Survivor Panama: Stoopid Island, Finale Summary: Whackjobs and Fucktards and Boors. No, Bores. Aw, Fuck It, Both. Oh My. by Landru. I mean, DUH...

We must first deal with the issue of Episode Thirteen, which will forever be known around here as The One That Got Away. Here is the summary of it, by Dweeze:

Eep. I guess I was supposed to summarize again. Okay. Here goes.

Previously on Survivor: Nothing worth devoting more than a paragraph to, especially considering it was the first Survivor Non-Philimination. Terry pissed some people off. Cirie got overly worked up. Aras secretly longed to be Terry's son. Danielle and her implants tried to avoid getting booted. In other words, same shit, different day.

There. Happy?

Thank you very kindly, Dweeze. Yes, we are. Happy, that is.

Now, for the finale:

Previously on Survivor:

There was a great deal of activity that occasioned much brakage. Dweeze bitched about being the only one to write summaries around here. I ignored his bitching and got laid on Friday nights anyway.

I did not watch a single episode of this program until the death of Dan the Astronaut, meaning that I did not, like you, waste hours and hours of my life on this season. Okay, I watched several episodes later—everything after the jury grew to two people--but y’know, a lot of these dead bodies mean nothing to me, and in about three hours? I’ll be able to just mercilessly and randomly savage bunches of people who I’ve never heard of until this finale recrap.

Yeah. That was foreshadowing. Did you see it? It was subtle. Go on, deconstruct.

First, of course, you must sit through a story about me. Why would it be otherwise? Why else would I write a summary, if not to make you sit through an incessant drone of piles of verbiage pertaining to me and to nothing else?

The me story is also about why. Why would I not watch such a huge portion of the season of this show, which we have made so central to our television existences these last few years? Why would I abandon Probst? Have I completely lost my mind?

Because it was boring and formulaic and not-at-all innovative, and on many Thursday nights, I had better things to do, like contemplate things I pulled out of my nose. And because he’s a dickhead. And yes, but if that’s news to you, you need to reexamine the contents of your own nose.

Fuck the story about me. Let's just get to the recrap of the recrap, because I need to go through it so that I can properly mock everyone, as is their due, when we get to the traditional ritual of me lying through my ass about the reunion show. That is, after all, what you pay me for. All in all? I’d rather be writing about The Amazing Race.

The original 16 were, as you no doubt know, but in a revelation shocking to me, split into four tribes, stratified by age and gender and sentenced to occasional terms on Exile Island. The elders did well, focused as they were on tasks and the benefit of their age and wisdom; the youngers foundered, content with dreams of Starbucks and each others’ genitalia. Misty, whom I thought hot before the season, was the first to be exiled, and to have a chance to comb Exile Island for a secret immunity thingie that ended up not being used directly to anyone’s benefit. The old broads lost the first immunity challenge, and Tina, whose presence on the show apparently revolved around worship of her tragically deceased son, was brutally offed.

The stratification ended quickly, as a gym class pick-me exercise led to two tribes of mixed descent, the winners and the losers. While Shane, a pathologically insane freakshow who had miscalculated his quit date for smoking, wanted to quit and immerse himself in a nicotine haze, Aras, a smug, hypocritical, misogynist prick, ordained that one of two large women, one of whom was apparently still wearing makeup after six days in the jungle, would be the first to go, and so the still rouged-and-lipsticked Melinda was shown the door, apparently after an open and vomitorious discussion among the entire tribe in which Aras beat down many arguments with his penis and Shane ranted.

Drama queen Shane managed to rile the entire tribe, thereafter, as token large black woman Cirie maneuvered to save her skin. The tribe won consecutive immunities and the loser tribe killed off the once-hot Misty, and marble-mouthed Ruth Marie. Arrogant, ringknocking fighter jock Terry was exiled, apparently repeatedly, and found the secret immunity thingie, provoking later on a boring multiepisode sequence of manipulation and rudeness.

The previously winning team lost an immunity challenge and took the opportunity to discriminate against the token large mean black man, then won a challenge, provoking the departure of astronaut Dan, in an episode that I actually watched, having, for some reason, nothing better to do with my time. I escaped to China to avoid the wretched fate of having nothing to do on Thursday nights, and the Tagis set into motion yet another vicious pagonging as the merge commenced.

Arrogant shitheel Terry won a number of consecutive individual immunities to send the rest of the unfortunate Pagongs to hell—theoretically nice Nick, annoyingly spiritual Austin, and way too blonde Sally.

A reward challenge designed to reveal who one should take to the final two revealed that “fire dancer” Courtney, a confused, new-age-twit, nightmarish yet-another-freakshow, was by far the most unpopular member of the surviving band. This should not have been surprising, given her complete lack of predilection for coherent thought and her thorough encapsulation of all that should, in our culture, warrant lynching. Plotting to help Courtney survive commenced immediately, but before that crisis could reach a denouement, tiny Asian art teacher Bruce, known and beloved hereabouts as Mister Miyagi, suffered the consequences of failing to excrete for ten consecutive days, and was whisked from the island in excruciating pain, his every orifice blocked by dehydration and bad diet.

A series of strength-and-endurance-based challenges designed to keep the supercilious dickweed Terry in the game commenced, and he won them; secret evil genius Cirie used the occasion to mastermind the ouster of annoying persons who good players might try to drag to the Final Two, notably Giant Flaming Ball of Irritation Courtney and Howling Mad Shane, leaving us with a final four of Terry, Cirie, Aras, and obnoxious hyperNewYorker Danielle, and confirming our impression of the New Survivor Paradigm, in which we must always--always suffer the Final Two predations of some braying jackass from New York or New Jersey, which are, after all, pretty much the same fucking thing to normal humans (and while I’m truly at least a bit sorry to insult my friends from New Jersey that way? Ah, fuck you, you fucking fucks.).

What? She’s from Boston? Meh. Same difference—it’s not like anyone normal can make that distinction. Fuck you, you fucking fucks.

