Last night's wander into the lost villages of Bergen County brought us stories of struggle and effort, of hard-won victories and vague, melancholy defeats. We learned that it is not about "winning or losing" it is solely about winning.

You know who is not winning? Jacqueline's daughter, Bouffant. Poor Bouffant. Oh poor, woeful Bouffant. She's just flopping around this world, eighteen years old and in a slouchy hat. That's all she is. If you took Bouffant's slouchy hat off, her head would just float up into the sky like a lost balloon. Jacqueline, thus, is worried. What is Bouffant's plan? What is Bouffant going to do? Well, Bouffant will tell you, Jacqueline. Bouffant clearly stated that she is going to drop out of school to do stuff for a while but then don't worry she'll start school again, community school, and then she'll be in school but she'll also be doing other stuff, like wearing new slouch-hats and marrying her boyfriend, Pompadour. So don't worry. She's dropping out of school so she can go back to school. And she has very realistic career goals: she either wants to work in fashion or music. Like that is hard! That is not hard at all! Everyone works in fashion and/or music! It's just what people do these days. Especially when they drop out of school and wear floppy hats. Fashion or music. Eat your heart out, George Washington. Welcome to America.

Naturally this all distresses Jacqueline some, so she whimpered and scratched at the back door for a while until the baby walked by and was like "Oh, you want to go out? OK, OK." But when he opened the door Jacqueline didn't go outside but just kept whimpering and the baby was all "Well what do you want then? You're not eating, you just ate. " There was no satisfying Jacqueline. She was upset. She decided that Bouffant needs what most bratty, spoiled, indulged 18-year-olds need: a life coach. This is a good idea because a life coach will make Bouffant feel like all of her silly laziness and petulance is an actual Issue, which is good. It is good to have brattiness indulged, by a professional life coach. Remember the Teen Coach off Real Smoke Monsters of Orange County? That worked so well. Good idea Jacqueline. There you go, Nathan Hale. Remember when you died? Here's what you died for. America 2010. Life coaches for teenage flopdemons. That's all.

Anyway, Bouffant didn't want a life coach so she ran away back to her apartment and Jacqueline whined some more and widdled on the floor. After the baby cleaned it up, Jacqueline's husband came home and he is very scary! Why is he scary? Well because he looks like Jackie Aprile from The Sopranos and he has a mysterious box full of guns. Yes! This is something that he was willing to show on television! Jacqueline for some reason, on that day of all days, was like "What's in your mysteriousss safe." And I expected there to be a small box in the basement under a pile of rags or at the bottom of a long, winding, torch-lit stone staircase. But no. Hubby was just "Oh, you mean my gigantic black safe that's right there in the kitchen?" And then we turned and, oop, yup, there it was, gigantic black safe just sitting in the kitchen. It looked like a secret refrigerator, where you keep all your secret foods cold. But it isn't secret foods that Hubby keeps in there. Oh no. It's guns. So many guns. There was like an M16 and an enormous Clint Eastwood-style hand cannon pistol gun and Rose McGowan's leg and one of those stun guns from Star Wars that shoots the rings and knocks Leia over. There were just so many different kinds of guns. Jacqueline just smiled and giggled and told the cameras that she was scared and didn't like guns, but oh boy, there was a gleam in her eye that was chilling and telling. She strapped on a bandoleer and grabbed an elephant gun labeled "what killed Hemingway" and aimed at something. "Boom! Pow!" she said. "I feel sexy." Hubby looked at his childbride wielding his weapon and said "You look sexy" and then they both stepped into the gun closet and shut the door behind them. And if that gun booth is rockin' do not come a knockin'. Because Jacqueline will literally shoot your face off.

Next we moved on to a real go-gettuh type. Remember Albie? Albie is Caroline Manzo's honeywheat shining lion god of a son. One smile from Albie is like Jacqueline shooting you straight in the guts with an enormous love gun. Albie is made of brick and garnet, chiseled by Tuscan angels. He is possessed of a quick, athletic mind and lean, limber physique. Albie is the apple of the entire world's eye. When Albie dies (or turns 30) we will all wink out of existence, because what is the point. Well, Albie has... a brother. No one knows just where the brother came from — some say they saw his gnarled frame hoisting itself out of a bog one misty morning, others claim he was left on the Manzo's doorstep twenty cursed years ago, a scaly claw poking out from the blanket. No one really knows, but it does not matter because he's here now and there is nothing we can do. He goes by several names — Failure, Disappointment, Woe — but for the purposes of today, we will call him Chris. It is very hard for Chris to live up to the Herculean ideal established by his older brother, and over the years he has become poisoned and blackened by his jealousy. He often lurks in corners, pale features a sickly color, tongue flicking in and out of his mouth, his long fingernails scraping at the walls. When Albie isn't around, his fiendish brother tries to snake his way around his parents. "Motherrr..." he hisses, a chill running through Caroline's body. "Please Motherrr, give me the car washhhhhh." And though the car wash isn't hers, she gives it to him anyway. Because she is scared, because she does not know what else to do.

