Up until this very point ---------> . <----------, I have been content to let reality TV wander wherever the directors may please to belittle and humiliate the willing participants all so I could feel less embarrassed as I downed that 8th glass of wine and showed Mrs. Two Star General's wife my ass from my balcony and hoped she didn't catch it from the window of her car. In the dark. Where were we? *ahem*
Well, no longer. Call me selfish, but I REFUSE to let my memories of Palau be littered with visions of the next Richard Hatch running naked on the islands' lovely beaches. Do men run naked on the beaches? Most certainly, but they look more like this:
and less like dickhatch. *shudder* And the tribaling and the counseling. I love Survivor as much as the next person, but I wouldn't want it in my living room, would you?
Think about it this way, y'all. Imagine that you used to live in a place that was...tropical. magical. fantastical (I was Willy Wonka in a past life) , and largely untouched by people who are not interested in Scuba Diving. I mean, some of the best parts of my sordid past take place there! Wouldn't you wish that it would stay relatively untouched, instead of broadcast all over the world for everyone to see and say, "Honey! We should go there!" or maybe they won't, because they sure as hell won't be showing the crew staying at the Palau Pacific Resort. Well. I'm a bitch. I don't. I don't want them eating at Mingles. I don't want them doing jello shots on the fourth of july watching a perfect sunset. I don't want them to rent a boat with 4 of the best friends a girl could ever have and spend the afternoon catching fish for sashimi and yelling ABBA at the top of their lungs. I don't want them to know the serenity of Black Tip Lake or experience the rush of hooking in at Blue Corner. I don't want them to giggle through their snorkles as they float, surrounded, in Jellyfish Lake, and I most certainly don't want them to feel their hearts in their throats when a 7 footer skims the wall and plays chicken with them. I don't want them to burn their mouths on firecracker sushi or feel the warmth of betelnut after a freezing dive. I don't want them to look through the smoky haze at the only disco in town at a girl they've known since they were five and think "DAMN! This is the best time of my life." It's mine.
But will I be watching? Hell yeah. I just hope they all pack up and go from whence they came, cuz I'll be back there, sitting at Sam's and drinking a Red Rooster (or maybe watching my baby drink a Red Rooster) in no time. You can count on it.