Poor Nonna. She spent her life creating recipes to be treasured and passed down by generations to come. And then one generation turns out to be Melina, and suddenly those recipes are about as safe as the change in my colleague’s desk drawer, and the old bitch is pissed that she wasted all that time cooking when she could have spent it throwing red paint on the doors of loose women.
Rico reckons the sperm that created Melina had a case of Dan’s Bali guts and was actually racing for the porcelain when it ran head-first into the egg. Because what else could explain the sudden turd in the gene pool?
Anyhoo, as the show starts, I’m rather looking forward to seeing Fergus again. He was such a breath of cunty air in the last Sudden Death and I can’t wait to see if he can outdo himself, or if the producers have managed to snap a lock on his cuss box via threats to his wallet.
As the teams enter the kitchen, they both stop to give one another a quick pep-talk. For Jake and Elle it’s to remind each other that they’re still young enough to handle a can opener after no sleep and a night on the nectar and it’s about time these fashionless geriatrics gave them some cred. For Angela and Melina it’s about praying for another abomination and not making eye-contact with Fergus if it happens to be theirs.
Angela giggles to the cameras that their husbands have promised to flay the hairy flesh from their backs if they don’t come home with the heads of the fallen tucked in their faux-Versace handbags. Melina agrees and reckons she bagses Sophia’s because that metal will make a nice necklace and if Angela’s gonna keep cooking, she’ll need something to hold her lunch.
Entree prep starts and Jake and Elle have pulled out a ‘fuck you’ that they prepared earlier by announcing they are cooking Italian. It’s something called a Vitello Tonato and apparently that’s a veal dish and nothing to do with either Danny DeVito or tomatoes, despite Rico’s insistence.
Over the partition Melina wants to know ‘what kind’ of Italian they’re cooking. ‘Good Italian!’ replies Jake, and Dan nearly topples over the balcony because he’s a fat fuck who can’t hold his balance.
Melina is pissed and starts to head over there, but the producers are quicker and security are already blocking her way, so all she can do is rip off her shirt and smear ‘You’re DEAD bitch!’ in duck fat across her chest while sing-songing ‘don’t overcook that veal!’
Speaking of duck, that’s what Melina’s got to get busy with because their main is a whole bird rubbed in some sort of Middle Eastern spice blend that, once again, has been ripped unwillingly from Nonna’s cold, dead hands. That leaves Angela to clean up all the squid guts and seduce some potatoes into stripping off their clothes and hopping into a jacuzzi.
But wait! She’s also got to get the icecream going for Dessert and that involves what seems like hours of standing over a stove while the spuds get bored and start muttering about calling it a night.
‘Can you do the potatoes?’ Angela begs Melina. But Melina’s lost her fist up the duck’s anus and she’s freaking out because, if Jake and Elle win, she’ll need it to smash the smug bitch out of Sophia.
Over on the other side, Elle is also busy with some icecream and Jake is cooking the veal while Kerrie and Craig cheer them on
‘We want them to win!’ says Kerrie, adding that Jake and Elle are like their own kids and, because of that, she’ll be free to spank them like bitches and take away their bicycles if they lose.
Both Jake and Elle are worried about the veal but when it comes down to plating it’s their mayonnaise that rears up like an albino dick and sprays them in the face.
Elle is freaking out but Jake, never one to shy away from a pale 12-incher, grabs a knife and spreads that shit into submission.
Both teams finish plating right on the nose and as their dishes are trotted out to the judges’ table, they’re not over the moon, but they’re not fighting Stefano for the noose just yet either.
Jake and Elle’s dish gets the gobble-treatment first and little blondie reckons they’ve ‘nailed it’. Rico rolls his eyes and says ‘let’s see what Fergus has to say about THAT!’ But to his eternal disappointment, the producers appear to have latched onto the hairy twins in Fergus’ trousers, because while his eyes scream ‘Get me da booket, dis here is cock in da wrong hole!’, the subtitles tell us that that he would happily pay for this in a restaurant.
On to Angela and Melina’s and the concensus is that it is ‘simple but good’. Fergus makes a bit of a show throwing death-stares at other people’s plates, but the producers haven’t let go and he’s forced to concur that it’s a tad lacking in flavour but overall rather good.
Back to the kitchen and into the mains and straight away Jake and Elle are experiencing some trouble. They’re cooking a fish called John on a salad, but Elle has learned her knife skills from Kerrie so she takes to the artichokes with a butcher knife and doesn’t stop until they’re less recognizable than Smiling Sam’s teammate.
Jake is horrified – the last time he saw this kind of carnage it was being squeezed out of Samuel and Ali’s sphincter and onto Fergus’ plate. Elle agrees and says the salad will have to do without and that the simple flavours of the non-violated veges will have to suffice.
