Chapter 27: You Are The Weakest Evolutionary Link (Goodbye!)

I was accepted to participate on Senseless Reality Show #214 quite handily. Having paid the requisite $1.99 fee to text message my application to the "Fun Line," and then signing away all ancillary rights to my likeness, future children, kidneys, so on and so forth to Sony BMG Music, I was ready to compete. Soon I would earn the million-dollar prize, and Sergei would feel the heat of a million soldiers each paid a single dollar to take my nation back from his sweaty, soiled clutches.

I could envision Sergei at that very moment, re-greasing his mustache in my personal bathroom, clogging up the drains with his thick, masculine clumps of tangled oily nose hairs. And then there were the citizens! Well, I was quite sure he was doing something to them. But still, my drains!

We were divided into tribes, Team Loser and Team Winner. Team Winner had the benefits of a good shelter, the millionaire's favor, food, and vaccinations. My tribe, Team Loser, was told that a serial killer had secretly been placed among us, and that much humor would come from attempts to ferret him out before we were all strangled with our own hosiery. Luckily, I quickly discerned his identity, thanks to his habit of screaming, "I'll fucking kill you!" and jumping up and down on the beach with bloody pantyhose. Having fingered him, I then identified him and claimed my reward: A new, bloodthirstier serial killer embedded among us. Needless to say, the tribe could barely sleep with their excitement that night. If only we had been able to guess it was the new guy, who joined us moments after the host said, "A new bloodthirstier serial killer will join your tribe."

As the days went on, we engaged in a variety of contests to win the millionaire's favor, while eliminating our rivals. There were matches of wits, and of jello wrestling. We were required to stage a production of Cats, while dressed as dogs. There was a swimsuit competition, and we had to issue a top-40 hit record ("Scurvy is a Word I Don' Wanna Hear No More" later earned two nominations in the Reggae Grammy Awards). Still, I felt as thought I was losing sight of my main mission in life: protecting my drains from the ever-increasing amount of body hair Sergei was surely sending down them, provided he showered regularly.

On day 472, we were sent to Final Council. At Final Council, we would vote for representatives who would narrow down a field of electors, who promised to vote for the candidate we chose in a popular vote, but were not technically bound to do so. Should three-fifths of the electors choose the same contestant to expel from the game, and there not be a veto from the host's manager, then that contestant's corpse would be mailed home via FedEx in a wine cask. (And all ancillary rights to likeness, children, kidneys, ancestral homes, alimony, etc. retained by Sony BMG.)

Alas, I was chosen by popular vote, simply because none of my fellow tribe members could bear my persona. My many attempts to hump their faces and ferment alcohol from rotten mangoes had resulted only in repeated attempts to send me to Exile Peninsula, also known as Florida. I could take a hint. My main hint being their refusal to let me hump their faces. As each of them approached the camera in the Chamber of Reckoning and inscribed my name in Sharpie on the Tablet of Foreboding, they explained their reasons for choosing me to leave the game. Number one on their lists: "She won't stop trying to hump my damn face." Number seven: "She has cooties."

Thus another plan to reconquer my homeland had gang aft agley. Informed by their legal team that FedEx would not accept wine casks stuffed with corpses, I was instead dumped unceremoniously on the side of Interstate 40 somewhere between the Carolinas and California. I also received a copy of Senseless Reality Show #214: The Home Game, in which I was forced to vote myself out in an exact recreation of the game I had just played. Hearing all the comments from myself about myself, and being forced to refuse to hump my own face, really stung.

Then, I saw the light. The light being the lone headlight still functional on the speeding tour bus that was about to run me over. After a sudden screeching of tires, a cloud of dust, and a three-car pileup, the bus opened its door in front of me. "Come toward the light, Katrina," a voice said. I then realized it was my own voice. I stepped aboard, slightly embarrassed.

"Where you headed?" the driver asked.

"To get my country back," I answered.

"Us too," he said. "Hop in."

And with that, I joined the Christian Evangelical Order of Brethren on their cross-country trip to forcibly overthrow Congress with pitchforks and the wrath of God.