SURVIVOR: MAMMAZON part five

I'm playing catch-up here. After this one I will have three more recaps to go until I am current. Since it's been quite a while, you may want to play catch-up yourself, and read the following Survivor: Dumbass recaps -

First part here.
Second part here
Third part here.
Fourth part here

NIGHT 18

JABBERJAWS TRIBE:

Everyone feels horrible for stoning Ms. Frizz to death voting Ms. Frizz off the tribe last episode. Magic Goof Ball is just glad that Whizzer no longer has the opportunity to partake in The Genital Square Dance with Frizz, and can now concentrate fully on the game. In a tribal Pow-Wow, Magic Goof Ball lays out a plan to screw over his former male teammates, forming a new alliance which will hopefully cut the throat of his hated nemesis Gung Whoa.

DAY 19

At the beginning of the game, each tribe was given a mysterious locked box. In Jabberjaws 'tree mail' a note is found, with the magic key attached. Quick cuts between both tribes are shown, boxes are unlocked, and the surprise inside each jungle crackerjack box is - a note, and a map.

Both tribes row to an island, where Jeff informs the groups that they are now one. This is THE MERGER. From this point on all the back-stabbing, shit-talking, petty squabbles, and exaggerated power plays will be performed individually. Jeff tosses the group all-new Aunt Jemima Survivor head rags, and a map to their new tribal grounds. They will have to work together to build another shelter, and decide on a name for their merged tribes.

As the tribe arrives at the base point, to their delight a picnic buffet has been spread out for them. Let's see - roasted chicken, hot dogs, potato salad, raw vegetables, Coors^tm beer, all warmed under nature's heat lamp. I'm thinking the perfect name for this merged tribe would be Tribe Dysentaria.

As everyone else crams spoiled meat and soggy vegetables down their grocery chutes, Massah Massengill can no longer abide idly sitting by and not being an asshole. He leaps to his feet and starts assigning everyone tasks. They all stare at him like he's a bad High School Drama Teacher running around and clapping his hands(this hissy fit sponsored by Coors^tm!):

"Places, people, places! You, take that food and ice and bag it up like you FEEL it! You, wrap your raincoat around the beer, and let's see some emotion this time! Listen, Mister, I don't CARE if you're young and beer is more important to you than food! This is MY PLAY and you will play the role you've been assigned! Let's move people move, right NOW! That shelter's not gonna build itself, now is it? Hmmmmmmm? And stop looking at me like you hate me when I know you don't really mean it!"

Power Dyke bristles under Massah Massengill's command, her face settling into the permascowl apparent every time the two of them are in the frame together. She is jealous that Massah's penis might be a shade longer than hers, evidently.

Most of the men hack and chop trees, building the new shelter foundation - while the girls (including Magic Goof Ball) split Palm fronds. Children Of A Lesser Gripes is upset because she had to gather and split fronds instead of helping build the shelter, not making the connection that by doing this she is, in fact, helping build the shelter.

Magic Goof Ball smirks at the camera, saying that the hard-humping he-men building the fort aren't going to be around to enjoy it.

Heidi-Ho, Power Dyke, and Stupormodel call an emergency meeting of THE ARTIFICIAL BOOBIE ALLIANCE (or, The Plastic Titty Illuminati) to debate over who will be the first to fall - Massah Massengill or Gung Whoa. It is decided that Massengill will have every last drop of juice squeezed from him, since he and Powerdyke have been engaged in a Meat Swordfight for tribal control. He is completely unaware of this decision, still retaining complete faith in his former all-male alliance.

NIGHTFALL

The new name of the tribe has been decided, and it's JACKIE JOKERS (not really, but I don't know what the real name means). Earlier in the day Heidi-Ho had painted a new tribal flag which pictured Godzilla eating the name of the tribe. Or something.

Everyone is getting all liquored-up on the remaining beer (this dehydration and hangover sponsored by Coors^tm!). Everyone, that is, except Massah Massengill, who is snoring loud enough to make God climb down off a cloud and tell him to shut the fuck up. It is a sound not unlike that of air escaping from a leaky 'hot water' bottle.

Magic Goof Ball wails to the camera that the girls "aren't drinking enough" so that he might become more sexually appealing to them. I feel ya there, man. Can't even go to an island and escape that shit, can you?