So after Aras finally beat Terry in a hostile reward challenge and gloated about it like the smug piece of feces he is, he again beat Terry in the immunity challenge. After Terry refused to give Danielle the Secret Safe Word (and ultimately sealing his fate—had he secretly slipped her the secret immunity idol and pretended he still had it, he would very likely have made the Final Two and, as it later developed, won the game), Danielle and Cirie faced a tie vote and a fire challenge, leaving us…where we are, which is watching credits and:

Commercials, brought to us by Charmin Megaroll, and GM:

Retro film clips and seventies-style rap, for GM; cartoon bears reminding us of the importance of having plenty of toilet paper on hand for our guests, for Charmin; cute child voices, for AIG; a fake game show interrupted by Mister T, another in an increasingly annoying series of T-plagued commercials for Comcast On Demand; CBS, for CSI: Crockett and Tubbs, and for another damn country music awards show. What? You like country music awards shows? Shut the fuck up. Eh? No. Shut up. Really.

And we’re back, at the previously interrupted tribal council fire challenge between annoying, squawky Danielle and annoying, chirpy Cirie. We are building a fire and burning a string. One wonders if they keep this setup on hand for every single damn Tribal Council, or if they only drag it out for the Final Four vote, which seems to be the single TC most plagued by tie votes. We are treated to Probstian narrative: noun, participle, object. Rupert, flapping the skirt. Colby, fucking the mother. Colby, soiling the Aztec. Dani, inflating the lips. Dobby, clutching the blanket. JennaMo, flaunting the breasticles. Julie, slobbering the Probst. Sigh.

The other annoying thing that Probst is accomplishing here is his usual coaching of the contestants, mostly Cirie. This effort fails entirely, because Cirie is too dumb and panicky to build a fucking fire.

After a number of false starts—both contestants go for the quick knockout and fail, both of them seriously endangering their cause in doing so—Danielle patiently builds a little birdhouse in her soul. That was code for making a fire. Her string burns. We are now Cirie-free.

She is gracious in her death throes. She’s lost a crapload of weight, she’s done things she never dreamed she’d do, she lasted far longer than she hand any right to last, she’s conquered her primal fear of leaves. She’s proud, and she really probably ought to be.

Back at the ranch, Danielle builds fire, exercising her newfound fire-starting skills. Fuckwipe Terry is thrilled, since he and Danielle have a pact to take each other to the final. Aras mopes about, contemplating his flawed and poisoned chakra. In the morning, Captain Arrogance shows off the immunity idol and boasts of how he kept it hidden in his underpants. Danielle correctly interprets this behavior as gloating. It is another step in the slow fall of the ridiculously overconfident carrier aviation superstar.

I must here interject that I support our troops. Committing to military service is a testament to one’s character and selflessness in service of a greater cause. As it happens, I detest the use to which our nation’s military is presently being put, but that takes away nothing from the men and women who serve, despite what psychotic jingoists would have you believe. The reason I interject this dose of politics into an otherwise pallid commentary on popular culture is that I am about to trash the United States Navy.

I have long lived in an area with very conflicted feelings about the military services. Many locals are employed in the defense industry; many friends of mine have made good and happy livings, serving in or working for the various services or their civilian leadership. The area is overwhelmingly liberal, though, and populated with employees of all manner of other federal agencies, this area being Your Local National Capital, and those employees tend to compare their agencies' budgets to those of defense agencies and feel rather tiny and insignifcant in the process.

All this is well and good, and the consequence of a free and nominally open society. What drives me nuts, however, is the proximity of a bastion of the USN, one that unduly captures the fandom imagination of an unhealthy proportion of locals. I speak of Canoe U, the United States Naval Academy, our nation’s second-oldest and most culturally, academically, and athletically inferior military academy. On fall Saturdays, the quaint local village of Annapolis, capital of My Local State, one-time very brief (I dunno, 12 or 18 hours—my history correspondent can probably be counted on to validate this premise through actual research) capital of Your Local Country, is overrun by men in gold-trimmed blue baseball caps bearing the names and unit designations of various battleships, cruisers, carriers, and submarines, driving Cadillacs (badly), speeding to Squid-Jarhead Stadium on Rowe Boulevard to cheer on their little punkass blue-and-gold football team.

This is an abomination. Go Army, Beat Navy.

The point of all this sideways ranting is that Terry is one of those fuckhead Annapolis graduates who sits in meetings beating his Academy ring on the table, hoping to assert his dominance over you, whoever or whatever you are. We call them Ringknockers, and they are evil. They are the men (and please note the forlorn lack here of the traditional qualifying phrase, “and women”) who, having finished the actual work/fighting/danger portions of their military careers, bring you spectacular events like wars in Vietnam and Iraq, national wiretapping programs, and the advent of American fascism.

Terry is, without qualification or reservation, one of these men. And he’s incompetent at it, because if he weren’t, he would’ve won the game.

And I do abjectly apologize to those friends of mine and others, members or dependents of the United States Navy, who are not actually fuckheads, but merely suffer, in the course of serving their country and making a living and supporting their families, the depredations of fuckhead ringknockers like Terry. There are those who are disappointed by the eventual outcome of tonight’s finale; I’m among them. But I’m not the tiniest shade disappointed that this arrogant mindraper didn’t win.

We devote here a considerable amount of footage to the rivalry between Aras and Terry. Both are intensely competitive, at levels far transcending the usual definition of “hypercompetitive asshole.” They compete without mercy or remorse over challenges, fishing, dick size, and making smug, self-satisfied pronouncements about their own superiority. They’re really stunning jackasses. Danielle contributes to this scene a confessional that strongly hints that she’s deeply emotionally committed to Terry in the long-term strategy sense.

We’re off to a challenge, and it’s for reward, that being a crapload of food and a cot, with bedding, to help prepare the lucky winner for the final immunity challenge the next day. The thinking is that this will give the winner a big boost in the IC, which can only consist of something related to balance and endurance, as it always does. Always. Every fucking time. Don’t even think about having a final IC relying on anything else. Ever.

K, so we have to run a stick through a maze carved in a giant board, which frees a bag of pegs, then follow a series of clues on a spinning wheel to find the right bag of more pegs, then use the shape-coded pegs to climb a three-story climbing wall, bringing all of the pegs with us, then insert the right pegs into the right holes to release our little flag. Got it?

