29 September 2006



(EDITOR'S NOTE: Hi, friend. If this is your first time to GooseTown and you haven't read any of the other Racist SURVIVOR entries...go back and read them. Specifically the first one. I'm all for hate mail - seriously, if you have a desire to send hate mail PLEASE follow through on it - but I'd prefer that it's in context and you have the first clue what you're talking about. It's all I ask. It's not much, really. Can we agree on that? Super. Enjoy yourself. Thanks.)

Well...g*ddamn you, CBS and Mark Burnett Productions. G*ddamn you straight to Hell.

All the hype. All the fabricated angst. All the bellyaching by whiney minority groups. Racist SURVIVOR could have been the best reality show ever. F*ck me running - it could have been the greatest TV show ever. Racial dysfunction. Societal chaos. And you had to go and tinker with it, you frightened little b*stards.


For those of you that didn't watch the show last night, here's the gist: the SURVIVOR Producers (hereafter to be known as the C*ckless Pack of Sonsab*tches), not satisfied with the most fantasticest setup ever for reality television and dead-set on ruining everything that was wonderful with the current incantation, decided to break the teams down. Instead of Whites, Blacks, Asians and Hispanics, there would now just be two tribes.

I'll let you guess how they split them up.

Did they have to split them up? NO! F*CK NO! G*DDAMNED YOU INBRED F*CKS!!!!!!! Jesus, if you're going to take away the very heart and soul of this section of my current masterpiece, at least do something intelligent like pair up the Asians and Blacks (the best and worst teams, respectively) and the Whites and Hispanics (the middlers). Then there could still be discord! There could still be strife! There could be the blatant opportunity for a contagious bout of ethnocentric squabbling! And I could reap the rewards! ALL OF THEM!!!!!!

Instead, the overly-delicate CPSs pandered to the very whims of the mouth-breathing d*uches who called for racial "justice" and had the teams divided into two astoundingly PC megatribes, Raro [Adam (W), Brad (A), Cristina (L), Jenny (A), JP (L), Nathan (B), Parvati (W), Rebecca (B) and Stephanie (B)] and Aitu [Becky (A), Candice (W), Cao Boi (A), Cecilia (L), Jessica (W), Jonathan (W), Ozzy (L), Sundra (B) and Yul (A)]. Aw, how f*cking cute - it's like that multi-ethnic high school that we're always supposed to believe existed because that's how they cast it on 7th HEAVEN!

Blow me, you spineless motherf*ckers. NOW YOU JUST HAVE REGULAR SURVIVOR, YOU WHORE HALFWITS!

What am I supposed to do now? Judge these people on the content of their character rather than the color of their skin? What f*cking fun is that? Now I'm actually going to have to WORK to push racial stereotypes down your throats. I can't pander to these d*ckfaced, hobo getups like the NAACP and...you know, whatever alliance the Mexicans have. It probably involves about 50 of them and a '72 Chevy Nova, but that's not the point!

At first I considered disbanding this entire subsection of my Blog, but then I steeled my resolve. These jerks can't break me down! They can't silence me by simply shifting positions! I am a man with fake-racist opinions and insights! My pretend-hate speech needs to be absorbed by the masses!

So I shall not give up on this show and I shall not give up on you, Dear Reader. I shall not give up on all Seven of you (up from my previous Three, proving that this Blog was making rather popular with the masses). Give me a week to collect my thoughts, regroup, stop crying, masturbate 214 times...and I'll be back with a vengeance.

Some notes on this week's "Episode":

--After being broken down into the two Tribes mentioned above, there was a very stupid Immunity Challenge easily won by Raro. It sucked, but on the upswing, it proved that the Women can't hang even close physically with the Men. Hopefully, this will become a running theme. Listen, chicks: until you can carry a measly fifteen pounds of sand without collapsing like a tent in a hurricane, best to avoid all of this bullsh*t "equality" talk, eh? We already made the mistake of letting you drive - how about you don't push your luck?

--If this season's goal is to provide us with some of the worst editing in TV history, Racist SURVIVOR is well on its way to a winner. Yes, I understand that we needed to know that Becky and Yul were going to try to work with Jonathan and Candice and Jessica/Flicka, but do we need to see them talk about it for five minutes? These are easily the two most boring people on the entire planet. Corpses have had more lively debate. The epitome of this comes when Yul tells Becky he has the Immunity Idol - the biggest Ace Up the Sleeve (TM) in all of SURVIVOR - and she barely cracks a smile.

