LAST EDITED ON 05-14-04 AT 07:59 PM (EST)Official SurvivorBlows Reunion Show Part Two TranscriptWell…Yes, I Am Saying You’re Fat I can’t believe I’m doing this again. And the counters are reset to zero. Including the one for my energy level. It’s all done, y’know? I mean, the finale sucked, mostly, except for some good fussin’ and feudin’, and I spent three days on something that the public reasonably expects me to do in one, and then we gotta turn right around and tear open already-old, yet still cloyingly fresh, scabs. I’m in meemieville here, kids. Okay, this is me bellying up to the fortitude bar and not being a big weenie about this. Weenie or no: this is not going to be as sweeping and Tolstoyevskian as the finale summary and Reunion/A transcript. There will be no endless bleak descriptions of Anna Gooberovna gazing out over the frozen steppe waiting for the return of Boris Hoodatavich from the long struggle for the Rodina. Empires will not rise and fall like Cleopatra’s rack. And: there will be no shoutouts. Not a one. Not even to…ha! Thought you had me there, didn’t you? No shoutouts. Nosirree, no epic prose here. We go in, we do the job, complete the surgical strike, get out, and get home to our loved ones and sex objects. Thass all, yolks. Dood. That was an egg joke. Clearly I’m not quite recovered. Sorry, I’ll try to pull out of my flaming tailspin here. Previously on Saint Elsewhere: Lamber won, and Robby Redsauce scammed her into sharing the million and putting out, and Lex sucks, and Alicia and Tom suck almost as much, and Kathy sucks only slightly less then they do, and everyone else just is. Oh yeah, and Jiffy did a remarkably good job with Reunion/A. Right? Right. So we come in from the regular credit sequence and we’re in the studio setting, with Jiffy on a log and everyone else on benches. No on is missing. The audience is small. There’s a fire in front of Jiffy, and the Giant Easter Egg Web and Text Messaging Server that apparently contains all the votes is at his hand. Jiffy is friendly and disarming and in full live-show host mode. He tells us that the format for this show will be to reduce the 18 All Stars to a Final Four, then announce the winner of Survivor All-Stars: America’s Tribal Council, which will be the last time I show enough respect to call this farce by its real name. In between, Jiffy will show us the results of the other polls that CBS ran with the voting to give it enough filler to consume nearly an entire hour of prime-time television. Seventeen of the All-Stars look relaxed and happy. They know that they have virtually no chance, even those who do have a chance. They know that people who have text messaging voted for Colby. They know that a bunch of complete mental defectives with Web access voted for Rupert. They know that the AARP and AARP Junior voted for Rudy. They know that anyone with a brain voted for Robby Redsauce. They know that millions of adolescent Y chromosomes voted for Morasca and Lamber. Skeltor, Sue, Hatch, Sceri, Ethan, Lex, Kathy, Shii, Tom, and The Giant Mouth of Doom all know that they are not going to “walk out of this building with a check for a million bucks,” as Jiffy describes the scene. They are just here because they’re supposed to be. Cesternino, who also has no chance of winning, in addition to no brain and no future, looks like his mother spit-shined his face and told him to sit up straight. And so he is, his spine locked into the “yes, mother” position, wearing an idiotic grin. This is not readily apparent at first, but when he opens his fool mouth, there will be trouble. So, let’s see, final four, check for a million, brak brak brak, I think we’ve about set the scene and we can start making stuff up. Jiffy: Before we get to business, a lot has happened since that brawl on Sunday night. Sceri made me have sex with her again, and Lex was reassembled, and Robby and Amber haven’t slept a wink wink nudge nudge, and they’ve been busy showing up on every magazine in America featuring them on its cover. Rob: We haven’t slept a wink wink nudge nudge since Sunday night. Amber: It’s been good, because we’ve gotten to do stuff together, stuff like that b!tch Morasca and her little Godless heathen Ethan… Tom: Hayee’s a Jew! A Jew! Amber: …don’t get to do because they’re so busy being all intellectual and substantial, and