They all play the Nasty Question Game, and the first question is "Where's the strangest place you've ever had sex?" Children Of A Lesser Gripe says the Washington Monument, during a July 4th fireworks display. Gung Who relates a Penthouse Letter he recently read, substituting his own name in the place of 'Dick Pounderson'. Magic Goof Ball tells the omniscient camera of his hatred for Gung Whoa, as well as his jealousy over Whoa's ease around the women. He has no exciting sex stories, and very few boring ones. Heidi-Ho and Stupormodel agree on how easy it is for a man to get two women to sleep with him at once if he just asks (LIARS!!!). Magic Goof Ball tells the camera that his strategy has changed to include a Heid-Ho/Stupormodel sandwich. This guy keeps writing my material for me.

DAY 21

JACKIE JOKERS TRIBE

Massah Massengill is up at daybreak loudly splitting wood with the machete, assuring everyone wakes up pissed off at him. Magic Goof Ball is amazed that Massengill is oblivious to the mass loathing of the tribe. Power Dyke and Magic Goof Ball scheme to keep Massengill unaware, and Power Dyke's natural arrogance begins to creep out as she tells the camera "It's now a battle of the weak versus the strong." She and Stupormodel stand on the shore later and talk shit about Gung Whoa, Weatherbee, and Skeletor as they fish. Power Dyke babbles something into the camera about Eve dragging Adam around, and modestly suggests "the game is mine". She really has testicle issues, and I mean in a big way.

IMMMUNITY CHALLENGE:

Tribe JACKIE JOKERS meats up with Jeff at a boat not too far off shore. He takes the Curious George Tribal Immunity Idol away, replacing it with the Chicken Bones 'N' Grass Individual Immunity Necklace.

This challenge is simple: stand on a 4" by 12" perch over the water without falling off or touching the perch with your hands. Last person standing wins.

Immediately, Massah Massengill's knobby knees buckle, his spindly legs begin to quiver, weakened by all the futile labor earlier that day.

Jeff points to an inserted shot of a lethargic crocodile, and warns everyone to swim fast if they fall or jump in the water, or he'll show that footage again for pretend suspense.

Jeff starts the temptation of the...standers...with plates of food. Stupormodel says she will remove her panties for peanut butter. Heidi-Ho says she'll do the same. I'm thinking they should probably just check their buttcracks - after 21 days on an island with no toilet paper I'm willing to bet there's something between them the pasty consistency of peanut butter. Did I got too far there? Jeff produces Cookies, Coke, and a mound of Peanut Butter on the plate. The girls strip, and we are treated to heavily pixelated headlights and wee-wees.. I don't think there was much to pixelate. At this point, Heidi-Ho's body resembles two shrivelled pimento-stuffed olives glued to an orange Twizzler^tm. The girls jump into the murky water, having happily whored themselves out for a plate of Hydrox^tm and a scoop of Skippy^tm.

Roger jumps in five minutes later, stating that he's had quite enough and feels secure enough in his position to do it. The quaver in his voice, however, belies his boldness with clear and present fatigue. Massengill fairly falls into the water without even waiting for a tempting treat.

At the one hour mark, the next temptation is Pizza. Magic Goof Ball, Mr. Weatherbee, and Whizzer take the NAStea plunge. Jeff asks Power Dyke if she thinks she can hold out. She replies that outlasting Massah Massengill is all that matters. Power Dyke puts the 'cock' in 'cocky'.

At the two hour mark, Buffalo wings are offered. I was unaware there was an Amazonian Hooters^tm franchise. Gung Whoa and Skeletor leap in to suck out bone marrow together.

Children Of A Lesser Gripe and Power Dyke are the only two left. Jeff shows them an enormous mound of spaghetti and meatballs. "My balls are bigger," Power Dyke sneers. She and CLG play rock-paper-scissors to see who will take the dive. CLG loses, and Power Dyke basks in the warmth of overflowing testosterone as the necklace is squeezed over her abnormally swollen mutant she-male head.

