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Friday, March 26, 2004

 

Apprentice Friday



With A Mere three episodes left in its triumphant run, it's time to handicap the remaining "interviewees" ("contestants" is just so...demeaning) on The Apprentice.

The following odds are for entertainment purposes only and should not be used as the basis for any actual cash wager. But feel free to put $50 on Nick for me in the Vegas Reality Show book.

[Note: Team designations are largely useless at this late stage of the interview.]

Protege

Kwame: We have a complicated relationship with Kwame. He seems like a nice enough guy: He's got an MBA from Harvard, a good job on Wall Street, and he's never twisted an innocuous saying into a racial epithet. But does he have a personality? Has he said or done a single, interesting thing? The strategy's paid off. Kwame's still around while the "fun" ones have all been summarily dismissed by Trump's Downsizing Pinky Finger. I'm automatically suspicious of anyone who so dependably lapses into MBA-speak rather than have a creative thought or a real insight.

We find it difficult to forget the Planet Hollywood incident where Troy convinced him to sign basketballs to sell to tourists from Iowa who'd never seen a real, live black person except on ESPN highlights or when they were surfing past UPN on the way to Everybody Loves Raymond. And then they tried to make us all feel guilty for crying foul, stating "We never said that Kwame was in the NBA," that's all y'all's horrible, racist assumption. Yes, that's it exactly. I can hardly make it to my car in the morning without running into a Goldman Sachs day-trader trying to sell me his autograph on a Spaulding.

See, it's complicated with Kwame. If if it were anyone but The Donald judging, Kwame could go all the way. But that glorious hairpiece is a finely-tuned goldbricker detector, and Kwame's pockets are heavy with bullion. Odds: 10 to 1

Troy: It goes without saying that we're all just a little bit tired of Troy's good-old-boy, country salesman routine. We can picture Good Ol' Troy back at the Idaho mercantile, patting a farmer on the back and putting his thumb on the scale while he's selling him bags of feed. We're not entirely sure that bags of feed are placed on scales and sold by weight, but we're certain that Troy would figure out a way to get his thumb on a scale, somewhere.

Troy's the next one to go. And expect him to panic as he feels the Pinky Finger Deathray approaching, dressed in overalls, a straw hat, and carrying a pitchfork, teeth clamped around a piece of hay. "But Mr. Trump, I'm just a simple farm boy from Idaho. I don't unnerstand your crazy, big-city ways." And then chiseling the cabbie out of three dollars with some rap about the exchange rates on Idaho currency in NY after he tells the camera about his leadership qualities.

Also, we're not positive because we haven't seen a pair in quite some time, but we think Troy was rocking acid-washed jeans on last night's episode.

One last thing, and this says more about us than about him: We can't stop thinking that Troy's going to star as Joe Buck in an off-Broadway revival of Midnight Cowboy, with the long-ago dispatched Sam as Ratso Rizzo. Odds: 7 to 1

Bill: Bill's the sleeper. Bill's the quiet manager in your office, the one that seems like he might be a good guy, but he's a little too business-y from 9-6. Then there's the one night where Happy Hour cocktails turns into an impromptu trip to the Shaved Beaver, and Bill's the one chatting up the strippers, trying to negotiate some extras during the lap dance. The next thing you know, someone asks what happened to Bill? We haven't seen him in a while. Bill's in the private room, getting a blowjob and admiring giggles as the stripper's tongue piercing clinks against his Prince Albert. Your entire department rushes home to jerk off, at least those that didn't have an accident at the club.

The next day, Bill claps you on the shoulder as he walks by your cube, throws you a nod, see you in the meeting. But you're pretty sure that stripper was into you. And didn't you have more money in your pocket when you left the club?

Bill, welcome to the Trump Organization. Odds: Even


Versacorp

Amy: With Katrina gone, Amy is the sole female interviewee remaining. Last night saw her golden-girl image tarnished as her mission winning-streak was snapped. This was a pivotal moment in Trump's eyes; it's like the moment when certain tribal elders figured out that pitching virgins into the volcano didn't actually stop them from erupting, but continued the tradition because the average guy was never going to believe them, and besides, they kind of make a neat noise before they hit bottom.

It's obvious that Amy's playing Nick because he's Trump's favorite. She's good, and she'll make it to the final three. But she's not Katrina-hot, and all Amy's whining about her overlaying on her sexuality is wearing on The Donald, even as he smartly pretends to be offended at such tactics while manipulating The Lil' Donald underneath the boardroom table. Amy never made him touch himself. Don't get him wrong, he'd totally fuck her. And a fifteen million dollar volcano hole at the Briarcliff golf course sounds like a great idea.

She'll be fired, but will rebound nicely with a severe haircut and a job as Warren Buffett's Carolyn. Odds: 3 to 1

Nick: Nick, Nick, Nick. Niiiiick. Nicky. Trump loves you. It's clear as the red hair on that watermelon of a head of yours. So whattya doin' making googly eyes at Amy? She's playing you, kid. You'd never fall for this in LA, if some skank in a low-cut blouse tried to hawk inferior Minolta document-reproduction solutions on your turf. Sure, you'd get over, but you'd sneak out in the morning and sell Mr. Lee's kimchee joint more Xerox than he could ever fucking use. And she'd call you again. She would.

This is the big time, kid. Trump sees you have a weakness for the broads. He likes that, he can respect that. He's never above mixing a little business and pleasure. But when you pass on a toss with Ereka or Katrina to get led around on a leash by cute-as-a-button Amy, Trump's gonna shake his head, do a little song and dance about how you were always his favorite, and this is a tough one, it really is, but HERE COMES THE FUCKING DEATH PINKY and the two little words that you'd never thought you'd hear.

Niiiiick. Fired last is still fired, Nicky. See you back in LA. Odds: 2 to 1




See previous Apprentice Friday entries:
Drink Trump Ice
Goodbye, Omarosa: A Recap in Haiku
Fire & Ice: An Appreciation of Carolyn
You Can See Mr, Trump Now: Robin the Fake Receptionist's Fake Receptionist Job Duties



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This is the internet home of Mark Lisanti, a Los Angeles writer sometimes known as Bunsen. He is the founding editor of Defamer, a weblog about Hollywood, where he now serves in the nebulous capacity of "editor-at-large."
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