Arriving back at camp from Tribal Council, Steve was trying to heal wounds and promote tribal unity, but David was having none of it. He’s a defense lawyer. He’s innately combative. You don’t kiss and make up with the DA after you’ve gotten some triple-murderer released back into your neighborhood. David is highly intelligent, but he can’t see that now he’s an alliance of one, unless he mends some fences. Yet when Steve began saying: “I hope you guys can…” he did everything but shout: “Objection!” He did say: “If it’s the end of me, so be it.” David, did you come to win a million dollars? Or are you the only attorney in America who cares nothing about money?
Sarita, who had received David’s and Stephanie’s, i.e. Squeaky’s, votes said: “Time to find out our gang of six did have a major hole in it, which, as I had suspected, David had gone over to The Dark Side.” Along with this tortured syntax, she referred to David as a “hole,” but politely omitted the word’s three letter prefix, two of those letters being “s”.
Sarita classily offered David an olive branch which he rudely swatted away. Not really the time nor place for an immature snit, Davey, not if you want to win the million.
Over on Zombie Island, poor Matt, aka Dr. Jesus, the Jesus Freak med student (“Oh Lord, please heal this gunshot to the brain!”) was being subjected to Squeaky’s non-stop mouth, listing in detail all she wanted to eat when he beats her in the duel and she goes off to the hotel. You could see in his eyes, he was wondering if suicide was always a mortal sin, or if there was an exception when you are marooned on Zombie Island (which is not an island) with a motor-mouthed Manson Girl. But then, he had his buff pulled up to above his nose, like a stagecoach robber in an old western, so maybe he was contemplating breaking The Sixth Commandment. After all, Moses never met Squeaky.
And then Squeaky said she wanted, I kid you not, “a banana shake with peanut butter in it.” I managed to hit the pause button as I sprinted for my vomitorium. I knew she had bad taste in allies, but I had no idea it extended to food.
Dr. Jesus: “I told God that I’m gonna stay out here as long as He wants me to be out here.” Doc…
1. It’s “She” not “He,” and…
2. What? Do you have a phone to Imaginary Heaven, or were you speaking to the voices in your head?
Phillip, aka Agent Dumb Ass, aka Special Agent Big Mouth, aka, Agent 00-Zero, aka the Moron in the Fuchsia Panties, doesn’t trust Rob “anymore.” Dumb Ass, Rob was never playing for you. But it’s only fair, because no one trusts Agent Dumb Ass.
Dumb Ass quoted “a very famous Japanese horseman.” There’s no such thing as “a very famous Japanese horseman,” except maybe in Japan. He actually was referring to my old drinking buddy Myamoto Mushashi (1584 – 1645), aka Mr. Moto (my darling Peter Lorre, who was very Japanese for a Hungarian Jew), author of The Book of Five Rings, which I have to assume is about The Olympics. Tolkien wrote of 16 rings, so his book was 11 rings better.
Myamoto was actually a Samurai, which is a tad more impressive than just “famous horseman.” Agent Dumb Ass’s quote was in English, proving its bogusness, as the book is entirely written in 17th Century Japanese. However, in The Mysterious Mr. Moto (1938, 20th Century Fox) Peter Lorre says: “Softly, softly, catchee monkey, and never trust Agent Dumb Ass.”
Agent Dumb Ass went on, as he is wont to do: “[Rob] wants to control me, and all the other players. But no one is controlling me.” That is absolutely true. No one is controlling Agent Dumb Ass, least of all, Agent Dumb Ass.
As Rob and Agent Dumb Ass left for Zombie Island to witness the duel, Rob said: “You gotta bring your shirt.” Amen, as Dr. Jesus would say. In fact, judging from his shirtless confessional about Mr. Moto, he needs a fuchsia bra to go with his fuchsia panties.
Rob may have a future as a psychologist, because his mental assessment of Agent Dumb Ass is 100% accurate: “He’s dangerous because of his stupidity. He’s probably the most unaware person I’ve ever met in my entire life.” And bear in mind that Rob has met Voldepussy, aka Coach Wade.
Zombie Island Duel for Redemption: David and Mansweater, aka Ralph, were the duel witnesses for Viva Zapata, while Rob and Agent Dumb Ass were witnessing for Ete Poem.
Rob’s seeing Squeaky dueling should tell him that Viva Zapata is not entirely composed of idiots, since he now knows that they voted off, one right after the other, the two bimbos who, at an earlier duel, shouted to him their willingness to flip on their tribe. So much for the value of that info. (I told you neither would make the merge!)
