It’s morning in the house of pink and blue and the eight remaining contestants are instructed to meet at the Cherry Pit to wrestle. So it’s jell-o wrestling time and they have to split into two teams of four. Bo can’t wrestle. Can Glitter move without a pole?

The guest ref is a beast. Poor Kristy is wrestling Lisa. Sucks for you and your fine ass, Kristy. George camera-insults Jay for his Jersey b1tch attitude. Scotty is the worst for being unable to beat midget Corey Haim.

Glitter shockingly beats Brittany and I’m saddened that George never got a chance to fight.

Winners get a date in a room that was decorated to look like a candy shop, and Tila’s dressed like kiddie porn. Read More »

I guess Boston commuters have never seen a female football player before.

Okay. I know my bag’s big, and I know it smells, and I know when the T pulls into Park Street, the jersey-clad, half-crunked Red Sox fans are not going to part like the Red Sea. But every practice night, every game day, it’s the same ritual once they notice the insignia: Boston Militia Women’s Football. Stares. Whispers. Fingers pointing. Feet shuffling. General anxiety and confusion. And when there are two of us, well, that’s just too much to handle. Even small children cry.

Before the corpse-sized bag, I carried my helmet and shoulder pads in one hand, my cleats in the other. Somehow, that warranted less stares, whispers, pointing and shuffling. Mostly because those jersey-clad, half-crunked Red Sox fans seemed to think I played lacrosse. Without a stick. But a female lacrosse player, that’s believable. Female football players? They’re myths, like unicorns, and Bigfoot. Read More »