Death vs. Embarrassment

We were unbelievably excited as we waited for our flight in the huge Nairobi, Kenya airport hanger sitting area, both because we were finally going to Lamu Island off the coast of Kenya (recommended so strongly to us by people we'd met on the road), and because we had successfully avoided a surely hellacious 12-hour chicken bus experience by finding affordable tickets.

But as we walked out on the tarmac towards the small plane, I sensed an even more frightening reality: something horrible was happening in my stomach, doing nasty things and wreaking havoc to my fragile intestines.

Up to this point in our yearlong trip I had been extremely diligent about not eating or drinking a thing for hours before any type of transportation in which a toilet was not a reality. Chicken buses, minivans, taxis – these were all extremely dangerous options when you have a relentless spastic colon. And that very morning as we sat down for breakfast, I was so good about keeping my food intake as miniscule and bland as possible: a banana and plain toast. But for some absolutely inconceivable reason, a random meat pastry sitting – god knows how old it was or how long it had been sitting there – under a glass case on the counter of the diner appeared to look…desirable.

And going against everything that I knew to be right, I ate it.

And now my bowels were going to make me pay.

About ten of us settled on board and strapped ourselves in our seats of the tiny puddle jumper. The force on my intestines was immense.

What could I do?

They had already closed the hatch and were now firing up the engines…

The plane was obviously too small to have a toilet; an icy sweat broke out on my face and dripped down my spine. I was in serious pain and there was an unstoppable entity taking control of my body. I secretly pleaded for the ability to hold out for the next hour until we made it to the island, if not, it was looking like I would have to take a barf bag and squat near the rear of the plane. Would I have to ask the flight attendant and passengers to keep their eyes forward as I performed the most embarrassing feat of my life?

This couldn’t be happening.

Within a couple minutes, the plane was up in the air and there was no turning back. As I realized what was inevitably going to occur whether I liked it or not, I began to freak out.

Through my sweaty, searing, dreamlike fright, I began having visions of asking everyone else to please forgive me while I squatted over a barf bag. Holy crap, what if they didn’t even have barf bags on board? I couldn’t think in complete thoughts, I was having a violent panic attack and secretly wished that the plane would crash to save me and everyone else from this horrible fate.

My stomach cramped on the Richter scale over and over again.

I honestly wondered if death was not preferable to having to live through this impending embarrassment and pain when suddenly the flight attendant walked by. I reached out helter-skelter, grabbing her arm tightly, and alarming her enough to let out a little wail. Through gritted teeth, I started to lead her into understanding that I would be having explosive diarrhea inside her cabin within a matter of seconds, and began futilely pleading with her, “I know there’s not a toilet on board...”

I simply cannot express the intense relief and utter JOY I felt when she interrupted me with a nod and led me to the back of the cabin where a hidden half door in the middle of the wall the size of a porthole opened up into a tiny onboard toilet. Saved!

And just like that, I was suddenly born again.

Afterwards, I contently settled into my seat with a tearful smile. I was a new man. A free man. Free!

For the next hour the plane hit the absolute worst turbulence that we had ever experienced. People were screaming and sobbing, the plane was lurching beyond comprehension, dipping and dropping for ten to twenty seconds at a time, in an apparent answer to my earlier wish to spare us all.

Paige was literally scared straight, holding onto my arm with a death grip and keeping her teary eyes tightly shut with intense fear; if it wasn’t for seat belts we all would have been thrown around the inside of the cabin like socks in a dryer.

But compared to my near-death-due-to-embarrassment predicament just moments before, this was a piece of cake. Sweet, glorious, chocolaty cake. I actually smiled in pure gratitude as I drifted off into a comfortable nap.

As we neared the Indian Ocean the plane finally leveled out and Paige woke me up. Two kids in front of us were still crying uncontrollably from the fright of the whole experience. The air turbulence, not my intestinal turbulence; although I wouldn’t have blamed them. We shot out over the coast and within no time were heading in for a landing on a tiny island next to Lamu.

Paige and I both kissed the tarmac when we deplaned into the intense heat and humidity...only for two very different reasons.

I recalled this experience Wednesday night as I watched Marty escape imminent extinction on Survivor. Like my colon, Marty was heading uncontrollably toward an embarrassing, violent, yes even explosive end to his stay on the island, surely leaving the rest of his tribe feeling sick, stunned and scarred for the remainder of their existence.