This goes a long way towards proving my theory that the smaller your eyes get, the less interesting you are. Of course on the other end of the spectrum we've got Cao Boi and anyone involved in Korean Cinema, so this might take a little more research. Give me time.

--Jonathan is a penis. God, I hate this guy. He's proving a maxim that Colored People (TM) (and I'm not just going after the Blacks here, but anyone who's not perf...er, I mean...White) have known for ages: anyone that looks like Jean Reno and sounds like Alan Alda CANNOT be trusted under any circumstances. What a horribly unlikable human being. I just want everyone to know that not all writers suck on the level he does.

--Parvati is an enigma. Actually that's not true - she's pretty easy to figure out. When she's not smiling she's crazy hot, and when she is smiling she looks like she's yelling into a wind tunnel. You know what I mean? Like if you put a vacuum cleaner up to your face and the blast of air spreads your mouth out so you look all gums? Parvati is all gums, and MAN, is that a disturbing sight. Check out her bio on cbs.com - yikes! And that's only about half-power! You know the photographer was like, "Um, you know what? How about you don't look too happy, OK? I don't want to throw up in the middle of a shoot. Seriously. Dial it back a bit."

You sense it's bad when Nathan is constantly drawn towards her...right up until she smiles, and then he sails off in the other direction. And this is a guy that you just know has a least a Master's in Banging White Chicks.

--Oh, yeah...Candice was sent to Exile Island and Cecilia was hamstrung at Tribal Council and sent packing. Yay. Rah.

OK, so look...this was a down week for all of us. Let's regroup and meet back here late next Thursday night. This week I'm going to think up some new epithets, channel some good bigot energy, maybe have a double-feature Wednesday that includes TRIUMPH OF THE WILL and MALCOLM X.

I'll back stronger than ever, even if Racist SURVIVOR goes the way of the Dodo. And slavery.

Why must everything good die?


22 September 2006



Before launching into an ethically-relevant tangent on this week's episode, I'd like to address two points from my last blog:

1) It's been pointed out to me that "Honky" is not spelled with an "e" before the "y". I have confirmed this via The Internets (TM). First, two things: I guess I had never seen "honky" typed out before, and I can't believe there's an English standard for "honky".

Nevertheless, the Black Folks will continue to be called TEAM ANTI-HONKEY, because, as we well know, "those people" can't spell. So what difference does it make?

2) Someone sent me an email to tell me that TEAM WHITEBREAD wasn't racist enough for my blog, especially considering the names I gave to other tribes. Upon review this seems to me to be entirely correct; I want to offend my people as equally as I offend all of "you people".

As such, TEAM WHITEBREAD will now be known as TEAM TRAILER PARK (because TEAM FUTURE SEX OFFENDER just didn't roll off the tongue/keyboard very well...and sounded too much like an awesome robotic superhero).

Onto the Episode II recap...


--Still stewing after their first Immunity Challenge loss (but not over the loss of Sekou, really), Team Anti-Honkey heads back to their camp a little dejected, but with flint and metal to start a fire. It takes them roughly the length of an average Middle Passage to get it burning. Which begs the question...how is this possible?

You've got your flint, you've got your steel, you've got your kindling...and it takes you a day and a half to procure but one small flame? Yet, ten minutes after the NBA Finals concludes, you manage to set the nearest city on fire like it's f*cking Bastille Day. With nothing but a few empty Bic lighters and a warm case of Colt 45.

Someone explain this to me.

--Over at Team Tortilla, Cristina tries to tell everyone that was shot several times in the arm because she's a "cop".

And she may be a cop - though, I mean...c'mon, let's not get carried away here - but you know you were all thinking something WAY different when she was talking about being shot. I don't think I even have to say it.

But I will: "Cholo floozy!" Oh, aren't those Latinas bonitas ALWAYS standing around gabbing at drive-by primetime? Dios mio.

In an ongoing saga, Billy does nothing but lay around, expertly attempting to become the first SURVIVOR Castaway to gain weight on the show, and Cristina develops an ever-growing chip on her shoulder at Ozzy. How DARE that b*stard know how to do things and help out the entire team! I wouldn't trust that sonsab*tch either, Cristina. If I were you I would just watch him work, have fifteen babies and get a bad perm.

--In a turn of events that should come as no surprise, Yul builds Team Confucius a trap that catches THREE F*CKING CHICKENS AT THE SAME TIME. Jesus! He used a box and a coconut and a f*cking stick! Seriously, how dumb do these little jackals make you feel?