we just won’t have time to do that stuff soon, since we’ll be married and Rob will be off at his job driving the bus, and I’ll be home minding all the little tomatoes. Is there an “e” in that? Jiffy: You’ve been on Regis, Leno, Letterman, The Early Show, The Late Show, The Daily Show, Howard Stern, CSI Bismarck, Hockey Night in Canada, Eh, South Park, Linkin Park, Blue’s Clues, The Wiggles’ Special Happy Fun Mow Us Down With Assault Weaponry Hour, and Landru’s Local News, which is far superior to the local news of approximately 210 million Americans. What’s been the weirdest moment so far, Amber? Amber: Having sex with Regis while eating a meatball sammich. Jiffy: Any interest in televising the wedding? (Rob and Amber look mortified.) Jiffy: So what kind of offers are you getting? Amber: Well, Larry Flynt called, and… Rob: We had anothuh netwuhk call and want to televise the wedding. Jiffy: And will you? Rob: Only if it’s a multi-picture deal. Jiffy: I’m an ordained minister in the First Church of Mark, any interest in ponying up and getting married right now, here on live television? Rob: Mom! Mom! Don’t shoot! He’s Jiffy! Mrs. Redsauce: If he’s a real priest, why ain’t he got a child on his knee? (Reality Check: When Jiffy suggests doing it right now, the audience goes absolutely freakin’ nuts, and Rob, Amber, and the Buyavowel and Redsauce families are the only peeps in the building who oppose this move.) Jiffy: So, Jerri, you went bats the other night. Your meds levelled off yet? (The Stepford Audience applauds in terrified glee as hired gunsels circulate through them, prodding them with bayonets until the “Give It Up For Manthey” sign is turned off) Jerri: Yeah, but if Landru doesn’t stop calling me a whore, I’m outta here. Jiffy: So that was all pretty tragic, all those people booing you for being such a namby-pamby grouphugger, huh? Jerri: I think I got my point across, even though the audio mysteriously failed and I was escorted from the building by hired gunsels. Jiffy: How are you feeling now? Jerri: Much better. I had a few drinks, and Colby gave me one of his famous Texas Crude massages, and I hooked up with Tina and we jumped Alicia when she wasn’t looking and beat the crap out of her. (Reality Check: By this point, even Lex—especially Lex--visibly wants to kill this woman with his bare hands.) Jiffy: So, Jerri, now I gotta ambush you. Just a little while ago, I got a call from the CIA saying you had hired someone to kill me. Wassup widdat? Jerri: I was mad because you let mean people in the audience the other night, and mean people suck. Jiffy: Not as well as you, Jerri, and mean people don’t swallow, either. So, I’m not sure what the problem was. Jerri: It’s our last night of media whoring, and they have no right to be judgmental of us. I mean, we’ve only put ourselves out in the public eye. It’s not like we asked to be famous. We just went on television and tried to win a million dollars. I mean, what business is that of theirs? This show would be nothing without us. Jiffy: Yes, slurp-slurp, that’s true, slurp-slurp (gestures to guards), but we do have a live audience… Jerri: Oh, for sure, but they’d just better sit there and adore us like the common folk they are. Jiffy: Okay, you’re wearing me out, Hatch, kill a few moments while the guards close in and take down this psychob!tch who’s too crazy to be from Hell. Hatch: I like being hated. Makes me all tingly and squirmy. Did I tell you about my cabana boy? Jiffy: Cesternino, I forgot to let you squeak the other night, you wanna try to crack some lamea$$ joke? (Cesternino is unbelieveably stiff. 27 or 30 days on television all the freaking time, and now the guy’s got stage fright. Hung out with Unterseebootkapitan Matt sharpening his freakin’ machete all the damn time for weeks, and now he’s seizing up like a mouse facing a screaming eagle. He is stammering uncontrollably. And remember, this is a villain. This is “one of the most strategic players ever in the game.” This is a mockery of a travesty of a sham, is what this is. I suspect two causes, the first being that he’s in between Sue Hawk and Richard Hatch, both of whom would kill him for a turkey sandwich on their way to clawing off each others’ boobies, and the other is that he’s only three feet away from Jenna Morasca, who still makes him wet his