The tribe returns, Magic Goof Ball and Whizzer both laughing about Massengill's ignorance in jumping from his perch without even waiting for a scrap of food. Power Dyke proclaims she isn't going to pack for the trip to Tribal Council, and mocks the fellows making the evening campfire. Seek help, Power Dyke. Really. Massah Massengill tells the camera that everything in the male alliance is proceeding according to plan, and that "it's all too good to be true." Stupormodel and Heidi-Ho fawn all over themselves for the cameraman, cackling about being "The Original Survivor Girls Gone Wild", smugly smirking about using their hindquarters to manipulate all the men. If by "Girls Gone Wild" they mean 'Subretarded Sorority Pumps Who Flash Their Implant Scars At The Drop Of A Peter Pan^tm Lid" - then, yeah, good name.

TRIBAL COUNCIL

Jeff asks his usual leading pre-vote questions. Power Dyke is still sore about not being allowed to single-handedly build the shelter. Massah Massengill strokes his facial foliage and smiles a reptilian smile. Jeff offers Power Dyke the usual - she can hand off the Chicken Bone Immunity Necklace to someone else if she wishes to protect them. Like any sane person Power Dyke declines the offer.

The votes are taken, counted, and -

THE TRIBE HAS SPOKEN

Massah Massengill gets that not-so-fresh feeling as he's subtracted from the tribe's crotch and dropped into the little trashcan by the toilet. As he voted, Magic Goof Ball sang a farewell song for Massengill. Power Dyke said "Reality check. And Mate. NEVER underestimate the power of a woman." She really needs to turn that fucking record over already, before the grooves wear smooth.

During his farewell speech, Massah Massengill retained full cluelessness and said "I don't think I got outwitted or outplayed - "

YOU DID.

" - I definitely got outlasted."

YES.

What a day

Y'know, when you have daydreams about performing 'broken lead pipe dentistry' on some cockmaggot at work, and those daydreams fill you with more toasty joy than Christmas morning in front of a crackling fire, you're not too far away from the end.

More later.

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Maybe I will get around to that Pop Culture Gadabout discussion before comics go the way of hieroglyphics.

Long day at work.

Hey, I did manage to think of another reason Right Wing people would move the truck before I could get to the tailgater:

8. STONERS ARE FUNNY WHEN THEY'RE NOT BEING EXTREMELY ANNOYING. I have stated before that I don't mind if MJ is legalized. Like I said, smoke your lungs black and crusty as far as I'm concerned. Just so long as I don't have to pay one thin dime of my tax money towards it. I still think all the arguments about the 'legitimate' benefits of cannabis are horsepellets, but I don't smoke it so I can't really muster up any further arguments beyond my previous post on the matter. Plus, doing the 'Trees rushing by' and the 'watch this finger' tricks on dopeheads provides me with endless sophomoric amusement.

---

Well, the discussion with the gentleman from Pop Culture Gadabout will have to wait until tomorrow (later today, actually). I became bogged down with work and other distractions.

Let's see: I owe THREE Survivor recaps now. I watched Jackass: The Movie and The Beatles Anthology DVD's a while back, and I want to review those for Blogcritics sometime before they both go out of print. I have a video game review I want to do here, because if I put it on Blogcritics no one in their right mind will want to buy the game. I have to change those polls below which everyone is sick to death of by now. I have to put up a new story if I can ever get off my lazy ass and type it in. I still have to finalize the T-shirt design for the monthly contest I mentioned eons ago. I have to get things ready for THE BIG MOVE to Moveable Type and my own server/domain, which will also be home to The Jitters. I have to answer a couple of nice emails folks have sent me.

I am one procrastinatin' sonofabitch.

You know, when I have absolutely nothing to do around the house and work is slow, I can't ever think of anything to write about. Isn't that always the way?

Until I can get started on all those other projects, I whipped up a quick, ongoing list of

REASONS I WILL PROBABLY NEVER BE INVITED TO THE FANTASTIC RIGHT WING HOEDOWN BLOWOUT

1. I HAVE A GREAT DEAL OF AFFECTION FOR PORNOGRAPHY. I don't know if anyone's told you this yet, but there's about ninety bagillion pictures of naked women on the internet, and most of them can be viewed for the low price of free-fifty. Really, if you're paying for internet porn you're either an idiot, or you have more money than you know what to do with. Which reminds me, I have to get one of those paypal things. That way I can actually watch myself not earn any money for writing, instead of just sending pieces off and never getting a reply. When I'm depressed I go look at free internet pornography, so I like to remain depressed as often as possible.