Think about this question as an American: is there ANY logical reason you can think of to NOT elect an Asian President? Any Asian. Or, OK, any Asian not associated with the Yakuza. Seriously, any reason? Think about the advantages: we'd kick other countries' asses in all academic fields; we'd rule the world with a quiet yet intimidating confidence; the chances of a nunchaku attack on the Queen of England skyrocket; our finances would be through the roof; perhaps most importantly, the President has his own personal driver, meaning there's one less Automotive Nuclear Disaster (TM) driving our streets.

Wait...no, this one is more important: every red-blooded American male of any other ethnicity can come home from the worst day of his life and rest comfortably, smiling, knowing that, at the very least, he has a bigger c*ck than the leader of the Free World.

Someone tell me I'm wrong.

--Meanwhile, Team Trailer Park argues what structure to sleep on and whether or not building it makes any sense. This riveting banter makes a three-minute scene feel like Moses' trek up Sinai and sends White people everywhere into self-conscious fits of, "Are we really all this f*cking boring?"

Minority friends: if I'm that base and vanilla...I mean, you would tell me, right? I'm starting to feel like the party starts only when we leave the room. Am I this droll? I'm starting to freak out. Holy sh*t, we gave the world CARROT TOP! Hey, I know, let's fight over wet sand and f*cking palm fronds. Good call, you pouting, self-loathing Casperites. God, I'm worried. I would so much rather be Red Foxx than Milton Berle. Someone want to trade with me?

Side Note #1: Jessica (Flicka) is f*cking turning me on. She's cute, she rocks the pigtails, and she's wearing g*ddamn thigh-highs all over the island. That's it, I tap out; she can have me.

Side Note #2: After getting in a totally p*ssified man-squabble with Adam that should have seen both parties donning white wigs and b*tch-slapping each other with prissy white gloves, Jonathan goes skulking down the beach to write the shortest book of all time: NEGROES I'VE MET WHILE YACHTING.

Onto the Immunity Challenge...


--Each team is given a clue to the challenge that involves a cryptic note and a set of shackles.

(Wait for it...)

(Wait for it...)

BLACK PEOPLE HATE SHACKLES BECAUSE THEY WERE SLAVES!!!! After writing this episode, did the Producers just take the script over to Rosa Parks's grave, drop it on the ground, and piss on it while singing OLD MAN RIVER? HOLY GOD!!!!!!!!

(Sorry, I tried to be much more diplomatic than that. I'll try to control myse...)


(F*CK! I don't know where that came from.)

--Team Tortilla gets together before the challenge and decides that they're going to throw it so they can get Billy off their team. Everyone but - amazingly - Cristina, is onboard. What a peach, that one. But the team has the right idea. Ah, duping the fat Latino and then booting him off the show - what we're now retroactively calling the Lorne Michaels Secret Handshake (TM).

(EDITOR'S NOTE: Don't you EVER use the term "the Lorne Michaels Secret Handshake" in that context and not give me credit because that is f*cking GENIUS and I shall reap the rewards for it as such. Mark my words. GOD I am high on myself right now. If you don't know why this is funny, try to guess which castmember will be missing from SNL this season. I can't believe I just had to explain that to you. You make me sick.)

--The Immunity Challenge is a toweringly boring combination of fitting into (and through) cramped spaces and memorizing some bullsh*t about Captain Cook, whom no one has cared about ever. The entire explanation of the event is a protracted segue to an eventuality that can be summed up in one simple phrase: "The Asians are going to f*cking destroy the rest of you."

Incredibly, the Asians f*cking destroy the rest of them. Actually that's not entirely correct; Trailer Park technically "ties" Confucius, but you could tell the cat-eaters were in cruise control the whole way. Meanwhile, Team Tortilla doesn't even TRY to make it look like they're not throwing the competition, and Anti-Honkey still just barely beats them...and then celebrates like it's 1804 and they've made it to the North. Team Trailer Park scratches their collective heads, wondering why Accounting degrees don't translate into raw athleticism.

But the most important facet of the event comes as it ends and Billy looks over at the Trailer Parkers, announcing, "I'm next." Trying to console him, Candice replies, "Well...we love you!"

To which Billy, stunned into submission, barely eeks out, "I love you," then proceeds to suck in his neck and smile sinisterly like a White guy who lives in a van with no windows and just fingerbanged his daughter. And liked it.

