The lazy, slow baked days at the end of summer. The preemptive declaration of cold mornings and early evenings...weeks before it actually gets cold or dark too early - like a Sunday morning clean-up and rapid departure at a weekend rental house. The pixelated silicon poking through floss-thin spaghetti straps or hairy ballsack peek-a-boo carrots fuzzed out by lazy CBS interns.
We know what's coming. We prepare. And we bask.
Season 19: Samoa.
It's interesting - the near obsessive-compulsive addiction to this show, right? I mean, how many other shows that have been around forever are you fanatical about and place the host on a deity pedestal?
Right: none.
So it sure is comforting to sink back in the couch with a group of friends, crack an ice cold Sierra Nevada, pop on the ole HD flatscreen, and let the sarcastic beratements begin.
We kick off with 20 contestants - which clearly means that CBS will be creatively figuring out a way to boot multiple people a couple times this season (if you think about it - there are only 13 episodes, not counting the crappy Thanksgiving "recap" episode, which thankfully makes us happy that tryptophan induces an aversion to coherence...), a South Pacific tropical location (wow, what a friggin' stretch, CBS!), a slew of young, hot girls and guys (at what point does it become creepy that the main reason I TiVo this show and The Real World is to ogle the barely legal sexually promiscuous girls who desperately seek 40 something men?...uh, I mean, that's what I heard... And ladies - don't be judgin'; I see you getting all hopped up on taut, young rippling muscles and male dimples - mimples...), and a blog post kick-off record for the longest sentence on record. Whew.
The contestants paddle to an island in silence, and are told to select two leaders without talking. Immediately, it is obvious that the latter part of these instructions is going to be VERY difficult for...what's her name? Rambo? Shambo? Jambo?
The newest contestant on Survivor Samoa...
The first tribe selects Russell S., aka: Lennox Lewis, aka: Tim Meadows, aka: the sole "Afro" American on the tribe (racial profiling slur courtesy of Jeffrey Tambor lookalike, Mike).
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But the early standout, is evil incarnate: Russell H., who quickly and throughout the remainder of the episode, schemes, degrades, insults, lies, offends and, of course, completely satisfies our every hope and desire: intrigue. (Don't get me started...remember the whole Coach debate?)
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The episode continues its glorious ascent into greatness via fuzzed out privates within the first 10 minutes (eternal gravitas to Marisa), followed by a rant-for-the-ages from Russell. Nothing subtle or even slightly disturbing about an angry, deeply deranged guy who immediately forms an alliance with every hot chick in his tribe, absolutely berates them behind their back, then spins a Coach-like Amazonian tale about Hurricane Katrina tribulations and a (fictional) dead 9-year old German Shepherd. Then, to top this off, he targets fan favorite, Marisa (OK, she was MY favorite...but did you see that sexy fuzz? I mean, c'mon!), who - wonderfully, has the gall to call him on his bullsh*t, which ultimately makes her his target for a kick in the ass on the way out.
Can you say "douchebag?"
"I knew you could!"
Sigh. But it promises good tension, memorable drama, and perhaps - if we're lucky - a few episodes of us yelling incessantly at the TV while burping half-digested yeasty mouthfuls filled with equal mixtures of bile and love.
Let's hope for the best.
Until next week,
Probst Beef
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