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HOME > EPISODE SUMMARIES

Survivor: Vanuatu - Episode 2 Summary

'You Always Boot the One I Like' By landruajm
Original Airdate: September 23, 2004

So previously on whatever show I’m summarizing, which…ah, it turns out to be Survivor:

A volcano erupts because there are no virgins any more. A windjammer-type cruise ship pulls up to an island and is immediately surrounded by aboriginal-appearing persons in canoes who are, one surmises, being paid boocoo bucks by one Mark Burnett to paint themselves up and appear frightening and stuff. 18 American dworks of varying shapes, sizes, genders and, to a much lesser extent, ethnicities, are transported to the shore by the screaming extras. A ceremony is held in which the women are officially designated as fourth-class citizens of the island nation of Vanuatu. In the same ceremony, the men are forced to drink poisoned mud and proclaim their excessively manly homoeroticism, in a touching ritual highlighted by the theoretically hunkiest of them shimmying up a well-lubricated phallic symbol to retrieve a “spirit stone” that is only coincidentally shaped like a meat and two veg. This is awarded to what is now the mens’ team on the strength of their incredible homoerotic virility, and the two teams, the men (known as Levitra) and the wymyn (known as Yasgur, and I suspect that exactly one of you will get that joke, but bear with me), traipse off into the night.

Still previously, because this is episode two and apparently CBS’ schedule is so packed with moronic goodness that we couldn’t put up a Saturday-night rebroadcast up against NBC’s Saturday-night rebroadcast of The Apprentice (and don’t think you’re not gonna get some cross-threading here, childrens), so we have to recap the entire fvcking season to this point rather than show us anything new:

The women bicker, spurred on by a woman named Scout, who the CBS Web site tells me is so reprehensible that all of you should leap from your chairs, light torches, pick up pitchforks, and follow me to wherever the hell it is she lives so that we can burn down her house and puncture her when she runs from it, crystals tingling and beads clacking, making sure that her touchy-feely a$$ is good and fvcking deceased. The men bicker, led by a man named Rory who seems like a nice guy, but I’m pretty sure that everyone hates him only because he’s African-American, and that it has nothing to do with the fact that I’ve had less whiny ex-wives. The wymyn bicker because some of them are working and some of them hate wymyn who do work and braid their underarm hair.

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Which reminds me. Have you ever seen a hairy leg on a woman on this show? I honestly don’t believe I have.

Anyway, we’re still previouslying, and the despicable New Age twit Scout is b!tching about some little sorority ho named Eliza, who has big oobies and a bigger mouth. All we have to say about Eliza is that that ain’t rain from Spain falling on her plain (joke unabashedly stolen from Satan’s Little Helper and, one hopes, refined a bit to suit my purposes).

So there’s some challenge thingie that involves the usual first-episode obstacle course-type race for fire and immunity and complete degradation of the opposing team, and the course, of course, involves making women crawl through mud in their bikinis.

Ah, culture.

The women win, and the men are appropriately emasculated despite their extreme homoerotic goodness, primarily because some fat highway worker named Chris can’t get his obscenely fat a$$ across a balance beam, leading the men to evict someone else entirely from the Big Brother house, that being a nondescript fvcktard named Brook who is perceived as a threat even though some footage clearly shows him losing a game of checkers to a box of hammers.

Phew. And we roll credits. These involve the familiar song—“Oobie ooobie, ooobie oobie oobie ooobie, ooobie oobie” --along with erupting volcanoes, and aboriginal-looking persons who may be aboriginal or may be from South Central, and water, and icony things, and media whores, to wit:

Julie, one of the nondescript dark-haired younger women; Scout, the aforementioned heritage-trading-on hyperdegreed New Age shyster freakazoid; Eliza, the loudmouthed pre-law sorority ho-bag—and let’s be clear on this, she’s post-grad but pre-law because she’s too stupid to learn critical lawyering skills like shutting the fvck up and listening to other humans; Mia, who is young and non-trivially mouthy her ownself and has a bone through her nose; Dolly, an impossibly pretty, impossibly blonde shepherdess…I swear, I’m not making that up; Ami, who ain’t worth shite but has huge oobies and can make some coffee; Twila, a phenomenally cool older highway construction worker from, I’m guessing, a Southron state that begins with the letter “T”; Leann, a fairly well-descript older dark-haired woman; and Lisa, one of the nondescript dark-haired women. I am unable to distinguish between Julie and Lisa, although I’m told by a reliable source that the lone monster breast you will almost see later in this show belongs to Lisa. I am so unbowled over by this collection of media whores of the female persuasion that, while I thought I was sort of paying attention to this show, I am unreconstructedly surprised by the news that there are whore/contestants named Julie and Lisa.

Oh, and 9 really spectacularly dumb bearers of Y chromosomes, to wit: Chris, the aforementioned fat slob who looks an awful lot like Meat Loaf; Chad, who so charmingly surprised us all in the first episode with the news that he’s missing a fair chunk of one of his legs, but what was even more surprising was that this news did not make me hug a kitten, or even hug Shakes; Travis, known to some as “Bubba”, who wears a t-shirt extolling Bob Barker, and all the really good jokes about that were taken last week; Lea, who despite his come-hither chick name, is a burly, barking United States Marine Corps drill instructor; John P., who I think you’re supposed to think is hunky; the aforementioned and now dearly departed Brook Einstein; John K., who I think you’re also supposed to think is hunky; Rory, damned to the history books as The Black Guy; and clearly hunky but also homoerotic and very well lubricated FBI agent Brady.

Oh goody. Commercials, brought to us by Pringles and Saturn.












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