--The Tortillas vote Confucius' Yul to Exile Island. Yul shows up on EI, looks around for four minutes, consults a portrait of Mr. Miyagi and immediately finds the Hidden Immunity Idol.

Christ, these guys are phenomenal at g*ddamned everything. The other Tribes are so f*cked right now it's not even funny. We might be changing Team Confucius' name next week to Team Foregone Conclusion.

Onto the Tribal Council...


--Back at camp, Billy makes an ill-advised attempt to sway the votes of Cristina and Cece; it doesn't work and he's voted off. But that's not the story.

OK, OK, so...remember the thing from before where I told you that Candice told Billy, "We love you," ("We" being the operative word there) and Billy said, "I love you," back? Well, forget f*cking everything else about this episode, because this is the sh*t right here:

In an fit of unbelievable miscommunication and irresponsible assumption bordering on pure, unbridled lunacy, Billy believes that he and Candice sweetly spoke Those Three Words (TM) to each other. He announces that he's OK with leaving because his reward for being on the show was that he made "a love connection" with Candice. HE BELIEVES THAT SHE WAS TELLING HIM SHE WAS IN LOVE WITH HIM. In his own mongrel, misbegotten - out of NOWHERE! - words:

"My prize wasn't even the million dollars. My prize was that I fell..I...I...I fell...I fehh...I fell in love in this game. Love at first sight. Her name is Candice...that was my prize. My prize was her."

Dead, spinning shock from everyone on the panel, including Probst, who nearly falls off his log. The look on his face is the same as it must have been when the doctor told him that he contracted The Herpes from Jeri Ryan, except with WAY more surprise this time.

For those of you who don't watch the show, please understand this: these Tribes don't spend any time with each other. Any. Time. They're together for about 20 minutes every three days for the Immunity Challenge, and even then they're communicating almost solely with their own team. This is important to consider because this proves that Billy, while not only being lazy and moody, has totally lost his f*cking mind. He took a forced, manufactured, barely-meant-it overture from someone he didn't know at all and assumed she was in love with him.

MOTHERF*CK! What a way to end the show, man. I don't even need to make a racial joke here. Perhaps that's what we've learned this week: sticks and stones may break our bones, but f*cking crazy people trump racial profiling.



FIRST PLACE - Team Confucius. Nowhere to go but down, and yet they'll probably design something to take them higher. I fear them and their bird flu.
SECOND PLACE - Team Trailer Park. Being in second means nothing; everyone is now vying for "First Loser" Status (TM). What a pathetic bunch. Dumb, feeble and boring; that 401K doesn't mean sh*t out in the wild, does it, you maladjusted pr*cks?
THIRD PLACE - Team Anti-Honkey. Eventually it's going to come out that the Producers intentionally gave them the worst team in SURVIVOR history, leading to something we're all waiting patiently to see unfold: the battle over Reality TV Reparations.
FOURTH PLACE - Team Tortilla. This whole Billy thing is going to drag them down like property values in the barrio. Can Ozzy save them?

Tune in next Friday when we'll be debuting a new weekly feature: The Pointless Ramblings of Dave "Evil Ways" Neustadter, Racist Half-Jew.

Until then...tally-ho.


18 September 2006



Yesterday was a bad day on several levels - the least of which was football, which just dug a spear in my side and continued to twist all day - and even though today is much better, there's some ancillary anger and frustration brewing.

What better reason, then, to write a short, boiling blog about two monumentally annoying behaviors that have spiked in popularity lately?

I'm pointing the finger at you, ladies, because you're almost always - at a rate of about 96% - the purveyors of these two acts. And don't look at this as me coming down on you; look at this as me trying to help. Because every time you do either of these two things, you look stupid. To me. To your friends. And to everyone that's within earshot. There's eye-rolling and mocking that you can't see or hear, but trust me...it's there. Half the time it's coming from females that do they exact same two things, but they're either too stupid or too self-deluded to realize the fact.

With that in mind, please do the following:

1) Stop Talking to Guys About GREY'S ANATOMY

None of us care. Not one of us. If a dude is actually listening to your bullsh*t story about "McDreamy" (seriously...that nickname should have been a red flag for you from the jump) and how the show "really speaks to you", he's doing so out of pity and/or trying to get laid. That's it. For Christ's sake, I have a guy friend who WORKS on the show and I don't think he even likes it. And he HAS to.