panties.) Cesternino: I’m famous now! It’s hard! Girls! Eek! Jiffy: Lex, any fallout from being the most pompous jacka$$ in American history, including Richard Nixon, Jay Gould, and Aaron Burr? Lex: It’s rough, but if you’ve got a great family life and your family feels warm and loved and pierced and tattooed, it’s all good. Jiffy: Jerri, any truth to the story that you and some other whining hypersensitive self-important melodramatic loser crapweasels showed up tonight is because you were escorted here under armed guard? Jerri: (Muffled) Free the Survivor One! No Justice, No Peas! Jiffy: Seriously, you’re all free to go. (The All Stars look at each other, and at the British Special Air Service Regiment ringing the stage, and at the men in the catwalks in black suits sighting down Uzis at them, and at Mark Burnett standing off stage left smiling brightly and gently slapping a blackjack against his palm, and smile, and shake their heads “no.” In unison.) Jiffy: Okay, they’re all staying completely of their own free will, so we’ll get to the first of our final four, I wonder which handsome hunk of a cowboy it could possibly be? Let’s get some music. (There is a sound not unlike the quailing of the wild turkeys in the Braveheart episode of South Park. At first, I’m not sure if it’s the audience making this noise.) Jiffy: In their season of Survivor, this person dominated challenges. Some would say that his honesty cost him a million dollars, but they’d be stupid, because it also opened up an opportunity for him to make millions more whoring himself out on La Cienaga Boulevard. The first person in the final four is, stunningly, Colby Donaldson. Shocked, I am, shocked. Cowboys? Here in Casablanca? (Audience orgasms. Loudly. Wetly. Prolongedly. Colby gets some tongue, yet again, from Skeletor, who’s sitting right behind him in the bleachers—oh, there’s a shock. The piece of parchment containing Colby’s name looks like it had something with his name printed off a laser printer and glued on it. Nope, we’re not going for any kind of expensive production artwork here. We are clearly out of budget and working from Burnett’s pocket. Colby makes his way down front and we see some Colby footage, including that he’s thankful he’s a Texan, Colby walking bowlegged down the beach because of the saddle sores he got from riding Jerri, Colby dry-humping Skeletor after they’ve offed Keith Famie, Colby winning a megagazillion challenges.) Jiffy: So Colby, did you actually think that the nice guy thing could work for you in A.S.S.? Colby: Aw shucks, who cares, I’m getting laid at Belly every night of the week, and even when it’s sorta slow in there, Tina’s always up for some phone sex. And the cool thing about this here million, which I’m darned sure I’m going to win because every 14-year-old girl in America is lying in a puddle of her own juices right now, is that you don’t really have to work for it, or to listen to Lex running his goldurn mouth all the time for a month. Jiffy: Okay, you also voted for some filler, and the first one we’ll show you is Best Fights. (Footage of Alicia waving her truncheon in Kimmi Kappenburg’s face; Ghandia pretending that something she didn’t like happened while Ted performs higher math on the precise amount that he needs to be committed to his wife and not have to pay alimony and reminds Ghandia that wet 50-pound bags of flour are more desirable than she is (hey, they’re rerunning footage, I get to rerun jokes); Robb Z choking the crap out of that yokel Clay; Rupert and Jonny A$$play, who has apparently legally changed his name to Jonny A$$play; and Lex goes insane as Robby Redsauce admits that he has no intention of letting Lex hang around to win a million dollars.) Jiffy: The most votes went for the Rupert-A$$play fight. So, quick update. Anything change between Lex and Boston Rob? Lex: Fvck you, you fvcking fvck. I’m going to be Best Man at the wedding, it’s all good. Robby: Lex is an irrational crackpot. Lex is out of his fvcking mind, Jeff, and it’s all good. Jiffy: Big Tom and Rob? Tom: Yew a ponk, boah. Robby: Fvck you, you dumba$$ hillbilly goat-bawtheruh. Jiffy: More crap, after this highly favorite moment: (Sue Hawk’s big moment, followed by Commercials, brought to you by…NO! NO! Not Fvcking Chevrolet, AGAIN!!!! AUUUUGGHHHHH!!!! And Cingular, AGAIN. Sigh. Black