The carwash is owned by a friend of the family and somehow Caroline convinced the guy ("You ever had a knuckle panini? Well you're about to get one, with extra salami.") to let Chris run the thing for a day. To, you know, get some management experience. All of this is because last season he expressed a desire to own and operate a car wash / strip joint. So the producers of the show were like "Oh man, we gotta make that happen," so they did this season. That's all this was. That's all any of this ever is. But who cares, it was still kind of funny. Basically Chris loped off to a strip joint — excuse me, strip club, there's a difference apparently, at least in Caroline's eyes — and ogled the ladies and then talked to the owner who agreed to lend him some strippers in exchange for six head of cattle, three bushels of grain, and a new Winchester rifle. Chris figured it a fair price and shook the man's hand. Chris's friends, who had accompanied him, were getting sorta lap dances and there were other guys there getting sorta lap dances and though a lot of the women had apparently asked to have their faces blurred out, the men had chosen not to. Because, I guess, they imagined they looked cool and balla? Because they figured they might look rather becoming — leering and sweating, ties pulled loose, dopey slack-jawed expressions speaking volumes, not about wealth or status, but about boredom and vague regret, about every turn in the road that took them to Scores in the middle of a work day. Chris was, as they say in Paris, enchanted.

Yeah he imagines he'd like to own a strip club some day and Caroline don't see no problem with that as lawng as it's classy. You know, one of those classy places where women dance while men stuff dollar bills in their underpants. She'd be OK with that. As Jacqueline told us, it is every man's dream. It's true. It's every man's dream. Happy Patriot's Day, Patrick Henry. This is what you built. We love you.

So anyway. Where were we. Ah yes, the strippers and the car wash. Chris was super excited. The morning of the car wash takeover he strode up to the joint in his finest silk shirt, the one he'd stolen from Albie's closet and, he hoped, was imbued with some of his essence. The owner of the carwash, bandages covering his face and an arm in a sling, handed over the keys with a trembling hand. "Say hi to your mother, will you? You tell her I said hi. I said hi. I'm being nice here. Please. I have kids." Chris nodded, took the keys, and dismissed the man. This was his kingdom now. He went to talk to his queen, a middle aged lady in a bright green T-shirt named Denise who runs the front of the store, and she was all "Hey." Chris told her that he had "some friends" coming and just as he was about to explain what he meant, he heard a car novelty horn sound and looked up and there it was. The Titsmobile. A bright pink party bus with a boob-shaped front, pulsating with the bass of some candy pop song, girls squealing and tee-heeing, clinging to the sides like an Indian commuter train. Chris turned to Denise and began to explain but she put a hand up and started to walk away. "Ain't my problem, I'm on my break," she said, cigarette already lit before she was even outside. Chris shrugged and went to go meet the girls.

Mostly they were prettyish Jersey girls who were happy to wear cut-off T-shirts and jump and bounce with signs as if it were a high school car wash. Chris didn't have the heart to tell them that they weren't, in fact, raising money for a marching band trip to Washington D.C. He figured he'd just run away with all the money and speed off in the Titsmobile, headed for Mexico or Canada, whichever came first. So the girls giggled and jiggled and, wouldn't you know it, they did a lot of business. Because, I guess, many of the men of New Jersey are driving around in the middle of the day and see strippers jumping up and down and say "Hey, I wanna be over there," and veer their cars across three lanes of traffic and screech up and say "Huh huh, hi. What's going on here?" It's just what men like to do on their Saturday afternoons. The bossman was impressed. Caroline was happy and proud. And, for just a second, you saw a slight glimmer of respect flash across Albie's sculpted face. But then it was gone. He turned and saw his hunched and spindly brother, gazing at a stripper with a menacing hunger, and he felt sickened again. We all felt sickened again as the Titsmobile drove away down the road, the thump-thump of the music fading in the distance, summer stars peeking out from behind their velvet curtain, knotted Failure standing there breathing heavily, a loud and horrible rasp. Caroline sighed and said "Let's get the fuck outta heah. No, not you. You find your own way home." Albie smiled meanly — he takes pleasure in the easy victories — and said "C'mon Ma, I'll buy you a steak."