Let me go ahead and say something that should be pretty obvious to everyone now: chicks will watch any piece of crap put out there that's about relationships. Anything, no matter how bad it is. I've watched GREY'S ANATOMY. It's bad. It sucks quite a bit. But it follows an Obvious Female Maxim (TM): take a cliched, cookie-cutter female character (just to make every female viewer think her life applies in some way to that of the actor onscreen), put her in a love quandary (something that never REALLY happens to anyone - even though they believe it does) and set the story in a place where there's a high degree of sadness (Oh my Gosh! Like a hospital emergency room!).

Hook, line and sinker; somehow you fall for it every time.

I don't care if the show makes you cry every week. I don't want to hear the details. It's not bad to cry at shows; I myself cried at the last episode of SIX FEET UNDER. Even TV can get emotional. That's fine. But if you're calling your friends and crying three hours later, that's not good writing - you have a problem. And if this show is any indication...lots of you have problems. My suggestion? Go out and get some real, visceral life experience...because obviously something is lacking in that department for you.

Don't misunderstand me - there's good entertainment out there for women. SEX AND THE CITY was extremely well-written, if just too narrowly focused for most guys to enjoy. But even that show had a ceiling, and I hate it so for (one of the) exact same reason(s) I hate GA - women think that story somehow applies to their life.

Guess what? It doesn't. You're not a doctor. You don't have martinis every afternoon at 3PM with your three best girlfriends. And I know this hurts, but here's the truth: though some similar things may have happened to you in your life...this is make-believe. It's not great writing - you're just easily manipulated.

Some of you think that, because I'm a writer, I want to hear about the show. I don't. Not even a little bit. Not any more than I want to hear you quote the latest Tori Amos song (don't get me started on that) or gush about how much you love cheesecake. I don't bother you with Penn State and poker. So please seek to return the favor, if you could.

Luckily, I haven't heard anything about GA in the last few weeks. There hasn't been a single promo on TV. Really. I have no idea when the season premiere is. It could be Thursday, September 21st at 8/7 Central for all I know, but I can't verify that. Sandra Oh could be wearing red lingerie. I have no idea. And I don't, as a byproduct of all this, deeply loathe HOW TO SAVE A LIFE by The Fray. That song certainly doesn't make me want to shove knives into my ears!

2) Stop Using the Phrase "Bringing Sexy Back"

Stop it. Stop it now.

The first time someone used this phrase, apparently culled from a Justin Timberlake song that I've not yet heard, it might have been clever. It might have been relevant.

Whatever the case, the novelty was short-lived.

If you're applying this to ANYTHING right now - events, pictures, situations, people, etc. - you're a d*uche. It's not witty. It's not cute. It's just a vehicle used to showcase your lack of creativity and blindness to overconsumption. And most of you aren't sexy.

Hey, I like Justin Timberlake. I think most people, gun to their head, probably do. That's great. Why ruin what he's trying to put out there by being you? Maybe that's what I'm getting at - if you're so unoriginal as to use this phrase in any context, try not to be you. For the sake of the rest of us.

Wait, I know what you're going to say next:

"Well Geoff, I have to tell you that I DO know that the term has been overused as of late, and me using it is my reflexive way of being ironical. By saying it over and over I therefore recognize that its use has worn out and I am, in fact, being humorous."

The three things I would say to that are A) you're probably lying because I called you out and B) you have no idea how to be funny and C) I hate you to my very core.

Make it go away.


I didn't write this rant for myself, people. Actually, that's a lie - I did You're all annoying me deeply. But in doing so I also speak for the male masses who would otherwise have no voice. Or would fail to use theirs. Because they're trying to get laid. Oh sure, they'll tell you I'm a sexist, I'm a misogynist, a bearer of untruths. But in their small, feeble hearts they'll be raising a fist to my words in admiration and shared pride.

All I do is tell you what's what - the reality of a world you don't want to believe exists outside of doctorly romances and neurosis. Consequences be damned. You know the timeless quote "Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned"? Psssssh. Put a Scorned Woman up in a cage match against a Man Who Realizes He'll Likely Never Have Sex Again and see who has less to lose. Just in case you missed my metaphor...it would be the guy. And when you have nothing left to lose you have only what is and what isn't to express.

I am The Truth. I am The Light.

It's good to be back on top.


15 September 2006



First of all, if you are one of the people offended by the theme of the new season of SURVIVOR...please, ManJesus, f*ck off. It's television. And not even good television - it's sh*tty, manipulative reality television. It's a gimmick. Congratulations if you're pathetic enough to find it racially insensitive - you've just lowered yourself to a sub-human level.