Danielle ends up clueless and doesn’t even get to the point where she’s climbing the wall. Aras and Terry are neck and neck the whole way, and Terry wins because Aras is too effing stupid to fit the right peg in the right hole under pressure, standing there and trying to jam in a misshapen peg as Terry blows by him. Terry indulges his peculiar form of gloating, telling Aras how wonderful he is as Aras mopes in defeat. Graciousness here would involve a couple of words, and leaving the poor bastard alone, but Terry has to tell Aras how wonderful he is, the implication being not that Aras really is good, but that Terry’s just better.

Febreze brings us Cirie’s family moment, which is no less insipid than anyone else’s family moment, and we’re off to

Commercials, which begin with, of course:

a bunch of deeply disturbed chemical-huffing schoolchildren, for Febreze, which I will one day try on the lingering smell of old farts that plagues my personal vehicle; a glutton and a fast-food employee, advising us of KFC’s latest innovation, which is to dump a whole bunch of differently textured and flavored trans-fatuated slop in a bowl and top it with cheese and gravy, because the mashed potatoes, corn, and flash-fried chicken skin underneath just doesn’t contain enough fat; Heather Locklear, who, I am told by various supermarket checkout magazines, can’t stop licking Richie Zambora’s tattoos, for L’Oreal (which, in deference to my harsh femicritics, I have here endeavored to spell correctly); oblivious morons, for Verizon, which wants you to—get this—buy your mother a phone for Mother’s Day, as if she doesn’t already have enough ways to drive you completely bugfuck; a trailer, for a Pixar (uhm…now “Disney presents Pixar,” actually) offering about anthropomorphized cars that appears to be a pretty good suckoff for the NASCAR industry, geared as it is toward interesting ever-younger wee folk in the thrill of guzzling Budweiser, beating the wife, and staring at the tube waiting for spectacular flaming high-speed automobile accidents; CBS, for the finale I wish I were writing, and for CSI: Showgirls and Sleazebags, and for the silly missing persons show; My Local News, with an alarmist tease about children asphyxiating each other; a thrillseeking moron in the driveway, for the Association of My Local Honda Dealers; and a very amateurish 10-second late-night cable commercial, for some local window ripoff shop.

And we’re back. In the jungle. In Panama. Again. Mommy, Mommy, can we get the Panamanian government to host another fucking season of Survivor? Huh? Huh? Can we?

Gods, I hate everything.

Back at the ranch, Aras is cleaning fish, and Danielle is grooving on coconuts. They discuss the forthcoming immunity challenge; Aras is oblivious to Danielle’s deal with Terry. Danielle just sits and lies. Terry returns, minimizing the giant feed he has just experienced. Aras glowers at him behind his back, then confesses that the pressure’s on Terry now. He further confesses whines about Terry’s perceived dominance.

And now it’s time for the final IC, which is, of course, Fallen Comrades, and which will transpire on Exile Island. It promises to be mawkishly horrible, but at least we’re no longer putting on warpaint for this traditional 10-minute travesty of television. We are treated to footage of each of the losers, accompanied by loser voiceover. Tina’s voiceover is weepy and focused on her dead son. Fat Melinda tells us how tough she is. Misty learned a lot and will never go into life or a game being anything other than herself. What, she’s a shapechanger? Ruth Marie is unintelligible, perpetuating the reality show myth of the Southron retard. Bobby tells us he came out to smack people down. After a public blowjob from the ringknocker, Dan the astronaut blathers about the joy of experience. Nick tells us it’s all great. Austin blathers. Sally whimpers. Bruce expounds on the challenge of being tiny and Asian. Courtney is a fucking new-age blithering idiot and needs to shut the fuck up, a whole lot. She tells us she’s not going to be handed the million dollars, but she’s going to make it on her own.

Uhm…Courtney? You’re not going to make a million dollars as an idiot star-gazing, navel-gazing, fire-dancing twit. Here’s a fortune cookie for you: a change in financial strategies would be in order.

Aras calls Shane both ugly and beautiful, then Shane raves, telling us he’s going to be effective “for the planet.” Not if I see you first, you fucking loon.

Finally, Cirie tells us about all the fears she’s overcome: leaves, carpet lint, things that are sitting more than 12 inches inside her refrigerator, chihuahuas, closet doors, water, air, and television programs on networks other than Paramount.

Jesus God, are we at the fucking IC yet?

No, we’re not. First, we have to burn things. Survivor is obsessed with burning things—every fucking thing in sight—in the finale, and this is no exception. The giant wooden skull on Exile Island is torched, giving off clouds of pollution that can be seen from as far away as Ascension Island and the Galapagos. And before we get a freakin’ IC, we have to go to:

Commercials, brought to us by another bad Adam Sandler movie:

a trailer, for the aforementioned needless perpetration of Adam Sandler’s existence; more retro music and film, but this time it’s for some financial planning subsidiary of American Express; a hockey coach, for the wonder drug Plavix, which is attempting to prevent my next heart attack while making me bleed profusely every time Squeaky buries her not-inconsiderable claws in my back in the throes of passion…well, uhm, okay, fine, in the throes of punishing me for my many and varied sins; a man being sniffed by women on a bus, for some detergent; and CBS, for Charlie Sheen Can’t Act, and for the Julia Louis-Dreyfuss thing, and for the next rock-star reality show.

And we’re back, where it really is time for the damned immunity challenge. This will involve balancing on increasingly tiny floating platforms suspended in a little floating frame thingie. It looks tremendously unfair—the platforms are all hooked together, and it seems that one person, especially the one in the middle, could take out anyone she choose when she falls.

They balance for 15 minutes on the first platform, then have to crawl to the next tiniest platform. Probst interrogates them; when that fails to provoke a response, he resorts to heckling them with narration in an effort to get them to lose their concentration. He scolds Danielle for thinking about food in the middle of a challenge, thus reminding her that Terry has eaten like a king, and she has eaten sashimi and maggots.

