“Don’t punt.” This is the injunction I am under. I do, in fact, have to take orders from certain people, y’know. Do we know what “don’t punt” means? It means I have to run something like 60 plays without choking on fourth down. With, y’know, Patrick Ramsey for a quarterback, even in obvious passing situations. No, actually, it’s more like my quarterback is Latrez Harrison, which you’ll only get if you’re a Maryland fan. No, come to think of it, it’s Calvin McCall, which you shouldn’t even get if you’re a Maryland fan.
I digress. “Don’t punt.” This is what my posse told me. Did you know I have a posse? I do. And what makes it a posse is that we go around boasting on it all the time, about how we’re one bad mothershutyourmouth of a posse, and I go around boasting about how I’m its leader. Yep. We’re a posse, me and Fester and Ratboy. Don’t let all that bickering throw you, they’re ma boyz.
What the hell was I talking about? Oh, right. I wasn’t. Yet.
Take, for instance, another injunction I received from another good friend, one who in fact admires (no she doesn’t) our posse (no it isn’t). She told me this over the phone, at about the point…well, I don’t want to give anything away just yet, but let’s say it was at about 10:04 PM Eastern Standard Time. She said to me, “You need a publisher. If you can’t do 30,000 words on this crap by, say, Thursday, you’re a no-account pansy.”
Okay, TechNoir didn’t really say all of that. But the first sentence was hers, as was basically everything before the third comma in the second sentence. That’s a pretty respectable handling of her quote, wouldn’t you say? I mean, almost journalistic, for me?
What the hell was I talking about? Oh, right. I wasn’t. Yet. By the way, I just crashed through about one percent of TechNoir’s demanded word count. Woo-hoo.
So I says to TechNoir, I says…no, that’s not where I meant to go. Where I meant to go was:
So, because you expect it and because previous summary writers set high standards to which I must live up, let’s go over what happened last week on Survivor:
Stuff. That’s what happened. Or, in an alternate half-empty view, not a damned thing happened, except that Kimmers was writing the summary. I can’t think of a bloody significant occurrence in the entire episode, other than that. Well, and Tom got voted off after he and Rupert fell for Robby Tomato Sauce’s effort to pick a fight between them. And then he glared. At Robby Tomato Sauce. And then he said “Mmf ullgargle fizzlediddle shiznit galoomph, hyup” which is apparently how they say “I’m gonna kick Robby Tomato Sauce’s a$$ and then marry him off to my goats after I have my way with him, you bet” down Fluvanna County, which is an actual county in Virginia very near to the one in which Big Tom lives.
I am so not making this up. I believe that Tom actually lives in Goochland County, which is another actual county in Virginia in which Tom may or may not live, but which is close to where he lives. This concludes the Amusing Virginia Geography portion of our program. Except to note that there is a place in Virginia called Short Pump, which reminds me that, oddly, Tom’s quote is modeled on something Swami once said to me, which was “I’m gonna kick your a$$ and marry you off to my goats and keep you with them out in the side yard just so I always know where to find you, after I’ve had my way with you, you betcha.”
But I digress. Have I made a first down yet?
Also: Have I mentioned how honored and humbled I am to be writing a Survivor finale summary? I am. And I am. And brak brak brak.
I invented that, you know.
In any event, around 8 PM Eastern Standard Time on Mother’s Day, some suspiciously Survivor-like footage begins to air on CBS, and it turns out to be the usual review-type stuff, in which we are reminded that the following persons did not survive Survivor All-Stars, to wit and in boot order: Tina, then Rudy, then Jenna M, then Rob C…I must digress.
Rob Cesternino is referred to in this sequence as “one of the most strategic players in Survivor history.” Huh? Whuzzis? Rob Cesternino? Mmkay, are we defining strategy as “breaking into uncontrollable drooling and eighth-grade ‘I gave you noogies because I have a crush on you’ behavior any time anything not burdened with a penis walks by,” or perhaps as “people who got steamrolled—I mean, absofreakinglutely obliterated, by Jenna freakin’ Morasca,” or maybe as “too stupid to be allowed to consume our planet’s store of natural resources like oxygen”? If any of those are the case, sure. If we’re talking about “of or pertaining to strategy,” which in turn carries a number of definitions relating to military action or, in a nonmilitary form, “an elaborate and systematic plan of action,” I fink the narrator has rocks in his head.
Oh yeah. It’s Jiffy. Never mind, and thanks for the news flash, there, Landru.
Hmm. Oh yeah, then The Dicque, then Sue, then Colby, then Ethan, then Sceri, then the merge, then Lex, then Kathy, then Shih, then Alicia, then Tom and his glare and Swami’s goats.
Commercials, brought to you by Home Depot
A Baritone voiceover, for Home Despot and its incredible array of gardening foofrah, which gives me hives just thinking about yardwork; Some guy shot in black and white for Cingular, which is fambly-friendly, although I think most families expect a little color footage now and again; Robotic machinery in motion, for the Pontiac GTO, and you know how I loves me some car commercials, not; Bad movie flashbacks, for a new M. Night Shamalamadingdong movie; and CBS, for CSI Miami and for CSI Miami in New York, which appears to presage yet another CSI spinoff, and for Judging Amy, which will include some tragic event that, CBS would have us believe, will involve Amy’s child, and I may be just too darned heartbroken to continue. Nah, probably not, because:
We’re back. And this is the actual episode part, so pay attention now, ya hosers.