and white guy, for Cingular, again; Trucks hurled off a car carrier, for Chevrolet, again; a happy family moving into its new home, for Fannie Mae, which is a highly worthwhile institution making good on the American dream for thousands of families not otherwise able to afford it, and so I will not mock them; Strung-together movie clichés, for Edy’s Grand ice cream, again; Bright colors, flashing graphics, and girls jumping on a trampoline, for The Man Show Kohl’s; and CBS, for Joan of Arcadia, The. Dumbest. Effing. Show. Ever., and who God is asking to give up her virginity for the team, and for CSI Blankets America. And we’re back.) Jiffy: We faked 38 million votes for this gig, and we’re still here with all these losers, but first, let’s get to your voting for Sexiest Chunk o’ Manflesh, remembering that for some unfathomable reason, I was not eligible. (Ethan, having water poured over his rippling muscles as he gleams in the…oh, uhm, never mind; Boston Rob, glowering; Hunter Ellis’ nose; that whackjob Greg Buis; the deadbeat Gervase Peterson; Burton Roberts, staring at his own musculature; that punka$$ b!tch Robb Zbacnik; Andrew Savage…) Savage: Dammit, Probst, I told you to stop checking me out, you fvcking freakazoid. Do I have to bend you over and teach you whose b!tch you are, again? Stop stalking me, you bloody psycho! For the last time, I don’t want to be your friend! (By the way, I’ll bet you a hundred dollars Andrew Savage is on the next edition of A.S.S.…Alex Bell, and of course, why did we bother to name any of those other names when Colby’s in the field?) Jiffy: Duh. Colby wins. (Reality Check: Morasca leans over and sticks her tongue in Zohn’s ear, just in case his widdle ego is suffering.) Jiffy: So Colby, how different is your life? Colby: Well, it was hard to quit my job at the carwash, but about three percent of the women at Belly aren’t carrying chlymidia, so it’s a good life. Jiffy: Okay, we’re finished milking you. Let’s do another final four member. (Audience begins to turkey-warble. All-Stars look at one another in horror.) Jiffy: STFU, the music is, like, total drama and stuff. So, this final four choice is so ridiculous that one of Landru’s friends who shall remain nameless because we’re not doing shoutouts called him up screaming that the vote was fixed. In fact, we’re not exactly sure who was stupid enough to vote for this howling mad chunk of alcohol, pork fat, and good old-fashioned American cracker ignorance and prejudice. Step on up, Dumba$$. (Tom doesn’t even hesitate to see who “Dumba$$” is.) Jiffy: Don’t worry, it’s not like he’s got a chance in Hell. I mean, there’s still two seats there for Rupert, and we’ll fit another contender on the floor, right? Okay, here’s some reruns. (Footage of Tom laying on the beach babbling incomprehensibly; Tom not running around half-naked with a feather not jammed into his a$$, because if that really happened and I really saw it, I’d be self-launching off the overpass into a couple of semis screaming down the interstate; Lex claiming he didn’t think Tom was as stupid as he let on; Tom drunk; Tom drunk; Tom drunk; and Tom dragging a balloon to a fiery doom over the savannah.) Jiffy: Make unintelligible sounds, Tom. Tom: Whut sooprise, coont evn vote fer m’sef. Hoo got ber? I maht c’ud git druhnk, affer ull thut thayuhr. Jiffy: Okay, here’s another favorite moment: (Mike Skupin gets cremated, and we’re off to Commercials, brought to you by Crest and Tylenol, which no longer contains cyanide, by the way: Some nasty-looking broad in a way-too-tight closeup, for Tylenol, which not only no longer contains cyanide, but apparently Aleve does; some shining glam chick, for Crest; pigs wolf-whistling at women, also for Crest; Beyonce (uhn….uhn…uhn…uhn….ohhhhhhhhh….sorry, that’s about all I can type with one hand, and it’s not like I haven’t practiced), for Loreal makeup; an annoying trailer, for Scary Movie 3 on DVD; those three identical friends, for Cingular, again; a guy and his wife, once again demonstrating that you can use Expedia to lie to your wife and avoid attending Magique and getting kidnapped by the freaky scary performers and having messages about irritable bowel syndrome scrawled in magic marker on your hairy naked tummy; CBS, for CSI, and for Without a Trace, and for Everybody Wants Landru To Drive To