Survivor? Meh. If I want to watch bug-eating, I’ll watch pectaculous Bear Grylls bug-eating. He had a little scandalette a couple of seasons ago where it developed he’d been sleeping in a nice hotel and roughing it during the day, but after a hard day of drinking your own piss and swimming naked through mountain streams, wouldn’t you have earned that Motel 6 room? He apparently injured his shoulder this year in a fit of overauthenticity and had to be flown to a hospital. The hazards of too much expiation; Puma should take note.
I have a few dirty little TV secret pleasures: What Not To Wear and Clean House. And that show with the two terrifying British ladies who wore playtex gloves with maribou feather trim. Something about decending on recalcitrant clutterers and Crocs-wearers (both of which I am one of who)and forcing them into a narrow cable-channel template of kitten heels and Pier One tschotchkes tickles me.
The pushback on Clean House is especially brutal, with families running around their own yard sales and hauling their stacks of National Geographics and stuffed iguanas back into the house, while the designer pulls out his soul patch in frustration.
BTW, PUMAs, does this establish my bona-fides as a non-mini-pee-pee wearer? Or do I actually have to wave a fallopian tube at you? I only have one, but it’s pink and pretty and ruffled as a tween girl’s canopy bed.
Mr. Polly knew a woman who said, “When they told me what a naked man looked like, I didn’t believe it, and now I’ve been married for a year, and I still don’t believe it.”