Saturday, October 15, 2005
Survivor Guatemala, Episode 5: What's Ancient Mayan for "Big Weepy Loserhead"?
by Landru
Ye gods, this show reeks. We’re in that Palau range of unbridled suckage again, not least because the producers chose to keep around the insufferable losers Stephenie and Bobby Jon-Boy. They’ve also kept the model of making all the women who aren’t Stephenie either big ol’ toughbroads or hopeless basket cases (a friend referred to Lydia as an oompa-loompa). The men are all either big ol’ muscular fratboy garbage, or mincingly gay. Or they’re just lying sacks of uselessness like that quarterback fella, who is such a powerfully negative piece of iconicity that one of my friends can barely watch the show now, so busy is she wishing for bad karma to fall from the sky and splatter the guy all over Central America.
The show reeks so badly that I didn’t actually pay attention to it. I just did Ilse instead. I moved to run my hand gently over her shoulder, but she was having none of that, instead shrieking, “Just take me! Take me now!” And so I did, my glistening hairless chest pressed to her small frame as my turgid…
Gothmog: Dood.
Dweezil: Seriously. Dood.
Me: What?
Gothmog: Dood.
Dweezil: Seriously. Dood.
Me: What?
Dweezil: You remember the last time someone blew this off to write soft-core porn?
Me: Oh, okay. No problem. How ‘bout I talk about handcuffing her first?
Gothmog: Dood. I’d say you were missing the point, except your head would still puncture armor plate. Do you really need to remind me, again, that you’re doing her and I’m not? Especially, like, after you’ve convinced yourself that my wife thinks you’re cool?
Me: You’re right. I’m sorry.
Dweezil: It’s okay, man, we understand you have self-control issues not unlike those experienced by unmedicated seventh-grade boys.
Gothmog: Yeah, it’s not like we have expectations of you or anything. Just chill, mmkay? Next time you find it necessary to actually use the word “turgid,” we’re taking you to the talky-talk doctor, mmkay?
Me: But I like the talky-talk doctor.
Gothmog: No, assclown, the one who’s not my wife.
Me: Oh. Uhm, yeah, okay.
So anyway, our inflamed lips brushed together…
Dweezil and Gothmog: Dood!!!!!
Me: Oh. Right.
Uhm, lessee, previously on Survivor: Desecratin’ the Tooms:
One tribe or the other (they’re indistinguishable) is awed by crocodiles that in no way endanger them at all; another tribe is jarred as Bobby Jon git bit bah a fee-ish; Jiffy tells both tribes to drop their Buffs in the same tone of voice he uses to get Julie to crank down her panties, and we do the earliest tribal switch ever, making the tribes even more indistinguishable except in the sense that one of them is the Stephenie tribe and the other is the Bobby Jon tribe; Judd, who is on the Stephenie tribe, rants about how big his dick is; on the other tribe, Bobby Jon and Blake take a leak and seal a bargain, shaking on it without washing their hands; Stephenie brings home the bacon of yet another immunity challenge loss, despite Former Dallas Cowgirl Gary Hogeboom pretending he doesn’t know how to throw things at other things; and Judd pisses off Magrit by allying with his fellow New Joiseyan Steph to vote out some chirpy and irrelevant little thing whose main attribute was that she helped Judd and Magrit and some other old-skool homie maintain a numbers edge on Stephenie and whichever brothers in loserdom she brought with her to the new tribe. Whatever the hell it’s called.
We roll credits, and everything about the credits that doesn’t involve a specific media whore is gorgeous. But I gots me a problem here. Several contestants are shown swimming, and it occurs to me that we have, in fact, done some water stuff here in the place where we desecrate the Mayans. While fire is, of course, life, doesn’t that mean water is death? Specifically, in this here place where we desecrate Mayan temples, doesn’t waterdeath come at the hands of the crocodiles that the producers are working so hard (and there’s more to come on this one, oh yes there is) to convince us are a mortal danger to the little media whores? So…where were they swimming? I remember, eight or ten years ago when we started this season, some people getting out of the boat and taking mud baths and suchlike, but I don’t recall anyone actually swimming. And there may have been a swimming-related challenge somewhere along the line; this whole season is so wretched that I forcibly repress every single episode as soon as it’s over and I can get myself to someplace that isn’t my television tuned to CBS.
As much as CBS is investing in trying to make me believe that one of these morons is going to become croc brekkies, I really want some payoff here. And I’m pretty sure that if I were gonna get croc brekkies, I’d have heard about it somewhere in the liberal mainstream media.
We’ve been through the introductions and all—and they’ve been done by better men than me—so I’m not going to bother to list the contestants one by one; I’m just going to have at them as they dare to appear on my television screen. But first, it appears, it’s time for:
Commercials, sponsored by Chevrolet and by some movie that has a great deal of tween appeal:
a trailer, for the aforementioned movie, which appears to be Jumanji in space, and which involves children sucked into some fantasy reality that challenges them to do heroic kid things, but you know me, and I’m hoping that it challenges them to do heroic kid things like slumping over and being quiet and paying for their own damn college educations; those liquid metal terminator antelopes, for the all-new Chevrolet Impala, which has got to be getting along toward being one of the oldest, if not the oldest, of car models; children playing and splashing, and various adults offering fragments of commentary, for some new American Express card that allows AmEx to hold onto and use your money, rather than just charging you interest and fees, and all I can say is God Bless Capitalism; a luminescent CGI butterfly and very calm feminine voiceover, for some drug called Lunesta, which I’m guessing is some drug related to chick problems, although from the tranquil quality of the video and voiceover, it could just as easily relate to sleeping or being less insane, but I’m thinking that whole “Lun” root is pretty much a dead giveaway, and if I’m mocking some condition or disease from which you personally suffer and you are presently outraged by my callousness, then my work here is done, and done well; a light-skinned African-American family playing in fake snow, for K-Mart, and I am just too overwhelmed by that much symbolification to comment further; and CBS, for a show that involves Rob Morrow as an FBI agent (believability quotient? zero), and OMFG, that’s what happened to Judd Hirsch.
And we’re back, looking through some night-vision equipment that does not, sadly, include crosshairs trained on Former Dallas Cowgirl Gary Hogeboom. Back at the Stephenie tribe, we are subjected to a great deal of Stephenie’s big fat loserhead whining. We are also subjected to Judd’s nasal droning about how it’s a game and you gotta play the game and Sweet Irish Christ, not this line of squishy babyshit again.
As the conversation continues, it becomes apparent that Judd voted to exile Brooke mostly to piss off Magrit. Now, Magrit is a manipulative control freak, and an ineffectual one at that. Her claim to personhood is based entirely on having nursed some menfolk back to health after the grueling overnight trip through the jungle that started off this little enterprise. As time goes by, it is becoming more obvious that she did so in such a condescending and bitchy manner (although the editing chose not to reveal that to us) that she inspired every bit as much disdain as love for the nurse-mother.
This is not to excuse Judd, who is a fat honking arrogant pig who should be rendered for glue, not least because he reveals in the course of this conversation that he has reproduced. Think for a second about what might be married to Judd, and about what sort of offspring they might beget. But please, I love you all very much. Don’t think about it for more than a second.
The producers choose to follow Judd’s confessional about how much he hates Magrit with night-vision footage of a snake. We really need more evil critter metaphors, because the whole snakes and spiders thing is just way overdone, girlfriend. There was a juxtaposition of Judd and a monkey last week that worked pretty well, but still. We need more.
Another day dawns, over at the Bobby Jon tribe, and more is made of crocodiles; there’s a lovely underwater shot of a croc’s gaping maw, and I sure wonder about how they got that shot. Blake is confessionalizing in the dawn stillness about how cool he is and about how his position in the game is so commanding. Ow. Later efforts will be made to try to confuse the foreshadowing issue, but this is clearly The Big One. Night-night, Blake.
It will also become clear during the remainder of the episode that this is, in fact, a just outcome. Blake is a drunk fratboy date rapist, a braggart who talks endlessly about himself. I mean, this guy lays even Your Pal Landru to waste in the self-aggrandizement department, and I think we can all agree that this is quite an accomplishment.
At the Bobby Jon tribe’s camp, a giant flying beetle attacks Amy. This relatively bovine police sergeant from somewhere they don’t hate the Red Sawx jumps up and begins shrieking about the camp. Because of a bug. “Get it the fook outta heah,” she Bostonates. Police sergeant. Running. From a bug. Shrieking.
Okay. Somewhere it is chiseled in the rules of reality TV casting that one must cast the gay guy, and the giant hulking ape-men, and the pretty people, and the lunatic. Why oh why is it also written that every cast must include one Yankee fan and one Red Sox fan? Why has society devolved to the point where this is one of the pivotal conflicts around which literature and drama must revolve?
The elevation of the Yankees versus Red Sox to a level where it is studied in high school literary deconstruction alongside such classics as man versus man, man versus nature, and man versus the Empire State Building is, mark my words, a critical factor in the impending end of history and civilization. Future generations of theoretically intelligent beings will uncover the archaeology and wonder what compelled our culture to revolve around glorifying this conflict, rather than simply eliminating it from the face of this Earth.
The results of the recent American League divisional playoffs provide new hope for a bright future for all of us and our progeny. We can keep our culture safe for years to come by ensuring that, each and every baseball season, neither the Yankees nor the Red Sox play in the American League Championship Series. Won’t you help? It only costs pennies a day to keep these two franchises as financially impoverished as they are morally bankrupt. This year was just the beginning. Let’s keep hope alive! U! S! A! America, Fuck Yeah!
You can probably stop reading now. That right there was likely about as good as this summary’s gonna get.
