like me and my Kool-Aid and know me better, or youíre not. ďNotĒ potentially applying to either of those concepts there. Or any of the four, since I guess me and my Kool-Aid and knowing me better are separate concepts. Well, to a lot of people they are.
Oh yeah. I cuss a lot, too. And I like adverbs. Get over it.
But what I most like to do around here is write about a lot of different stuff and disguise it as episode summaries of Survivor (and look for the upcoming and no-doubt uproariously sidesplitting season finale summary and reunion show summary, please), The Not-Really-Very-Amazing-At-All-And-Actually-Come-To-Think-Of-It-Iím-Not-Even-So-Sure-Itís-A Race, and now The Apprentice.
So where was I? Oh yeah, The Apprentice. I had to get around to it sooner or later. So thereís this guy called The Donald, and he had a lot of money, and he lost it, and then he made it back. But he never ever lost his hair, and if you say he did his homie George will cut you man, heíll cut you. So The Donald has a close personal friend named Mark ďEvil PeckerĒ Burnett, and old Marky Mark, who has done himself a television show or three in his time, says to himself, he says, ďWhat if I could do Survivor in the big city? What if we antithesize that whole desert island thing and take it to the wilds of civilization? And I bring in my good buddy The Donald and make him a TV star and rehabilitate his reputation and his hair?Ē Back off, George.
So Marky Mark and The Donald pull this thing off, and they bring in a bunch of dweebs as their victims. The victims vary in education and experience and gender and smarts and charm and looks and all sorts of other stuff that make up that human condition we call diversity. What they all have in common is that theyíre all dumb enough to think theyíre smart. Which, for the most part, they are not, although some of them do show the occasional flash of electrochemical activity between the ears. Of course, in many of those cases, that electrochemical activity is just a thunderstorm that blew in off the Jersey shore and started rattling around in there, but thatís not important now.
So you probably want me to tell you what happened last week, that being sort of traditional in these here deals. So I will, but I need to remind you that weíre at over 1,100 words and counting, so I hope that youíre picturing this as your favorite flavor as you quaff.
So what happened last week is that there were only five little piggies left, those being the starcrossed non-lovers Nick and Amy, Nick being a guy who thinks heís charming but who is in reality a loud, obnoxious smarta$$ who pretty much shames people into buying a lot of stuff from him mostly so heíll crawl back under whatever rock was his point of origin, and Amy being pretty smart for an airheaded former porn star (or was that Kristi?), and Kwame, who has no personality and a MBA from Harvard B-school, and Bill, a greasy virtual cigar-store owner with no moral fiber and a knack for lying to and about people, usually while running a knife into their kidneys from behind, and Troy, who is very skilled at speaking in a hokey accent, tying flies, and charming people into believing that he is an actual country boy rather than one of the founding fathers of the Idaho Militia, which he in fact is.
Theyíre public figures. I can say these things.
And the five little piggies are teamed up into little teams, and they have to go rent a piece of The Donaldís property for a whole crapload of money for a single night. And they do, and Marky Mark pulls the wool over our eyes by rigging the bidding at the last second, and Smarmy Nick and Airhead Amy win, while Battling Bill, Whodat? Jackson, and Troy oí the Wolves get whupped embareassingly. In a hideous miscalculation, Troy takes his buddy Kwame into the boardroom with him and gets smoked like a bag of leafy weed when, had he kept his wits about him, he mightíve realized that Bill was at his most vulnerable ever and was looking like a guy The Donald really wanted to fire that night.
Thatís what happened there. Last week, I mean. And in only 300 words or so.
And now weíre at this week, and we git us some theme music, which has been covered agin and agin in this here forum, that music being The OíJays or some such thing I should know because Iím older than a lot of dirt, but canít remember because a lot of that there dirt mucking up what brain cells I havenít killed off with sinsemilla and bacon-egg-and-cheese biscuits over the years. And a big sweeping night skyline shot of New York City, which is lit up like, well, New York City, this being a big favorite shot of Marky Markís, since there are no actual spiders and alligators and snakes and Rupert here in civilization. Do you think the Canadians will like me better if I spell it ďcivilisation?Ē
So things are swirling and glittering because itís late at night in New York City, which at the beginning of an episode of The Apprentice, means someone just got fired, that someone in this instance being the aforementioned Troy, and weíre about to get the now traditional Entrance of the Escapee scene, this weekís escapee being the reptile Kwame, who enters Suite 4 of the Trump Tower (not to be confused with the Trump World Tower and the Trump International Tower and The Trumpís Apparently Got Some Kinda Compensating Thing Going On What With All These Damn Towers, Huh?), which is where the four little piggies continue to dwell, at least for another 25 or 30 minutes of television time.
And Kwame enters and there is much Rejoicing And Pretending To Give A Ratís A$$ About Each Other. And Kwame extols the virtues of his posse, Troy, who is at this moment back at some Trump-owned hotel relaxing and getting comfortable in a nice clean sheet. This virtue-extolling sounds like this:
Brak brak brak.
I invented that, you know.
Kwame is babbling about respect and mano a mano and a whole bunch of other unimaginative stuff that has nothing to do with Troy, whom he now mostly adores because Troy was stupid enough to, well, become a contestant on this game show. Remember that. ďGame show.Ē We may return to this concept later on when we are mocking The Donald and Marky Mark. What I am doing now, badly, is called ďforeshadowing,Ē and Marky Mark loves to do it. You can usually tell that itís happening because you will develop fearsome pain on the top of your head, which is where Marky Mark is beating you with the Million Pound Sh!thammer of Foreshadowing. Iíll demonstrate later, since itís not really Marky Mark going upside your head just now.
So letís see, brak brak brak and even more maudlin and insipid brakage, and night passes, as signified by non-blue taxis gliding through the streets and the sky changing color a few times and Kwame answering the phone in his underwear. This phone answering ritual is a weekly occurrence here on The Apprentice, and I want to know: who decides who is answering the damn phone? Marky Mark does him some good television, but he really leaves out these critical details. I mean, Iím there in Suite 4 of The Donaldís First Non-Adverbial Penis Substitute, snapping off some Zís, and that phone rings and I know itís that hired actress b!tch Robin again, wanting to tell me to meet The Donald somewhere and tell me off-microphone what Iím supposed to wear that day, since I always show up dressed exactly the freaking same as the other surviving little piggies, and yíknow what? Iím too damn important to answer the phone when I know itís that useless prop of a nonreceptionist who probably wonít even go out with me, I mean doesnít she know that Iím about to be one of The Donaldís right-hand posse? I donít know about you, but Iím sure not answering that damn phone. Yo, Kwame, get your a$$ outta bed and answer that noise, beeyotch.
You think thatís how it happens? I do. Itís a happy little place here inside my brain, donít you agree?
So the Hired Hobag tells Kwame to git out his undies and git to work, which today will be at the Penis Magazine Suite of the Trump World Penis Substitute. And presumably Kwame troops off to tell the other piggies to roust it, although Marky Mark never shows us this or the little piggies wallowing in the trough of cleansing or eating their morning slop or rushing out to catch a non-blue piggycab to get to whatever Trump Tall Thing will be the focus of todayís activity.
Okay, okay, Iíll let go of the piggie metaphor eventually. Some nights Iím just in a George mood, mmkay?