Speaking of meat, Teresa was giving birth. Yes it was time for T.T. to have another little child, one named Emilia or Romagna, who she can smother and dress up like an animate doll. She knew it was time for the baby because she felt a great pressure in her chuckie, which is how the sensation is described on the backside of the Hippocratic oath. "Bulldawg, it's tiiiiiime," she declared to her sleeping husband. "Huh? The fuck? Anotha one? Lemme have my cawfee." Yes he needed to wake up a little bit and drink his cawfee before they could go to the hospital. Teresa's youngest (middlest?) daughter, Farina, came downstairs and Teresa made her french toast. Well, I think they were frozen french toast sticks, but still! She had a bulge in her chuckie and she was making breakfast? Bulldawg, help a girl out heah! Oh well. So then it was off to the hospital, with bags and boxes full of Teresa's belongings along for the ride. Of course she would need her jewelries and her furs and sweatsuits for the birth, not to mention her jeweled fur sweatsuit. At the hospital she had to wait for her room, suffering in pain. Oh wait, no, sorry, it wasn't her that was suffering in pain. It was the ladies she called. She called all the ladies (except Danielle, natch) to tell them that she was in labuh and just basically jawed their ears off about nothing. Jacqueline seemed pleased and ran outside to look up and see if she could spot the stork flying by. But she couldn't so she said a soft "Awww, pennycandy" to herself and walked dejectedly back inside. Caroline said "That's great. It bettuh not get in my way." And Dina was very nice and happy and was later named the godmother which is nice because Dina is nice.

Teresa moaned. Teresa groaned. Teresa and Bulldog probably boned. She had an epidural but it didn't seem to work. There seemed to be a lot of pain. But finally when the time was the time, she unscrewed her chuckie and took out the baby parts and then put it together with the Allen wrench that lives in her chuckie and she had a new baby. (That is how babies are born, I am fairly certain.) Everyone was very excited for her. The only thing? The only teeny, tiny, majuh thing? It was a girl. YUP. All Bulldog wanted was a little boy that Teresa could turn gay, but nope. No. A girl. Named? Audriana. Sort of like Audrina from The Hills had strange tadpole sex with Arianna Huffington and then they named their baby after themselves. Audriana. Such a traditional name, such history. See you in hell, Giuseppe Garibaldi. This is what you fought for. Mi dispiace.

But yes, a girl. Teresa explained that Bulldog is OK with it. He was only meant to make girls, because then when they're older they won't leave. Boys go away when they get married, apparently. They just stop seeing their parents. This was a fact, as Teresa explained it. OK. Fine. I don't know. Sure. Happy Chuckie Day, everyone. Try the cake.

Finally we have Beverly Merrill, our dramatically faced mamawitch who's embarking on an exciting new career of having her daughter have a modeling career. This is a very exciting career path. I was going to major in having your daughter have a modeling career, but it ultimately seemed too difficult. All those classes in emotional geology and conscience statistics. Just too much work. But Danielle is very good at it. Self-taught, even! She's just making it up as she goes along, this wacky personal ride of her daughter having a modeling career. To discuss her job with her daughters, she took them to a diner where they ordered water and lettuce and sat around pouting. Danielle very gently tried to make sure that her daughter was very upset about the panic attack thing from last week. It was so sweet and motherly watching Danielle making very certain that Christine feels bad about that thing that she did that she had no control over. For her part Christine held her own and said things about how it might at some point turn out that modeling isn't for her, but Danielle wasn't going to hear any of that. No sir. She just brushed that off. The little girl, Freckles, got a dig in at one point that I can't remember but it was funny and I kind of think she might be Pippi Longstocking stuck in New Jersey and I kind of wish that Ephraim would sweep in and take her back to Villa Villekulla where she could live happily ever after, chatting away with Mr. Nilsson, Tommy gazing at her through a window, a wicked new feeling filling him from the feet up.