The tribespersons make much merry by convincing the unfortunate Amy that the beetle has landed on her shoulder. Brandon, the snarky asshole farmer who has emerged as a key narrator for this tribe, whatever the hell it’s called (I’m sorry, I just can’t be bothered with that trivia), mocks Amy’s citified nature. Brandon is in dire need of a severe beating, preferably by urban persons. Some discussion ensues about farming. It is dull. Amy is curious about the process of farming. Bobby Jonboy and the others chime in with loving and barely articulate descriptions of farm equipment. There is harmony over the appropriate brand of farm equipment; no International Harvester nancyboys here, baby. We’re all about the Deere.
Brian, the token mincing gay person (the other token gay person, who is currently a member of the Stephenie tribe, is in some state that goes so far beyond mincing it cannot be accurately described in a language we know), who has also emerged as a key narrator for the Bobbyjon tribe, tells us about how he’s just going along to get along. They’re into livestock and crops and Jesus; he’s into muscular jocky hunks and Emily Dickinson and heathenry. We’re no doubt impressed by the OscarFelixness of it all.
Not.
There follows a Jesus interlude. Danni leads the tribe in Christian prayer before they eat…whatever it is they’re eating.
I’ve said it before, and these ignorant tards are going to make me say it again. Let’s assume that there is a deity, and let’s further assume that said deity is or strongly resembles the very popular Christian deity. There follows a number of assumptions that are commonly made by reality television persons, and that are completely moronic, to wit:
1. The deity does not care about the outcome of a game show, any more than the deity cares about the outcome of the Colts-49ers game (unless the deity took the Colts minus the points). Shut up.
2. It is not entertaining to listen to or view the portions of your daily ablutions that include thanking your deity of choice for allowing you to have this day a healthy bowel movement. Shut up.
3. The fact that you are superficially “religious” and make a show of respect for the deity of your choice does not bespeak any evidence of your moral fiber, good, bad, or indifferent. Especially taken on the heels of number 2, above, there is only one conclusion that can be reached here: shut the fucking fuck up.
Believe what you want. Worship what you want. Vote how you want, even if it’s to impose a theocracy on us pagans. But shut. The fucking. Fuck. Up. Especially on national television.
Brian reminds us that it would be stupid for him to object to the Jesusification. He’s probably right, and I gotta give the guy his props for that. I typically stare at the floor during other peoples’ prayers and mumble respectfully. Heck, I even pulled the Lord’s Prayer outta my ear the other week at Grandma’s funeral (although my family’s common version includes important passages such as “Up the Queen, forever and ever, Amen”, and key lines from Ode to a Haggis, and words in which the letter “Y” is very heavily used as a vowel, like “Dwyffyd” and “Gonyffygdwaytchyllyn” and “Faerestwyylaernavyn”). But there’s always the temptation to shriek sacrilege. I mean sacrilege that doesn’t involve not reciting “Up the Queen.”
I digress, of course. What we will complete, before the next commercial break, is a reward challenge. We are inconsiderately given no tree mail whatsoever. Bastiges. I’ll just have to make some up, huh?
You’re hanging out here in the jungle, you’re roasting
So it might be keen to go out roller coasting
You’ll bash with a rock at a segment of rope
Or maybe you’ll saw, in which case you’re a dope
One team will win and the other will lose
Without any chance to partake of our booze
The winners will swim without fear that the crocs
Will gnaw on their bones, and spit out their frocks.
The challenge involves an ancient Mayan roller coaster. Team charges up the wooden rails, stopping for one team member to saw through a rope with a sharpened rock, “just like the ancient Maya would have.” This releases some handles for a turnstile. Next stop, another team member hacks at a log with a machete, releasing more handles. Team climbs up to a platform, four of them using the handles to turn the turnstile to crank a railcar up to the platform. The six team members who’ve already done tasks pile into the railcar, the seventh team member cuts the rope, and the first six ride. First team across the finish line wins.
And a fine challenge it is, the reward being a crocodile-proof swimming cage, with a deck, lounge chairs, umbrella, ancient Mayan margaritas, ancient Mayan chips, ancient Mayan guacamole, and an ancient Mayan window air conditioner powered by the tears of the losing team. Both tribes have full-blown orgasms as Jiffy describes the booty. Tight shots of Stephenie get inside her brain and reveal that she is already considering what a whiny little bitch she will be if her tribe loses. Danni’s orgasm is, much like Danni, singularly unattractive.
There is no mention of using the sharpened rock to cut out the still-beating heart of an opposing tribe member and display it to one’s cheering teammates, no mention of using the rope to tie up captured prisoners for blood sacrifice, no mention of ancient Mayan HVAC repairmen. I think we know how this would’ve gone if I were the producers, yes?
So the teams take off up the rails. Brandon the farmer hacks at the rope with a sharpened rock for the Bobbyjon tribe. Jamie the dullard slices at the rope for the Stephenie tribe. Jiffy reminds the hosers that strategery is important. Brandon hacks through one rope in seconds, then the other, by using the corner of the wooden platform of the cutting station for extra leverage. Jamie keeps slicing away. His teammates suggest that he try a different rock. Jiffy drones on about how important strategery is, and how critical time is at the two cutting stations. Brandon finishes the second rope, as Jamie keeps chipping away at the first rope.
Jamie? Is a complete fucktard.
Bobbyjon viciously hacks through the log in nothing flat, twisting the machete as he swings. Jamie continues to lovingly stroke the first rope as his disbelieving tribemates watch. Jamie finally gets through the first rope as the Bobbyjon tribe charges up the hill and into some hot turnstile action. Jiffy continues to narrate in that wrong-verb-tense style that JOlene correctly indicted him for several weeks ago, sounding like Len Schneider’s Copyboy as he drones on and on, blissfully forsaking any use of conjugations of the verb "to be."
This is the worst challenge blowout in history, and Jiffy says so. The Bobbyjon tribe cranks the cart up to the platform as Jiffy points out yet again that Jamie is one of the dumbest motherfuckers ever to enter the jungle. The Stephenie tribe looks on, completely unamused as Jamie deepens the fuckup.
The Bobbyjon tribe rides the cart to victory, plowing into a pile of dirt put at the end of the line to slow down the cart, as Jamie? Finally finishes the second rope, urging his teammates to move along. “You wanna quit?” he asks, as his tribe stares at him in disbelief that anyone could be so incredibly dirt-stupid. “The challenge is over,” spits Stephenie at the unfortunate idiot. Judd, at least, manages to comfort the braindead losermoron.
Jiffy thoughtfully reminds the Bobbyjon tribe that they are winners and that their victory was massive and brutal. The camera focuses on Stephenie beginning to work up her daily dose of self-pity as Jiffy lists all the wonderful things that the Bobbyjon tribe has won.
Hey, I got a question. How come Stephenie never has hair in her pits?
Jiffy thoughtfully reminds the Stephenie tribe that they are losers, and quite correctly singles out Jamie as the sole responsible party for this abomination. He vanquishes the Stephenie tribe from his sight, and ours, and we go to:
Commercials, brought to you by Vicks VapoRub, and I can’t wait to see which of you steps up in the comments to take credit for a VapoRub fetish:
a sick blonde in a hot, steamy shower, for VapoRub, and now that we give this some thought I’m picking TJ for the VapoRub fetish, although I wouldn’t rule out other possibilities; a trailer, for the DVD release of Batman Begins; chicken chunks, for Wendy’s; a nineteenth-century pastoral scene involving someone who I’m supposed to believe is virginal, for Breyers, which is introducing some product to compete with some other ice-cream-maker’s extensively churned product, and is also ripping off Wrigley’s “double” theme, but without hot twins; a mother and daughter, for Nexium, which neither controls gastroesophageal reflux disease (GERD) nearly as well as the drug I use (which has the unfortunate name of Aciphex), nor does nearly as well at restoring the effects of erosive esophagitis and limiting the ensuing risk of esophageal cancer—sorry, AstraZeneca, once I get educated on something, you can’t put one over on me (okay, I’m educated on heart attacks and RJR is still putting one over on me, but you get the point); a trailer for an Orlando Bloom/Kirsten Dunst date movie that I have previously and decisively ridiculed; and CBS, for CSI: Helgenblingen, and for the missing persons show.
And we’re back, with a lovely view of the croc lake. The Bobbyjon tribe jogs into camp eagerly, exclaiming vociferously and joyously about their new swimming cage and lounging deck. Amy Bostonates extensively on the rapture of their new toy. A nearby croc looks on forlornly.
The tribe roundly praises Brandon the farmer, worshipfully…uhm…worshipping his rope-chopping prowess. Brandon confesses some self-worship, making a completely unconvincing attempt at professing humility over his manly agrarian manliness. The tribe digs into the chow. The quarterback person asserts his joy over there being another hero in the tribe.
Huh? You were a hero? This was when, exactly?
The tribe tests out its new swimming cage, and sadly, no crocs were trapped inside the cage when it was constructed. I’m still hoping the whole thing is a trap, and that the mesh cage is, in fact, large enough to admit a determined psuedodinosauran reptile.
Back at the Stephenie tribe, things are, of course, morose. The dumbass losers actually console their fellow dumbass Jamie, rather than tossing him into the croc-infested waters; this is inexplicable. Judd confesses that it would be unseemly to beat up the biggest loser of them all for abjectly failing to perform within seven minutes a task that a relatively uncomplicated Kansas farmer figured out and destroyed in less than two minutes. Judd publicly defends Jamie, mocking some nameless female tribemate—oh, it turns out her name is Cindy, and as usual, I am startled to discover that there is a “Cindy” hereabouts--and calling out Magrit in the bargain, suggesting by omission that they are useless and that they should have done it themselves. Cindy confesses that Judd is a dumbass.
Judd is a fuckpig and a bully. Bet he’d make fine eatin’ for one a them crocs.