Everyone manages the second platform; things are a little wobbly, here, but everyone does fine until it’s time to move again. They crawl to the next platform, which appears to be about 18 inches wide. Aras has trouble getting on board, splashing and flailing; Terry’s difficulty is worse. Danielle is smart enough to squat until she absolutely has to stand. Terry flails wildly, unable to get up until the very last second. Terry doesn’t last long, falling off and into the water. The resulting splash does nothing to disturb Aras and Danielle. Aras looks to Danielle for guidance; she nods at him, clearly making him a promise, and he falls off into the water. Probst reminds her she has a huge decision to make; smoke immediately begins streaming from her ears, because she has now promised each of her competitors that she’ll take them along to the Final Two. Oops.

No time to worry about Danielle’s plight, though, because we’re off to:

Commercials, brought to us by GMC, again:

the Survivor commercials narrator, for some contest involving the GMC Yukon and some Webcast thingie of parts of tonight’s festivities; windmills, in fact, a veritable wind farm, and various displays of massive architectural and design prowess, for GMC's gigantimongous engineering testicularity; a trailer, for a violently awful-looking Vince Vaughn/Jennifer Aniston vehicle; a tude-laden woman, for Scrubbing Bubbles; a large black man speaking in a Valley Girl voice, for some Citi thing that prevents identity theft; CBS, for Dave, and for bad sitcoms, and for the bad Navy CSI ripoff, and for the bad military show starring the guy who used to be President on 24; a fawning dweeb on a homoerotic fishing trip with his buddies, for some SUV; annoying voiceover, for various Toyotas; kids playing football, for Canon; and My Local News, telling me that authorities are trying to remove a beached whale from one of the Delaware beaches, which reminds me—vaya con Dios, Ghandia.

And we’re back, with crabs on a beach, being pursued and eaten by seabirds. Uhm…okay, that’s some sort of foreshadowing, but I’m not sure to what is pertain.

It’s time for a whole lotta nasal Danielle whining about how hard her decision is. Now, here’s the thing; there’s a betting spoiler that says Danielle is going to win, and the thing about betting spoilers is that they’re never, ever wrong. And there was a tease last week telling us that this season’s competition at the end is one of “the closest ever,” implying a close vote. However, when you start to count jury votes and work on the various scenarios, it’s a little difficult to figure it all out—especially the 4-3 part. Who’s she taking with her that gets us to 4-3? Will tribal loyalty win her votes with her former mates, if she takes Terry? Or will they get pissed off that she screwed Aras? If she does take Aras with her, will that tribal loyalty pass to her? It’s a big old mess.

From a survivor dislikability perspective, it’s a tough call, too. Terry is a class A asshole, arrogant, unrelenting, selfish, gung-ho, and utterly sneerful about his own goodness and wholesomeness. On the other hand, Aras is a smug, condescending, snot-nosed, punkass bitch who seriously needs to be slapped down some indeterminable number of pegs. I can’t do the math here, and neither can Danielle.

Further, she’s made promises to both of them. She’s forced herself into a place where she’s just plain gonna be a lying bitch.

Terry makes his relatively gentle pitch to her as they carry water back from the cistern. Danielle responds that she didn’t expect to be in this position—she clearly expected to be relying on either Aras or Terry to take her along for the ride. She’s done her own calculation about dislikability.

To Terry’s credit, he tries real hard not to be a prick in responding to her. He claims that, had he won immunity, he would have already told her he’d be selecting her for the ride. Nice try, Firefighter Tom. Gawds, the selfishness and arrogance of these fucks is appalling and neverending.

Danielle is, legitimately, concerned about which of the two she can beat. She points out to Terry that if he hadn’t been a big dick about the immunity idol and forced her into a flame-off with Cirie, she’d definitely have taken him to the Final Two. Oops. Smells like death, Ringknocker. Shoulda worked on them people skills while you were off topgunning air-to-air missiles up other jocks’ tailpipes.

Terry does work the tribe loyalty angle, but Danielle isn’t biting. Correctly, as it happens. She asks that he respect whatever decision she makes; he tells her that he’s “not going to sit there throwing daggers at you with my eyes from the jury.”

He’s lying. Come the final TC, where he will, in fact, be sitting on the jury, Terry high-handedly lectures her about honesty and integrity, the classic and traditional refuge of Survivor losers.

Danielle reminds us that she is indecisive because she’s a Gemini.

No, Danielle, you’re indecisive because you’re weak and stupid. But keep clinging to that whole astrology liferaft thing.

Time for Aras to make his run at Danielle. He was assuming he was safe, knowing nothing of Danielle’s repeated soulful doe-eyed promises to the ringknocker. Shoulda gone along to get water, Yogaboy. He works the guilt angle, tries to be manipulative while denying he’s being manipulative, and then threatens her with the loss of his and Cirie’s votes. He reminds her of her lilypad promise. She tells him that he’s “pretty much” golden; he whines plaintively about the qualifier.

What a schmuck. We’re really in for a dismal finale, aren’t we?

Danielle goes off to be alone and think about this. Aras spends the rest of the day threatening and cajoling and manipulating. She is deeply disturbed by this.

Oh, fer heck. Just get us to the fucking TC.

Which, after more whimpering about “the journey,” is made so. Survivors, jury, Probst, brak brak brak.

Danielle goes into her public whimper about the difficulty of the decision. Terry admits that he had the hidden idol, and whines about having fucked up the final IC. Aras lies about his manipulation and badgering. Probst turns up the heat on the bimbo Danielle, asking her again if things are getting more difficult. Then he drops the boom and makes her vote.

She wanders up to the voting booth, and seems to linger there for a bit before finally writing down Terry’s name. She’s not convinced she made the right choice, even as she drops his name in the bucket. As we’ll find out later, there was no right choice—she’s fucked either way.

Terry thanks everyone for “the journey” and marches out. Probst gives us the usual brak brak brak about the almighty power of the jury, and we’re off to Terry’s loser confessional (“I shoulda won the last challenge,” rather than “I shoulda given her the damn idol,” which is a lot more to the point), and then we’re off to Terry’s Febreze family moment (which appears to involve half the population of Utah), and:

Commercials:

the same chemical-huffing schoolchildren, for Febreze, again; some cartoonized guy, for Chuck Schwab; a trailer, for some bad movie on DVD; robots and their voices, for AT&T; plants blooming and slugs crawling, for Sears; urban metamorphoses, for Chevy; and CBS, for CSI: Original Flavor, and for this year’s stunningly abysmal version of Big Brother, which will apparently be chock full of All-Star goodness in addition to the now-disgraced Julie Chen Bobblehead Blowjob Doll.

