In a season that was to have no real twists, Big Brother 10 announced on Tuesday it's bringing back America's Player. That means the chosen housemate, if he or she chooses to accept, will get up to $20,000 for doing the viewers' bidding for a week.

The reason? The show is so boring we'd rather watch the Weather Channel. Or Living Lohan.

This cast was supposed to be smarter than the mouth-breathers from season nine. We have more age diversity, a supposedly volatile mix of political opposites, and people with interests beyond tanning booths.

But two weeks into the season, none of the expected dynamics have played out. Dan, the Catholic school teacher who thinks women are inferior, hasn't uttered a peep about his controversial opinions. (In fact, evicted houseguest Steven was surprised to hear about Dan's pledge to leave the country if Hillary Clinton were elected president.)

Likewise, Libra, the Obama supporter, has kept her political leanings on the down low, concentrating instead on making sure her roommates aren't eating or drinking more than their fair share.

Gerry, the 75-year-old retired Marine, was supposed to be the wise elder. Instead he's a mean girl with a potbelly, gossiping with his claque and carrying on a feud with bartender -- oops, mixologist -- Memphis that is more about ego than gameplay.

New Orleans socialite Renny, no doubt cast to bring a "portying" spirit to the group, has turned into a mute. And April's touted obsessive-compulsive disorder has yet to surface, unless you count a compulsion to knock socks with Ollie.

The cast's failure to meet expectations is forgivable. There are plenty of Big Brother players who were cast to fulfill one role -- BB6's bombshell Janelle and token Muslim Kaysar, for instance -- but who surprised everyone by being more complex and compelling than their pigeonhole would suggest.

What's less forgivable is that 10 seasons into the show, this group seems clueless about how to play the game.

Brian, the telecom account manager from San Francisco evicted the first week, was supposedly the smart one whose fatal mistake was playing too hard too fast. Yet he admitted in post-eviction interviews that he'd seen only Big Brother 7: All-Stars, a season that brought together past players who skipped the social preliminaries and dove headfirst into aggressive gameplay. With $500,000 on the line, you'd think a smart player would have rented more than one season's worth of tutorials.

Keesha, the Hooters waitress and current head of household, uses grade-school methodology to make her decisions. That is, who does she, like, like? She liked the grating and divisive Libra the first week, so she gave her word to stick with her because "that's just who I am." (She's heard using that line so much on the Internet feeds it deserves its own drinking game.) Keesha no longer likes Libra, or trusts her, or finds her any benefit whatsoever, but apparently loyalty to one's clique -- or more likely fear of conflict -- trumps advancing in the game.

We had hopes for articulate outcast Angie, a pharmaceuticals rep from Florida, but so far her gameplay has been limited to chain-smoking on the patio.

Preacher's son Ollie has been so whipped -- I mean infatuated -- with the braying April that his head isn't in the game. And Rhode Island real estate agent/tough girl Michelle is little more than a pollinator, spreading news from one player to another but not developing any game of her own.

So who's left? The houseguest playing the hardest is Jessie, the self-loving body builder from California and, strangely, one of the only players keeping this show from being a complete snoozefest.

We're not riveted because he's good, we're riveted because he's delightfully delusional. Not since Zack ("I've got lawyer in me") from the original Paradise Hotel has reality TV brought us a more egotistical windbag. In endless circular monologues Jessie boasts about his skills, his smarts, his savvy, his body. Like the farewell speech he gave to Steven, he turns all topics back to himself. The Soup's Joel McHale is loving him. But his aggressive self-promotion has put a target on his back the size of Guam, so he'll be out soon.

Which leaves us with Memphis. Like Dan, he's one of the few players not whiplashed by emotion, which means he or the conservative misogynist stands a good chance of winning the grand prize.

If we can stay with the show long enough to care.

Shirleen Holt is a freelance writer and former newspaper editor living outside Portland, Ore.