But the big fat loserhead Stephenie knows different. She is in the pits of despair, which are, oddly enough, perfectly smooth and not the least bit hirsute. She bitches about Bobbyjon cheering when his tribe wins, then allows as how she’s just gellus gellus gellus. Back at camp, Jamie continues to whine. Judd continues to defend him. Stephenie confesses that Jamie is a dullard and that she is absolutely suicidal over being a big fat loserhead. She cries in the confessional. It begins to rain. Torrentially. Floodingly. Wetly. Stephenie continues to confess, blaming her big fat loserheadedness on her tribemates. And we’re off to:
Commercials:
a trailer, for a bad horror-terror-like movie starring people I do not recognize...oh, it involves Ewan McGregor and is therefore beneath my notice; an extreme and unflattering closeup of a man’s head, for the War on Drugs; an elderly woman, for the Outback; CBS, for the Jennifer Love Whorewit corpse-fucking show (and really, the Marlo Thomas do needs to go), and for CSI: Don Johnson, and for TAR, which promises to be no less annoying and putrid that any other episode so far this season, and for Dave; My Local News, teasing for some drug-scare story; Tim Kaine, for himself and his Virginia gubernatorial campaign, making promises he can’t keep and slamming his opponent (who is a theocratic, racist piglet); happy people, for Ruby Tuesday and its hamburgers, followed by another, slightly different, Ruby Tuesday burger commercial; and My Local News again, with the improbably named weatherman teasing his weather report, which will be no less gloomy and dreary and depressing than the weather forecast for the last eight consecutive days in this once-sunny and dry region that has now turned into a Biblical warning against the dangers of whatever we do that causes us to be punished by having to build arks.
And we’re back. At this juncture, the Wheezus would like me to tell you that I’m all hot for her “hearty, hot, slick red” lips. I would like to point out that I am not about coveting Mr. Wheezy’s wife, even though she’s turning into a bit of a tart.
Emailing your friends while writing a summary. Bad idea.
We get footage of leafcutting ants. I did a little research and found out amazing things about these creatures. They cut the leaves to fertilize fungus that they grow for food. This is just wacky-amazing. Check out the site, or Google “leafcutting ants” for other related sites.
The rain continues to be torrential. The Bobbyjon tribe huddles under its umbrella. Brian and Blake sleep under the shelter, unbothered by the rain. The rest of the tribe thinks that this is “unfair.” They are idiots. Amy nicknames Blake “Golden Boy,” which does not appear to bear any relationship to any aspect of Blake that we have thus far been allowed to observe, nor does it bear any relationship to any aspect of Blake that we will be allowed to observe, because this here episode? Is the last observing we’re gonna do on Blake.
We commence to focus on Blake’s constant self-discussion. He talks about himself incessantly, Brandon bitches about it, not that it takes much to get Brandon to bitch about anything. Blake tells us, as Danni scratches his back (Danni frightens me, a lot) about his girlfriend’s gigantimongous oobies. Further discussion ensues about the appropriate size for oobies.
Ilse’s oobies are perfect in every conceivable respect. I have no other position on this matter. Nor will I. Ever.
Brian confesses that Blake is an idiot. This is more foreshadowing. Out at the pool, Brian gets Blake to tell more about himself and his drunkenness. Brian is proud of this.
Woohoo, there’s treemail! Let’s smell the literature:
We’ve chipped around the edges
of football, front and back
That big tall guy alleges
that he’s not a quarterback
We just can’t give it up, though,
our quest to out this guy
A catapault will do the throw
You catch it on the fly
Cooperate and maybe
you’ll get to stick around
Act like you got rabies
and we’ll cast you on the ground!
Yecch. That was really hard, let’s move on. The treemail includes a little black ball, maybe about the size of a softball, maybe a little bigger, on a short length of rope with a loop at the end.
We stay with the Stephenie tribe for a bit more, because what with all the Blakeshadowing, we’re gonna get another crack at the Bobbyjon tribe at the end of the show. Staying with the Stephenie tribe involves, of course, having to listen to more of the big fat loserhead’s whimpering about being on tribes that have losing streaks.
At the risk of offending your legions of fans, Stephenie, might I just point out that perhaps the problem is you? Perhaps you are a scourge, a drag upon the very soul of any team that dares to accept you into its midst? Perhaps whatever tribe you’re on would be best served by dragging you up to the top of one of the temples they haven’t desecrated yet and cutting out your heart with an obsidian knife and showing it to you while it’s still beating?
Yeah, yeah. I hope too much.
There follows a sequence in which Lydia starts singing to the theme from Mighty Mouse, cheering for the tribe as the moron Stephenie claps for her. “I woke up today and decided to be a motivating person,” says Lydia.
She is that; I am motivated to want to commit crimes. Against Lydia. Crimes that shut her up. Crimes that, perhaps, involve accidentally knocking her into crocodile-infested lakes.
After some dancing and cheering and generally nuisanceriffic behavior, she incites Rafe to dance. The team spirit is infectious. In a, y’know, diseased sort of way.
Thankfully, we head off to the immunity challenge. Jiffy gives the Bobbyjon tribe a chance to rub the loserSteph tribe’s nose in the dirt over the whole swimming pool thing, and Danni happily obliges.
Then Jiffy points out that the loserSteph tribe looks “ticked off.” I would’ve described them as intense. And y’know, Jiffy, perhaps I’d be ticked off too if you had just rubbed my face in that whole swimming pool thing like I was a puppy who just pooped on the carpet. The dullard Jamie tells Jiffy that “we’re not smiling until we win.” There is a brief camera cut over to the Bobbyjon tribe, which is somehow supposed to understand that this means their doom. Or maybe we’re supposed to understand that. I dunno, I get confused.
Jiffy reminds the tribes that teamwork will be crucial for this challenge. The little black softball will be loaded into a catapault and launched. Two teams of three from each tribe will be down in the impact area, each threesome handling a little basket-thingie that Jeff calls a “Maya catch-net” with which they need to catch the ball. First tribe to catch five balls wins.
Significantly, no mention is made of concepts like pass interference. I, at least, think this is significant. If I’m in this challenge, and I’m not gonna catch the little black softball? You sure as hell aren’t gonna catch it, either.
Brian launches for the Bobbyjon tribe, and Lydia launches for the Stephenie tribe. Brian launches first, far downfield, and it develops that Former Dallas Cowgirl Gary Hogeboom, coupled with the breathtakingly anoxexic Danni and he-man Bobbyjon, makes a fine receiver, too. Big shock. The Stephenies don’t even get close.
Lydia aims left, apparently looking for the Stephenie group of receivers, which includes Rafe and Judd. They’re so busy worrying about the other teams that they miss a catch, Steph and Judd carping and bitching at each other in the aftermath. Judd, it seems, has grokked the whole PI notion and is worried about the Hogegroup. But they pick off Brian’s next launch, jumping the route on the Hoges to score a point.
Lydia aims deep left, again at Steph and Judd, and a group consisting of Blake, Amy, and Farmboy tries to pick it off, managing only to foil the catch, which is certainly next best. Brian launches deep, and the Hogegroup can’t catch it as Steph knocks Bobbyjon abs over teakettle. Lydia completes one to Steph, Judd, and Rafe; Brian connects deep, in the exact same way, with the Hogegroup. Lydia reprises, hitting the same team again, and then the other Stephiegroup, consisting of the dullard Jamie, Magrit, and the other one…oh, right, Cindy—jumps the route on the Hogegroup, picking one off. It’s 4-2, Stephenie, and it’s time to start thinking about how the giant cloud of bad luck that is Stephenie can possibly screw this one up.
But it is not to be; Lydia launches another bomb into the corner, and the Steph-Judd-Rafe team snags it at the water’s edge. The Stephenie tribe exults wildly; “Who’s smilin’ now,” woofs the dullard Jamie, as Bobbyjon looks on in dismay, woofing back briefly. Jiffy does the usual brakage, and after a brief exhortation to buy the new Survivor buffs, we’re off to:
Commercials:
geometric swirling light, which sort of resolves, very, very slowly, into an automobile that turns out to be…wait for it…oh, some kinda Pontiac; a trailer, for some dark, foggy, misty movie that appears to be quite horrifying and involve women in sleepwear; a kid in a stroller, and his mom, for the Visa Check Card, and it’s that stupid misogynistic commercial where the mom has the stroller piled 23 feet high with packages; a model in pearls, for some Olay product that will make men want to do you; various women, for breast cancer awareness, and peripherally pimping AstraZeneca again; and CBS, for CSI: Bling-Bling, again, and for some annoying-looking thriller-type show that does not star Jennifer Love Whorewit.
And we’re back, with more leaf-cutting ants, and we will of course dwell in the house of Bobbyjon for the remainder of this episode. Tribe Bobbyjon is, of course, distressed. There is much bitching about Jamie’s woofing, which is just purely vile hypocrisy, considering the way Bobbyjon woofs and barks every time his tribe wins something. This tribe is a pack of graceless peckerheads. Much like the other tribe, of course, but this is the tribe on the pecker’s head at the moment. Bobbyjon reminds us that he is from Alabama and Jamie is from Georgia, and they all just don’t lahk each other. Brian doesn’t understand this, since he goes to Brown or some such prissy wankoff school that doesn’t have much of importance, like an athletic program.
There is brakage about the numbers, since there are four from one old tribe and three from t’other, and it appears that Brian, Gary, and Amy are feeling minoritized. They start a campaign to get someone from the other side to vote for the gratingly annoying Blake.
This should be pretty much a no-brainer; you want ol’ Gary gone, here, before he has a chance to assert his testosterone. You’re left with enough brawny manliness to win challenges, and the guy just oozes skeeviness. But we vote off the one we don’t like, and the ones we don’t like are Brian, who is an annoying bitch, and Blake, who is an annoying punk. Thus, the campaign.