And we’re back, with Aras and Danielle gloating about being in the Final Two. Aras waxes philosophic, then lies, telling us he played the game with integrity, completely ignoring his whining and manipulation and bullying over the last 24 hours.

Here’s a clue, people. “Integrity” does not mean simply “not lying,” and since Aras has lied, anyway, that doesn’t much matter. Integrity is a package of behaviors. Just because you claim you didn’t lie, and you’ve told yourself whatever group of lies is required for you to believe that you haven’t lied so that you can look into the mirror or the camera or the eyes of your surfbunny girlfriend and not break down weeping over the hideous poison that has infected your mortal soul, doesn’t mean that you played with integrity.

Aras is really a smug, sickening, self-absorbed prick. Please, please, please, kick him in the perfect teeth that his parents paid for.

Danielle confesses that she took Aras because she’d have slapped everyone from her former tribe in the face by taking Terry. She knows she still needs to sell the jury.

Day breaks, the rosy fingers of some chick named Dawn intruding on the tropical paradise. Breakfast is provided, and the two pig out. They take a walk down the beach, Danielle drinking a mimosa from a champagne glass, Aras swigging from the bottle. As they walk over some rocks, Aras suddenly slips and falls, the bottle shattering, the drunken lout plucking shards of glass from his back, his hand torn and bleeding in several places. Oops.

This has the makings of a perfect ending, except for one thing: the self-righteous, haughty weasel doesn’t bleed out on the beach.

Danielle, by the way, never relinquishes her grip on her champagne glass.

Aras staggers back to camp, reeling. Danielle supports him. She confesses that blood freaks her out. The doctors show up and stitch Aras up, and sadly, he stops bleeding. Injections are given, Danielle is freaking. They ignore her pleas to drug him up beyond all possibility of consciousness. Aras confesses that his ego has been crushed.

I submit that this is not possible. The size of Aras’ ego is simply beyond crushability.

And after a plug for Buffs, we’re off to:

Commercials:

a trailer, for yet another Superman movie; men in white, on a film set, with asshole director Wes Anderson, for American Express; lobstermen, for FedEx; weather, for Folgers coffee; some chick, for some Crest product; CBS, for Dave, and for the Charlie Sheen Must Die show, and for the Julia Louis-Dreyfus Really Isn’t Very Funny show, and for CSI: Sipewicz Hates You; a busy restaurant and a waiter doing long-distance takeout, for some car that has a built-in computer with a link to Zagats; condescending voiceover, for some truck; musical chairs, for some credit card; a television chef, for My Local Supermarket Demi-Monopoly (shut up); and a brief sponsorship announcement, for Purina.

And we’re back, and isn’t it about time we got to fucking Tribal Council?

Why yes. Yes, it is. We have to deal with a little maudlin music and some more of Aras’ bullshit about his crushed balls ego. He braks about being able to connect with people at a deeper level.

Shut.

The.

Fucking.

Fuck.

Up.

You.

Fucking.

Fuck.

Have you fucking bled out yet, you conceited twit?

Okay, now it’s about time we got to fucking Tribal Council.

Oh, for fucking heck. More brakage. SHUT UP!!!!

Finally, to TC. The jury is walked in, Shane spitting derisively as he saunters into the jury box. There is some Probstian brakage about Aras’ injury, followed by a bit more of Aras’ bullshit, and then we’re on to the usual bullshit about the power of the jury, and how the finalists both assraped everybody on the jury, and brak fucking brak brak brak.

Aras gets the first opening statement, blithering about how he got to know and connect everyone on the jury, then lying about how he played with honesty and integrity. Danielle thanks everyone, referring again to “the journey,” which is apparently a phrase with which Courtney has poisoned everyone. She acknowledges that everyone lies, calling on them to recognize that Aras is no better than she is.

In actuality, he’s a lying fuck, but slightly less of one than she is. That’s his big advantage going in. She’s a more bald-faced liar, and these juries are pretty susceptible to fine distinctions in judging the lying liartons who (rightly) populate this game and (rightly) make it to the Final Two.

But before the interrogation, we’re off to:

Commercials, brought to us by GMC and some dumb Webcast and game:

metaphors for agility and precision, for GMC; a trailer starring the voiceover of Patrick Stewart, for the next installment in the neverending series of X-Men movies; people stalking a convenience store, for Edy’s ice cream; people doing dextrous things, for a new rheumatoid arthritis drug that will provide relief for your symptoms but destroy your immune system or get lymphoma (I am not kidding about their confession about the possible side effects); CBS, for CSI: Crockett and Tubbs, starring the ineffably talentless David Caruso, and for The Amazing Race.

And we’re back for the torture session.

Sally is up first, and she congratulates them and claims that she has not yet decided on how to vote. She asks who of their former tribemates was most responsible for them being in the final two. Both Danielle and Aras make a play for Cirie’s vote, claiming that it’s her, and relentlessly kissing her ass. Sally is satisfied and fucks off.

Mister Miyagi is up next. He bows to them, and makes the obligatory Japanese ethnic slurs. He asks them what they’ll do with the responsibility of having a million dollars. Aras’ answer is completely self-centered; he will improve the planet by improving himself. Mister Miyagi’s head spins. Danielle will give speeches to small children. Shane’s head spins, although that could just be because of the momentum from it having been spinning for his whole life. Mister Miyagi bows again and stereotypes back to the bench.

Terry steps up and immediately lectures Danielle, telling her that she didn’t have to be dishonest, and that she’s way off base. Yes, yes, the song of the loser. “I never lied, I never lied, I never lied.” Except just there, because yeah, you lied, and you were deceptive, and I hope that you are consigned to the Hell to which you just pretty much out-loud wished Danielle, you hypocritical ringknocking piece of shit. In fact, this statement is so outrageous that it doesn’t matter what you asked them, because it’s sheer self-serving bullshit and you’re obviously voting for your Homo Love God Aras, the only person here who you think beat you, even though Danielle kicked your pasty ass in the last IC. So shut up and go away until it’s time for me to savage you in the reunion transcript, you arrogant fartbag.