2. I HAVE NO OPINION ON THE ABORTION ISSUE. NONE. I know that's hard to believe, and there's a lot of 'Harrumph!' ing going on right now, but it's true. I could not care less about the subject. I'm not a woman, and I have never impregnated one, so there you have it. It is an issue which doesn't affect me at all. Would I have an opinion if I did knock someone up? Maybe. I don't know. It's never happened, so I don't care to speculate. In fact, the only thing that I can think of at the moment that I would care less about is televised fishing. So save your emails, seriously. I'm just going to look at them and laugh, then hit the delete key. I won't even bother replying; that's how little I care about the subject.

3. I HAVE NO RELIGIOUS AGENDA. I've been in a church maybe five times since the age of twelve, and none of those had anything to do with being washed in the blood of Christ or whatever the hell it is they do in there that makes me nervous. Do I believe in God? Sure. See, without God there can be no Hell - I look around the internet, read the newspapers, and I know there just HAS to be a Hell for some of these bonehead morons to burn in eternally. That, and the George Burns movie. How can you watch that and not believe in a cuddly octogenarian higher power? I like to think that Gracie Allen is Mrs. God, and that's why we have things like THIS.

4. I AM APATHETIC WHEN IT COMES TO THE VOTING. Here's how slack I am: during the last Presidential election, I drove to the wrong polling station. Instead of driving the five minutes to the correct one, I bought beer at the nearest convenience store and drove home. I didn't even watch election returns. I think I watched cartoons. I can't remember, I was drunk. Yeah, I have certain opinions on certain issues - who doesn't? Everyone's an asshole. That's my personal favorite political opinion, and if I can find a group with that phrase as their platform, I will gladly register as a member and wear one of those goofy styrofoam hats at the convention.

5. I REFUSE TO WEAR ONE OF THOSE GEEKAFIED BOW TIES. That may not be exclusive to Right Wing Hermans. I don't know.

6. I THINK ANN COULTER HAS SOME ISSUES. I'd probably still sleep with her, though. She likes weapons, so I'm thinking there'd be some freaky funking going on in the boudoir. Does that make me a pig? I hope not. I'm so very alone. Question: Is her last name pronounced 'Cool-Ter', or 'Cooter', like the guy from Dukes Of Hazzard? I hope it is the latter, because at least then she'd have something cool and quirky to hang on. "Here comes that ole Ann Cooter again, totin' that over and under shotgun o'hers to shoot us up a mess of squirrel."

7. WHAT IS UP WITH THE BLANDNESS? Grecian Formula is not really intended to be applied like shellac. Fuck's sake, where are all the cool politicians with mohawks and cigarette burns scattered across their shaved scalp? THERE'S a politician who would catch my interest. Teeth knocked out, eyepatch, whisky voice, and I'm punching chads all over the place. I want a President who looks like he (or she) could win a ghetto bar fight against any other leader in the world. That, or just some balls-out nutty fucker who dresses up in period costumes, drinks conspicuously at press conferences, and acts out his (or her) favorite scenes from HBO series during the State Of The Union Address for the benefit of those of us too cheap to pay for the service. I want a President who bursts into Dean Martin songs at random moments and strikes kitchen matches off people's ears to light a cigar. Who calls reporters 'Buster', as in "You'll get the answer to that question when chimpanzees fly out of my scrotum, Buster." I WANT A SHOW GODDAMNIT. Is that too much to ask?

That's all I can think of right now, and it's 2:30 a.m., so I have to go to bed. I'll think of more later, and I will balance it out with some reasons I won't ever be invited to the opposition's whingding, either.

No one who owns an $800 guitar has any reason to play 'The Blues'

Okay, now that all the extra people who were coming here because of the Oscar post have all left due to my inactivity, it's time to get rolling again!

Hey, do you think James Lileks ever reads my stuff? I wonder if he thinks I suck as much as I do?

Anyway, a couple of folks have expressed disappointment in the fact that I haven't been relaying as many personal tales of woe recently. The short and simple reason is I haven't been doing anything worth wasting your time over. Work, sleep, eat, crap, watch TV, play Xbox, watch a DVD, lather, rinse, repeat - that's pretty much it. All I need is a squeaky little aluminum running wheel to complete the image.

