This is both the best and dumbest season of The Real World that's ever come rumbling out the damn gate. Trannies and grasping beauty pageant ladies and lamewads abound. Brooklyn is in ruins.

Our episode began with Chet, the blonde-haired Mormon fop with a spine-tingling sex obsession was fascinated by former male Katelynn's tranny bits. You see her new bagina hasn't quite set yet, so she needs to expand it using an elaborate series of elephant guns and cotton gins. Or dildos or something. I don't know. Whatever it was, Chet was very, very, very, very, very interested. Because it was like a boy. With a hole where you can put your dingle. A boy with a dingle hole. The angel Moroni came down and blessed Chet with this knowledge.

Also milling about like sad idiots were Devyn and Baya. Both of them desperately wanted to achieve their reasonable, completely unselfish dreams. All Devyn wanted was to be a movie star with a fashion line. All Baya wanted was to be the world's most famous dancer. Unfortunately nobody wants to be veterinarians anymore. Or teachers. Or travel agents. They just want to play them on TV. So Devyn flew to Micronesia where she met the chipper child murderer spokeswoman of the Junovivanti Corporation, a wicked syndicate that traffics in drugs, sex slaves, guns, and beauty pageant fashions. After a retinal scan, Devyn was given a sidearm, a taser, and an ID badge. She was hired!

Baya fell down the stairs.

Chet Chetterson, when not furtively tug-tug-tug-tug-tug-tug-tug-tugging in the confessional while thinking about Katelynn's dingleable boyhole, was busy trying to be an MTV VJ. How on Earth will he ever get in with MTV? He's so far away from it, out there in Brooklyn!!!!!! Oh calloo callay, happy day, thankfully he met Patricia Wentz, an old woman who sings in a rock and roll band, who gave him an MTV producer's phone number. So Chet went and interviewed some chubby band about being chubby and about Seattle and then he had them over to the house so the beautiful, toussle-haired Adonis that is Ryan could play them a charming, mincemeat pie of a song called "I Live in a Small Town and Have a Dingle, So Show Me Your Boyhole." That was cute!

At the bottom of the stairs, Baya kept rolling. Out the door.

At the raven-circled headquarters of the Junovivanti Corporation, Devyn whipped some small, trembling children then threw her head back and cackled. But what was that that MTV's high-def cameras caught? Was it a slight tear that rolled out of her crinkly eyes? I think it was. But the moment passed and she threw a child to the pack of rabid dogs that followed her around the hallways of the Junovivanti Corporation. She watched in wicked passivity as the dogs chomped bones and blood and brains and the child called out for his mother but it was far, far too late.

Chet Chetterson meanwhile put on his best Dior Dandy Child Molester Homme outfit and grambled off to the MTV studios in sunny, pastoral Times NYC Squarecity. He'd debated about his look at nauseating length, but then he called his mother who commanded him to put on a bow tie, slap on a vest, grease his hair, throw on his fashion lenses, hand-diddle a boy's dingle, and go put a damn ring on his VJ dreams. So he did, and when he arrived at the nickel-plated headquarters of our most important network (owned, shadow-like, by the all-knowing Junovivanti Corporation) he decided to tell the underling that met him that his mother had told him what to wear. Good move, Rico Suave! Then, at his screen test, he had a self-described brain fart. He recovered with a junky lead-in about Britney Spears, and the ladies who were interviewing decided that they sort of liked him.

Then Baya came tumbling by, having picked up dust and dead bugs and other manner of street detritus.

Devyn, on a terrible murderous mission from the Junovivanti Corporation, took Sara to model gowns for old ladies. They thumbed the fabrics and oohed and ahhed and Sara worried about her awful tattoos. But Devyn said "Don't worry, I'll take care of it." As the old ladies—Gertrude, Edie, Ethel, Sal from down the block's wife—rubbed their dentures all over the garments, Devyn pulled a pistol with a large silencer affixed to its muzzle out of her breasteses area. She quickly dispatched with the grizzled old broads, giving them each two half-dime sized bullet holes in their wrinkled, ruined foreheads. Splattered with ancient, acidic blood, Sara shrieked and fell over, dead. Devyn's true plan, her evil Junovivanti master plan, was complete. Sara was dead.

Baya caught the lip of the floor and went flipping up into the air, soaring over Devyn's head. She crashed through a window and disappeared into the black of the night, like a squid escaping.

Katelynn—when not canyoning open her ladyboyhole dingle-hangar with pliers, tweezers, a blowtorch, several Laotian children's fingers, a mountain goat's horn, three pounds of Fiddle Faddle, and a daguerreotype of Willa Cather manipulating a railway hand car—apparently created some sort of website about people whose genitals don't match their feelings, so hey let's go get terribly invasive surgery. Everyone was proud of Katelynn for having people make her a website, though not proud enough that MTV gave us the URL or anything. (URL! I just used URL in a sentence! After two plus years of working at Gawker Media, I've finally learned internet speak! You there, send me that link code, right away! Hey girlie, are you having problems with your downloader's upload speed cache performance? Just enhance your megaROM with this CD drive box!)

And, um... Oh I don't know what happened. The Junovivanti Coporation got involved in a bloody turf war with the Globex Corporation, until Hank Scorpio emerged from the shadows and brokered a peace deal. Devyn is now a freelance assassin/model/singer/actress who is available for any and all Bat (or Bar) Mitzvahs, automotive trade shows, conference attendee bookings, and business executive fluffings. Sara's ghost, meanwhile, is gonna strap a Harley onto her Kawasaki's Ninja Honda and zoom off to get more fucking rockass tats, man! Fuck! Dykes 4 Eva! Until we meet men! Go suck a lemon, Sara! You're lame!

Baya tumbled through the air and, like Icarus, flew too close to the sun. She burst into flames and fell, a shining dance beacon to the rest of the dance community, back to Earth. A meteor, a space rock, a glimmering asteroid. Dead as biscuits, but an avatar of hope nonetheless.

Disclosure: I have absolutely no idea what I'm writing right now. Except I do know that this makes absolutely no sense. For this I apologize, while blaming martinis.

At the end of the episode, everyone scratched their heads and asked "Where's Scott?" They called the ASPCA and told them to keep a look out for him, but most of the roommates figured he'd been hit by a car or had run off with that band of teenagers that was always hanging out by the gate. Chet hated those teenagers, but he also longed for them.

Sometimes, in the mornings, back in Utah, Chet would wander out into the backyard and climb the biggest rock he could. There he'd stand and stare out at the sun-baked, bony desert. If he closed his eyes, he could almost hear the wind talking to him. It was a sound like an angel's whisper, like the furtive secrets shared between two school kids who realize, with giddy abandon, that they've been seated at the back of class, and the teacher will never notice. It was the wispy hush of time passing. It was the hum of an earpiece and the cold glow of a camera. And what did it say? This morning desert ghost voice?

"Go with the bowtie," it said. "Please." And then Chet would turn around and it would be his mother, talking through a paper towel tube and fiddling with a rain stick. "Sorry hun," she'd say. "Pancakes are ready."

"Aw jeez, Ma" Chet would whine. But then he'd huff and paw his hair and eventually decide to go back in. Because it was warm inside, and his mom's pancakes were good, and his sisters were nice, and sometimes that is the best thing—that is the only thing. Somewhere nice to sit, to eat, to be a person.

Had he stayed outside, though, just long enough, he'd have seen Baya flailing over the Rockies. A strange phenomenon—a quasar, a supernova, a comet.

A dancer.