Should he or shouldn't he play his idol? Should I or shouldn't I have eaten that unidentified meat pastry? One bad decision could lead each of us down a path that would potentially be impossible to change...

And when the vote came out tied for Marty and Kelly one-leg, it was with 100% certainty that Marty would have to whip out the barf bag in front of everyone else.

But wait...suddenly an unseen door opens - during the tied re-vote, Marty is spared: UNANIMOUSLY.

Baffling. Inexplicable. But so satisfying!

Marty is spared at the precise moment of death - only to return to his tribe with his idol intact and a new target now on Brenda's back for instigating the whole unrealized strategy. Oh how the tide dost turn.

Good for you Marty. I'm not sure how it happened, but like you, I'm just glad it didn't end all messy...

We both live to see another day, to play another immunity idol, to wipe the tears away from tribe alliances and scared children...and perhaps most importantly, to scarf down another greasy, unidentified meat pastry if we want to.

Ignorance is bliss...as long as you can flush it away...

Parenting Shrills

During 10+ seasons of coaching kids in soccer and softball, I've seen a few things. Some good - usually exemplified by a child achieving something for the first time. Some bad - always exemplified by adults with questionable "parenting skills."

More like parenting shrills.

I've had parents of the opposing Under-6 soccer team scream at me for not taking out one of my players because she scored three goals - even though you don't keep score in Under-6 ball and none of the kids on either team - including the girl who scored three times - had even noticed that anyone scored at all. And we had no substitutes.

Ridiculous.

During another soccer practice one time, I had a 5-year old boy sit down on the field and start crying hysterically. He wouldn't tell me why at first, but finally through his heaving sobs he told me that he had to go to the bathroom but his dad won't let him go because he didn't go before he came to the field. His dad was on the next field and since I couldn't leave the team to take the boy to the bathroom, I told him it was fine and he should just go ask his dad. A minute later our practice was violently interrupted with the dad SCREAMING at the boy at the top of his lungs from 75 yards away, "ABSOLUTELY  NOT! I TOLD YOU BEFORE! NO! NO! NO! YOU JUST PEE RIGHT THERE IN YOUR PANTS!" All six teams practicing on all the surrounding fields stopped - there was really no other choice, it was a violent, invasive interruption...it was brutal. Finally the dad tucked the boy under his arm and ran with him to the bathroom, yelling at him the whole way. Afterward, we confronted the dad and told him we didn't want him at any of the practices or games anymore if he couldn't control himself.

Ugly.

But there are occasionally times when the parenting shrills - as disturbing as they innately may be - are brutally hilarious.

Last softball season I was coaching 8-9 year old girls. After five years of coaching softball where the girls' attention span hovered somewhere between, "Look! A butterfly!" and wearing their mitts on their heads, for the first time they were actually listening, taking it all in, and then applying what they learned during the games.

It was incredibly fulfilling - not just for them, but for me. It allowed me to approach practices and lessons more strategically. To propose situations that required foresight and planning multiple steps in advance. To motivate them with the promise of ice cream.

We had a special team - every girl but one was from the same school, and most of them were even on the same soccer team. The parents were fantastic, the kids were fantastic, and we had a stellar group of coaches. Truly a perfect combination.

Even the girl (let's call her, "Mimi") who didn't go to the same school had an incredible personality. She clearly perceived life as something to be lived moment to moment. She was carefree, always happy and smiling, and became something of a mascot to the rest of the team as she was the youngest and smallest.

It was Mimi's first year playing softball on a team in which most of the other girls had already played four years. She had never picked up a bat, ball or glove even once before she came to the first practice; we could quickly tell she was going to be a challenge. Thankfully, her attitude ensured that it would be a fun challenge.

But at the first game, I quickly became confused. When Mimi got up to bat for the first time, her dad jumped up from his seat and stood behind the backstop - yelling at her to, "HOLD YOUR BAT UP! SWING SOONER! PAY ATTENTION! DON'T SWING AT BALLS THAT GO BEHIND YOU!!!" It was aggressive and absolutely unnecessary - and anti what we had been teaching the kids (learn but have fun). My confusion continued to grow over the next few games as this dad's aggressive screaming increased exponentially and became quite disturbing both when Mimi was at the plate and in the field. How could this child be so happy-go-lucky with a dad that was squashing her every chance at happiness?