It's for you people - and for my own personal amusement - that I give you my RACIST SURVIVOR BLOG SERIES.

In case you live under a rock (and that's a special rock if you've got Internet access - let's talk later), SURVIVOR made headlines this year because the show decided to divide the contestants up into four Tribes: Blacks, Asians, Hispanics, and Whiteys. A collection of reactions from various Ethnic Coalitions:

NAACP - "We don't like this! It's a new form of segregation!"
Hispanic Scholarship Fund - "There's no need to put our people through this again!"
National Asian Presbyterian Council - "Confucius say this outrage!"
White Cracker Board of Control - "We drive the Dodge Stratus!"

This show is a powderkeg. A potential microcosm of geopolitical and ethnocentric associations. A veritable smorgasbord for my satirical, apathetic mind. How could everything go so right?

My opinions on the first Episode:

--Within seconds of the Asians being first on their mangy raft, things are looking good. Team unity abounds. They're paddling like engineers should. Then, all of a sudden, Cao Boi (pronounced "Cowboy", something I couldn't possibly make up) starts cracking racial jokes. About Asians. Something about everyone being light and having strength from picking rice. One female teammate quips, "Stop being stereotypical."

She is even less enthused when, upon reaching shore, Cao Boi attempts to blindfold her with dental floss.

--Every team has at least one ripped, good-looking dude and one attractive (or semi-attractive...or at least huge-t*ttied) and athletic (or semi-athletic...or at least huge-t*ttied) female...except the black people.

Screwed. They've got one chick who might have been athletic a decade ago, two other girls who have seen their share of McDonald's, a quasi-fit big guy who seems at least half retarded, and a fat dude who took four naps on the opening day. I spent the entire Closing Credits sequence looking for David Duke's name under "Executive Producer".

Aaaaaaaaaaaand...they lost the first challenge. More on that in a minute.

--Billy, the fat representative of the Hispanic team, claims that his team has an advantage because their heritage is from the Caribbean and South America, making them well built for surviving and thriving in a tropical environment. One of his teammates is from Oakland. The other three are from Los Angeles.

Billy is a fat man from New York City.

I don't even have a joke here. That's like me saying, "Part of my family is from Germany centuries ago, so I'm built to eat the f*ck out of some bratwurst." I hate bratwurst.

Wait, I did have a joke there. Billy is stupid.

--It was cold the first night on the island, so the Whiteys huddled together and made what one female teammate called a "cuddle puddle". To preserve body heat. You might think that's a bit uncomfortable and a SuperCracker move, but consider what the other Tribes did: they slapped each other until they couldn't feel the cold anymore.

Because they're savages. They're not white. See?

OK, I made that last part up, but the cuddling thing is true. I'm still not sure why they didn't just all get in someone's Stratus.

--Three of the people on the Asian team are named Becky, Jenny, and Brad. There's a white girl named Parvati Shallow.

Soak that in for a second. Also, Becky the Asian is a lawyer. That bears mentioning. Because her name is Becky. And she's Asian. And a lawyer.

--Team Whitebread collected two chickens off the initial Survivor Boat. One of those chickens had a green tag on it...meaning it was for the Asian Team. Jonathan, not only the whitest guy on Team Whitebread but the Whitest SURVIVOR contestant ever, was the culprit. This will become important later.

In other news Jessica (who asked to be called "Flicka", her roller derby name) soon let both chickens go - accidentally - to run into the woods. Team Whitebread? Not happy. You don't f*ck with a white man's chickens, even if you're a white chick. Not cool.

--Cao Boi tried to rid teammate Brad of his headache by gouging his eyes and pulling a piece of skin (directly in the middle of his eyebrows) violently for about fifteen minutes. Brad's headache went away but he was left with a long, obvious red welt in between his eyes. From the busted blood vessels. The conversation afterwards went thusly:

BRAD: So...how long will this be here?
CAO BOI: You had a lot of bad wind in there, man. It will go away when you're completely healed.
B: Right. So...what is this supposed to be then?
C: (a few beats) It's an indicator.

Later, Brad - who says he's a fashion designer - proceeded to build a replica Shaolin Temple out of palm fronds and dead centipedes.

--Just like in real life, Team Anti-Honkey (The Blacks) and Team Tortilla (The Hispanics) were largely ignored during the show, as what they were doing was of little importance. Neither had the chance to attempt a drive-by shooting, though there is a rumor that a future luxury item in the show will be 10 cans of spray paint and a blank wall which they will have fifteen minutes to tag with gang symbols.