Bobbyjon gave his word of honor to fratboy Blake, so he won’t be the swing vote. It’s time to appeal to Danni’s sense of wanting to do a quarterback. It’s pretty obvious that she’s going to be all about that, especially since the producers punctuate the Gary-Danni conversation with snake footage. Let’s just wrap this nonsense up, then, shall we?
No. We need more brakage, we always need more brakage. Danni talks to Brandon, who won’t vote to do Blake, either.
Closeup of a crocodile, then back to stress the eventual outcome by zeroing in on another of Blake’s endless self-aggrandizing stories. You can feel the eyes rolling. Danni confesses about how she don’t like no Blake stuff. She’s perfectly aware that she’s the swing vote. She doesn’t like hurting peoples’ feelings, but she’ll marypoppins all that bad stuff away and do the right thing. Well, as right as a thing that doesn’t involve ending our weekly visitations with Former Dallas Cowgirl Gary Hogeboom can possibly be.
So we finally get to Tribal Council. Let’s transcribe:
Jiffy: How was that storm, there, Gary No-No-Not-A-Quarterback-At-All?
Former Dallas Cowgirl Gary Hogeboom: Character-building. The rest of us slaved like donkeys to keep the fire going, but those little bitches Brian and Blake slept through it.
Brian: In my defense, I woke up and took a late shift.
Blake: I figured they were awake anyway, they had it covered.
Amy still thinks “Golden Boy” is funny, but don’t worry. We won’t have to put up with that for long.
Jiffy: Blake, you were totally deceased after the Bataan Death March. And yet, you’re all manly and virile now. Wassup widdat?
Blake: I’m feeling better, I’m ready to ride it out to the end.
Significant looks are exchanged; everyone here who isn’t Blake can count snouts.
Jiffy: Brandon, you’re a complete social retard at a point in the game where society is beginning to count. Does this worry you, or are you too stupid to know that your tribemates are going to figure out that you’re a conniving little bitch?
Brandon: I’m from the great state of Kansas. We don’t have society there.
Jiffy: Gary, can you count? Do you know that this is Lord of the Flies? Are you worried about that?
Former Dallas Cowgirl Gary Hogeboom : That wasn’t me. I didn’t play football.
Jiffy: Amy, what about you, can you count?
Amy: Theah’s no reason for them to vote out me and Brian. We’ah all loyal to the Bobbyjon bannah heah.
Jiffy: Blake, do you have any idea they’ve spiked your corn meal with Roofies and they’re about to have a party inside you?
Blake: So once, I was at this party, and this girl with really big tits wanted me so bad, and I…
Jiffy: Jesus, I can’t even stand you, and I’m paid millions of dollars to pretend to like snotballs like you. Brian, what if you’re the one getting gangbanged here tonight?
Brian: Well, that would just be unfortunate, and if it happens, I’ll be the victim of a minority.
[That last bit is an actual quote. Brian’s Ivy League education has led him to believe either that a majority is a minority, or that he’s about to get mugged by non-Caucasians.]
Jiffy: Bobbyjon, make women moist.
Bobbyjon: Ever trahbal cownsill is a tough one. Ah don’ lahk it no more’n anybody else.
Jiffy finally sends everyone off to vote. We are shown the obvious; Brian votes for Blake, with some trivial and nonsensical comment; Brandon votes for Brian, because he doesn’t like effete big-city snobs. Former Dallas Cowgirl Gary Hogeboom votes for Blake, and Blake, of course, votes for Brian. Danorexia is shown writing the letter “B.” Loves me some obviousness, don’t you?
Jiffy goes off to fetch the Tiki Ice Bucket of Damnation, and reads votes. Blake, Brian, Brian, Blake, Blake. Brian is twitching. Blake is just beginning to form an idea in his little alcohol-and-testosterone-ravaged lizard brain that he just might be in a spot of trouble here. Sixth vote is for Blake, who is disgusted, far too disgusted to be gracious.
Jiffy asks us to contribute to Guatemalan relief in the wake of Hurricane Stan, and Febreze brings us the Loser Family Moment, in which Blake’s mother promises to make him a pork sandwich.
What the fucking fuck is it with these Texas boys and their mothers? Wasn’t Colby’s mom making him a Pork Sandwich in the back of an Aztec in Australia enough? Ewwwwwwww.
Commercials:
a mom cleaning up the living room with Febreze, for Febreze; a trailer for some movie starring Vin Diesel or the Rock or some such dolt; the old folk-singing couple, forgetting one verse of their song, but it’s okay, because Citi will take all their money when it goes under, leaving them penniless and bankrupt, but at least they’ll have their zither and mandolin (I know that you all just can’t wait for me to make a movie); a vehicle driving thorough a nighttime city strobing in red and blue , for yet another Pontiac; that Survivor Search in the City thing, and I don’t know why it’s so damn hard to zero in on the sounds of Ethan Zohn and Jenna Morasca having hot monkey sex somewhere; and CBS, for Dave, and for some other Law and Order ripoff.
And we’re back, with scenes from next week, during which Magrit and Judd will bicker, and Amy will get run over by a giant Indiana Jones boulder thingie, and Bobbyjon and Jamie will get in each others’ faces and puff up their chests and howl at each other for reasons unapparent at this writing, but I gotta tell you, every single one of the Bobbyjon fans I’ve spoken to since this preview aired has made it real clear that she just had to go change her underwear.
Blake confesses that he’s dumbfounded and attributes it to tribal gellusy over his manly manliness and fear of his invincibility. The vote display reveals that Bobbyjon did, indeed, vote for Blake. Huh?
And we’re out. Thanks, as always, for reading.
¶ 12:46 PM
Ye gods, this show reeks. We’re in that Palau range of unbridled suckage again, not least because the producers chose to keep around the insufferable losers Stephenie and Bobby Jon-Boy. They’ve also kept the model of making all the women who aren’t Stephenie either big ol’ toughbroads or hopeless basket cases (a friend referred to Lydia as an oompa-loompa). The men are all either big ol’ muscular fratboy garbage, or mincingly gay. Or they’re just lying sacks of uselessness like that quarterback fella, who is such a powerfully negative piece of iconicity that one of my friends can barely watch the show now, so busy is she wishing for bad karma to fall from the sky and splatter the guy all over Central America.
The show reeks so badly that I didn’t actually pay attention to it. I just did Ilse instead. I moved to run my hand gently over her shoulder, but she was having none of that, instead shrieking, “Just take me! Take me now!” And so I did, my glistening hairless chest pressed to her small frame as my turgid…
Gothmog: Dood.
Dweezil: Seriously. Dood.
Me: What?
Gothmog: Dood.
Dweezil: Seriously. Dood.
Me: What?
Dweezil: You remember the last time someone blew this off to write soft-core porn?
Me: Oh, okay. No problem. How ‘bout I talk about handcuffing her first?
Gothmog: Dood. I’d say you were missing the point, except your head would still puncture armor plate. Do you really need to remind me, again, that you’re doing her and I’m not? Especially, like, after you’ve convinced yourself that my wife thinks you’re cool?
Me: You’re right. I’m sorry.
Dweezil: It’s okay, man, we understand you have self-control issues not unlike those experienced by unmedicated seventh-grade boys.
Gothmog: Yeah, it’s not like we have expectations of you or anything. Just chill, mmkay? Next time you find it necessary to actually use the word “turgid,” we’re taking you to the talky-talk doctor, mmkay?
Me: But I like the talky-talk doctor.
Gothmog: No, assclown, the one who’s not my wife.
Me: Oh. Uhm, yeah, okay.
So anyway, our inflamed lips brushed together…
Dweezil and Gothmog: Dood!!!!!
Me: Oh. Right.
Uhm, lessee, previously on Survivor: Desecratin’ the Tooms:
One tribe or the other (they’re indistinguishable) is awed by crocodiles that in no way endanger them at all; another tribe is jarred as Bobby Jon git bit bah a fee-ish; Jiffy tells both tribes to drop their Buffs in the same tone of voice he uses to get Julie to crank down her panties, and we do the earliest tribal switch ever, making the tribes even more indistinguishable except in the sense that one of them is the Stephenie tribe and the other is the Bobby Jon tribe; Judd, who is on the Stephenie tribe, rants about how big his dick is; on the other tribe, Bobby Jon and Blake take a leak and seal a bargain, shaking on it without washing their hands; Stephenie brings home the bacon of yet another immunity challenge loss, despite Former Dallas Cowgirl Gary Hogeboom pretending he doesn’t know how to throw things at other things; and Judd pisses off Magrit by allying with his fellow New Joiseyan Steph to vote out some chirpy and irrelevant little thing whose main attribute was that she helped Judd and Magrit and some other old-skool homie maintain a numbers edge on Stephenie and whichever brothers in loserdom she brought with her to the new tribe. Whatever the hell it’s called.
We roll credits, and everything about the credits that doesn’t involve a specific media whore is gorgeous. But I gots me a problem here. Several contestants are shown swimming, and it occurs to me that we have, in fact, done some water stuff here in the place where we desecrate the Mayans. While fire is, of course, life, doesn’t that mean water is death? Specifically, in this here place where we desecrate Mayan temples, doesn’t waterdeath come at the hands of the crocodiles that the producers are working so hard (and there’s more to come on this one, oh yes there is) to convince us are a mortal danger to the little media whores? So…where were they swimming? I remember, eight or ten years ago when we started this season, some people getting out of the boat and taking mud baths and suchlike, but I don’t recall anyone actually swimming. And there may have been a swimming-related challenge somewhere along the line; this whole season is so wretched that I forcibly repress every single episode as soon as it’s over and I can get myself to someplace that isn’t my television tuned to CBS.