We became somewhat protective of Mimi - trying to provide as much positive encouragement and reinforcement as possible in response to her dad sucking the life out of her. After half a dozen games of nothing but strikeouts, the one game her dad didn't show up to she somehow managed to swing and get two hits off the pitcher: a monumental achievement for any girl in the league. She was absolutely elated.

The very next game her dad was back and picking her to pieces from the get go. We had had a couple talks with him - and he did seem like a nice enough guy when he was calm - but he clearly just couldn't help himself. I told him how great she had done and how dramatically she had improved over the first few weeks of the season.

"Bah!" he said, "She's terrible!"

We determined it was our duty to have her focus on us as much as possible and tune her dad out.

I put Mimi at third base and sure enough her dad walked around to that side and stood with his hands up grabbing the fence ten feet away from her each defensive half inning.

"MIMI! BE READY!"
"MIMI! PAY ATTENTION!"
"MIMI!! YOU'RE FACING THE WRONG DIRECTION!!!"

Ugh. This was really getting annoying.

The other team started a rally and after three straight batters they had the bases loaded. I walked around to the infield and made sure each player knew what they would do if they got the ball. When I came to Mimi I said, "Mimi - what are you going to do if the ball comes to you?''

She looked at me quizzically.

"Do you know?"

"No," she replied in a small voice.

"OK, first just touch third base, then throw to first base. Do you think you got it?"

"Yes!" she replied confidentially, smacking her free hand in her mitt.

"MIMI!!!"  a voice came from ten feet away, "THE PLAY'S AT HOME! THROW HOME IF YOU GET THE BALL!!"

"Mimi," I quickly stated out of ear shot of her dad, "The play is at third just like we talked about. Just touch third." In a league of 8 and 9 year olds, the only play is to get the easiest out. If they master that, then move on to the more complicated plays. And Mimi had not mastered the easy play yet. This dad was only going to confuse her.

Of course: next pitch the batter swings and hits a grounder right to Mimi. And of course, defying history and logic, she makes a clean play of the grounder. The crowd is going ballistic. But once that ball was in her mitt, she had no idea what to do next. She simply stood there with dinner plate-sized eyes looking around in confusion as the runners all advanced safely around the bases. Her brain processor had shorted out with the overload of conflicting (and bellowed) information.

"MIMI!! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! THROW THE BALL HOME!! MIMI!! DIDN'T YOU HEAR ME?!?!"

The torrent continued unabated. I couldn't take it anymore, I walked over to Mimi in the middle of her dad's tirade and kneeled on the other side of her so she would have to turn away from her dad to listen to me.

"Nice play hon." She sniffled in response to me. Her dad's voice trailed off as I quietly and calmly took advantage of the silence to calm her down and get her head back into the game.

"You fielded that grounder perfectly. Did you forget what to do next?"

"Yes," she replied in a voice the size of a mouse's.

"That's OK - no worries. There's a runner on every base, so all you have to do is touch third - or any base that you can get to the quickest before the runners..."

"MIMI!?!? MIIIIIMIIII!?!?"

A voice shockingly interrupted me mid sentence and my words caught in my throat as the shear intrusive volume consumed us from ten feet away.

"ARE! YOU! LISTENING! TO! YOUR! COACH?!?!?!?!?!"

Wow. A dad screaming at his daughter to listen to him berate her for potentially getting distracted when she should be listening to her coach. I'm not sure I fully understand it either - I just know it was inappropriate. And hilarious.

When the loudest, rudest voice demands attention, it's never a good thing (are you listening you imbecilic politicians?). Just like on Survivor: DanOnka has been Mimi's dad times a thousand: bellowing, berating, causing fights, demanding attention, forcing people to listen to her - it's been extremely painful. Hey, at least the Survivor contestants can vote out someone each week. If those of us who coach kids could vote out a parent each week - now that would be really tremendous.

Still - it was great to see her break, although unfortunately it didn't end up translating into her boot. Hopefully that's an inevitable outcome. Instead, however, the dumbest people on the planet show that 21 seasons of lessons learned mean nothing and vote out the strongest member of their tribe because he tried to convince them that a live hen laying eggs is more valuable than the instant gratification of an 8-piece chicken dinner.

