Note to self: Do not attempt jokes supposing that "Micronesia" might be fictional. Micronesia has many passionate defenders, and they wish for you to know that she is not at all fictional. She will come with her tiny swords and her miniature daggers, and she will poke you and poke you and poke you. "Poke poke poke," says tiny Micronesia! "I poke you with wee implements!"

Previously on Jeff Probst's Guide To Testosterone: Fifteen seasons happened, including an All-Star season smack in the middle that was either very funny or fodder for a lifelong grudge with the bitterness of boiled lemons, depending upon whether you are Lex.

We open on -- and I know this will be a shock -- an expanse of blue water. The music is insistent and repetitive, coming as it does from the original score of There Will Be Coconuts. Unless the returning "favorites" have really put in a lot of extra time in the tanning booth (which I wouldn't rule out), these are locals of some sort with their faces painted, streaking across the water in their sleek little boat. You can actually tell that the ones doing the work are not contestants from the fact that they're paddling in unison and nobody is paddling with the wrong end. And then Jeff Probst is there, talking to us on his headset in a helicopter! All the ladies think he's rad. We float over Micronesia's little islands, and they're little, see? Micro-nesia! I always wondered why my maps said "Macronesia" instead of "Greenland." (I AM KIDDING DO NOT EMAIL ME.) (Be advised, by the way, that "Micronesia" is producer-speak for "Palau Yet Again.") And for the umpteenth time, we are assured that our setting has beautiful underwater animals and coral reefs that nobody at all is going to break off pieces of, RIGHT, punks?

And then, on a boat, we see ten people hanging out on the boat being paddled to shore. I'm pretty sure I must have already opened one of the NINE PREVIOUS SEASON OPENERS I have written about by mentioning that if the contestants' boat should tip over, they can use almost all the women as flotation devices, but if I haven't, consider it noted here. Seriously, the giant-boobage is way, way, way out of control this season. Jeff assures us that the only thing these people have in common is being "fans of Survivor." And, in the case of the women, having giant boobs. And then he drops the already-defused bomb that these ten people don't realize they're going to be playing against...a tribe of "Favorites"! The first non-Probst words of the season come out of the mouth of my boyfriend Jonathan Penner, who notes that being a fan of the Boston Red Sox doesn't mean you'd want to play against them, because they'd kick your butt. Hmm, I see a few flaws in that logic, but wow, he still has beautiful eyes, so: objection waived! And then Jon "Calling Myself 'Jonny Fairplay' Is The Most Creative Thing I've Ever Come Up With, So I'm Sticking With It" Dalton assures us that he "played a perfect game last time," aside from the losing part, and that he considers himself the best player ever. Which is ludicrous, obviously, but you can kind of see this little pop in his eye at the end, where he goes, "Snack on THAT!," like, "I have said an extreme thing; people will talk about it all day!" He is nothing if not convinced of his uniqueness.