Our violent, gladiatorial, Zombie duels have included such bloodsports as dominoes, tying sticks together, giant Rubik’s Cube, and Giant Marble Maze. This week the battle to the death is a Survivor version of that beloved old TV game show Concentration. You have a bunch of blank tiles laid out. You flip over two; if they match, you win the prize, or in this case, the point. If there’s no match, the board goes back. All they’ve eliminated is the Rebus puzzle at the end, and gifts from the lovely Spiegel Catalogue. Finally, in a challenge where a puzzle normally goes, they’ve taken it out. Somewhere, Jack Narz is smiling.
Plus the challenge involves mental powers, so Dr. Jesus and Squeaky are at an equal disadvantage.
As the score hit 3 to 4 in favor of Dr. Jesus (playing to 5), Squeaky said: “Losing my mind.” There’s old news.
Dr. Jesus, of course, won. He stays another week, and won a 12 inch Zenith color TV. The last of The Cult of Russell was washed away. Okay, Doc, The Island is really through with you now. Whoever comes out next week, even if it’s Agent Dumb Ass, you can go ahead and lose to them. The Smoke-and-Mirrors Monster has been killed. The world is safe. (I miss Lost.)
Jeff Probst: “Stephanie, what’s the emotional feeling right now, when you want to play so badly?” Jeff, she couldn’t have played much more badly than she did.
(There’s a lot of talk this week of Jeff Probst replacing Regis Philbin on his morning snooze show. Not going to happen. He just re-signed for more seasons of Survivor, which is shot rather a long way away from New York City.)
Before leaving for her banana-peanut butter shake (I can’t hold it in! Excuse me a moment! Ulp!), Squeaky felt she should give Mansweater advice on eliminating “Cerrito”. Advice from a big loser. Just what Mansweater needs. Next, maybe Senator John McCain can tell Mansweater how to get elected President.
She also gave advice to Rob. This is like my cat explaining The Unified Field Theory to Stephen Hawking. (“So Clark,” asks Professor Hawking’s voice machine, “What is The Unified Field Theory?” My cat Clark: “Meow.” Professor Hawking: “I thought there was more to it. Silly me.”) Though, and let me be clear about this, my cat Clark is considerably smarter than Squeaky, and also far more attractive.
Agent Dumb Ass: “I’m very impressed with Matt. In the old days of the Samurai, they had something called ‘The Bushudoo Code…” Actually, it’s called The Bushido Code, but one can’t expect Agent Dumb Ass to get his facts right. He’s a former federal agent. “…It’s what the Samurai live by. What I’ve seen in you, you are truly a Samurai warrior.” Who is writing his material? Voldepussy?
Where to start?
1. Yes, Samurai were known for their prowess at tying sticks together, lining up dominoes, solving oversized Rubik’s Cubes, running marbles through tilting mazes, and Concentration. In Kurasawa’s original Seven Samurai, the titular warriors saved the village with an intense Scrabble tournament. (Sound too easy? You try playing Scrabble with Kanji ideographs!)
2. You’ve just told a devout Christian he’s a, from his point-of-view, primitive savage pagan.
3. Somewhere, John Belushi’s corpse just threw up.
Well, at least Agent Dumb Ass flapping his Big Mouth let Rob know that 00-Zero must go before the merge.
Agent Dumb Ass asked Rob if they should keep what they learned at the Duel secret, not that they learned much, but Rob, who wants to keep his tribe united, or at least, united against Big Mouth, told all, and planned to use Agent Dumb Ass’s secrecy strategy to “throw him further under the bus.” That poor bus. Some of those passengers have appointments to keep.
So Rob happily told all that Big Mouth was ready to flip, thus keeping the target on The Fuchsia One and off of Rob.
And just to prove himself a master of slapstick comedy as well as dialogue comedy, right on cue, Agent Dumb Ass fell out of a tree. Oh Big Mouth, softly, softly, catchee monkey.
“Phillip, are you okay?” asked one of the bimbos. The camera was on The Fuchsia One, so we didn’t see the looks of disappointment that passed over their faces as he replied: “I’m fine, thank you.”
Rob even invented a new strategy: “I’ll frontside him” His frontside is rather unpleasant, but it’s the backside hanging out of the fuchsia panties that may prove his undoing.