As much as CBS is investing in trying to make me believe that one of these morons is going to become croc brekkies, I really want some payoff here. And I’m pretty sure that if I were gonna get croc brekkies, I’d have heard about it somewhere in the liberal mainstream media.
We’ve been through the introductions and all—and they’ve been done by better men than me—so I’m not going to bother to list the contestants one by one; I’m just going to have at them as they dare to appear on my television screen. But first, it appears, it’s time for:
Commercials, sponsored by Chevrolet and by some movie that has a great deal of tween appeal:
a trailer, for the aforementioned movie, which appears to be Jumanji in space, and which involves children sucked into some fantasy reality that challenges them to do heroic kid things, but you know me, and I’m hoping that it challenges them to do heroic kid things like slumping over and being quiet and paying for their own damn college educations; those liquid metal terminator antelopes, for the all-new Chevrolet Impala, which has got to be getting along toward being one of the oldest, if not the oldest, of car models; children playing and splashing, and various adults offering fragments of commentary, for some new American Express card that allows AmEx to hold onto and use your money, rather than just charging you interest and fees, and all I can say is God Bless Capitalism; a luminescent CGI butterfly and very calm feminine voiceover, for some drug called Lunesta, which I’m guessing is some drug related to chick problems, although from the tranquil quality of the video and voiceover, it could just as easily relate to sleeping or being less insane, but I’m thinking that whole “Lun” root is pretty much a dead giveaway, and if I’m mocking some condition or disease from which you personally suffer and you are presently outraged by my callousness, then my work here is done, and done well; a light-skinned African-American family playing in fake snow, for K-Mart, and I am just too overwhelmed by that much symbolification to comment further; and CBS, for a show that involves Rob Morrow as an FBI agent (believability quotient? zero), and OMFG, that’s what happened to Judd Hirsch.
And we’re back, looking through some night-vision equipment that does not, sadly, include crosshairs trained on Former Dallas Cowgirl Gary Hogeboom. Back at the Stephenie tribe, we are subjected to a great deal of Stephenie’s big fat loserhead whining. We are also subjected to Judd’s nasal droning about how it’s a game and you gotta play the game and Sweet Irish Christ, not this line of squishy babyshit again.
As the conversation continues, it becomes apparent that Judd voted to exile Brooke mostly to piss off Magrit. Now, Magrit is a manipulative control freak, and an ineffectual one at that. Her claim to personhood is based entirely on having nursed some menfolk back to health after the grueling overnight trip through the jungle that started off this little enterprise. As time goes by, it is becoming more obvious that she did so in such a condescending and bitchy manner (although the editing chose not to reveal that to us) that she inspired every bit as much disdain as love for the nurse-mother.
This is not to excuse Judd, who is a fat honking arrogant pig who should be rendered for glue, not least because he reveals in the course of this conversation that he has reproduced. Think for a second about what might be married to Judd, and about what sort of offspring they might beget. But please, I love you all very much. Don’t think about it for more than a second.
The producers choose to follow Judd’s confessional about how much he hates Magrit with night-vision footage of a snake. We really need more evil critter metaphors, because the whole snakes and spiders thing is just way overdone, girlfriend. There was a juxtaposition of Judd and a monkey last week that worked pretty well, but still. We need more.
Another day dawns, over at the Bobby Jon tribe, and more is made of crocodiles; there’s a lovely underwater shot of a croc’s gaping maw, and I sure wonder about how they got that shot. Blake is confessionalizing in the dawn stillness about how cool he is and about how his position in the game is so commanding. Ow. Later efforts will be made to try to confuse the foreshadowing issue, but this is clearly The Big One. Night-night, Blake.
It will also become clear during the remainder of the episode that this is, in fact, a just outcome. Blake is a drunk fratboy date rapist, a braggart who talks endlessly about himself. I mean, this guy lays even Your Pal Landru to waste in the self-aggrandizement department, and I think we can all agree that this is quite an accomplishment.
At the Bobby Jon tribe’s camp, a giant flying beetle attacks Amy. This relatively bovine police sergeant from somewhere they don’t hate the Red Sawx jumps up and begins shrieking about the camp. Because of a bug. “Get it the fook outta heah,” she Bostonates. Police sergeant. Running. From a bug. Shrieking.
Okay. Somewhere it is chiseled in the rules of reality TV casting that one must cast the gay guy, and the giant hulking ape-men, and the pretty people, and the lunatic. Why oh why is it also written that every cast must include one Yankee fan and one Red Sox fan? Why has society devolved to the point where this is one of the pivotal conflicts around which literature and drama must revolve?
The elevation of the Yankees versus Red Sox to a level where it is studied in high school literary deconstruction alongside such classics as man versus man, man versus nature, and man versus the Empire State Building is, mark my words, a critical factor in the impending end of history and civilization. Future generations of theoretically intelligent beings will uncover the archaeology and wonder what compelled our culture to revolve around glorifying this conflict, rather than simply eliminating it from the face of this Earth.
The results of the recent American League divisional playoffs provide new hope for a bright future for all of us and our progeny. We can keep our culture safe for years to come by ensuring that, each and every baseball season, neither the Yankees nor the Red Sox play in the American League Championship Series. Won’t you help? It only costs pennies a day to keep these two franchises as financially impoverished as they are morally bankrupt. This year was just the beginning. Let’s keep hope alive! U! S! A! America, Fuck Yeah!
You can probably stop reading now. That right there was likely about as good as this summary’s gonna get.
The tribespersons make much merry by convincing the unfortunate Amy that the beetle has landed on her shoulder. Brandon, the snarky asshole farmer who has emerged as a key narrator for this tribe, whatever the hell it’s called (I’m sorry, I just can’t be bothered with that trivia), mocks Amy’s citified nature. Brandon is in dire need of a severe beating, preferably by urban persons. Some discussion ensues about farming. It is dull. Amy is curious about the process of farming. Bobby Jonboy and the others chime in with loving and barely articulate descriptions of farm equipment. There is harmony over the appropriate brand of farm equipment; no International Harvester nancyboys here, baby. We’re all about the Deere.
Brian, the token mincing gay person (the other token gay person, who is currently a member of the Stephenie tribe, is in some state that goes so far beyond mincing it cannot be accurately described in a language we know), who has also emerged as a key narrator for the Bobbyjon tribe, tells us about how he’s just going along to get along. They’re into livestock and crops and Jesus; he’s into muscular jocky hunks and Emily Dickinson and heathenry. We’re no doubt impressed by the OscarFelixness of it all.
Not.
There follows a Jesus interlude. Danni leads the tribe in Christian prayer before they eat…whatever it is they’re eating.
I’ve said it before, and these ignorant tards are going to make me say it again. Let’s assume that there is a deity, and let’s further assume that said deity is or strongly resembles the very popular Christian deity. There follows a number of assumptions that are commonly made by reality television persons, and that are completely moronic, to wit:
1. The deity does not care about the outcome of a game show, any more than the deity cares about the outcome of the Colts-49ers game (unless the deity took the Colts minus the points). Shut up.
2. It is not entertaining to listen to or view the portions of your daily ablutions that include thanking your deity of choice for allowing you to have this day a healthy bowel movement. Shut up.
3. The fact that you are superficially “religious” and make a show of respect for the deity of your choice does not bespeak any evidence of your moral fiber, good, bad, or indifferent. Especially taken on the heels of number 2, above, there is only one conclusion that can be reached here: shut the fucking fuck up.
Believe what you want. Worship what you want. Vote how you want, even if it’s to impose a theocracy on us pagans. But shut. The fucking. Fuck. Up. Especially on national television.
Brian reminds us that it would be stupid for him to object to the Jesusification. He’s probably right, and I gotta give the guy his props for that. I typically stare at the floor during other peoples’ prayers and mumble respectfully. Heck, I even pulled the Lord’s Prayer outta my ear the other week at Grandma’s funeral (although my family’s common version includes important passages such as “Up the Queen, forever and ever, Amen”, and key lines from Ode to a Haggis, and words in which the letter “Y” is very heavily used as a vowel, like “Dwyffyd” and “Gonyffygdwaytchyllyn” and “Faerestwyylaernavyn”). But there’s always the temptation to shriek sacrilege. I mean sacrilege that doesn’t involve not reciting “Up the Queen.”
I digress, of course. What we will complete, before the next commercial break, is a reward challenge. We are inconsiderately given no tree mail whatsoever. Bastiges. I’ll just have to make some up, huh?
You’re hanging out here in the jungle, you’re roasting
So it might be keen to go out roller coasting
You’ll bash with a rock at a segment of rope
Or maybe you’ll saw, in which case you’re a dope
One team will win and the other will lose
Without any chance to partake of our booze
The winners will swim without fear that the crocs
Will gnaw on their bones, and spit out their frocks.
The challenge involves an ancient Mayan roller coaster. Team charges up the wooden rails, stopping for one team member to saw through a rope with a sharpened rock, “just like the ancient Maya would have.” This releases some handles for a turnstile. Next stop, another team member hacks at a log with a machete, releasing more handles. Team climbs up to a platform, four of them using the handles to turn the turnstile to crank a railcar up to the platform. The six team members who’ve already done tasks pile into the railcar, the seventh team member cuts the rope, and the first six ride. First team across the finish line wins.
And a fine challenge it is, the reward being a crocodile-proof swimming cage, with a deck, lounge chairs, umbrella, ancient Mayan margaritas, ancient Mayan chips, ancient Mayan guacamole, and an ancient Mayan window air conditioner powered by the tears of the losing team. Both tribes have full-blown orgasms as Jiffy describes the booty. Tight shots of Stephenie get inside her brain and reveal that she is already considering what a whiny little bitch she will be if her tribe loses. Danni’s orgasm is, much like Danni, singularly unattractive.