Over with the Italians and the duck’s cooked but Angela is slowing slipping into her trademark insanity. While Melina rips the spine out of the duck she has named ‘Sophia’, Angela is reliving the time she served pink meat to the judges and how it was such a beautiful moment that garlic rained from the sky and created little garlic rainbows and how it is just a simply MARVELOUS idea to recreate that garliccy miracle in the rice.
Just as the last bucket-load goes in, Melina sees what’s going on and the realisation that they are about to serve a dump truck of raw garlic to Fergus makes her lips go all quivery and her eyes start burping out great, wet ‘you’ll die for this bitch!’s onto her foundation.
At the judges’ table and Jake and Elle’s is again the first to be fondled. Little blondie’s eyes do her trademark bulge because her fish is ‘perfect’ and she’s pretty sure Guy Grossi – who dropped his fork during the entree – is still under the table. Everyone else says it’s ‘simple and well-executed’. Fergus does too, but in his head he’s already at a McDonald’s abusing the zits off the cashier.
On to Angela and Melina’s and there’s a lot of love for the duck skin, some like for the duck itself, and a whole pick-up truck of hatin’ hillbillys chasing that garlic-with-a-hint-of-rice down the mountain. For a moment it looks like Fergus might crack but then Pete pulls a swifty with a hypodermic and his eyes glaze over and he just mutters it was ‘noice’.
Dessert time and Angela and Melina have got their pants around their ankles and are searching for the bogroll because they’ve just realised they’ve got 30 minutes to peel and poach their pears and EVERY FUCKER HATES POACHED PEARS!
Well that’s what Rico reckons and I’m not about to argue with a man who likes to open a goon bag with a switchblade.
Over to Jake and Elle and they’re making those chocolate cakes that ooze in the middle and Elle is sprinkling her small clothes at the thought of how the oven can fuck with her.
The first batch come out and – horror of horrors! – they’re undercooked and have less stamina than Dan on an uphill climb. Out come the second lot and they at least hold it together, but Elle is terrified the innards are crispier than pubes left out on a hot ledge and Jake has to slap her with a tea towel and remind her that it’s nothing the judges won’t have swallowed before.
Over in Italy and, after cutting the pears in half and bunging them in the oven, Angela reckons they’re good. Melina is giving her the side-eye because she hasn’t forgotten that rice and bitch still stinks like an unwashed press. Still, she gushes that this is all their obsessive stalker-love on a plate and thinks that it ‘looks so pretty’.
Rico reckons there’s nothing pretty about boiled fruit and if you served it alongside a gangrenous foot, he knows which rancid plate-fuckery he’d bring to his belly.
Unfortunately for the judges, there’s no festering limb alternative, so they’ve got no choice but to tuck in. But it’s not that easy: spoons are rebounding and Fergus’ drugs are wearing off enough for him to mutter that this shit is so hard he needs an ice pick and a flick knoife.
When the judges have slipped enough pear into their napkins to look like they actually tasted it, the producers set them free on Jake and Elle’s chocolate. But wait! There’s a whiff of fuckery on the breeze and the show cuts to the delivery of scores before we get to see whether there’s a river or a rude-awakening on the inside.
Angela and Melina get their numbers first, which of course means they’ll be hauling luggage while Ashlee and Sophia cut the ribbon on the Party of the Year. Tubby little Italian, Guy Grossi, gives them a seven, despite yanking out a fang in the bathroom because he thought it was a nugget of that sonofabitching garlic. Everyone else throws out a six and Melina is excited because they beat Ali and Samuel with less and, if the Gods are smiling on them, some of that garlic might have ended up in Jake and Elle’s dessert!
But it’s not to be. Though the producers try to drag it out, it’s obvious that cake oozed like one of Kerrie’s stuck pigs and that the only dessert bruising Jake and Elle are cruising for will be delivered by the number 10.
“We really did want to stay.’ Angela whimpers on being told that Ashlee and Sophia’s most cherished dream has come to pass. Melina, on the other hand, never one to let a shamed old woman rest in peace, hoists out her long range dildo and declares:
‘We’ve definitely done our families proud!’
And for Nonna, that’s the final straw, because the only thing that’s going to bring any pride back to this family is some rolling and rampaging ending up in bloody satisfaction – even if it means busting out of her burial to do it herself.
But then just as Rico and I are wondering if the producers are going to show us a snippet of Nonna’s Tarantino-style retribution in tomorrow night’s show, the bomb drops that there IS no MKR until – gasp! – Easter Monday and that apparently there’s some drama with Sam’s teammate making a pass at Kerrie and Dan stealing Jenna’s wardrobe so he can cook like a tubby, pink bitch.
Rico reckons not to worry – we’ve been neglecting The Biggest Loser and this will give us time to catch up and snark on some fatties.