Over at Viva Zapata, David just wouldn’t stop digging his grave deeper. As Mansweater described Squeaky’s parting poison, David was still defending her! David, she’s not your client! And even if she were, her last appeal is over, she’s been executed; let her go. The message the rest of your tribe was clearly getting from you was: “I’ll flip.” Advise yourself to remain silent.
But silent he would not be. Mr. Outdoorsman David (Well, sometimes he eats lunch in the lovely outdoors square by the courthouse.) was telling everyone to go fish in the mud. He was grating on the whole tribe by now, and Sarita wanted to “punch him in the face.” David, Softly, softly, catchee fishee.
Underwear Wars: Agent Dumb Ass hadn’t done anything to make himself ever more odious to his tribemates in ten or fifteen minutes, so he decided to pointlessly argue with the bimbos over whether he could have a scoop of “Rob’s share” of the “crispy” rice. Frankly, unless it goes “snap, crackle, pop” in milk, I don’t want my rice “crispy.” Agent Dumb Ass’s social game is: Never piss off just one person for no good reason, when you can piss off three. “How asinine is that?” asked Big Mouth. Well yes, he’s being very asinine, a word I hadn’t heard since my father died.
Agent Dumb Ass on Rob and the Bimbos: “Just because they sleep in his underwear every night, and that’s not speaking figuratively, that’s literally. They’re sharing his underwear, the girls, his socks, his bed! And so they want to pay him deference on everything!” So he’s mad because none of the girls want into his fuchsia panties? If it were me, as long as the girls left Grant’s underwear for me, I’m fine. I know whose underpants I want into. (And one doesn’t “pay” deference. One shows it.)
Dumb Ass continued: “Let me know. The first opportunity to eliminate him, I will!” Dumb Ass, it takes more than one vote to eliminate someone, and your list of allies has grown thin. It’s down to just you and the voices in your head, and even a few of them are strongly considering flipping.
Dumb Ass is never quite done: “In any other world, I would be given the deference!” I don’t know about “any” other world, but at least on the Bizarro World in the old Superman Comics he might get deference. Bizarro: “Agent Dumb Ass mighty big fool, tremendous jerk, full of self, and very, very stupid. Me honor him with deference. He Bizarro God!” Sadly for Big Mouth, he’s playing in the Real World, where village idiots are seldom respected, no matter how old they are.
Reward & Immunity Challenge: A simple, straightforward physical challenge, good TV: running about in an obstacle course, retrieving bags of balls (I suspect that Grant, Rob, and Mike are already packing. Agent Dumb Ass’s are unpacked, in his saggy fuchsia panties, and no one wants to retrieve them.), to then play some basketball. Agent Dumb Ass might be good at this; after all, he’s a basket case. And the icing on this cake is: they’re playing it in mud!
The reward is to be helicoptered to a picnic with fruits, vegetables, cheese, and chocolate, which I believe constitutes the four basic food groups, plus a cooler full of “alcoholic beverages.” Jeff, you had me at “chocolate.” (I miss-spoke before a picnic once, and ended up with a “Coolie full of alcoholic beverages,” who was no help at all.) Jeff was quick to point out that they had non-alcoholic beverages for Natalie, who is only 18, although, isn’t the legal drinking age in Nicaragua 12? I know that in France, Italy, and my house, it’s the moment of conception.
Jeff: “Both tribes hit the hay hard!” This is no time to nap.
Who would have guessed that Rob was a better ball-handler than Sarita?
Rob’s ball-handling skills gave Ete Poem a good lead which Agent Dumb Ass, in his endless campaign to prove himself useless, lost for them getting tangled in the robe-web obstacle. Don’t former feds have to run obstacle courses?
At the second ball bag, David replaced Sarita as ball-handler, and caught up the last of the lost time. This is how challenges should go: action that is plain and clear to follow on TV, plus crawling through mud.
Ironically, as Ete Poem fell further behind, Rob was bringing up the rear literally, actually having to shove Dumb Ass’s utterly hopeless dumb ass through the rope maze crawl-through obstacle. (Which was kind of a cool obstacle.)
One of the obstacles was busting through an unmortared brick wall. Gorgeous Grant burst through one with all the panache of George Reeves on the old Adventures of Superman TV show of 50 years ago. (Darling Noel Neill, who just turned a youthful 90, once told me that, when they’d take too long to set up a shot like that, and the wall dried and hardened to where George would plow into it without getting through, it was: Superman: “I’ll be in my dressing room.” and he was through for the day.)