Austin, who looks like a Neanderthal, telegraphs his vote by speaking kind words to Aras about his injury, asks them to each give an example of a good move and a bad move. Danielle thinks getting the large black man voted off instead of Mister Miyagi was a good move, even though Mister Miyagi ended up oozing feces, and that dicking Courtney off was maybe not a great move. She’s right, because Courtney is a vengeful bitch. Aras is proud of having told Melinda that she was going home, because it made him feel good, and he’s a good person who played with integrity and stuff. He’s less proud of voting Shane off, and admits having lied to Shane; nevertheless, he played with honesty and integrity.

Jesus H. Tittyfucking Christ, do these assholes come anywhere near listening to themselves?

But the dullard Austin is perfectly satisfied, and it’s Courtney’s turn. She blathers about having dropped her guns in the Sea of Forgiveness, then blathers on some more with sour grapes about both of them having stabbed her in the back. She lies about regret and anger and tells us that she’s a bird and she’s gotta fly and she can’t be weighted down by all this regret and anger. Which is, clearly, still weighting her down. Because she’s a really fat, angry, stupid, vengeful bird, apparently. After an interminable stream of consciousness, she asks them what they learned about themselves. Aras starts by defending himself against Courtney’s accusation that he stabbed her in the back, then immediately backpedals, professing to take full responsibility.

Jesus H. Tittyfucking Christ, do these assholes come anywhere near listening to themselves?

Apparently not. Aras claims to have had his ego smashed. Courtney claims hers was, too. For my part, I do not believe that either of them is any less puffed up full of shit than they were before this experience.

Danielle learned self-reliance. Courtney should find this touching, but she’ll vote for Aras anyway. She pronounces that she’s glad that everyone’s learned something. Oh, Christ, just slump over, bitch.

Cirie steps up and asks each of them to give a campaign speech for the other. Danielle claims that Aras is honorable and respectful and a great person. The best Aras can do is that Danielle didn’t let him bleed to death. Cirie goes away happy; her mind was made up.

Shane raves, just raves. He’s pissed off that it’s Aras and Danielle, and thinks Terry should’ve won. He tells Danielle she was useless around camp. He doesn’t know about the outwitting, because she can’t complete a coherent sentence and he was with her for 36 days and knows nothing about her.

Uhm…Dumbo? That’s a pretty good indicator that she outwitted you, you psychotic crock of unrepressed ego.

Shane castigates Aras about having lied, and about having betrayed their bond. He lashes out at Aras’ youth, and lectures about how we can’t be judged on our intentions. “If I were judged on my intentions,” raves Shane, “I’d be President of the planet.”

Well. Thank Jeebus we’re not judged on our intentions, huh?

Shane continues that Aras is “broke, homeless, and freeloads” off his Dad, and doesn’t “know what it’s like to be judged.”

Uhm…I think maybe he’s getting taste of it here?

Shane continues his very bad Greg Buis imitation, already having ripped off Greg’s coconut phone idea, by asking the two finalists to pick a number between one and a million. Aras picks four. Danielle, in a spate of brilliance that secures her one of her two votes (they were lying about the closeness of the vote), picks ten. Both of them are sullen and listless as they answer.

Shane really is a mean fucker.

Jiffy gives the finalists a moment to think about their closing statements, and after a plug for Buffs, we’re off to:

Commercials:

a trailer, for the upcoming Disney/Pixar thing; spring-like noises, for AIG; a blonde in white…oh, holy crap, it’s Claudia Schiffer, for some L’Oreal (Twice! Twice I spelled it right! Take that, feminist cosmetics jihadists!) product; suggestive images of feminine curves and ice cream, for Tide, and since it develops that the curves are on an extremely pregnant woman, the suggestiveness of this thing is really a bit overboard (your money back if you’re the first male to comment that your wife/mate has never been sexier than when she was preggers, and come to think on it, double your money back to the first female to claim that she has never been sexier than when she was preggers...); images of America being hated, relating to the upcoming World Cup, for Gatorade; bad home video, for Royal Caribbean, which continues its unabated string of allowing me to note that Iggy Pop’s “Lust for Life” is not, in fact, about taking tropical cruises; CBS, for bullshit Monday night sitcoms, and for Dave; more condescending voiceover, extolling GMC’s engineering superiority; a black man in a suit, for Verizon DSL; some woman claiming her kid was on something like Fear Factor, for a regional banking monolith that we like to call Walkoveryou; and My Local News, for itself.

And we’re back, and it’s time for closing statements. Danielle blithers about her personal strength, and about how she’s an opportunist. She then completely blows it, claiming that she played with honesty and integrity. Y’know, mostly. She falls back on asking the jury to consider the outwit, outlast, outplay thingie, the implication being that she at least outwitted and outlasted. Then she begs them for the money.

Aras goes back to extolling his virtues and his strength at establishing real relationships. He equivocates about drilling Shane, and sucks up some more by thanking everyone for playing.

Jiffy gives the jury their instructions, repeating the usual brakage about wanting to see your name on the parchment.

Austin votes; as he does, Burnett chooses to show us snake footage. Cirie votes, then Bruce votes, showing us his vote for Danielle, lecturing us about some spiritual claptrap. Sally votes, then Courtney gets up to vote, revolting Shane with her touch. I mean, really, he recoils as she uses him for support in climbing down from the jury bench, then crawls into Terry’s lap to get out of her way when she climbs back up. What a putz. Terry is shown voting for (DUH) his Homo Love God Aras, making yet another variation on the writing someone’s name down joke, and Shane finishes the voting.

Jiffy goes off to get the bucket, and tells the assemblage that they’ll have to wait until we’re back in the States. The piped-in cheering from the live studio show starts immediately.

