Please don’t feel sorry for us. We feel pitiful enough.
Some seasons of Survivor are better than others. And sometimes, some seasons of Survivor …
Wait. Just for grins, say that 10 times fast.
Oh. That would me be.
Sometimes we don’t even watch the Survivor finale show because the last two or three blockheads that made it through the 40-day ordeal don’t deserve the million dollar prize. We are passive protesters. I’m quite certain that Mark Burnett is feeling our viewing absence in a very painful way.
Some seasons are really engaging. And every season we sit in the comfort of our living room, wiping pizza crumbs off our faces, and ruminate on how we’d play the game. What would be my shtick?
After 9 seasons, I’ve determined I would be labeled as The Gullible One Who Talks Too Much and would probably get voted off … ohgosh … maybe in the span of the first three tribal councils. And that would probably be stretching it. My biggest fear would be getting voted off first.
Think of the stigma. People you don’t even know … people you’ve just met 24 hours prior … develop such an aversion to you in that short amount of time that they elect to send you home as the worst of 15 other people who they don’t know any better than they know you.
And in the reunion shows, who ever remembers the First Person Voted Off? Hmm. I suppose that wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing.
After 9 seasons, I’ve come to the realization that I could never apply, much less accept an invitation, to be a contestant on Survivor. As much as I love the show, it’s just not a good fit. Truly.
My Top 5 Reasons …
I hate to sweat. Loathe, abhor, detest perspiration. I hate the feeling of being sweaty, coupled with being dirty. Because y’all know in the 9 seasons they’ve aired Survivor, I haven’t seen a single episode with an air conditioner in the shelter, nor anyone get too cozy with a bar of anything even remotely resembling soap.
I’m pretty dadgum sure it’s offensive to your own snoot to be hanging about with an agglomeration of other people who are in the same unhygienic predicament.
It’s rather amusing to watch the episodes where they bring the contestants’ family members in for a night at the camp. You can just see the change in demeanor as the family member gets closer to their over-ripe loved one.
First comes the blubbering and tears, then outstretched arms as they stumble across the savannah.
‘Girl, I have so missed you … you are lookin’ … ‘
Ten feet away, arms go rigid. Smile freezes into a grimace. One sniff.
If they’re brave, two.
‘Yeah. Umm. How’s it going?’
Hand shake. Cameras pan away as family member covertly wipes contaminated hand off in disgust.
I swear. It happens every season.
I get very cranky if I don’t sleep well. REALLY CRANKY. No blankets. No pillows. Wild animals lurking in the dark. Bugs and slugs. Laying on a painfully-hard bamboo platform with other stinky, unwashed people I know significantly less than I know my Tim Horton’s drive-thru lady.
I just shuddered at the thought.
This circumstance would be greatly compounded by the fact I wear ear plugs to get to sleep. Y’all have to know know that on Survivor if you wear ear plugs … all your ‘friends’ are gonna be talking about you behind your back. Heck. They talk about you when you’re awake and fully alert. It’s be a pow-wow of epic proportions if you would accommodate them by willfully blocking your own auditory senses. Nightly.
Maybe that could be my shtick? I could be The Accommodating One. Hmm. Worth a deeper ponder I suppose.
I’d get too awfully emotional if people promised me something … and then back stabbed me. Just bein’ real. I would make alliances too quickly. I’d buy into what I was told every time (read: sucker). At Tribal Council I’d be the first one to say, ‘BUT YOU TOLD ME … FILLINTHEBLANK!?’. And then they would laugh. They’d stop laughing of course, when I took the flint and set their hair on fire.
It’s all fun and games until someone loses their fur.
I’m vastly uncoordinated.
Folks, I simply cannot stress this enough.
When I was of the pre-kindergarten age, I broke my pinky finger at the grocery store by pointing with the small digit through the crack of the freezer door. Said door shut … with my pinky in the hinge. What I was doing pointing with my pinky finger totally escapes me. Perhaps I thought I was a wee British child rehearsing for the afternoon tea party.
Perhaps I was just stupid.
Evidence it all started when I was very young.
Several years later, I proceeded to break my ankle while running at the art museum. You know. All that clutter they keep about and the generally unsafe conditions of an art museum. Terribly hazardous.
Then we won’t even go into the multitude of times I’ve driven mini-bikes, three-wheelers … blah blah blah … into the side of barns, water towers, concrete steps. Stationery things that don’t necessarily have the ability to jump in front of you.
While all the Survivor challenges do not necessarily demand coordination … puzzles, for instance. Puzzles I could do. They don’t do enough puzzles on Survivor.
They so don’t.
But flashes of how it would all go down at the challenges when one tribe is lopsided and they are asked to ‘sit one member out’ makes me physically quiver.
‘Jeff, we’ll sit Lisa out.’
Jeff Probst would flash his million-dollar smile and kindly remind the Ornery Tribe People they can’t sit out the same person in back-to-back challenges, or conversely, every challenge. My Ornery Tribe People would look at each other with a knowing eye and I’d be the next Evictee De Jour.
And the number one reason I won’t appear on Survivor …
Y’all look the worst you can possibly look in your life. No make-up. Beastly hair. Y’all are sleep deprived, starving, terribly rancid, and emotionally high-strung (read: full-gallop hysterical) because ya’ll know everyone is talking about you and being all mean-like.
And they film it.
Broadcast it weekly in front of millions of people.
Oh sure. Sign me up for that safari.