I've been complaining for a few weeks now that this season of Survivor has been tortuously dull. Well this week it bounced back with twists so bizarre that, in the words of my idol W.C. Fields: "They baffle science!"
The phenomenon of TV personalities throwing their own "rallies" certainly breaks new ground in both the political arena and the entertainment world -- politics has truly become indistinguishable from show business.
I can take silks and satins, or beading, or feathers, but when they all collide in one dress all I can think of is Nomi Malone mispronouncing "Versace" and doing some horrific dance in which she displaces both hips and kicks a showgirl in the face.
As it turns out, there may be a better way to rank college football teams than by combining the opinions of 114 journalists, 59 coaches and 6 computers programmed in the dead of night by extras from Sneakers.
We started right out this week with Twice-Shoeless Dan telling Crazy Holly he wanted to quit. There are thousands of people out there who want to be on Survivor, and only 36 to 40 who actually get to do it each year.
"My name is Rivka Blatberg," she purred. It was the kind of name that evoked visions of soft hands moving above Shabbos candles and passionate days on a kibbutz, feeding one another chocolate dreidels.
Henry Phillips suffers the self-imposed misfortune of being an intelligent man who has chosen to travel the American heartland as an itinerant singer-songwriter, even though he is no Bob Dylan. We wouldn't want him to be.
Everyone's crying into their Moet, and we're left to imagine what the rest of the evening has in store: channeling Coco Chanel with a Ouija board? An adorable pillow fight? A Hangover-style bacchanal, complete with zoo animals? We'll never know.
Marty has not yet learned never to tempt fate on Survivor. Even after noting that overconfidence is a death sentence on this show, he nonetheless began spouting the sort of overconfident crap that the Gods of Survivor always slaps down hard.