“I quit, I’m not playing this game anymore.” “Mr. Trump, you should fire me.” “Wait. Fire me instead.” “No no, it's my fault ... fire ME!!!” “ME ME ME I WANNA BE FIRED!!!”
Trump: “You, the annoying one, you’re fired. No, the short annoying one. The rest of you personality disorders Please leave the boardroom so we can disinfect.”
Next week: Someone quits. Really. Probably Trump. And damn, we’re not gonna miss that!
Details. You want details?
Has there ever been a more bizarre episode? Has there ever been a larger contingent of fvcktards? Has there ever been a shorter, more annoying contestant? (Oh wait, Stacey, I couldn’t see you there.) Has there ever been a worse location?
Let me address that first. Seaside Heights, Noo Joisey is a travel slum more hideous than anything you’ll see on The Amazing Race. Roaches won’t go there, cops won’t go there. But all the worst people in three states go there. They go there to drink, vomit, have sex, vomit some more, have more sex, drink vomit. (Put a comma in there if it makes you feel better.)
It’s billed as a family resort, as in the kind of place where sophomore girls are lured for the post-prom de-virginizing. By the time they drive home, they’ve started a family. Teenagers and young adults are frequently found copulating on the street, on the beach, under the boardwalk, on the amusement rides, and in all the local bars. Sometimes, they even remember it. Rarely do they remember who or how many. It’s Gomorrah with gonorrhea.
And the hotels in Seaside Heights are there for three reasons. A place to procreate and pass out (not necessarily in that order), a place to flush away vomit, and a place to store the cooler full of beer, hard lemonade and rophynal. Guantanamo is nicer, and the sex is probably better.
But this summary isn’t about my last vacation. It’s about The Apprentice, and how Trump’s evil minions came to destroy one of NooJoisey’s shining icons.
Our episode begins with The Dipshit. He steps from a helicopter and begins spouting from the enormous blowhole just underneath that titanium hair. He says the show is about making a lot of money. That would be for him, of course. And then he spends 10 minutes recrapping last week. This is why we have a 90-minute episode. The Dipshit wasn’t getting enough voice work. I’d go through it all for you, but I know you read last’s week’s summary by the talented and amusing Bucky Katt.
If you did, then you might know who these people are. Good for you, because I can’t remember their names. Some of them I can’t even identify. I don’t know Finance Shrew from Marketing Diva, or Repressed Homosexual from Quirky Dresser. I do remember somebody needs a guitar shoved up his ass sideways. One of them has urine-soaked shoes. There’s the Napoleon with the Viking fetish, a black guy with a ticket to the final four and a Kentucky Fried Raj.
There’s two sistahs, but only one of them ends up wandering the street like a disassociative crack whore. I know the other one worked as Appointments Sexretary for Gay American Gov. Jim McGreevey. She finished four years of college, missed her degree on some technicality like unreturned library books, and claims to have street smarts. I guess that means she did a good job selecting male prostitutes.
Anyway, the names are not important. Forgive me if I can’t always recall precisely which DAW has critically invasive eyebrows, which one wears the bathmat, and which one wants to puff on Steve Forbes’ cigar.
That’s why they have credits. Which are now rolling, followed by…
Commercials: Is there anything more nightmarish than seeing the seatbelt indicator on your dashboard begin to dance? Brings new meaning to the term “idiot light.” … Million Dollar Baby is nominated for seven Academy Awards, including one for Hilary Swank, who, despite sporting bodacious oobies, has yet to play someone remotely feminine. Must be the granite jawline… Now there’s special “cleanser” to remove the 37 pounds of makeup you spackled on this morning, because there’s no profit margin in plain “soap”… Neurosurgeons fantasize about science fiction movies during brain surgery. Comforting… The show Medium stars the Arquette sibling who had sex with Nicolas Cage (No, the other one. No, not the guy)…
Back to the show, and sexy shots of Manhattan, which looks damn good… from a helicopter at 1500 feet. If you actually visit, you can see grime remaining from the LaGuardia administration. The folks excused from the first boardroom last week are gathered to await the survivors of the first firing. Kentucky Fried Raj (the John Grisham version), who can’t keep his tie on straight, is absolutely certain, positively convinced the victim is the unbelievable guitar-assaulting fvckwit, Danny.
If you hadn’t noticed this last week, Guitarzan Dan is out of his mind. Trump ridiculed his clothes, said he was wacky, called him a disaster. This kind of criticism would have most contestants measuring the height of the balcony rail. But not this brainless twit. Danny interpreted the lambasting as a sign of affection. Like when a girl punches you in the shoulder in the fourth grade. We are meant to pity Danny. He can’t recognize affection because he hasn’t gotten any since the fourth grade. He’s quirky, he’s fun, he is unbelievable!
I want to set him on fire. This guy is supposed to be a marketing genius, and he can’t think his way out of a cardboard box. I suspect his marketing firm is responsible for the 4,812 emails I’ve seen about enlarging my penis. Not one of them has worked. So Danny, you are a dickhead. I hate you. I hope you burn like magnesium.
Uh… The Apprentice summary.
It’s morning. Phone rings. Finance Shrew answers, and she’s fully dressed in a Cruella deVille pants suit. They are to meet The Dipshit on the street across from his hotel, and reminded they shouldn’t be late because he’s a busy lil billionaire.
Cut to Donald, “interacting” with the help. It’s not “interacting.” and it’s not even “acting.” It’s a sad silly one act play to make DT look like he’s actually running a company. Of course the best way to look like serious management is by harassing the manager of the Trump International and threatening her job. While she laughs at his vanity, The Dipshit exits the hotel and crosses the street accompanied by George and Carolyn. (Where’s a speeding taxi when you need one?) And let me say here that despite what we heard last week, about Trump hiring clones, George is ABSOLUTELY NOT a clone. George is a stooge. Carolyn is the clone.
When The Dipshit crosses the street to get to the other side, we are forced to watch a real cloning. The first thing Donald notices, and compliments, is Danny’s new suit, complete with button down white shirt, pink tie and lapel pin. Danny gives a smug smile and a thank you. A more complete suck-up has never been accomplished this quickly on national television.
Note to Landru: It’s not too soon to call Danny home.