They made the comics wash cars. That’s right. And it wasn’t long before it degenerated into a water fight. No comics were spared. All were soaking wet. We suspect that the producers did the car wash sequence just so they could show (and, of course, watch) Iliza Shlesinger cavort in a wet t-shirt. Of course, Sean Cullen has bigger jugs than Shlesinger does. The producers were kicking themselves that Esther Ku didn’t hang on for another week. (Of course, that assumes that the producers took greater delight in watching a wet Shlesinger than a wet Cullen.) Perhaps they really wanted to see a wet Dye. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Bizarre quote of the evening, Sean Cullen: “It reminds me of the days when comics would have to clean things before they went onstage.” Okay… Just what era is he referring to here? The Mesozoic, perhaps?

They then made all the comics participate in the challenge: Prop comedy. They hauled them to the local Bed, Bath & Beyond and treated them to a perfunctory demonstration set from the master of props himself, Carrot Top. The Top then shifted into “judge” capacity while the contestants gamely attempted to entertain a small crowd of models right there on a small stage in the BB&Y, using props they had speed-shopped for and hastily fashioned into prop comedy gold. Judge Top took notes.

We actually liked the challenge. For many reasons. First off, it was actually comedy they were forced to do. So refreshing. Secondly, it was interesting to see the looks on their faces as they realized (in some case too late) that prop comedy is actually difficult to do and that perhaps this orange-haired fellow is somewhat deserving of our respect. (Of course, we’ve respected the Carotene God for some time now– his performance on last year’s LCS was superb.)

Jeff Dye was blessed as the winner by C.T., thereby gaining immunity.

Did they really put Esther Ku’s name on a tombstone?! Yes, they did!

The gathering in the cemetery, complete with Bellamy in a 19th century undertaker’s get-up, was aesthetically superior to the 50-yard-line gathering of a previous season. But our enthusiasm waned as each comic made the six-mile trek to the mausoleum in the next area code to state who they were funnier than.

When the dust settled, it was Eliza Shlesinger once again who would have to defend her honor. This time against Papa CJ and Paul Foot.

Paul Foot melted down, pretty much. It was “look away” bad. We knew– and he knew– he was gone. (He looked rather like Rod Stewart in his Faces days.) It takes him forever to get to the punchline. Normally, perhaps, not a problem, but when one takes a loooong time to get to the punchline, one must instill confidence that the lengthy ride will be worth it. Mr. Foot did nothing of the kind. (At one point, perhaps taking his cues from the audience members, he snuck a look at his watch. A glance at the watch in a four-minute set is never a good sign.)

How condescending could Papa CJ be? We thought he was kidding when, in the begginning of the show, he said, “Welcome to the big leagues, Sweetheart!” We thought maybe he was employing irony… it was quite apparent in his followup statements that he was not. Papa CJ, perhaps the weakest comedian ever to make it into the finals of this sorry show, just might be the most arrogant. The more he spoke about his chances (and the more he spoke about what he perceived to be the bleak chances of Eliza Shlesinger), the more it became apparent that he’s trapped in a mysterious isolation bubble– he wouldn’t know reality if it came up and licked his face and kicked him in the balls. His set did well, but it was somewhat forced– we could hear the typewrite clacking away– and typewriters haven’t been used to write standup in quite some time now! He delivers his jokes in much the same way as a magician– with a rather unnatural flourish calculated to elicit a response. At one point though, the magic abandoned him. He hit a dead spot. There was a rather uncomfortable 10 seconds or so where a bit died a horrible death (and the reaction was not in keeping with his smiling, upbeat stage persona). Ten seconds is a looooong time in the course of a four-minute set. It did him in.

Shlesinger’s set went well. She’s wildly confident and she knows how to hit a punchline. We missed last week’s set by her. But she’s got that flailing left arm thing going. Fine when Dane Cook does it, but when Shlesinger does it, we gotta figure she’s compensating for something. Exactly what, we’re not sure.

That Oregon Trail bit was confusing for that portion of the population who had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. The audience seemed to dig it, but that could have been editing magic. She would be advised to provide a line or two of explanation.

What was that mike technique all about? She cupped the microphone and, at times, she sounded like she was barking through a megaphone.

The reaction in the greenroom was quite humorous– Gawlllleey! The pretty lady done it again! (Followed by hasty re-assessment of strategies. We could see the wheels spinning!) Perhaps a reassessment is not in order. When we consider that Shlesinger resorted to “fuck” and a couple other bleepable words in just her second four-minute set, she could just be very vulnerable.

And, as readers of this publication know, the outcome was: Shlesinger wins, Foot and CJ go home.

Next week’s comedy challenge just might be sad and poignant– the show travels to the Playboy mansion where, it appears from the tease, the comics will be asked to entertain what may be three of the dumbest and most humorless people on the planet– Hef’s girlfriends. Anyone who has ever seen The Girls Next Door will sympathize. The worst part? You don’t want to make Kendra laugh. That laugh just goes right through you. It’s like a rusty chef’s knife going right through your solar plexus.

Tom Clark was tonight’s Last Comic Driving. Who is that woman– the one who sits in the center of the back seat, week after week? Is she being held hostage? Is she really enjoying herself? If you’re reading this honey, and you’re a hostage, blink twice during the next Last Comic Driving segment and we’ll send a rescue unit!

One more thing: Of course, we already knew the outcome of tonight’s episode. We’ve known for weeks that Papa CJ and Paul Foot were gone. But we’ll be damned if we know what’s happened since– our sources have dried up! What gives? Where’s all the special ops people out there? Where’s the resourceful soul who created a fake myspace a couple seasons back for the express purpose of sending us illicit information on the LCS outcome? Where?!