I simply don't have the energy to explicate how inane this decision is anymore. It happens every season, and every season the contestants pay. Is it that humanity is so innately selfish as to sabotage their own survival in the hopes that the lottery will hit and their position will be better served at some irrational fantasy point in the future that never comes for 99.9% of the people and is now suddenly even less of a possibility because your tribe will never win another challenge?

Yes, but this is getting much too close to politics now...

Do we side with the "shrill" or the "chill?" Because, really there are three ways to look at this thing when you...

"HELLO?!?!?! ARE YOU LISTENING?!?!?!"

Chill out people. Learn what Mimi's mom learned long ago: earplugs.

The Delightful Story of How Scum and Bag Got Their Names

The summer between high school graduation and freshman year of college, my friend Erik told me that he had heard that we might be able to get jobs at the California State Fair during its three-week run, thus potentially making some good cash right before heading off to college.

Any kind of cash is good when you're 18, but good cash is even better...

Of course, when you're 18, you really don't have any idea what price your soul might have to pay down the road...

One afternoon early that summer we headed over to Cal Expo in Sacramento and officially filled out applications. We indicated that we'd take anything they had available, and would work any time shift for the entire 21-day run starting in early August.

Idiots.

Of course, it's not a surprise now considering how available we made ourselves on the applications, but we got the jobs. Oh did we get the jobs. It's just...well...they were on the garbage crew. During the graveyard shift. 12am to 10am. For 21 straight days.

But, being young, verile, yes even stupid kids, we said, "No problem!" and jumped in with both Air Jordan-adorned feet.

We were nervous as we arrived at 11:45pm on the opening day of the State Fair, flashing our badges at the back gate entrance and then walking through the park as it shut down toward the employee area. It was there that we got our assignments: I would be in charge of emptying and relining every garbage can in the entire park, and Erik was on "bathroom duty." At first glance, we both agreed that Erik had gotten the sewage covered end of that stick...

So for the next few weeks Erik would stop by my house around 11:30pm, we'd stop off at AM/PM to get some Jolt Colas for lunch (at 4am) and then slog across the park toward our final destination: fecal and vomit splattered hell.

They gave me a shopping cart loaded with garbage bags, and I had to roll that baby to every single one of the 600-800 cans  in the park, pull out the full garbage bag, tie it up, then re-line it with a fresh one. Some of this wasn't actually so bad - there were some sections of the grounds that were actually quite beautiful, and, being all alone, there were times when it was practically peaceful, relaxing, easy.

And then, of course, there would be the frightening part of the park - typically near the corn dog and deep fried lard nugget stands - which would inevitably be rimmed with fresh vomit.

Thus began Erik and my countdown to the end of the Fair.

Of course, even this wasn't the worst thing about my job. 50% of my area was relatively fine, but the other 50% was in the games and rides part of the park: Carneys. And, Carney's don't go home to sleep. The Fair is their home. They sleep, eat, piss, shit, fuck and whittle right there in their retarded b.s. toss-off game of chance booth. And every booth has its own garbage can.

No 18 year old sheltered virgin should ever be made to interrupt a group of carneys around a blacktop bonfire shooting heroin and comparing oozing sores to politely ask if he could empty their garbage can, please fine sirs and madams. I would say that this was the precise moment I lost my religion for life if I hadn't already lost it a decade earlier (another unrelated Carney incident...).

Still, as bad as all this was, it pains me to admit that Erik's experience was exponentially worse. His team would attack each bathroom with a tankard of simple green and somehow force a literal cesspool into submission. People relieving themselves on the floor, fecal matter smudges on the walls and ceiling, urine clowns who shared laughter by peeing on everything that anyone has to touch, projectile vomit, coldly tossed tampons, diapers, condoms...it was all bad. But the one thing that stuck with me from Erik's experience was on day 2 when we met for lunch at 4am, Erik was shivering with fright and mumbling, "I hope I never see another pubic hair in my entire life." People are animals.

Around 7 or 8am, both he and I would typically finish our rounds and the crew chief would then reassign us to do random jobs: make a sweep of the entire perimeter of Cal Expo (miles around) and pick up garbage by hand, clean windows, whatever he could think of. A few times, however, Erik and I got to ride together with a couple other guys on a pickup truck as it drove around and picked up all my tied up garbage bags. It was on the first of a number of these routes that we encountered Scum and Bag.