LA and Finish Off Raymond Once and For Freaking All Because They’re Really Tired of Him Whining About the Show All the Damned Time, and for No, Really, Charlie Sheen Can’t Act, and for Helter Skelter; My Local News, which is far superior to your local news unless you’re one or two people I won’t mention because shoutouts are verboten, teasing stories about gang activity in a neighborhood I sometimes visit (verboten, I tell you) and about that same dead kid on a soccer field they were teasing four freaking nights ago, because it’s apparently a really slow news week; animated crap, for Marshall’s; a truck towing various large objects, noticeably slowly, for Nissan trucks; and My Local News, yet again, for one of its insane weatherpeople stripping naked and running through tornadoes, screaming “Thank God I work in a major media market!” and we’re back, with footage of Morasca and Strobel stripping for peanut butter.) Jiffy: (wiping away tears) Damn if that wasn’t the happiest day of my life right there. It still burns when I pee. Woo! Hey, did anybody invite Strobel? Any regrets, Jenna? Morasca: Hell no. I mean, Ethan and I have this thing we do with peanut butter, and, uhm, I’ve been more naked for Playboy, Penthouse, Hustler, Juggs, Swank, EasyRider, and www.zetas-put-out.com. Jiffy: Cesternino, you’re a freaky pimply teenage horndog. How important are hot women to the show? (Morasca turns to Cesternino, lifts up her shirt, and collapses, giggling uncontrollably.) Cesternino: Uh…buh…ah-ta… Jiffy: Yeah, but I hear you get a discount at the 24-Hour Whore Store now. (Cesternino wets himself and falls off the bleachers and into yesterday’s news. All 127 other survivors march on stage and place a crown of laurels on Probst’s head.) Jiffy: Okay, here’s the footage of hot ho-bags you voted for… (Footage of Morasca and Strobel soaping each other up in the jungle; Colleen Haskell; Elizabeth Filarski Hasselbeck, who picked up the extra ten letters by marrying a man who became the worst quarterback in the NFL; what? WHAT???? Jerri Freakin’ Manthey? Are you fvcking sh!itting me? That has totally got to be a rigged suckup there, because even Cesternino wouldn’t do that diseased hag; Cleopatra Jones and her bolt-ons; Alicia Calaway; former male model Aaron Collins; Darr-uh Johnson; and Amber Brkich.) Jiffy: And you voted Amber the hottest beeyotch ever. Rob: Yeah! She’s mine, losers! Go fookin’ rent Strobel you fuh-reakin’ lamesters! Jiffy: Okay, review, brak brak brak… (Audience begins to warble) Jiffy: …oh ferchrissakes, would you let me finish talking before you cue me with that stupid turkey noise? I’m a seasoned professional, I know my cues, I mean, can’t I just kick back and crack a brewski with my homies, here? Okay, fine, fine. Our next finalist is a big goofy caveman who is a shoo-in to win this here million bucks, it’s Rupert, and ohmygoodnessgraciousme aren’t we surprised? (Rupert staggers to his log stool, howling insufferably, as he is wont to do on these things.) Jiffy: Okay, here’s Rupert footage. (Footage of Rupert stealing shoes; Rupert fishing; Rupert emoting; Rupert getting made fun of in the shower by Shawn and Burton; oh, grotesque, Rupert needing a jockstrap; Rupert getting his leg humped by Laura.) Jiffy: Rupert, that thing you said, “Never give up, never surrender, never admit defeat,” did you invent that? Rupert: Yes, I tell it to my boys—and by my boys, I mean my testicles--all the time. (Reality Check: No, you didn’t. You stole it from Tim Allen in Galaxyquest, you unfunny, hyperemotional, girlie-man Doctor Phil wannabe turdlet. I cannot project vomit far enough, knowing that you are a mortal freakin’ lock to win this money because a plurality of the people who voted are easily suckered twits. You suck, Rupert, and having spent two consecutive seasons listening to your piffle, I’m just plain tired and I want to die.) Jiffy: I agree with Landru. I’m sick of your schtick, too, so we’re going to go away and show more footage now. (The Great Jonny A$$play Dead Grandmother Scene. Y’know, I really detest that little twerp, but you gotta hand it to him, that was truly the greatest moment ever, despite the fact that 38 million 14-year-old girls with text messaging voted for something else. And we’re off to Commercials CBS.com, for the first Survivor season on DVD, which you