There is no mention of using the sharpened rock to cut out the still-beating heart of an opposing tribe member and display it to one’s cheering teammates, no mention of using the rope to tie up captured prisoners for blood sacrifice, no mention of ancient Mayan HVAC repairmen. I think we know how this would’ve gone if I were the producers, yes?
So the teams take off up the rails. Brandon the farmer hacks at the rope with a sharpened rock for the Bobbyjon tribe. Jamie the dullard slices at the rope for the Stephenie tribe. Jiffy reminds the hosers that strategery is important. Brandon hacks through one rope in seconds, then the other, by using the corner of the wooden platform of the cutting station for extra leverage. Jamie keeps slicing away. His teammates suggest that he try a different rock. Jiffy drones on about how important strategery is, and how critical time is at the two cutting stations. Brandon finishes the second rope, as Jamie keeps chipping away at the first rope.
Jamie? Is a complete fucktard.
Bobbyjon viciously hacks through the log in nothing flat, twisting the machete as he swings. Jamie continues to lovingly stroke the first rope as his disbelieving tribemates watch. Jamie finally gets through the first rope as the Bobbyjon tribe charges up the hill and into some hot turnstile action. Jiffy continues to narrate in that wrong-verb-tense style that JOlene correctly indicted him for several weeks ago, sounding like Len Schneider’s Copyboy as he drones on and on, blissfully forsaking any use of conjugations of the verb "to be."
This is the worst challenge blowout in history, and Jiffy says so. The Bobbyjon tribe cranks the cart up to the platform as Jiffy points out yet again that Jamie is one of the dumbest motherfuckers ever to enter the jungle. The Stephenie tribe looks on, completely unamused as Jamie deepens the fuckup.
The Bobbyjon tribe rides the cart to victory, plowing into a pile of dirt put at the end of the line to slow down the cart, as Jamie? Finally finishes the second rope, urging his teammates to move along. “You wanna quit?” he asks, as his tribe stares at him in disbelief that anyone could be so incredibly dirt-stupid. “The challenge is over,” spits Stephenie at the unfortunate idiot. Judd, at least, manages to comfort the braindead losermoron.
Jiffy thoughtfully reminds the Bobbyjon tribe that they are winners and that their victory was massive and brutal. The camera focuses on Stephenie beginning to work up her daily dose of self-pity as Jiffy lists all the wonderful things that the Bobbyjon tribe has won.
Hey, I got a question. How come Stephenie never has hair in her pits?
Jiffy thoughtfully reminds the Stephenie tribe that they are losers, and quite correctly singles out Jamie as the sole responsible party for this abomination. He vanquishes the Stephenie tribe from his sight, and ours, and we go to:
Commercials, brought to you by Vicks VapoRub, and I can’t wait to see which of you steps up in the comments to take credit for a VapoRub fetish:
a sick blonde in a hot, steamy shower, for VapoRub, and now that we give this some thought I’m picking TJ for the VapoRub fetish, although I wouldn’t rule out other possibilities; a trailer, for the DVD release of Batman Begins; chicken chunks, for Wendy’s; a nineteenth-century pastoral scene involving someone who I’m supposed to believe is virginal, for Breyers, which is introducing some product to compete with some other ice-cream-maker’s extensively churned product, and is also ripping off Wrigley’s “double” theme, but without hot twins; a mother and daughter, for Nexium, which neither controls gastroesophageal reflux disease (GERD) nearly as well as the drug I use (which has the unfortunate name of Aciphex), nor does nearly as well at restoring the effects of erosive esophagitis and limiting the ensuing risk of esophageal cancer—sorry, AstraZeneca, once I get educated on something, you can’t put one over on me (okay, I’m educated on heart attacks and RJR is still putting one over on me, but you get the point); a trailer for an Orlando Bloom/Kirsten Dunst date movie that I have previously and decisively ridiculed; and CBS, for CSI: Helgenblingen, and for the missing persons show.
And we’re back, with a lovely view of the croc lake. The Bobbyjon tribe jogs into camp eagerly, exclaiming vociferously and joyously about their new swimming cage and lounging deck. Amy Bostonates extensively on the rapture of their new toy. A nearby croc looks on forlornly.
The tribe roundly praises Brandon the farmer, worshipfully…uhm…worshipping his rope-chopping prowess. Brandon confesses some self-worship, making a completely unconvincing attempt at professing humility over his manly agrarian manliness. The tribe digs into the chow. The quarterback person asserts his joy over there being another hero in the tribe.
Huh? You were a hero? This was when, exactly?
The tribe tests out its new swimming cage, and sadly, no crocs were trapped inside the cage when it was constructed. I’m still hoping the whole thing is a trap, and that the mesh cage is, in fact, large enough to admit a determined psuedodinosauran reptile.
Back at the Stephenie tribe, things are, of course, morose. The dumbass losers actually console their fellow dumbass Jamie, rather than tossing him into the croc-infested waters; this is inexplicable. Judd confesses that it would be unseemly to beat up the biggest loser of them all for abjectly failing to perform within seven minutes a task that a relatively uncomplicated Kansas farmer figured out and destroyed in less than two minutes. Judd publicly defends Jamie, mocking some nameless female tribemate—oh, it turns out her name is Cindy, and as usual, I am startled to discover that there is a “Cindy” hereabouts--and calling out Magrit in the bargain, suggesting by omission that they are useless and that they should have done it themselves. Cindy confesses that Judd is a dumbass.
Judd is a fuckpig and a bully. Bet he’d make fine eatin’ for one a them crocs.
But the big fat loserhead Stephenie knows different. She is in the pits of despair, which are, oddly enough, perfectly smooth and not the least bit hirsute. She bitches about Bobbyjon cheering when his tribe wins, then allows as how she’s just gellus gellus gellus. Back at camp, Jamie continues to whine. Judd continues to defend him. Stephenie confesses that Jamie is a dullard and that she is absolutely suicidal over being a big fat loserhead. She cries in the confessional. It begins to rain. Torrentially. Floodingly. Wetly. Stephenie continues to confess, blaming her big fat loserheadedness on her tribemates. And we’re off to:
Commercials:
a trailer, for a bad horror-terror-like movie starring people I do not recognize...oh, it involves Ewan McGregor and is therefore beneath my notice; an extreme and unflattering closeup of a man’s head, for the War on Drugs; an elderly woman, for the Outback; CBS, for the Jennifer Love Whorewit corpse-fucking show (and really, the Marlo Thomas do needs to go), and for CSI: Don Johnson, and for TAR, which promises to be no less annoying and putrid that any other episode so far this season, and for Dave; My Local News, teasing for some drug-scare story; Tim Kaine, for himself and his Virginia gubernatorial campaign, making promises he can’t keep and slamming his opponent (who is a theocratic, racist piglet); happy people, for Ruby Tuesday and its hamburgers, followed by another, slightly different, Ruby Tuesday burger commercial; and My Local News again, with the improbably named weatherman teasing his weather report, which will be no less gloomy and dreary and depressing than the weather forecast for the last eight consecutive days in this once-sunny and dry region that has now turned into a Biblical warning against the dangers of whatever we do that causes us to be punished by having to build arks.
And we’re back. At this juncture, the Wheezus would like me to tell you that I’m all hot for her “hearty, hot, slick red” lips. I would like to point out that I am not about coveting Mr. Wheezy’s wife, even though she’s turning into a bit of a tart.
Emailing your friends while writing a summary. Bad idea.
We get footage of leafcutting ants. I did a little research and found out amazing things about these creatures. They cut the leaves to fertilize fungus that they grow for food. This is just wacky-amazing. Check out the site, or Google “leafcutting ants” for other related sites.
The rain continues to be torrential. The Bobbyjon tribe huddles under its umbrella. Brian and Blake sleep under the shelter, unbothered by the rain. The rest of the tribe thinks that this is “unfair.” They are idiots. Amy nicknames Blake “Golden Boy,” which does not appear to bear any relationship to any aspect of Blake that we have thus far been allowed to observe, nor does it bear any relationship to any aspect of Blake that we will be allowed to observe, because this here episode? Is the last observing we’re gonna do on Blake.
We commence to focus on Blake’s constant self-discussion. He talks about himself incessantly, Brandon bitches about it, not that it takes much to get Brandon to bitch about anything. Blake tells us, as Danni scratches his back (Danni frightens me, a lot) about his girlfriend’s gigantimongous oobies. Further discussion ensues about the appropriate size for oobies.
Ilse’s oobies are perfect in every conceivable respect. I have no other position on this matter. Nor will I. Ever.
Brian confesses that Blake is an idiot. This is more foreshadowing. Out at the pool, Brian gets Blake to tell more about himself and his drunkenness. Brian is proud of this.
Woohoo, there’s treemail! Let’s smell the literature:
We’ve chipped around the edges
of football, front and back
That big tall guy alleges
that he’s not a quarterback
We just can’t give it up, though,
our quest to out this guy
A catapault will do the throw
You catch it on the fly
Cooperate and maybe
you’ll get to stick around
Act like you got rabies
and we’ll cast you on the ground!
Yecch. That was really hard, let’s move on. The treemail includes a little black ball, maybe about the size of a softball, maybe a little bigger, on a short length of rope with a loop at the end.
We stay with the Stephenie tribe for a bit more, because what with all the Blakeshadowing, we’re gonna get another crack at the Bobbyjon tribe at the end of the show. Staying with the Stephenie tribe involves, of course, having to listen to more of the big fat loserhead’s whimpering about being on tribes that have losing streaks.
At the risk of offending your legions of fans, Stephenie, might I just point out that perhaps the problem is you? Perhaps you are a scourge, a drag upon the very soul of any team that dares to accept you into its midst? Perhaps whatever tribe you’re on would be best served by dragging you up to the top of one of the temples they haven’t desecrated yet and cutting out your heart with an obsidian knife and showing it to you while it’s still beating?