Burnett has dispensed entirely with the long Jiffyvoyage footage. I think he’s run out of cliches to exploit, which is really a shame for me. Some of my best writing has been about Probst getting sodomized as a cabin boy, torpedoed by Matt von Unterseebootkapitan, falling out of helicopters, and stopping off for a quick standup from a Manhattan transvestite hooker on his way into the New York studios. Unfortunately, the editing of this finale has been a bit more lax than usual, and it’s a few minutes past the hour when Jiffy goosesteps into the studio, maintaining the solemn disposition that suggests that he’s transporting a Diebold machine to the West Palm Beach courthouse, rather than a wooden bucket of scraps of paper that will decide the fate of a game show.

Jiffy reads the votes; Aras, Danielle, Danielle (Shane’s vote, which appears to list the number he was thinking of, which may or may not be 999,499), Aras, Aras, Aras.

Wow. The betting spoiler was wrong. That may be the most freakishly weird thing in the history of reality TV, right there.

The rest of the cast is brought in, and Jiffy blathers us into:

Commercials:

people with their eyes closed, for the Republican National Committee…nah, just kidding, it’s for some LC television; Danica Patrick at a racing game, mocking all of her opponents, for deodorant; the same images of precision and agility, again, for GMC, which is really pushing this notion of their engineering superiority; another cartoon person, for Chuck Schwab; and CBS, for the damn CSI: Crockett and Tubbs finale, again.

And we’re back, with footage of Aras and Terry ragging on each other after a challenge, and of them beating the crap out of each other in challenges, and tweaking each others’ sensitivities.

Jiffy returns, having changed into a little white sweater that looks effing ridiculous.

Actually, I should say that he’s been changed into a little white sweater, because as usual, he’s on all fours at the end of a leash, being dragged by your hero and mine, everyone’s favorite metaphor for Landru’s id, the incomparable Andrew Savage:

Savage: All right, all right, pipe down. I’m back, and you’re gonna listen to me for the next 48 minutes. Any problems?

(Savage glares around the room, staring down the hushed audience.)

Savage: Good. Real good. So, Aras, you’re a lying punkass bitch. You think you could’ve beaten a real man like me, instead of that delusional, incompetent fighter jock and yet another incomprehensible yet-another-sales-rep tart?

Aras: No Sir, Mister Savage, Sir.

Savage: Good. Real good. Yo, Probst, any advice for this bitch?

Probst: Uhm…pay your taxes?

(There is general tittering.)

Savage: Christ, you’re pathetic. You call that a joke? Never mind. So, Punkass Bitch, you sure had a bitter homoerotic rivalry with that asshole ringknocker, dintcha?

Aras: Terry is an awesome dood, and I’m fortunate to have someone so cool to compete against…

Savage: Oh, shut the fuck up. I mean, just stop simpering, you fucking New-Age chunk of Californian primordial slime. You were lucky he kept kicking your ass.

Aras: Yes, Sir, Mister Savage, Sir. If he hadn’t won immunity and had used the idol, I’d have been the first to go because he kept voting for me.

Savage: So, Terry, you completely fucked this up, dintcha?

(General laughter at Terry’s expense.)

Savage: So, did you actually respect this punk?

Terry: Oh, sure. Two mature guys getting it on, strapping it on, making it happen…

Savage: Oh, fuck me, did anybody ask you to come out of the fucking closet on the Reunion Show? Jesus H. Tittyfucking Christ, you’re a sick fucking fuck! Get the fuck out of here!

(Terry slinks off, making jet noises.)

Savage: Asshole. Danielle, you played pretty quietly and sorta snuck in, except when you were lying through your tight little ass. So why’d you pick Aras?

Danielle: People liked Terry. These two were da smahtest. They were da best.

Savage: Gods, you’re fucking incomprehensible. While I hate to have to listen to another word coming out of your fucking Backbay mouth, I gotta know…do you think you could’ve beaten Terry?

Danielle: I dunno…

Savage: Indecisive fucking twit. Get out of here, before I decide we’re gonna play a little hide the…uhm, y’know what? Never mind. I wouldn’t fuck you with Probst’s dick. Just go away. Now, who would’ve voted for this stupid bitch against Terry?

(Cirie and Bruce raise their hands.)
Savage: Wow. Terry really was a moron. So Aras, what the fuck was up with your hair?

Aras: Well, I…

Savage: Oh, fuck it, I don’t care. Shut up. Let’s do a whole crapload of commercials.

(We get footage of a seething rainstorm, and then another preview plug for the Webcast, then:

Commercials:

flapping pieces of paper representing scaly skin, for some Vaseline product; a woman with way too much makeup, for Max Factor; the chemical-huffing kids, again, for Febreze, again; a rocket blasting off, for GMC, which is really pumping the metaphors without mercy tonight; a kid riding his Big Wheel over hardwood floors, for Lowes, although it should be for lethal injection drugs, because that’s the best that should happen to children who ride Big Wheels indoors; cruelty and sadism, for CapitalOne; happy shining people and William Shatner dressed in an airline pilot’s uniform, for Priceline; and CBS, for Dave, and for the Tuesday crap, and for TAR.

Our commercials are briefly interrupted by a tease from Probst, but we’re back to the crap quickly, in the form of: My Local News, with teases about a subway accident, the beached whale, and a cross-burning—just another day here in Crackerville; some smug chick, for Mercury; a computer navigation spoof, for Nationwide; suggestive liquid images, for Coke; and the same smug chick, for Mercury.

And we’re back, with footage of Cirie.

Savage: Okay, let’s suck to Cirie for a bit, because for some reason you dipshits like her. So Cirie, you sure are fat and stupid, huh?

Cirie: I lived in fear for so long, I just decided to take a chance…

Savage: Oh, ferchrissake…this shit is turning into Oprah real fast…

Cirie: I’m off the couch and turning my husband into my dog now.

Savage: Oddly enough, we have your husband in the audience. Mister Cirie?

Cirie’s Husband: Arf!

Savage: Very good.

Cirie’s Husband: Arf! Arf arf!

Savage: Okay, shut up, it’s just a freakin’ cameo. Don’t overdo it, bitch. Okay, Shane, you’re bugfuck insane, but you all of a sudden like Cirie too…

(Reality check: Shane is wearing some garment that makes no sense whatsoever. It appears to be a sweater over a dress shirt, with a little green tie, but at the cuffs of the sweater are these giant loose floppy striped cuffs that don’t match the shirt. Shane? You’re a fucking nightmare.)

