Previously on Four On The Floor Of The EEOC: the tribes were divided by gender and age, because dividing them by race, religion, and disability would have resulted in uneven numbers. Jeff announced the existence of Exile Island, where bad Survivors would be sent to think about what they had done. (And, if they are like my nephew Little A, rearrange all the shoes they can find, which is how we learned that it's a bad idea to time-out Little A in Grandma's room.) Over at Old Dude HQ, Terry was from fighter jets and Very Pale Dan was from NASA, while Shane was straight off the grungy-ass bottom of an ashtray. The older women predictably lost the first immunity challenge, and although Tina was a lumber-sports bad-ass while Cirie was afraid of leaves, the tribe decided that Tina should go home and Cirie should stay around to confront her fears. Everywhere, fans sarcastically golf-clapped. Fifteen are left! We've barely gotten started! Who will go next? Hotcha!
Credits. Wait, there's a theme, I think. And it's...skulls? Yeah, I think it's skulls! Skulls, I say!
It is Night 3. There is lightning and thunder. Everyone is trying to stay out of the rain, but the Older Men are finding their shelter "somewhat useless," as Shane puts it. And he would know from "somewhat useless." In a night-vision interview, he informs the camera, as water streams down, that they're stuck in a "torrential" storm, and that their canopy wasn't good enough, so they're getting soaked. He refers to this as "bad luck," and I'm really not sure what part of it would be considered "luck," either good or bad. And then, just as he complains, "This place breeds [or possibly 'breathes'] bad luck," a giant bolt of lightning and simultaneous boom of thunder startle him and his camera guy. He hasn't even been out here a week, and he's already dodging thunderbolts. You can tell God is like, "You think the tribe has spoken?"
Over at Young Dude HQ, things are also very sloppy and wet. President Beefcake has decided to take advantage of the situation by drinking some of the rainwater dripping off one particular leaf, but for the rest of them, it's pretty much an explosion of complaining. They've concluded that they'll have to do some work if they intend to have a shelter that can withstand storms like the one they're experiencing right now. Maybe Aras can make them all stick their hands in the middle of a circle, and maybe that will cause a rain barrier to spontaneously form. Can you smell the patchouli? Somebody with a piece of clothing pulled over his face in a way I find intensely creepy says something about how they're "dying, fellas!," and I find that I don't care, because I've done enough math to know that "being rained on" is not in fact greater than or equal to "dying."