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When sixteen whiny, arrogant, thankless, fame hungry Americans felt
the need to camp out in my back yard, on a quest for a million dollars,
I was forced to endure 15 weeks of unbearable stupidity, accidental cunning,
and very bad cuisine.
But when the last camera truck was packed up, when the final Styrofoam boulder was removed from "Tribal Council," this dingo found a hole in his heart, an emptiness in his belly, and the cops hot on his trail. Armed with a new found obsession of American pop culture, it was clearly time for a walkabout. |
