If I was ever chosen as a contestant on one of those reality tv shows, like Survivor, I hope the other contestants would have the good sense to boot me off the first chance they got. I’ve weighed this out, taking into consideration the shame and humiliation associated with having my tiki torch extinguished on week 1 as compared with the lunacy of spending some number of weeks in front of a national audience; starving, parading around in dirty skivvies, (not quite the same affect as a girl in her dirty bikini) making alliances I can’t wait to break, grumbling myself to sleep each night, pissing and moaning about how stupid the others are, eating bugs, falling for the pretty contestant in a dirty bikini, and eventually, being voted off by same dirty bikini chick and some cool guy. (I knew I should have made an alliance with cool guy instead of that lying little bitch).
Besides, I’d probably lose it on the cab ride to the airport when the cameraman, the same cameraman who caught me trying to get my freak on with bikini girl when I thought no-one was looking, is now perched in the front seat motioning me to speak, hoping upon hope I’ll make an even bigger ass out of myself.
This would be the point where I lunge for his camera, shove it up his ass, turn and roar to the cabbie; “YOU WANT SOME OF THIS TOO?“, ordering him out of the car, take the wheel, and drive the fucking thing right into an embankment. And I’ll do this why?
Because whatever level of pain and suffering I endured over the last sixteen weeks won’t even begin to rival what my wife’s gonna dish up.
Yeah, no…I’m probably not ‘Survivor’ material.