You see, Erik and I were fortunate enough to be educated, accepted into college, looking toward bright futures. Our stop at the State Fair was unequivocally a one-time deal. It would NEVER happen again. That was for sure. But perhaps the most valuable thing about this experience was getting to know many of our co-workers who weren't as fortunate. Who considered themselves extremely lucky to have secured such a good job. Who were frightened what they would do next when the Fair ended. Many of these people were good souls that mentored us, were extremely hard workers, and were honorably dedicated to make their lives and those of their families better. It was humbling being around these people.

But Scum and Bag were different. They were kids - like us - who didn't have promising futures, but were simply passively satisfied being complete and utter imbeciles. Instead of being in awe of their humility, we were in awe that they had somehow managed to stay alive to the age of 20 or however old they were. They didn't work, they slouched off at every opportunity while everyone else did, and they complained and whined incessantly. We didn't actually know their real names, but I definitely remember how they earned the ones we gave them...

It happened on this first ride around the park sharing the back of the pickup, the four of us perched up on a gigantic mountain of garbage bags. Erik and I were in silence, smelling the acrid reek of the crap around us, our minds numb to the early morning exhaustion - physically and mentally. But these two other guys were laughing and joking like they were heading to a tailgating party. Every time the truck stopped for one of us to hop off, grab a bag and toss it back on the bed, those two wouldn't move an inch and Erik and I ended up doing all the work.

Finally, one of the guys pats his pockets and then looks at us, "Either of you guys have a smoke?"

"No, sorry," we said in unison.

He was clearly distraught. He put his hands on his head and leaned forward in a state of agony...but as he did so he noticed something through the lining of one of the garbage bags we were sitting on. Like a cat pouncing on a mouse, he leapt forward on hands and knees, poked his fingers through the mylar, ripped open a hole, put his hand right into the slimy mess and pulled out a bent, but unsmoked, cigarette. He held it up, apparently for all of us to proclaim his innate regal studliness, wiped it on his jeans, briefly reshaped it back into something resembling a cigarette, and then lit that baby up and took a long drag.

Erik looked at me and our dual gaping mouths told the whole story. This idiot had just pulled a discarded, likely AIDS, anal warts and gonorrhea-covered cigarette from the bottom of a disgusting state fair garbage bag, and joyfully stuck it right in his mouth.

Scummy.

Suddenly, the guy passed it over to his friend, and, without hesitation, even he sucked in a double-lungful of cancer and blew it out with an orgasmic, "Ooooooooh yeeeeeeeeah!!!"

Baggy.

Ladies and gentlemen: Scum and Bag.

This story so disturbs me and has for years, that there are two things I must state at this point. First, I truly apologize for having written it down so others might read it. I didn't deserve to experience it, and you for sure didn't deserve to read it. And second, is it really any surprise that I don't like people?

But the only reason I even thought of this story for the first time in years, is because Scum and Bag have been reanimated in the form of Survivor's Jimmy T. and DanOnka. To be fair, DanOnka is technically a complete Scumbag entirely on her own. Gotta give credit where credit is due.

However, with much of the focus this week on psycho Jimmy T., he did remind me a little of Bag. Bag: always wanting to be Scum, but never getting the opportunity, and never understanding that in life you have to make the opportunity, not simply wait around smoking AIDS cigarettes and whining about it.

The one thing Jimmy T. did do on his own was dig his own grave. When he whined to Tyrone about wanting the leadership role after the tribe lost, Tyrone showed incredible restraint and integrity by not reminding Jimmy T. how much he had just sucked in the challenge a mere 30 minutes earlier. Instead, Tyrone asked him if he thought he could have done better in a different role. Brilliant. Keep all the crazytalk focus on Jimmy T. And that's exactly how it all went down.

But on the Scum side, DanOnka appears to have some perceived power because she has the immunity idol. This is a problem. As I stated last week, normally I love drama. But DanOnka is all bad juju - she has disgust for the girl with one leg, disdain for the one-legged girl, and pure, unrestrained, heartfelt hatred for Senorita Una Leg. Scumbag.

Let's keep our fingers crossed that Scumbag lights up a gonorrhea stick in the next couple weeks. Speaking from experience, the rest of us would be much better off if she was off the island and instead perched in the back of a garbage truck surrounded by heaping metaphors of her personality.

By the way, my salary for the duration of that State Fair gig? $5.60/hour. Before taxes.