When they did show these teams...once was to show a Tortilla climbing a tree like a monkey and another was to show an Anti-Honkey sleeping.

Hey, I don't edit the show, I just tell you what was there.

Onto the Immunity Challenge...

--The Challenge went as such: construct a five-person boat out of the puzzle pieces given, row out to a buoy that contains fire, light fire torch, row back to shore, put together a directional puzzle, place the pieces on the wall in their respective areas, climb wall, light fire.

Pros: Pretty much OK at everything. Can do puzzles, can do some physical stuff, should finish middle of the pack. Like Trent Dilfer, we can manage a game.
Cons: Just OK at everything. Not going to blow anyone away. In fact...pretty mediocre.

(EDITOR'S NOTE: How are we not good at anything at all and still able to run the world? We don't even have NUMBERS anymore. Totally perplexing. Moving on...)

Pros: Puzzle giants. Sure as hell could tell you the exact seaworthiness of the boat using advanced algorithms. Fast as greased lightning.
Cons: Probably not really good at constructing the boat. Small hands - can they climb?

Pros: Can row the f*ck out of sh*t, which is how their families got here in the first place.
Cons: Well...I mean, outside of making chorizo...

Pros: Obviously, they can climb. As if this was ever in question.
Cons: They have a fat guy who sleeps a lot. You do the math (or let Team Confucius do it for you).

--Surprisingly, Team Confucius throws their boat together lickedy-split and is off and running, totally killing everyone. Whitebread starts bickering about inane sh*t from the jump, leaving them trailing behind the Tortillas, who row like they've won the secret motorboat (Dave "Evil Ways" Neustadter's theory: "They told them they could keep the raft.").

Confucius and Tortilla blow everyone away. It's down Whitebread and Anti-Honkey. Anti-Honkey is blitzing after getting a late start, almost squashing the rumor that Black people don't like the water. Almost. Whitebread can't get going because the men have tiny penises, leaving their raft too light to navigate properly. Editing makes it look like it comes down to the wire, but Whitebread fixes up their puzzle all nice - and even has a chance to try to blow it by climbing the wall before they've set their pieces in it - and leaves the losers in the dust, finishing third.

That means our African friends have to vote someone off their team that evening. But wait! A secret twist! Probst reveals that the losers get to vote anyone on one of the other teams onto Exile Island, where they'll have to stay for two days and make no communication with their Tribe. Who might they send? One of the Alpha Males? One of the smart athletic chicks?

Nuh-uh. The males shut out the females in the group, electing to send to Exile Island...Jonathan. Whitey McCracker. The total non-threat who stole the f*cking chicken. Anti-Honkey Nathan announces:

"Karma is a bizzle."

Score one for the Asians, one for the Hispanics, a half-point for the Whites, and an extra thirty years of oppression for Hitler's master race as they somehow used their Jedi mindgames to trick Nathan into making one of the worst moves in SURVIVOR history. HE DIDN'T EVEN STEAL YOUR CHICKEN FOR CHRIST'S SAKE!!!!!!

In a move that surprises no one, Team Anti-Honkey votes off Sekou (pronounced Say-koo) by a tally of 3-2. The naps were just too much.

In a fit of unintentional comedy, no one who votes for Sekou spells his name the same way. One gets it right, one opts for "Seko" (which, phonetically, sounds more like a cheap watchmaker than Say-koo), and yet another goes with "Seiku".

No one else will say it, so I'll just say it: black people have no idea what they're doing with names. No clue. Making sh*t up. I now have no problem believing that the same woman who wanted to name her child "Thomas" ended up with "Ta'Quan" purely on accident.


FIRST PLACE - The Asians. Killing this sh*t like it's Math homework.
SECOND PLACE - The Hispanics. Probably temporary unless there's a lawncare competition.
THIRD PLACE - The Whites. So far totally unimpressive, which means they'll end up winning when one of their fathers buys the company that produces the show.
LAST PLACE - The Blacks. Things are looking up, though - right before being ousted, Sekou channeled the spirit of Martin Luther King, Jr.

Come back next week for more race-based hatred!



11 September 2006



Sing a Sad Song
In a lonely place
And try to put a word in for me...

God, I hate this day.