Yeah, yeah. I hope too much.
There follows a sequence in which Lydia starts singing to the theme from Mighty Mouse, cheering for the tribe as the moron Stephenie claps for her. “I woke up today and decided to be a motivating person,” says Lydia.
She is that; I am motivated to want to commit crimes. Against Lydia. Crimes that shut her up. Crimes that, perhaps, involve accidentally knocking her into crocodile-infested lakes.
After some dancing and cheering and generally nuisanceriffic behavior, she incites Rafe to dance. The team spirit is infectious. In a, y’know, diseased sort of way.
Thankfully, we head off to the immunity challenge. Jiffy gives the Bobbyjon tribe a chance to rub the loserSteph tribe’s nose in the dirt over the whole swimming pool thing, and Danni happily obliges.
Then Jiffy points out that the loserSteph tribe looks “ticked off.” I would’ve described them as intense. And y’know, Jiffy, perhaps I’d be ticked off too if you had just rubbed my face in that whole swimming pool thing like I was a puppy who just pooped on the carpet. The dullard Jamie tells Jiffy that “we’re not smiling until we win.” There is a brief camera cut over to the Bobbyjon tribe, which is somehow supposed to understand that this means their doom. Or maybe we’re supposed to understand that. I dunno, I get confused.
Jiffy reminds the tribes that teamwork will be crucial for this challenge. The little black softball will be loaded into a catapault and launched. Two teams of three from each tribe will be down in the impact area, each threesome handling a little basket-thingie that Jeff calls a “Maya catch-net” with which they need to catch the ball. First tribe to catch five balls wins.
Significantly, no mention is made of concepts like pass interference. I, at least, think this is significant. If I’m in this challenge, and I’m not gonna catch the little black softball? You sure as hell aren’t gonna catch it, either.
Brian launches for the Bobbyjon tribe, and Lydia launches for the Stephenie tribe. Brian launches first, far downfield, and it develops that Former Dallas Cowgirl Gary Hogeboom, coupled with the breathtakingly anoxexic Danni and he-man Bobbyjon, makes a fine receiver, too. Big shock. The Stephenies don’t even get close.
Lydia aims left, apparently looking for the Stephenie group of receivers, which includes Rafe and Judd. They’re so busy worrying about the other teams that they miss a catch, Steph and Judd carping and bitching at each other in the aftermath. Judd, it seems, has grokked the whole PI notion and is worried about the Hogegroup. But they pick off Brian’s next launch, jumping the route on the Hoges to score a point.
Lydia aims deep left, again at Steph and Judd, and a group consisting of Blake, Amy, and Farmboy tries to pick it off, managing only to foil the catch, which is certainly next best. Brian launches deep, and the Hogegroup can’t catch it as Steph knocks Bobbyjon abs over teakettle. Lydia completes one to Steph, Judd, and Rafe; Brian connects deep, in the exact same way, with the Hogegroup. Lydia reprises, hitting the same team again, and then the other Stephiegroup, consisting of the dullard Jamie, Magrit, and the other one…oh, right, Cindy—jumps the route on the Hogegroup, picking one off. It’s 4-2, Stephenie, and it’s time to start thinking about how the giant cloud of bad luck that is Stephenie can possibly screw this one up.
But it is not to be; Lydia launches another bomb into the corner, and the Steph-Judd-Rafe team snags it at the water’s edge. The Stephenie tribe exults wildly; “Who’s smilin’ now,” woofs the dullard Jamie, as Bobbyjon looks on in dismay, woofing back briefly. Jiffy does the usual brakage, and after a brief exhortation to buy the new Survivor buffs, we’re off to:
Commercials:
geometric swirling light, which sort of resolves, very, very slowly, into an automobile that turns out to be…wait for it…oh, some kinda Pontiac; a trailer, for some dark, foggy, misty movie that appears to be quite horrifying and involve women in sleepwear; a kid in a stroller, and his mom, for the Visa Check Card, and it’s that stupid misogynistic commercial where the mom has the stroller piled 23 feet high with packages; a model in pearls, for some Olay product that will make men want to do you; various women, for breast cancer awareness, and peripherally pimping AstraZeneca again; and CBS, for CSI: Bling-Bling, again, and for some annoying-looking thriller-type show that does not star Jennifer Love Whorewit.
And we’re back, with more leaf-cutting ants, and we will of course dwell in the house of Bobbyjon for the remainder of this episode. Tribe Bobbyjon is, of course, distressed. There is much bitching about Jamie’s woofing, which is just purely vile hypocrisy, considering the way Bobbyjon woofs and barks every time his tribe wins something. This tribe is a pack of graceless peckerheads. Much like the other tribe, of course, but this is the tribe on the pecker’s head at the moment. Bobbyjon reminds us that he is from Alabama and Jamie is from Georgia, and they all just don’t lahk each other. Brian doesn’t understand this, since he goes to Brown or some such prissy wankoff school that doesn’t have much of importance, like an athletic program.
There is brakage about the numbers, since there are four from one old tribe and three from t’other, and it appears that Brian, Gary, and Amy are feeling minoritized. They start a campaign to get someone from the other side to vote for the gratingly annoying Blake.
This should be pretty much a no-brainer; you want ol’ Gary gone, here, before he has a chance to assert his testosterone. You’re left with enough brawny manliness to win challenges, and the guy just oozes skeeviness. But we vote off the one we don’t like, and the ones we don’t like are Brian, who is an annoying bitch, and Blake, who is an annoying punk. Thus, the campaign.
Bobbyjon gave his word of honor to fratboy Blake, so he won’t be the swing vote. It’s time to appeal to Danni’s sense of wanting to do a quarterback. It’s pretty obvious that she’s going to be all about that, especially since the producers punctuate the Gary-Danni conversation with snake footage. Let’s just wrap this nonsense up, then, shall we?
No. We need more brakage, we always need more brakage. Danni talks to Brandon, who won’t vote to do Blake, either.
Closeup of a crocodile, then back to stress the eventual outcome by zeroing in on another of Blake’s endless self-aggrandizing stories. You can feel the eyes rolling. Danni confesses about how she don’t like no Blake stuff. She’s perfectly aware that she’s the swing vote. She doesn’t like hurting peoples’ feelings, but she’ll marypoppins all that bad stuff away and do the right thing. Well, as right as a thing that doesn’t involve ending our weekly visitations with Former Dallas Cowgirl Gary Hogeboom can possibly be.
So we finally get to Tribal Council. Let’s transcribe:
Jiffy: How was that storm, there, Gary No-No-Not-A-Quarterback-At-All?
Former Dallas Cowgirl Gary Hogeboom: Character-building. The rest of us slaved like donkeys to keep the fire going, but those little bitches Brian and Blake slept through it.
Brian: In my defense, I woke up and took a late shift.
Blake: I figured they were awake anyway, they had it covered.
Amy still thinks “Golden Boy” is funny, but don’t worry. We won’t have to put up with that for long.
Jiffy: Blake, you were totally deceased after the Bataan Death March. And yet, you’re all manly and virile now. Wassup widdat?
Blake: I’m feeling better, I’m ready to ride it out to the end.
Significant looks are exchanged; everyone here who isn’t Blake can count snouts.
Jiffy: Brandon, you’re a complete social retard at a point in the game where society is beginning to count. Does this worry you, or are you too stupid to know that your tribemates are going to figure out that you’re a conniving little bitch?
Brandon: I’m from the great state of Kansas. We don’t have society there.
Jiffy: Gary, can you count? Do you know that this is Lord of the Flies? Are you worried about that?
Former Dallas Cowgirl Gary Hogeboom : That wasn’t me. I didn’t play football.
Jiffy: Amy, what about you, can you count?
Amy: Theah’s no reason for them to vote out me and Brian. We’ah all loyal to the Bobbyjon bannah heah.
Jiffy: Blake, do you have any idea they’ve spiked your corn meal with Roofies and they’re about to have a party inside you?
Blake: So once, I was at this party, and this girl with really big tits wanted me so bad, and I…
Jiffy: Jesus, I can’t even stand you, and I’m paid millions of dollars to pretend to like snotballs like you. Brian, what if you’re the one getting gangbanged here tonight?
Brian: Well, that would just be unfortunate, and if it happens, I’ll be the victim of a minority.
[That last bit is an actual quote. Brian’s Ivy League education has led him to believe either that a majority is a minority, or that he’s about to get mugged by non-Caucasians.]
Jiffy: Bobbyjon, make women moist.
Bobbyjon: Ever trahbal cownsill is a tough one. Ah don’ lahk it no more’n anybody else.
Jiffy finally sends everyone off to vote. We are shown the obvious; Brian votes for Blake, with some trivial and nonsensical comment; Brandon votes for Brian, because he doesn’t like effete big-city snobs. Former Dallas Cowgirl Gary Hogeboom votes for Blake, and Blake, of course, votes for Brian. Danorexia is shown writing the letter “B.” Loves me some obviousness, don’t you?
Jiffy goes off to fetch the Tiki Ice Bucket of Damnation, and reads votes. Blake, Brian, Brian, Blake, Blake. Brian is twitching. Blake is just beginning to form an idea in his little alcohol-and-testosterone-ravaged lizard brain that he just might be in a spot of trouble here. Sixth vote is for Blake, who is disgusted, far too disgusted to be gracious.
Jiffy asks us to contribute to Guatemalan relief in the wake of Hurricane Stan, and Febreze brings us the Loser Family Moment, in which Blake’s mother promises to make him a pork sandwich.
What the fucking fuck is it with these Texas boys and their mothers? Wasn’t Colby’s mom making him a Pork Sandwich in the back of an Aztec in Australia enough? Ewwwwwwww.