Shane: Oh, she’s awesome, she’s Superwoman, she grew so much, it was really beautiful to watch…

Savage: Oh fuck me, cut with the Oprah shit, people. So, Bruce, you were totally full of shit. Really.

Bruce: Yeah.

Savage: High-fiber diet now, then?

Bruce: Oh, you bet. All Colon Blow, all the time.

Savage: And to top it all off, you got freakin’ fired for molesting your art students?

Bruce: Well, I was threatened, but I just got suspended.

Savage: Molested ‘em like a big ol’ prison dog. Gotcha. Next up: we explore the depths of Shane’s complete batshit insanity.

(And we’re off to:

Commercials:

a trailer, for the dumbass Adam Sandler thing, and actually, it’s an incredibly long trailer; and CBS, for The Early Show, and for the dumbass Monday shit, and for CSI: Gary Sinise Once Played George Wallace, You Know.

And we’re back, with footage of Shane’s insanity.

Savage: So, Shane, you’re a complete fucking nutbar.

Shane: I snorted a dime bag of coke every freakin’ day before we went on the island, dood. I was seriously jonesing out there.

Savage: No, seriously, no one can really be that fucking nuts. You were putting everyone on.

Shane: Look, it’s not like you people let us have Ritalin out there.

Savage: So you were working the I-want-to-be-hated strategy?

Shane: I’m an addict, dood. And besides, I loved Johnny Fairplay. Leave me the fuck alone, everybody loves me.

Savage: Christ, you’re a fruitcake. Shut up.

Shane: Moonfish greenspace synthesis with grape jelly overlord! Barking syphilis! Cogitate grasslands duskily on toast points! Pinochle submission! Overzealous leprachaun lampshade! Meathook Rowan Atkinson!

Savage: All righty then. Time to get all mawkish, because Burnett thinks it’ll make money. Tina? Weep.

Tina: (Inconsolable weeping)

Savage: Yeah, it’s Mother’s Day, how ya feeling?

(Note: For the love of God, Probst actually asked the poor woman this.)

Tina: (More inconsolable weeping, maudlin story)

Savage: Okay. Let’s get the fuck outta this Oprahfication of a perfectly good show and make some more money.

(Off to:

Commercials:

retro hair, for Head and Shoulders, which has been reinvented and is now also a dessert topping/floor polish; smug chick voiceover, for some Olay product; Ath-uh-letes, for AOL; guys in a cranberry bog, for some Ocean Spray product; M. Night Shamalamadingdong, for American Express; robot voiceover, again, for AT&T, again; and CBS, for CSI: Crockett and Tubbs, again, and for some game show amalgamation starring the still-fat Ricki Lake.

After another brief interruption in our commercials for a Probst-tease, we’re back to commercialism, with:

an idiot too timid to grab a fucking donut, for Verizon DSL; the same idiot in the same driveway, still for My Local Cabal of Honda Dealers; and My Local News, with the same damn teases plus a special bonus shot at Marion Barry, who has, apparently, once again been set up by a bitch.

And we’re back.

Savage: Time to play lip service to some people who don’t matter. Austin? Try not to rave about your faith.

Austin: I love Jesus so very, very much…

Savage: Right. Good job, moe-ron. Astroboy?

Dan: Mystic, beautiful, joyous, California, cute little iguanas, spiritual awakening…

Savage: Y’know, Burnett, you’ve really got to let me start packing for this shit. Courtney, are you capable of making any sense whatsoever?

Courtney: Beautiful, man. Journey. Reflection. Growthfulness. Dreams. Spiritual…

Savage: I’m coming for you, bitch, with a gun. I’m fucking serious, with a fucking gun, you goddam moonbat. Sally, you just got divorced. Wanna fuck?

Sally: Mean people suck.

Savage: Right. Shut up and swallow. Time for rapid-fire commentary from the completely useless.

Nick: I’m hungry.

Bobby: I’m cuddly.

Ruth Marie: Those editors suhhhhck, man.

Misty: My mouth is way too wide.

Melinda: Uhm…

Cindy: Ah wun uh car!!!! Ah wun uh carrrrrr!!!!!

(Brief nod to the reality of the Reunion Show: Probst suggests that Terry not winning after winning the car perpetuated the car jinx. One more time, people: there is no car jinx; Amber Brkch Mariano shattered said alleged jinx by winning the car, the game, and the sperm donor of her dreams. Shut the fuck up about the car jinx, Probst.

And to meet my obligation to do some tiny bit of serious reporting just in case anything actually happens during the Reunion Show, Cirie won the other fucking car, and we’re off to:

Commercials:

Boring imagery extolling GMC’s engineering superiority, again; old ladies voiced by rednecks, for that Citi identity theft thingie; shitting cartoon bears, for Charmin; the whackjob Andie MacDowell, for L’Oreal (Three! Three! Three!); depressing music, for some depression drug that apparently increases your suicide risk, along with destroying your liver and constipating you, which is really pretty depressing; and My Local News, again.

And we’re back.

Savage: Next season: Cook Islands, where we will mercilessly troll a Mutiny on the Bounty theme. Auction, benefitting that stupid Jessica Simpson charity to give plastic surgery to deformed kids, since we’re decided that children with AIDS are no longer worthy and Jessica Simpson is blowing Mark Burnett. Now get outta here, you all make me sick.

(End of transcript.)

Thanks to all of our readers and to those who make this site possible—all of our summary writers; technical advisor and technomonkey TechNoir; and Spirit Mother Wheezy. Special uberthanks to the one guy who actually does most of the heavy lifting on this site, just because we tell him we’re too fucking lazy to do it ourselves: the incomparable Dweezil, pinch-hitter nonpareil. Thanks, Dweeze.

We’ll be back next season with more. Don’t forget to hit the archives, to your left (or maybe it’s your right—I can never remember where the technomonkey puts this stuff). And don’t forget to visit the Sistahblog, where we give the same loving attention to TAR that we lavish on this crappy, moribund, deathwish of a reality show. See you next season.


  ¶ 4:50 PM