Last night I broke this long streak of emptiness by going to a bar called The Rusty Nail with my friend Rick (whom you may recall from past tales). Rick is Renaissance Man as played by Ralph Kramden. He draws, plays drums and the guitar, knows all the keyboard shortcuts on Photoshop, and bellows a lot while doing any of it.

"Alice, as soon as I puts this Posterize Filter over this collage, POW! Right in the kisser!"

So he wanted to get out of the house and listen to The Cape Fear Blues Appreciation Society during their weekly Blues Jam. He arrived at my home around 8:30, replete with beer. I was midway into the process of gussying myself up - earlier I had purchased a pair of new Lugz Brand^TM kicks, and a spiffalicious new shirt. Both of which, by the way, I spent a sum total of $38 dollars on because I am one cheap bastard who actively seeks out clearance racks. Less money spent on clothes and shoes = more money left for DVD's and video games. He hung around and watched TV while I primped and gave myself a buzz cut. He also nearly ruined my surround system, because he is an impatient fuck who doesn't bother to figure things out before he goes around punching buttons and turning the goddamned volume on the receiver all the way up to 90. Luckily I caught him before he found the button which would have switched the TV sound on and blown all my speakers.

Hey, here's a tip: When using clippers to cut your hair, make sure the blades are properly sharpened. I didn't cut my hair so much as I pulled it all out in large wads.

Anyway, we called for a cab and waited around outside for it to arrive. Forty-five minutes later, I stomped back upstairs to phone and see what the holdup was. The genius who answered told me that she 'thinks someone was sent out a while back'. THINKS? Wait a minute - are you telling me you people don't write anything down? You've got it all stored and locked in your immense brainpan, huh? I hear this shuffling around (could've been papers, could've been her fat ass shifting around in the seat), and then she tells me that someone's on their way.

This might be a good place to mention that the Taxi Service is located less than four fucking miles from my doorstep.

This guy finally rolls up, and the first thing we notice is that he looks like Eric Clapton. Until he opens his mouth, and then he sounds like Alex Reiger from Taxi. Picture Judd Hirsch singing 'Cocaine'. We give him some shit about this and he plays along, which earns him the Mark Of Coolness.

I begin to notice the neighborhoods we pass through degrading with each block, giving the appearance that we are travelling in a circle through time. We pause at a stoplight, and a tooth-deprived elderly black woman limps slowly towards the driver - who promptly locks his door and rolls the window up. We can hear her through the glass begging for a cigarette. Judd Clapton ignores her, so she slinks around to the passenger side where Rick is sitting. He just blankly stares at her until she moves on. As she passes me to the car behind us, I notice that she isn't elderly at all - just eaten up by the ravages of many years spent suckling the glass cock.

All of a sudden I realize we are in the middle of CRACK ROCKS AND BULLET HOLES, U.S.A. Every town has a section like this - some towns have nothing but sections like this. After dark you usually go out of your way to avoid even driving through them, but here I was getting ready to party right in the middle of it.

"Exactly where in the Hell is this bar, man?" I ask the driver.

He doesn't answer, but on the next block pulls over beside a ramshackle building with a quivering neon sign reading 'The Rusty Nail'.

"When it's time for you guys to leave, have the bartender call for me when you order your last beer," he says. "Whatever you do, don't go walking around outside. It's a nice place, and the people inside are all pretty nice, but don't leave the building until you see me pull up."

For a split second I thought about telling him to just drive off when Rick got out, but decided to just suck it up and face whatever icepick between the ribs awaited me. I tipped the guy five bucks to make sure he came back later, and followed Rick inside.

It was pretty empty except for the guys onstage. The bartender said it was because of the Azalea Festival. The Azalea Festival is an embarrassing display of hickery which the locals suffer through every year. There's much staged pageantry and a sea of Azalea Belles (teenaged girls wearing hooped skirts) wandering around downtown, a 'coronation' variety show starring whatever B-level country acts the city budget will allow, and a Parade on Saturday morning with the honored queen - who is nine times out of ten a Soap Opera Actress. If you're over ten it's awful, and you can forget about being able to drive anywhere downtown all day long; if you're under ten it's great because you can load up on sugary fried dough, cotton candy, and sausage dogs - puking it all back up later as you're running along the sidewalks.