Though Viva Zapata arrived at the basketball basket well ahead of Ete Poem, that lead evaporated almost instantly. The NBA will not be making any picks from this bunch of bozos. Grant, who played in the NFL, showed he could also have survived in the NBA, scoring basket after basket, and these have rims much narrower than the usual basketball hoop. (How I’d love to score his basket!)
Grant’s amazing physical prowess did it again. He scored all six of Viva Zapata’s baskets, and won the Reward for Ete Poem. Agent Dumb Ass is safe for another week. Rob should possibly consider throwing a challenge, because if Big Mouth survives to the merge, which conceivably could come quite soon, he will flip.
Meanwhile, David has got to:
A. Make it clear to his tribe that Sarita’s incompetence at ball-handling initially caused them to fall behind, while his more-expert ballsac retrieval gave them a lead which almost paid off.
B. Stop making such an ass of himself at camp. He’s lost the tribe’s trust, and they’ve already shown once that they will choose trust over challenge skill. And…
C. Mike looks hot half naked and muddy. (Okay, that’s perhaps irrelevant, but it makes for lovely viewing.)
However, Agent Dumb Ass found a way to tarnish the win: “Some tribes a’vance boldly; weak tribes grow agitated; But superior tribes, like ours, [Ete Poem is not a “superior” tribe. For one thing, they’re lumbered with Agent Dumb Ass.] We find a way to win!” said Big Mouth, taking credit for the win his amazing lack of physical coordination almost made impossible, and which was turned from a loss to a win solely by Grant’s sensational skill at hoops. Then Dumb Ass kissed the immunity idol his tribe won in spite of him.
The Pompeii Picnic: As they did in Survivor: Nicaragua, the picnic was held on the rim of Mount Doom, an active volcano. My Mother taught me a lot of things: to tell (closing) time, to come in out of the rain, to never give a sucker an even break nor smarten up a chump, to stir a martini (No matter what James Bond says, shaking bruises the gin.), and to never have a picnic on the rim of an active volcano! Why are they there? So Agent Dumb Ass can throw The Book of Five Rings into the lava, thus bringing down Muammar Ghadaffi? (Ghadaphi? Kadaphie? Quadaffi? Kadaffy? Gadaffy Duck?)
Well, who doesn’t want to get good and drunk on the crumbling brink of The Cracks of Doom? What could possibly go wrong? What sweetens the palate more than the stench of sulphur fumes? Fine dining at the Sammath Naur. My name is Gollum; I’ll be your server. Try the Pompeii Fries.
Everyone else was gorging, and “enjoying” the view, their zest heightened by the possibility of instant death at any moment, but Boston Rob was busy playing Survivor. He’d seen the jar of cylindrical cookies (Cookies are a sweet baked snack, not just how your computer tells your banking account and PIN numbers to any porn site you click on) which would perfectly conceal a cylindrical Hidden Immunity Idol Clue.
Yes, Rob has the idol safely in his pocket, but that’s no reason to let other people find the now-useless clue. At this point, it would basically say exactly where the clue is hidden, and he doesn’t need people discovering it’s not there, and speculating on where it might be. Let them eat cookies! He’s quietly clue hunting. Softly, softly, catchee clue.
Out came the clue into Rob’s pocket, and then, his masterstroke: He threw it into the volcano! No one even yelled: “Precious!” Orodruin didn’t reel, and Barad-Dur didn’t fall, but I laughed and laughed. I’ve seen a lot of great stuff on 11 years of Survivor, but Boston Rob throwing a Hidden Immunity Idol Clue, unread, into an active volcano, is unmatchable for sheer panache!
(I couldn’t help imagining Beelzebimbo being there, seeing Rob throw the clue into Mount Doom’s Caldera of Death, and her diving in after it, to her ultimate, just fate. Like telling your dog “Fetch,” and then tossing your Frisbee into the Grand Canyon.)
Back at their camp, Viva Zapata was in considerably lower spirits than our volcano diners. The question before them was simple, almost as simple as Dumb Ass’s brain: oust Sarita or David? David has made himself unrepentantly obnoxious, and no one trusts him at what Mike called “the looming merge.” (Sounds like they’re turning two tapestries into one.) But Sarita performed with notable ineptitude at the latest challenge, as well as at all the other ones, even the ones they won, while David gave them what little hope of victory they had had, and, as Mike succinctly put it, while sitting there all naked and muddy and more delicious-looking than anything being served at Chez Pompeii: “We’re tired of going to Tribal.”
