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Previously on A Dashing Reality Television Host Stole My Made-Up Vocabulary, And All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt, Except For The Part About The T-Shirt: Well, it was sort of a blur of various and sundry pretty boys with big arms holding enormous toy checks, but we also had some running, some biking, some camel-riding, a cast of thousands of airline ticket agents, some eating of unusual food, some deception, some smooching, some screaming, and a lot of people who stunk to high heaven.
We swoop menacingly over a swampy landscape dotted with red algae or flowers or whatever it is that grows on top of swampy landscapes in Florida. We circle until we settle upon Phil "You Are The Lock, And I Am The Kiwi" Keoghan, who informs us that he is coming to us from "a tiny island in the Everglades." Phil is wearing a button-down shirt in Rugged Host Brown, and has a little choker. Hmm. Not sure about the jewelry, there, Phil. He says that twelve teams (one to grow on, up from eleven in the first two seasons) will set out from this enchanting muck on a race around the world. The prize? It's a million dollars. Or so Phil says. You never know, with budget cuts and the sagging economy. I only hope the prize money isn't in the stock market. Or if it is, I hope they have Martha Stewart's broker. Next, we see all the teams being driven in speedboats across the marshy terrain, and they're arranged in a flying-south-for-the-winter V-formation, which makes the whole thing look weirdly like an elaborate water skiing production number. Where have you gone, Esther Williams? Of course, the usual thumping and intense music is playing on the soundtrack, so Esther's not showing up unless she's being seriously menaced by alligators. Phil explains that each team is made up of two people who already know each other. Because on The Amazing Race, we don't let you on the trip without plenty of baggage, if you get our drift. Let's meet the teams.
Heather and Eve are wearing complementary sleeveless thingies that are unzipped right down to their Ya-Ya Sisterhoods. At least one of them also appears to be wearing blue eye shadow, so you know they're hip to Florence Henderson's brand of hot. They've recently graduated from Harvard Law School. Just what the hell is going on at Harvard Law, anyway? Do they have a new affirmative action program for the photogenic? (Maybe it has its own track. The first class? "The Intellectual Property Implications Of Admiring Your Reflection.") "All our lives, we've been underestimated," chirps Taller Annoying Girl. "People see attractive females, and they're like, 'Oh, they must be ditzes.' We're both very intelligent, but we plan to play into the whole dumb-female, helpless�you know, just to get guys to help us!" Oh, Lordy. Can you pass me an aspirin? Thank you. All right, point the first: No woman who uses the word "females" is going to do anything but chap me nonstop from here to eternity, so that's a bad sign, right there. Point the second: Congratulating yourself out loud for your own intelligence and good looks is an ugly habit, particularly when it involves implying that the only reason anyone thinks ill of your intelligence is your good looks. Point the third: You are not that cute. I'm sorry. Normally, I wouldn't bring it up, but since you decided you would, I will. You're not. Point the fourth: It is my very least favorite form of self-delusion among certain kinds of women that intentionally making your life easier by playing into stereotypes is empowering in some mysterious way that simply eludes less evolved feminist minds. Go ahead and climb aboard the elevator if you're not up to taking the stairs, but don't kid yourself that you're working just as hard to get where you're going. Point the fifth: Why do they assume they need a strategy to get guys to help them in order to win, if they're so very intelligent? I'll just let them think on that one for a while. Let me know if you see their ears start to smoke.