The cheftestants, having used every ingredient known to man in their ice cream challenge, including cauliflower, got gussied up for an evening on the town. ‘Think I’ll apply some lipstick,’ thought Casey, laying the color on a bit thick, ‘and show off my cleavage. I’ll let my Casabas speak for themselves.’
‘My melons are just as ripe,’ thought Sara N. ‘I’ll let ‘em hang loose too.’
‘I’m comfortable with my cupcakes just as they are, thought Sara M smugly, choosing an outfit she could cook in.
All the men, except Dale, put on their best disco shirts in anticipation of their first opportunity to go trolling for chicks. In addition to his evening ablutions, Howie rolled antiperspirant on his forehead as a cautionary touch. In anticipation of his mano a mano dinner with Govind Armstrong, Dale donned his best high tide pants to show off his sexy hairy ankles.
Our cheftestants go off in the limo singing Bravo’s praises. “Hi ho, hi off, it’s off for fun we go!” Art deco Miami buildings whiz by them, and they are giddy with excitement until the limo comes to a screeching halt and regurgitates them in front of a waiting Padma and Govind. “Hee hee,” said a gleeful Padma. “Fooled you. You think Bravo, having put you in a luxury Penthouse intends to spend one more dime on you than they need to? You came to compete! We’ve provided you with two cramped Roach Coaches . It’s up to you to create a tasty and tasteful late night menu for bar drunks who have nothing but whacky whacky on their minds.
I know whacky whacky, thought Howie. I live in Miami, my ego is whacked, and I’m a control freak.
I know whacky whacky thought Hung. I am the living embodiment of it.
Those two are buttwads, thought CJ and Brian, we’re gonna coast through this one.
'I’m staying out of all this ego crap,' thought Tre. 'I’ll just keep under the radar and win this damn competition.'
'Sheeit,' thought Casey, thinking of her Casabas swinging in that small space. 'I feel exposed.'
'Dayum,' thought Sara N, 'I can’t cook in high heels. I can’t think with my cleavage showing. I feel like an idiot and I’m pissed.'
'Piece of cupcake,' thought an uperturbed Sara M, thinking of the cooking tasks at hand. 'Miami drunks can’t tell shit from shitola. All I need to do is create food they can swallow.'
The stage set for major DRAMA, the cheftestants draw knives for teams. Team Black consisted of Tre, Hung, Brian and Sara M. They were ready to rumble.
“You all stay inside those galleys and cook,” said Brian. “I’ll be in charge of the Congo Line on the Lido Deck.” “We’re not going on a Princess Cruise, dickhead,” said his teammates, but Brian had already donned his party hat and taken up his station outside of the Roach Coach. “Let him,” said Tre. “This will give us more room to create our bar food masterpieces.”
Team Orange, comprised of Howie, Casey, Sara N and CJ, knew it was in trouble when Howie’s forehead antiperspirant stopped working. “This is how teams work best,” the Bulldog said, sweat dripping off his nose. “I bark out orders. You cower, quiver, and quaver. Capiche?”
‘Up yours,’ A*Hole, C.J. thought.’ I’m gonna coast under the radar just like Tre.’
‘I’ll just ignore him,’ thought Casey, ‘and pretend he doesn’t exist.’
Sara N. had a different idea. ‘I can’t think in my party clothes. So I’ll do exactly what he says and let him take the fall.’
Brian, who had set up us his raw bar, oversaw the Congo Line. All the drunks in Miami participated and though they didn’t know what the hell they were eating, including Tre’s bacon wrapped shrimp and grits, they ate every mouth full, washing their greasy food down with even more alcohol.
Howie and his team had mistakenly put a funeral tent in front of their Roach Coach, and only Tom, Ted, and Padma showed up. Tom, asked for a slider. As he waited in the peaceful, quiet atmosphere, he began to nod off, and just as he fell into a deep REM sleep, Sara N. handed him her specially made slider.
We cut away to the judges table with Tom, Padma, Ted, and Govind discussing the two teams. “I had a great nap at Team Orange’s Roach Coach,” Tom said. “I got my aerobic workout at Team Black’s place,” said Padma. “Brian’s a cool party guy,” agreed Ted. “Ya think Howie slipped a mickey in Sara N’s milkshake? She seemed a little out of it to me,” remarked Govind. “I think Howie bludgeoned his team with a stick,” said Ted. “Where was CJ all this time?” asked Padma. “Taking a snooze with me,” answered Tom.
On and on went the serious deliberation, but the judges agreed that the Black Team clearly won, and that Tre’s food was seriously delicious. Then they turned to Team Orange. “Call those losers in. Will ya, Tre?”
Howie barges in and offers Sara N up as a sacrifice: “Sara N is a baby. She’s gotta go.”
Sara N. “That’s a really cruel thing to say. In fact, you’re more of an asshole every day.”
The judges: “You’re both responsible for this team losing. Howie, you ARE an asshole and we wish we could tell you to pack up your knives and go. But Sara N. you’ve got to learn to cook in your underwear if that’s the price Bravo ask you for staying in that nice Penthouse Apartment.”
“Screw you,” said Sara N.;
“That’s it, you’re gone,” replied the judges.
“Well,” said Sara N leaving in a huff. “I think I was too nice; There’s really a fine line between being competitive and being an asshole. In fact, you folks deserve the buttwad you kept.”
Next week the remaining cheftestants will compete against each other in the restaurant competition. Will The Buttwad survive to butt heads another day? Will Casey get over having cooked with her cleavage showing? Will Tre lord it over the others? Stay tuned.