Previously on The Pelican Grief: Osten was intimidated by a marauding pelican. Hey, don't laugh! Pelicans are scary, with the...you know, feathers and the puack-puack noise and everything. America's new boyfriend Ryan-O stepped in to head off the beheading by machete and the inevitable PETA boycott. ("Poultry is Poultricide!") Jon and Shawn engaged in the Battle of the Network Bores, hollering at each other about who was less likely to make it to the moral high ground with a map, a compass, and a three-ton crane. Drake cannonballed its way to the reward challenge and chowed down on a low-carb meatapalooza, but when it came time for immunity, they weren't the big animals of the island. Surprisingly strong showings by a plucky Christa and a momentarily heroic Andrew highlighted a brute strength marathon that Morgan eventually took home in its puny, shriveled, calorie-restricted hands. As Drake prepared for tribal council, Trish and Jon accurately read the growing threat from Rupert's dominance and made a move to get him out, but an opportunistic Sandra snitched on them and Shawn stepped in to help make sure Trish got the boot instead. Now, Drake and Morgan are both down to five members, one for each toe on the foot I am often tempted to use to kick them. "Who will be voted out tonight?" Probst is not so much with the dramatic pauses.
Credits. Behold Osten's entire storyline, reduced to one shot of him trying in vain to swim. Man of Steel to Man of Mashed Potatoes in three weeks. The mind boggles.
Commercials. Okay, if I get AOL 9.0 because it will protect me from meeting smart guys, then what do I use to protect me from meeting guys who use AOL?
On night eighteen, the moon hovers over Camp Drake as a crab makes its way across the sand, back to the trailer of the Survivor staff crab-wrangler, who is waiting with a "good boy" and a biscuit. The tribe, meanwhile, is glumly returning from what was a rather emotional tribal council for Rupert the Eternally Indignant, and you'd better believe the drama isn't over yet. The next thing we hear is Rupert's unmistakable bellow, which is now the most tired element of this show, having just beaten out the moon and its sense of eternal foreboding. "Who the hell voted for me?" Rupert thunders. "Who the hell voted for me? Jon?" Jon is walking and trying to ignore this silly matinee performance of the theater of the absurd, but he finally turns around. "Yeah," he says. "Who the hell voted for me?" Rupert loudly demands again. "I did," Jon says plainly. "What the fuck was that shit tonight?" Rupert hollers menacingly, physically advancing on Jon, who takes a few steps back. Jon claims that he was voting to protect Drake, presumably based on Trish's argument that Rupert might go off with Morgan post-merge and start picking off Drake members. As Jon starts to walk away again, a furious Rupert puts his hand on the back of Jon's neck to turn him back around. Hey, step off, there, Thugs Meany. Seriously. If Brynn almost got booted from The Real World for tossing a relatively innocuous dinner fork, you should probably keep your hands off other people's necks when you're angry. "DAMMIT, LOOK AT ME!" Rupert shouts, infuriated that anyone would vote him out right in the middle of a game the sole object of which is to vote off everyone other than yourself. Jon points out that he already is looking at Rupert, which Rupert probably can't tell because he has chosen to throw this hissyfit in the dark. Jon continues to take steps back, and Rupert continues to get all up in his face. Jon starts to explain: "I made a decision based on --" Rupert cuts him off, disgusted at Jon's attempt to offer an explanation just because Rupert demanded one. "You're starting this shit now!" he yells at the top of his lungs, stepping toward Jon again and getting about two inches from his face. Finally, Rupert abruptly steps back from Jon and puts his hands in the air in an "I'm not touching him" gesture. Oh, good grief, you big baby. It's a game. You get votes. That's the way it works. Nobody asked you to like the fact that they voted for you, and far be it from me to tell you how to feel about it, but this idea that the appropriate response to people's engaging in competition against you is to scream your head off like a damn crazy person isn't so much "pirate" as it is "Dennis Rodman." As a smart boy in a backwards hat once said, it's a game, and it's a game to be played hard, and you ought to be able to play hard and have other people play hard without taking it quite this personally.