Sarita is not good at campaigning. When David was proposed as the sacrifice to the Survivor gods, she dopily replied: “Are you sure you guys feel good about losing the puzzle-maker, though? ‘Cause I want to win.”
1. It’s “puzzle-solver”. Folks on the show staff “make” the puzzles.
2. Ah, Sarita, the alternative choice is you! Are you thinking of blindsiding Mansweater, because the tribe still loves him. Plus, he’s useful at camp. They can scrape burnt-on food off of their pot by rubbing it on his red steelwool pelt.
3. You can’t “win” if they sacrifice you instead of David, now can you? You certainly won’t be beating Dr. Jesus at anything but an Incompetency Challenge. (Jeff Probst: “First player to make a total, unsalvageable mess of this puzzle wins reward.”)
And further, David could conceivably beat Dr. Jesus in a Redemption Duel. Although, there’s a strong likelihood that David is Jewish, and a Jewish man defeating the new Nicaraguan Christ could open up a whole can of worms I don’t want to go near.
Sarita: “I feel I can do anything Dave can do.” Can you pee standing up? Can you grow a beard? Can you get a three-time murderer off with a fine? Can you stop saying stupid things?
Well no, she can’t stop saying stupid things. Sarita: “‘Cause I would say ‘kick me off’ if I felt like Dave was better than me.” You would? You aren’t here to win a million dollars, even if you feel someone else is “better” than you? That is so idiotic, for a moment, I thought she was Agent Dumb Ass in drag.
You know, I don’t care which they vote off. I’m not emotionally attached to either of them, nor do I so loathe either of them that I want them off my TV, as with Russell or Squeaky, but at this point, with them now down in numbers, I think they should lose Sarita, who is lamer by the minute. David, however noxious he is to be around, is considerably stronger at challenges than she is, and they need a win. How else can Boston Rob get rid of 00-Zero?
Plus, if they kept David, that show of faith, and doing what he wants for a change, might re-bond him to the tribe, and take away his flipping tendencies.
Mansweater: “Dave done awesome today, though. He done great.” Mansweater studied grammar the same place he studied spelling: nowhere.
Sarita: “It’s beside the point.” Ah, no, it is the point.
David has also seen clearly how the wind is blowing; that the issue of trust is now his biggest threat. So David, go let them know you’re one of them again. Go garner some trust – fast! Stop playing outsider.
Mansweater was all set to vote David, since Sarita had told him everyone else was going to also, but then Steve and Mike hit him with the other argument; they need to stop losing challenges. And, how do you trust a woman who just told you everyone was voting for David, and it turns out there’s a “Save David” movement afoot?
(And, is that a beetle the size of a bottle cap crawling through Mansweater’s shoulder underbrush? I think the man has moles. I don’t mean spots on his skin; I mean moles like the ones who burrow under gardens, and help Ratty try to talk sense into Mr. Toad.)
Mike, with his exposed muddy pecs, could talk me into anything. I’d vote myself out, if he suggested it the right way. However, his grasp of 20th Century American comic literature is not the best. Referring to the choice: a weak-but-trustworthy player vs a strong-but-iffy-in-trust player: he said: “It’s a total Catch-22 at this point.”
Not actually. In Catch-22, one of the greatest, funniest, and most-heartrending books of the 20th Century (Meeting Joseph Heller was one of the happiest days of my life. What a genius!), the phrase refers to a self-negating, inwardly-turning, logical paradox that prevents action. If you are crazy, you can be taken off of flying bombing missions, but you have to ask to be taken off missions, and if you ask to be taken off missions, you aren’t crazy, and therefore must go on flying them. “That’s some catch, that Catch-22. It’s the best there is.”
What Mike and his tribe are facing is a mild form of Tragic Dilemma. They’re screwed either way. Mike is a soldier and an heroic veteran of Iraq. If he hasn’t actually read Catch-22, he needs to!
Softly, softly, catchee-22 monkeys!
Tribal Council: Mansweater on the day’s challenge: “We were a head until it came to the balls.” He’s right, but his grasp of male anatomy is unusual. (I pride myself on my grasp of male anatomy. It’s a firm-but-sensuous grasp.)
David identified the tribe’s problem as “a lack of unity,” this from the man who rebuffed every effort by the others to reunify the tribe with him after the last Council. David: “When we were banded together against Russell, that was something that we all had a similar goal towards.”