Commercials:
a mom cleaning up the living room with Febreze, for Febreze; a trailer for some movie starring Vin Diesel or the Rock or some such dolt; the old folk-singing couple, forgetting one verse of their song, but it’s okay, because Citi will take all their money when it goes under, leaving them penniless and bankrupt, but at least they’ll have their zither and mandolin (I know that you all just can’t wait for me to make a movie); a vehicle driving thorough a nighttime city strobing in red and blue , for yet another Pontiac; that Survivor Search in the City thing, and I don’t know why it’s so damn hard to zero in on the sounds of Ethan Zohn and Jenna Morasca having hot monkey sex somewhere; and CBS, for Dave, and for some other Law and Order ripoff.
And we’re back, with scenes from next week, during which Magrit and Judd will bicker, and Amy will get run over by a giant Indiana Jones boulder thingie, and Bobbyjon and Jamie will get in each others’ faces and puff up their chests and howl at each other for reasons unapparent at this writing, but I gotta tell you, every single one of the Bobbyjon fans I’ve spoken to since this preview aired has made it real clear that she just had to go change her underwear.
Blake confesses that he’s dumbfounded and attributes it to tribal gellusy over his manly manliness and fear of his invincibility. The vote display reveals that Bobbyjon did, indeed, vote for Blake. Huh?
And we’re out. Thanks, as always, for reading.
¶ 12:46 PM
Comments:
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Several things.
1) Dood!
2) I'm afraid we'll have to disagree on the degree of Danni's attraction. I hope you'll still respect me in the morning.
3) Um, that was ME with the Jiffy verb-tense narration thing. Duh. Let me remind you again what I do for a living.
4) I? do not have a VapoRub fetish. Ask the corpse-fuckers.
5) Ilse's oobies are perfect in every conceivable respect. Dood. I thought you had that taken care of...
6) Love your poetry, but what--no iambic pentameter? You disappoint me greatly.
7) After 5 years of W, and 1000 of Bar, you still have to ask what the fucking fuck is up with TX boys and their mommas?
8) Again, absofuckinglutely fantastic. I gotta come up with more adjectives.
1) Dood!
2) I'm afraid we'll have to disagree on the degree of Danni's attraction. I hope you'll still respect me in the morning.
3) Um, that was ME with the Jiffy verb-tense narration thing. Duh. Let me remind you again what I do for a living.
4) I? do not have a VapoRub fetish. Ask the corpse-fuckers.
5) Ilse's oobies are perfect in every conceivable respect. Dood. I thought you had that taken care of...
6) Love your poetry, but what--no iambic pentameter? You disappoint me greatly.
7) After 5 years of W, and 1000 of Bar, you still have to ask what the fucking fuck is up with TX boys and their mommas?
8) Again, absofuckinglutely fantastic. I gotta come up with more adjectives.
Magritte! Oh, Magrit. Too bad, dood. Magritte rocks.
I, too, find myself immensely curious about Stephanie's stark naked pits.
And. The antcolony.org site is amazing. But it is even more amazing that human beans spend hours and hours of their lives making an internet site about ants. ("A Leaf Cutter Colony can strip the tallest of trees in a single day. Equivalent consumption of a full grown cow in the same time!" = so somebody tell me if one of these contestants - I nominate Judd - will be so consumed before the season is over.) Or reality tv shows, for that matter.
Y'know that rap about why folks shouldn't be blessing the Jesus every third microsecond? Especially on the tv? You should just get a poster made. Within six months you'll be able to retire from the sales. I just know that out there are millions of folks who would buy one as long as it were available in a plain brown wrapper.
Kudos to the master. Excellent -- way better than the show. Then again, I didn't have to spend the entire time hoping for the death of the Hogeboom mouth-breather.
I, too, find myself immensely curious about Stephanie's stark naked pits.
And. The antcolony.org site is amazing. But it is even more amazing that human beans spend hours and hours of their lives making an internet site about ants. ("A Leaf Cutter Colony can strip the tallest of trees in a single day. Equivalent consumption of a full grown cow in the same time!" = so somebody tell me if one of these contestants - I nominate Judd - will be so consumed before the season is over.) Or reality tv shows, for that matter.
Y'know that rap about why folks shouldn't be blessing the Jesus every third microsecond? Especially on the tv? You should just get a poster made. Within six months you'll be able to retire from the sales. I just know that out there are millions of folks who would buy one as long as it were available in a plain brown wrapper.
Kudos to the master. Excellent -- way better than the show. Then again, I didn't have to spend the entire time hoping for the death of the Hogeboom mouth-breather.
Beautiful. I am especially glad to see that you also find Danni about as attractive as, say, Judd. She makes me gag.
*smooch*
*smooch*
I can't believe you sullied your masterpiece with the mention of those beastly little folk from that wretched children's tale by Dahl. *shudder*
I bet Wheezy's lips did look mighty hot, btw, and I'm betting Steph got waxed before she headed out to the jungle. And why do you use that weird language for Bobby John? You act as if he speaks with some sort of accent or something. WTF?
I bet Wheezy's lips did look mighty hot, btw, and I'm betting Steph got waxed before she headed out to the jungle. And why do you use that weird language for Bobby John? You act as if he speaks with some sort of accent or something. WTF?
Remind me to never write the same week you summarize. My humilating, pathetic and downright despicable pedo-incest humor will never measure up to the power of the simple brak.
You are the All-Knowing Lord and Master.
(I'm going off now to slather myself with VapoRub and think about Stephanie's pits.)
You are the All-Knowing Lord and Master.
(I'm going off now to slather myself with VapoRub and think about Stephanie's pits.)
G: Apologies. It was, indeed you who was all over the conjugation thing.
Wheezus El Senora Mayamaya Jefe Hamsterperson: You lie. You emailed me, knowing I was writing a summary, and taunted me about your hot red slick lips. Don't even try to con these people into thinking I'd invent such a thing. Okay, okay, I would. But I didn't.
Sparkles: You'd better be a cheap date. Or an entertaining one.
Kimmah: Don't make me compose. You know my favorite art form. And I know your kryptonite. Bobbyjon's accent is nothing like your accent. Which you don't have. And which wouldn't sound anything like Bobbyjon's. If you had one.
TJ: Feh. You are my better, by far.
Wheezus El Senora Mayamaya Jefe Hamsterperson: You lie. You emailed me, knowing I was writing a summary, and taunted me about your hot red slick lips. Don't even try to con these people into thinking I'd invent such a thing. Okay, okay, I would. But I didn't.
Sparkles: You'd better be a cheap date. Or an entertaining one.
Kimmah: Don't make me compose. You know my favorite art form. And I know your kryptonite. Bobbyjon's accent is nothing like your accent. Which you don't have. And which wouldn't sound anything like Bobbyjon's. If you had one.
TJ: Feh. You are my better, by far.
Fabulous!!! Absolutely fabulous, L!!! This may be my favoritist summary yet, since it acknowledges the yumminess of Bobby Jon and his abs. ;)
Great job!
Great job!
"he’s into muscular jocky hunks and Emily Dickinson and heathenry"
Not that there's anything wrong with that!
I missed the episode. I so thought that you were joking when you first said that the reward challenge was for a swimming cage, but, alas, I finally realized that bit of ridiculousness was true.
I still want to see Judddddd get eaten by a croc though.
Bobby Jonboy too. He doesn't make my panties moist in any way. Croc bait he should be.
Not that there's anything wrong with that!
I missed the episode. I so thought that you were joking when you first said that the reward challenge was for a swimming cage, but, alas, I finally realized that bit of ridiculousness was true.
I still want to see Judddddd get eaten by a croc though.
Bobby Jonboy too. He doesn't make my panties moist in any way. Croc bait he should be.
Ummmm, I'm ashamed to admit that I had to change my panties after witnessing the testosterone-fueled yummy manliness of Bobby Jon in the previews. But then, if you've seen my blog you know that's not all that difficult these days.
I also had to change them after reading this magnificent composition. But that was more about the peeing myself trying not to laugh out loud in the office suite.
I bow to the master.
I also had to change them after reading this magnificent composition. But that was more about the peeing myself trying not to laugh out loud in the office suite.
I bow to the master.
You know, I am begining to think that whole PG-13 thing in a past life crimped your style.
Very funny, Landru.
(you have no idea how hard it was to follow Geggy's post. there was no way to top it.)
Very funny, Landru.
(you have no idea how hard it was to follow Geggy's post. there was no way to top it.)
Hi Landru. I am very, very late - but yay for you! Another terrific summary! I especially liked your dialog at Tribal Council.
I don't get all the BobbyJon love out there; I just don't like the guy. On the other hand, I am fascinated with Juddd. For a rural midwesterner like me, an actual New Yawk City doorman is a strange and exotic beast, the strangest person ever cast by EPMB. I hope he gets hurt before they finally vote his fuckpig ass off the show. (And I am so glad I don't have to live in NYC, where creatures like him haunt the doorways. Ew!)
I don't get all the BobbyJon love out there; I just don't like the guy. On the other hand, I am fascinated with Juddd. For a rural midwesterner like me, an actual New Yawk City doorman is a strange and exotic beast, the strangest person ever cast by EPMB. I hope he gets hurt before they finally vote his fuckpig ass off the show. (And I am so glad I don't have to live in NYC, where creatures like him haunt the doorways. Ew!)
Wonderlous, but you know that already. My crush on Bobby Jon took a blow when they said he was the most sgpeulsv member of the tribe.
I'm late, but well worth the wait. Terrific, as usual. Well, except for when I got to the part about Colby/Mom/Aztec. *shudder* I had finally gotten that visual out of my head ... and well, now I've got another case of the terminal heebie jeebies. *sigh*
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