But that isn't going to happen. Not any time soon at least. Danielle has her talons dug in and has her own ambitions for Freckles. Maybe she can be a model too. But more realistically she can be Christine's assistant or something. That way she could be constantly reminded that she's not as pretty as her sister for the rest of her life, and get paid for it! I think it's a pretty genius idea, actually. Danielle really is very good at having her daughter have a modeling career. Well done.

Once that business was finally done, we got Danielle alone. She was going to meet some friends at a diner and they told her that their baby was sick, which is a real sad thing, and Danielle offered to help. They were having a benefit and figured it'd be good for her to stop by, her being a big time celebrity and all, so that sounded perfect. Only problem? The party was at... the Brownstone. The Brownstone! This is the bat- and raven-circled castle from where the wicked Caroline rules. A dark and stormy place with a gurgling moat of hot tar and bile and a nasty snake-haired gorgon dragon protector named Teresa. This is a terrible place that Danielle is rightly afraid of. She did not know what to do. She had so many doubts! And what does one do when one is in doubt? Call an ex-convict, naturally. That was always my grandma's motto. And after she was murdered by that ex-convict, I took the little sampler she'd stitched the saying onto and hung it up in my bedroom. So Danielle and I think much the same!

Yeah, Danielle called up not one but two ex-con friends, and had them come over for a rap session. Really they're the only people that Danielle can communicate with. They smoke their cigarettes and use their prison slang and they all have the same haunted look in their eyes, they all know something about once being young and stupid and selfish, they all have the distinct displeasure of not particularly liking the people they once were. They're shaky, nerve-racking people. Will they stay on the straight and narrow and find happiness? Will they repeat offend and just end up another recidivism statistic? Or will they just forever live in the free world with an invisible tether, a permanent rain cloud? It's agonizing waiting to find out. Just a sorrowful sort of thing. Danielle likes something about these people. She just does. She especially likes her ex-con friend Scraps.

Scraps is a small man with dark black inkblot eyes and a nervous energy that Danielle seems to feed off of. For that reason she invited him to go with her to the big benefit at Von Brownstone Castle in the hopes that she could lean on him and he would make everything OK. And if there's one thing that's good for an ex-con it's to feel used. And be around a lot of money. At the same time. Don't you sort of sense some moment coming where Danielle stands in a field, yelling at Scraps, police lights approaching in the distance, and she yells at him "Give it up Scraps! Come on baby, you were doing so good. You were doing so good. Just give me the money and go. Don't get caught. They don't have to know it was you. I'll explain it to them. It'll be OK if you just give me the money. But if you keep running. Man you're gonna run forever. You ain't never gonna stop running, Scraps. You wanna live like that? You wanna be one of those guys, always checking your back and double locking doors and staying away from cameras? You wanna be one of those guys sees his picture in the post office, man? C'mon, Scraps. Give me the money. It's for a sick kid, man. It's for a sick kid. Jacqueline's husband has a gun and if he knows it was you.... He'll put you down, Scraps. He will not think twice before laying your ass on the ground, boom, you're dead. No more running, but no more living either, man. C'mon baby. Do it for me Scraps. I need you, Scraps. Give me the money." But then it's too late and the police come and he goes down in a hail of gunfire. That could happen next week.

But probably it won't. Instead they'll just have the party and Danielle will stand awkwardly in a corner, feeling sorry for herself. Jacqueline will get caught trying to sneak up on the hors d'oeuvres table and will get shooed away by a cater waiter. Dina will beam beatifically and dream about disappearing somewhere where she doesn't have to be on this silly show. Brazil, she thinks sometimes. Somewhere exotic. Caroline will punch her palm with her fist, hungry to crack some skulls, but there will be no skull cracking to do, not for the moment. Teresa will walk around showing everyone her new chuckie, that she had installed after the baby. It's made of diamonds from Africa, where she didn't know they had diamonds, but they do. Big, beautiful, blood-red diamonds. Right on her chuckie. Albie will dance with every pretty girl in the room exactly once and then he will saunter off into the cool spring night and the moon will gasp when it sees him, polish itself up, shine a little brighter, lighting a path home for him, this god on earth. And while he strolls home with a beautiful whistle, back at the party, in a dark corner, his crooked brother, dressed all in black, will be having a furtive conversation with someone. Something whispery and devious, a plan-making conversation. And there will be one moment when he turns, reveals who the person is against the wall, the co-conspirator. And Danielle will see Scraps' slumped frame, see those weary shoulders. And she will know that they are up to something terrible.

"Oh no," she will say. Oh no, oh no, oh no.