The Great Lie

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Reports Of Granny Fairplay's Death Are Greatly Exaggerated

Previously on You Can't Spell "Crazy-Ass, Self-Obsessed, Obnoxious, Delusional Pirate" Without "Irate": Jon and Burton, fed up to their Brillo-padded noggins with Rupert's Triumvirate of Arrogant Snots, solidified an alliance with Lill and rounded up a rather stunned Tijuana and Darrah in a plot to oust Rupert. Burton and Lill won an afternoon of beer and pizza and the carefree slaughtering of fish, but Burton gave his half of the reward to Jon, not needing any more open-mouth kisses, thank you very much. And in the end, the fish turned out not to have anything to worry about, really. Sandra tattled to Rupert that she overheard Burton and Jon plotting something, but Rupert was sure that Lill would spill when he barked the order. Peppered with Rupert's questions, though, Lill showed her immense theatrical range by acting clueless (she is the sly one), and she thus kept the Bearded Bore in the dark about his impending misfortune. Burton then triumphed at the dartboard immunity challenge, thanks to Rupert's obliging decision to have absolutely no grasp of strategy. Rupert tapdanced a bit to ensure his own continued safety, but at tribal council, he nevertheless got the big snuff. Snuff! So in the end, blustery, big-headed, self-crowned King Rupert of the Pearl Islands lasted exactly one tribal council longer than Sir Ryan-O the Pretty And...Well, Just Pretty. Some things are just so delicious that you have to roll them around on your tongue for quite some time before you feel you've gotten the full benefit. And it doesn't only apply to dark chocolate, either.

Credits. You don't really notice how rough these people look until you see them in the credits and see what they normally look like. Poor, poor dirty people. They're starting to look like the cast of a Carnivàle spinoff set in Bermuda.

Commercials. Get yourself a 10x optical zoom lens, yours free with the only consumer-grade digital camera that will one day have its own subdivision in the anti-stalking statutes.

It is Night 27 at Balboa, and the weather is vaguely menacing. There seem to be a lot of storms this season; I don't know if we've ever had quite this much lightning. Or maybe it's all the same shot and I've now seen the same lightning strike a hundred times or so. That would explain my constant feeling of déjà-vu, which I had attributed until now to the fact that Jon's hair makes me think of Betty White. The castaways are returning from the Rupert-booting tribal council, down one bushy beard and one raging ego. And, presumably, bits and pieces of the breaking hearts of megalomaniac-likers everywhere. Sandra stomps back to camp a little bit ahead of the group, undoubtedly dismayed that things are not going exactly the way she perhaps planned them. Creepy night-vision Christa stares blankly at a spot on the ground about six feet in front of her as she interviews that she was "shocked" at the booting of Rupert. "Maybe I've been too cocky all along, thinking I know what's going on," she intones in her trademark nasal voice. Stand aside while I fire up the "Gee, ya THINK?"-inator and blast yet another round into the sky.

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