Your average middle-aged potbellied white guys, the exception being a younger fellow who resembled Mickey Dolenz with a ponytail. The lead guitarist and singer was an older (mid-fifties) gray-haired black dude playing an orange Fender, Def Leppardized with multicolored 'paint slash' stripes. Don't get me wrong - I love the Leppard for what they are; as a matter of fact, I find them quite Def. It was just wonky watching this dude working that mid-80's axe like a featured player in a Dokken video - picture R.L. Burnside singing 'Pour Some Sugar On Me', that's about right.

These were the kind of people who think Stevie Ray Vaughan plays Blues music, which he never did no matter what they want to call it. You look on that stage and you see about $5,000 worth of musical equipment, and you think to yourself What the Hell do any of these people have to be blue about?

"Oh, oh, I just bought my sixteen year old daughter a Mustang. Let me wail about that in this next song."

"Lordy, the water pump on my speedboat just went out, so this next tune is called 'No Mo Kneeboardin' This Weekend'.

"My accountant found a discrepancy, so I can only claim $30,000 in material usage instead of $31,000. I'm down on my knees about it."

Robert Johnson had reasons to sing the blues - his shoes were worn out and full of holes, and everyone he knew kept trying to poison him. If you sold that nightmarish Judas Priest grinder that lead guitarist was wailing on, the resulting money would have fed Johnson for an entire year.

Technically they were all very good musicians, so I can't dog them in that respect. I just don't think 'The Blues' exists anymore. 'The Blues' stopped being 'The Blues' when the folks playing it started making truckloads of cash off the songs. Look at B.B. King. He wears rocks on his fingers so large that just one could pay off the whole of my debt. How can you have the blues when you earn more money than most people will earn in three years just by bending over and farting?

So these guys played their faux Blues tunes, and between songs another middle-aged spectacled man brought out a saxophone, asking if anyone knew 'Green Onions'. Everyone stood around like he'd just asked "Hey, you guys know 'Disposable Teens' by Marilyn Manson?" None of these fuckers knew 'Green Onions', one of the most basic songs in existence - but they knew 'The Sky Is Cryin'. He tried to show them by playing a few bars, but the lead guitarist dismissed him with a wave of his hand and told him "let me get one more in here, and then you can play all that stuff". They launched into another generic jam, and the sax fellow tried to join in, but backed off the stage after a few moments with a bewildered look on his face.

After this the Def Leppard guitarist and the drummer left the stage. Rick asked the bartender if they intended to play anymore, and she pointed them out in the back packing up their equipment. Rick went to the bathroom, and while he was in there the rhythm guitarist jokingly asked if anyone was a drummer. I told him there was one currently taking a piss. When Rick walked out of the john everyone stared at him. He immediately knew what was up and shot me an evil look (he hadn't touched the drums in about a year and a half). A few minutes of cajoling and he took the stage with the remaining members of The Cape Fear Blues Appreciation Society, giving me the slow burn the entire time.

He was shaky at first, but once the rust flaked off he did fairly well. He made a lot of dookie faces, but whenever he slipped and made a mistake he covered it very well. 'Specs' finally got to play 'Green Onions'. Between songs I walked over and Rick told me he was going to kill me later. I told him there was a whole neighborhood full of people in the bushes outside already waiting for their chance, so he'd have to take a number.

After they finished playing I wandered down to the end of the bar and spent the rest of the evening talking to the cute girl sitting there. We talked about everything two drunk people talk about, and I used my brand of 'brick through the window' subtlety to feel her out datewise. She had the best legs that ever walked anywhere, and I kept glancing in that 'trying so hard to be inconspicuous that it becomes very conspicuous' way. Of course, I forgot to get her number. Too bad it wasn't written on her legs. She works there, though, so I may risk bleeding to death in someone's car trunk and take a trip back down in a few days.

By the end of the night Rick was thanking me for putting him on the spot. Not wanting to take chances, we called a friend to come pick us up. I ran from the front door to the back seat of his vehicle like Julia Roberts dodging paparazzi after an all-night table-dancing bender.

So anyway, I didn't get murdered, I might get a date out of it, and I had a decent time.