The Unexpected Boner Division

Back in junior high school it was a giant leap forward to move from the "Major" division to the "Senior" division in Little League Baseball. Not exactly sure what the thought process was for designating a group of scrappy 13-16 year olds as "Seniors," but perhaps it was marginally better than something more factual like the "Raging Hormone Division" or the "Unexpected Boner Division."

But for a small, skinny kid wearing horn-rimmed glasses and proudly (i.e. cluelessly) sporting a Tutti haircut from The Facts of Life, it was quickly apparent how ominous the chasm was between we prepubescent 13-year olds and the non-virgin, two-pack a day smoking, nearly retired 16-year olds.

Rangers 2nd baseman or Facts of Life actress?

One guy in particular, Dan, towered over the rest of us. He had long hair, shaved (!) almost daily, had his own car (a beat up old pick-up truck), and had been nearly kicked out of high school a few times.

But most of all, Dan had a temper. A brutal, frightening temper.

And although we were fearful of Dan's temper, we also secretly wondered how we could poke and prod that temper to satisfy our own childish enjoyment...

Dan didn't talk much, but that might have had something to do with the fact that everyone was afraid to talk to him. When we were at bat, Dan would sit at one end of the bench and the rest of us crowded together at the other end. When we were in the field, Dan seemed to be on a different team than us. Dan was Keifer Sutherland from "Stand By Me"...only without the looks. We'd have bet our lives that, like Kiefer's character, he had had more than a few run ins with dead bodies...

One weeknight evening we were warming up for a game - taking infield. I was playing second base; Dan was at third. The coach was hitting balls to us and yelling out a base to throw to. He'd hit to short and yell, "Second!" and I'd have to cover. He'd hit to first and yell, "Third!" and Dan would have to cover.

We were in a strange mood that day - alive and (momentarily) bonerless. Above all, we were having fun. We used to make ourselves laugh by throwing the ball so hard that whomever was on the receiving end would have to make a perfect catch or risk the danger of it hitting their mitt the wrong way and causing immense pain.

On that day, we were on fire - in particular with the catcher and Dan. The catcher, to our unending delight, would let out these high pitched wails every time we caught him off guard, shaking his mitt and howling with pain, but Dan...well, Dan just remained silent. Pressure building. Tension growing. Demeanor cracking.

Finally, it was too much. The coach hit a grounder to Dan and yelled, "Home!" Dan, clearly not having the wherewithal to realize that the only person who wasn't inflicting pain on him was the catcher, instantly decided to take out all his frustration on him anyway. He fielded the ball, wound up, and half-running, half-tripping toward home (a mere 70 feet away), hurled it as hard as he possibly could, emitting a guttural, "UUGHAAAAAAAA!!!" in the process.

Stunned, we all watched as the ball sailed up and over the catcher, over the 20 foot backstop, out into the heavens, arcing into the parking lot, its taut trajectory halted only by the tremendous "CRASH!" of the ball smashing into the windshield of a car. Glass rained down in a chorus of minute tinkles, painfully loud in the wake of pure, undisturbed silence around it.

Oh, but it wasn't just any car that had been destroyed...

It was Dan's car.

Unified and in slow motion, we turned to Dan with eyes as wide as Lyon's Club pancakes, and watched the fuse burning to the quick as his brain struggled to replace the testosterone with actual functionality.

Unfortunately, it didn't quite pan out...

"FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!"

Dan took off running to the parking lot, jumped in his car and peeled out of there, glass swirling around the tires. We didn't see him for another week.

How is this tied to this week's episode of Survivor?

Isn't it obvious?

Dan IS NaOnka.

Our first baseman is Fabio. Our shortstop is Alina. I am Kelly No-leg. And
DanOnka is a unapologetic idiot. DanOnka, in fact, may be the single most idiotic contestant ever to play the game.

Now normally I would embrace such a windfall of drama. But I have to admit: the jury's out on this one. There's nothing really funny or rewarding about watching DanOnka. There's no cunning, like Russel. There's no self-deprecation, like Johnny Fairplay. It's pure 16 year old testosterone. In a 20 something year old girls body.

Ew.

Still...just as Dan's story came to a delicious end, I predict that so will DanOnka's. The other tribe members just need to keep pushing her buttons, poking her sanity, throwing balls at her (actually, maybe Fabio needs to keep his balls to himself...).

Their Unexpected Boner Division is in dire need of an unexpected boner...

I am confident DanOnka will step up to the plate.