Julie tells us that we'll be able to send in our own sabotage ideas and the saboteurs will pick one. Because the producers can't come up with enough ideas on their own. But for now, the saboteur is on his or her own. Suuure he or she is, as we're about to see.
Julie cuts to the living room, where everyone is hanging out talking about how much nicer this season's house is, when all the lights suddenly go out. Enzo says he knows it was the saboteur, and says that he figures that someone will be missing when the lights come on, and that'll be the perp. How will the saboteur ever avoid detection by this acute investigative mind? Brendon, thinking this is a signal for bedtime, goes groping through the stygian blackness to get his toothbrush and toothpaste, displaying a remarkable capacity for blind obedience in more ways than one. And Andrew, because he hasn't done enough to draw attention to himself yet, decides to sneak around and mess with people's heads, making random noises. The lights come back on and Andrew is busted, and then there's another video message form the saboteur on the big screen, taunting them: "If you weren't so afraid of the dark, you would have caught me." The figure says the storage room door is now padlocked, blocking access to all their food and supplies, and so it is. "But don't worry, there's plenty of slop in the kitchen to go around," the voice says. While everyone tries to figure out who did it -- and since half these people are just now arriving at the clever conclusion that the door must have been locked while the lights were out -- Brendon confesses that he brushed his teeth, and a lot of fingers are pointed at Andrew. Seriously, who pretends to be the saboteur? I don't know who's dumber, him for making himself a target or everyone else for thinking a saboteur, who clearly has a lot of support from production, would be that obvious.
Then there's a lot of promos for the coming week, in which among other things, we learn that the saboteur will be revealed to us, the viewers, next Thursday. And then we return to the living room, which is like the scene of a locked-room murder mystery, if the locked room were in a convalescent home for people with debilitating brain injuries.
I tell you, summer used to go by fast for me up here in Minnesota, but this gig is the best way I can think of to make it drag on forever.
M. Giant is a Minneapolis-based writer with a wife, a son, and a number of cats that seems to have settled at around two. Learn waaaay too much about him at Velcrometer, follow him on Twitter, or just e-mail him at m.giant[at]gmail.com.