Five years later and it's not any better. It should be. It should never have been as bad as it was. I don't know anyone that died on September 11th. I've been to New York City fewer times than I can count on two hands. I never saw Ground Zero. I never drove past the Pentagon. I never bothered to trek the hour and a half from Harrisburg to Shanksville. All I know, all I've got, is what I've seen on TV and read secondhand. I don't have any real right to feel the emotional sag that I feel today. Especially since the people that
really lost something...really lost something.

I feel like a charlatan griever. Like a mourning opportunist. The tourist that takes pictures and tells people he's from there. But I guess...I guess at least I feel.

Maybe you've felt it too, these last five years, on this day that hits just as Summer breaks down. The change of seasons. Sailboat to driftwood. It's constant and it's irrevocable; we all know driftwood can't turn back into a sailboat.

The day always seems sunny, but nothing seems to shine. Walking to the corner store takes a little more effort. The birds sound less like the Disney characters we knew as kids and more like a very tangible, feather-based annoyance. You feel the weight in your shoulders. In your hands. In your stomach.

Oh sure, it's all psychological. We know that. The sun's pumping out UV rays at the same frequency as always. The pigeons never really sounded that chipper to begin with. Does it really make it any better knowing that? Help to gloss up a dull surface? Make the tension more palatable because it's just your mind working overtime on you? Maybe. Maybe it does. Better that than the pull of the voices from a few thousand lost lives floating in a nameless void.

But that's melodrama. That's hyperbole.

They're not calling me.

But if they did - if they could, if they would, if they might - what would they say?

A few years back I caught the film 9/11; I think they show it every year now. Two French documentarians - brothers - were following a rookie firefighter around New York City for a few months. They wanted to show a boy turning into a man in a harsh environment. They just happened to be filming on 11 September 2001. Long story short, one brother - onsite minutes after the attacks with FDNY - ran blindly as Tower Two collapsed. He eventually made it out into the street and barely escaped as One was falling. As he was pushed to the ground and covered by a firefighter who was trying to protect him, he had just three thoughts. One was that his brother was probably dead. Another was that he was about to join him. The last one I'll never forget as long as I live.

"I thought, 'If we make it out of this alive,'" he said, "'I'm going to be a better brother.'"

I always remember those words. I always forget the sentiment. On a day where a few complicit people killed more than a few innocent people, the ramifications for those directly affected have been profound. For myself...I've probably become more cynical. More aware of the world around me. A little jaded. A little weepy one extra day a year. But if I've
learned anything...it's that I've learned nothing.

Too often when we experience loss we dwell on the negation rather than the affirmation. We think about what wasn't and not what was. What could have been and not what we'd made of it. But the cardinal sin to which we all suffer? We focus on what's no longer there rather than what's sitting right in front of us. It's gone. It's over. But we neglect to remember what was so great about it when it wasn't.

That which is granted shall be taken for granted. It's human nature.

Those people are gone. Loved ones lost, children outlived by parents, children outliving parents they'll never know. They're not coming back, and every year on this day we'll be reminded of that. So do we honor that notion by being defeatist? By holing up and closing off? Is flying a polyester flag as a lone act of patriotism and as a cover for an underlying depression, anger and fear the only answer that we can offer?

We should all do better. We have the potential. And we owe it to the people who had theirs revoked without a say in the matter.

Smile at a stranger. Lend someone five bucks and don't worry if you ever see it again. Sing in the shower. Make your best friend laugh. Make yourself laugh. Help an old lady across the street. Buy your boss lunch. Pet the dogs in the park. Throw a penny over your shoulder into a fountain. Throw yourself into a fountain. Eat ice cream until your head hurts. Thank the guy at the counter - and mean it. Let one more person merge on the highway. Cry at a movie. Make a stupid face at a kid in a stroller. Hold someone's hand when you'd rather slap it away. Call someone you love. Tell them you love them. Listen to them say it back.

Walk next to someone so they don't have to walk alone.

Be better at feeling. Take it all in, kids. You've got one token and it's good for a big, wistful, visceral round on a track. It's bumpy. The best tracks have a few bumps in them. Try to enjoy it.

Driftwood can't un-putrify. It can't get stronger. It can't regenerate and build itself back into a sailboat. But that doesn't really even matter, does it? Human beings aren't driftwood. We might break down, but we can snap back. And we make for vessels that are much better than sailboats.

I hate this day. I hated it last year, I hate it this year, and I'll hate it next year. But better days are coming, just as they've come before. The sun will shine and the birds will sing and all other timeless, affected cliches will come to fruition. I'm moving towards them. You should too.

C'mon. I'll walk with you.