There is a classic episode of The Outer Limits from 1963, called The Architects of Fear, in which a group of scientists decides that the way to ward off an impending World War III is to manufacture a fake alien invasion, so as to unite all of mankind against a common foe. So they surgically turn Robert Culp into an alien monster. (As if anyone could ever be afraid of darling Robert Culp, even when playing one of the four different murderers he played on Columbo. Lovely man, much missed.) Obviously, Russell is David’s alien monster. However, that scheme went distrastrously awry, not unlike how Viva Zapata has fared since the departure of Russell.
David’s perceptions regarding Ete Poem however, are clouded: “But if you look at the other tribe, it looks like they’re all friends.” Looks can be deceiving. There is a clear outcast over there, and he’s a former federal outcast. Also David, don’t speak admiringly of the other friggin’ tribe, when the issue that is endangering you is your tribe’s suspicion that you’d flip at the merge.
Jeff: “Ralph, that ring true to you, how important it is that the entire group be cohesive?”
Mansweater: “Well first Jeff, I don’t know what ‘cohesive’ means.” Sometimes, I don’t even need to write the jokes, Mansweater writes them for me, or would, if he were literate. His Auntie Mame needs to give Mansweater a pad and pencil, so he can write down all the words he hears that he doesn’t understand: cohesive, sanitation, heterosexual, soap, supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, up, indoor privy.
Jeff: “Would you rather have a dozen guys who are really strong, but didn’t get along very well, or a dozen guys maybe not as strong, but man, do they work well as a unit?”
Mansweater: “I disagree!” Up in Comedy Heaven, Leonard “Chico” Marx was applauding. “Dat’s-a some fine non-a-sequitur.”
Once Jeff had reduced the question to a pre-school level, so that Mansweater could actually grasp the concept, he managed to come up with the wrong answer: “I’d rather have the guys who don’ get along too good. They work harder. ‘Cause if they do get along: yak, yak, yak, yak. And they’re on the payroll.” Maybe if he worked with humans instead of Yaks…
Steve, having an education, not to mention a career playing on professional teams, and total understanding of the meaning of “cohesive,” disagreed.
Sarita went into a fantasia about how she was loyal to “The Six,” but not to David, despite his being one of “The Six.” She saw a logic there that escapes me, and I’ve known what “cohesive” means for months now.
When Jeff said flat-out to Sarita that she was gunning for David, she hemmed: “Ummm,” until David stated the obvious fact: “Of course she is.” Honestly woman, what was the point of that evasion? Do you think anyone believes you’re going to write down “Steve” or “Mansweater”?
Time for “The Six” to become a Book of Five Rings. When we saw Sarita’s ballot, it didn’t say “Ummm.” It said “David.” Sarita, casting her ballot: “I was always honest with you,” except when asked point blank a minute ago if you were voting for David. “Ummm.”
Of course, the biggest suspense lay in wondering if Mansweater would write down “Sawreeta” or “Dayfed.”
When the third ballot that said “Sarita” was revealed, the smug look fell from her face, while surprise hit David’s. When the fourth vote consigned her to Zombie Island, she said: “Oh my God. I wish I’d brought my stuff.” Her God? She’s going to the land of Dr. Jesus’s God. And when you’re clearly on the cusp of being voted out, not bringing your stuff shows the sort of overconfidence that begs for a blindside.
“Don’t get too confident,” said David, which would have been good advice two hours earlier, but now was just a nasty parting snipe. David, your tribe has decided to invest in trusting you. Why not take that gift and try getting along with them? Arrogance is just as deadly as overconfidence in this game. Softly, softly, catchee monkey, Dave.
The preview of next week showed Dr. Jesus with a foot injury at what was revealed to be the last Zombie Island Duel. The winner next week is coming back into the game. Time for some Faith Healing, Doctor. My grandmother was a Christian Science Practitioner. Too bad she’s “manifesting a belief in Death,” to use her terms. Plus, the merge comes next week. Oops. Rob, you should have lost that challenge this week. Now Agent Dumb Ass will have five new possible allies who have no idea what an utter Bozo he is.
Meanwhile, quickly, quickly, mixee drinkee. Cheers darlings.
To read more of Tallulah Morehead, go to The Morehead, the Merrier, or buy her book, My Lush Life. Also, you can read Little Dougie’s contributions to the newly published book Creatures of the Night That We Loved So Well: The TV Horror Hosts of Southern California by James Fetters.
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