I haven’t watched “Survivor” since the first season. Probably a few episodes of the second season as a hangover of the cult mindset instituted in year one, but eventually I lost interest and put down the coconut Kool-aid.
Apparently in the time since I stopped watching, “Survivor” has turned into a cross between “Penthouse Forums” and “American Gladiators” (breeding suspicion that the producers of the show have been reading my journal and stole my ideas).
I suppose it’s the natural arc of any reality show that the longer they stay on the air, the more breasts they need to sustain an audience (see “Real World” and “Fear Factor”). And “Survivor” has been no different, taking cue from the first season when millions of male viewers stopped talking about Jennifer Aniston and started talking about “The Girls of Survivor.”
Note that “The Bomb Shelter Effect” was in full play here, the premise being that if you are stuck in a bomb shelter with the same people for an extended period of time, people that you might not find attractive upon first seeing them will, over time, become more and more attractive until eventually you convince yourself that that girl with the mole above her eye is the most beautiful girl ever. The same rule applies, to a lesser degree, to workplaces, classrooms, summer camps, families (in the South), and vacation resorts, especially if you’re a teenager there with your parents.
And personally, I love this rule. I love when this happens on shows (like “The Office” now, where Pam gets hotter every week) because instead of being force-fed the cast of “The OC,” we’re required to put a little effort into it, to nurture the attraction, to work at making it more rounded that Katherine Heigl’s breasts on “Grey’s Anatomy.” You look back at the crushes of your youth and wonder why you liked them so much and you realize that you were exposed to such a small amount of people everyday that puberty literally forced you to fall in love with one of them. Then you went to college and had sex with your neighbor because you were too drunk to make it anywhere else. But that’s neither here nor there.
Point being, last night “Survivor” not only threw that old formula out the window, they then went outside, urinated on the formula and called it names like “sissy pants” before throwing it in a nearby river with a rock tied around it’s ankles. Then they took their show to a place formerly occupied by only made-for-Cinemax movies and beer commercials.
They took their new “obviously hot” women
and subjected them to the following challenge:
Each team will compete in varying match-ups, racing head to head to five circles in the sand. Buried within each circle is a bag. The tribes must dig and find the bag, and then get back to the finish mat. To score, there must be at least one hand on the bag while any part of the body touches the finish mat. First tribe to score three wins Immunity.
I assume there were other rules, like no punching, kicking, choking, fish-hooking or titty-twisting. But it didn’t matter – the point of the challenge was to get women in bikinis to wrestle. And the only thing missing was hot oil and Tom Sizemore attempting to coerce them back to his hotel.
And the worst part? I watched the whole thing. Well I guess that’s not the worst part. The worst part will be in a couple of years when it is revealed on the Season Finale of Survivor 15 that the eventual winner manipulated her alliance by prostituting herself for immunity, and then, channeling Herm Edwards, saying at her press conference, “What can I say? You play to win the game.”