Survivor
Earthquakes And Shake Ups!

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Miss Alli: B- | Grade It Now!
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I Feel The Earth Move...Zzzzz...

Previously on Let Them Eat Beefcake: Fat dudes ran the show. The women won a twenty-four-hour visit from a guy so much smarter than they were that a glimmer of hope appeared that they would learn to count and tie their shoes and stuff. They also discovered as a result of their abbreviated Remedial Vanuatu 101 class (first term paper: "Please explain the advantages and disadvantages of eating your own feet") that they could split coconuts and suck sugar cane and didn't have to just keep devouring their own bitterness, resentment, and divisive jealousy. Although those are the most satisfying staples they have, and best of all -- no calories! Yasur then rolled through the immunity challenge, proving that you don't have to be competent to win, you just have to be less incompetent. Although Brady tried to crack the alliance of five men that had previously booted two of his stud-y buddies, he had no luck, and found himself the prettiest boy yet to ride the bus to the Land of Nice Boys Who Don't Even Make It To The Jury And Have To Sit In The Back Row At The Reunion Show.

Credits. You know, the pictures going by only make me more depressed about Brady. I know it's shallow of me. I should be punished. Like...arrested and aggressively questioned by the FBI would be good.

Volcano! And...is that a bat hanging upside down again? It looks like a bat in a Hefty bag. Clearly, my knowledge of bats is not what it should be. That's a deficiency I'll have to correct, what with Halloween coming up. It is the morning of Day 11 at Lopevi, and John is spitting a seed out of his mouth. That's how you can tell there are no chicks around. If John were trying to bag a chick, he certainly wouldn't be spitting for distance. There is tension in the camp, however, because there is an issue on the rapidly shrinking table. Specifically, Chad and his nicely-constructed shoulders want to talk about where everybody sleeps. (Totally unrelated aside by which I mean nothing untoward, of course -- Dear Chad: Next to me is open. Signed, Miss A.) Sarge -- who apparently sleeps in the shelter himself but nevertheless thinks he might be able to help mediate -- takes over the discussion and breaks it to Bubba that some of the guys aren't happy that he sacks out in the same spot by the fire every night. "Well, they can build a bridge and get over it," Bubba says, showing the kind of cooperative Dixie spirit that got Atlanta burned to a charred husk. Sarge insists that this attitude is inappropriate, because nobody came here to be an individual; they came here to be a team. And normally, I don't contradict men named after military ranks, but that is so precisely the opposite of true that it's hard not to make an exception long enough to say: Huh? (I am still totally distracted by Chad's shoulders, incidentally, so I apologize if I miss anything.)

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