still shouldn’t buy; the dumb blonde guy and the smug kid, for Pringles, again; a family driving along trailing its possessions as they fall from the trailer, for JC Penney; disco show tunes, for General Motors trucks; various dogs, for Purina; a bad trailer for another heinous Jerry Bruckheimer movie, which turns out to be King Arthur, but they screwed it up because Arthur isn’t played by Graham Chapman (no, that was not a shoutout); and CBS, for CSI, again, and for CSI Miami Spins Off and we’re back.) Jiffy: Let’s talk villains. Here’s more recrap. (Footage of Hatch; Manthey; Brian Heidik; Rob Freakin’ Cesternino? What? Geez, this is strained; and Jonny A$$play) Jiffy: Uhm, I don’t think this one is really a contest, is it? And there the skinny little freak is, in the front row, let’s all get whipped into a frenzy and kill him, now, Jonny A$$play! A$$play: I’m a prick. I’m an actual pro wrestler now. I’m wowing the ladies. I’m beating up people the size of the old Jared. Jiffy: You’re a jerk. Not even Manthey would screw you. (Audience warbles.) Jiffy: Okay, let’s bring in the last member of the final four, the righteous king of the universe, the true winner, the man with the single biggest claim on the right to beat Rupert to a bloody pulp, Rawby Redsauce. And here’s the footage, because we’re in a hurry. Robby: No one’s gonna argue about who’s more pawpuluh, I mean Ruppuht’s gonna win this, but kill da time you gotta kill, Jiffy. (Footage of Robby ogling Amber’s a$$; Robby making googoo eyes at Ambuh; Robby repeatedly kicking peoples’ a$$es in physical challenges; and the famous moment wherein he became the Rawbfadda.) Jiffy: Do you even, for a moment, regret what Lex says you did? Robby: Oh, fvck you. Haven’t we had enough of this sh!t? Jiffy: Oh yeah. Time to go sell more donuts. Commercials, brought to you by Chevrolet, yawn, again Dangerous driving, for yet another Chevrolet vehicle; Oh gods, that stupid black and white guy for Cingular, yet again; Shoot me now, the stupid movie clichés for Edy’s Grand ice cream, yet again; a blonde…oh, geez, it’s that twit Kelly Ripa, for Pantene; people at a party running a stupid dog through tricks, for a bad jug wine called Arbor Mist; and CBS, for Dave, and for Cold Case, and for Helter Skelter, yet again. And we’re back. Jiffy: Okay, this is it. Buy stuff on E-Bay to benefit the Elizabeth Glaser Pediatric AIDS Foundation. Before we finally give Rupert the money and get out of here to get very, very drunk, here’s a tease for Survivor 10. (Footage of the Vanuatu Islands, which includes an awful lot of racist cannibal imagery that reminds me that Mark Burnett, a non-American and a veteran of the meanest, toughest regiment that British military service has to offer, is fundamentally an imperialist, colonialist pig who doesn’t quite entirely understand his American audience, but somehow he’ll probably get away with it, and oh yeah, there’s volcanoes. The whole sequence does remind us, however, and credit for originating this thought goes to someone you know who isn’t going to get a shoutout despite being one of my best friends in the world, that we’d sit on our a$$es for about 9 hours if Mark Burnett cut a nature film that long in Imax format, because it would just totally toot sweet rock, y’know?) Jiffy: Okay, here’s the moment that won the prize for being your favorite moment, despite a far better moment occurring in the same season… (Footage of Rupert the pirate stealing Savage’s shoes.) Savage: Golden Fvcking Monkeys on Stretchers, Probst, is there nothing you won’t stoop to to get a fleeting peek at my rippling abs, you creep? Leave me the fvck alone, you wacky douche! Jiffy: Okay, the check’s in my back pocket, and I just farted. Here you go, Rupert. (Audience goes nuts. Probst makes Rupert bend over to give him a desk to fill out and sign the check, which is just one of the most brilliant, devilishly clever moments in television history, and I worship Probst and Mark Burnett for it. Fade to credits after a bunch of family stuff. Oh, by the way, it’s Rupert and Laura’s kid’s birthday. Had you known that, you wouldn’t even have bothered to watch this twaddle, right?) Peace out, campers. Thanks, as always, for reading. 
No, really. No shoutouts, not a one. But thanks for reading.
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