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What kinds of modern go-getters play Reverse Survivor? Well, This kind. And these. And also these.

Entries for Week Ten

Wherein our players were asked to get us from one sentence to another. This is it, folks. This week's winner successfully paddles the last raft out beyond the surf line where he or she is picked up by a Portugese trawler. The loser does whatever you guys came up with in Week One. Some sort of audio embarrassment, as I recall.

ATTENTION JURY MEMBERS, MEANING EVERYONE WHO HAS ALREADY ESCAPED: Please vote via email by 9 p.m. US EST, Thursday, June 10. As always, vote for the person you want OFF the island. And rub some ginseng balm on your temples and gimme some good snarky commentary, too. Thanks.

Milli:

I started down this path with the best of intentions. Never did I realize my addiction to Kool-Aid would cost me so much. Here I sit in a Motel 6 on the outskirts of Vegas with a cup in my hand and a red ring around my mouth.

Never in my wildest dreams did I think the giant glass pitcher that broke through my wall and continually screamed "oh yeah" would bring me so much joy, and now so much pain.

Things with the Kool-Aid man and myself started out innocently enough. We enjoyed the Red Berry Burst flavor of the powdered drink with equal amounts of fervor, but as our insatiable appetite for the sugary drink grew, our longing for the powdery goodness grew to resemble Nero-esque Kool-Aid orgies!

K-A and I were doing a simple deal with some Kool-Aid junkies down in Tia-Juana when the Nestle Quick Bunny jumped us. The bunny wasn't having anyone move in on his powdered drink empire. I had never been hard core enough to drink the Q, so I stayed away from Quick, but had always been curious of the trance like state Q users ended up in. We fought hard with the bunny, but his tenacity and the 150 Mormons with Uzi's quickly destroyed our small crew of hardcore K-A Peddlers.

With half of my crew dead and the withdrawal of Kool-Aid riddling my veins, I fled to Las Vegas to try to win back my fortune playing in the World Series of Baccarat. I have done well, but lost a hard fought match to Lance Ito. So I left Circus Circus here in Las Vegas with a pocket full of Kool-Aid packs, and a Clown Whore named Phyllis.

Which brings me back to my room here at Motel 6, looking at Phyllis lying naked on the bed, with her clown wig all tussled. I gaze at the microwave which is cooking a broccoli cheese Hot Pocket and I think to myself, You know, there's really no way to know what's going on inside.

Vanilli:

I started down this path with the best of intentions, I thought, my white button down shirt hanging open at the top and flapping in the wind. She was drawing herself closer and closer with each pant, each heaving breath. And soon our tongues were tied, dancing, like two seal pups learning to flop toward water, the wetness we'd both longed for all evening.

"You can have this body," she muttered between slurps and shudders, her hands pressed firmly against my tightened pectorals.

"My dear, I shall please your heated wants, your heightened desires," I replied, as I could feel myself lurching toward her, and my nearly soiled trousers dropped to the ground.

She began reaching toward places, the places of the body that can truly only be felt when that are had by a ravishing southern bell, and I tore at her dress and tossed away her broad-brimmed hat into the grass we soon fell onto, me on top of her, grinding our pelvises into one. I began to suck at her two plump fun-bags, nibbling as she gasped and bucked toward me. And I toiled around for insertion, and mounted her gently.

She began light moans, directed at my left ear, which she'd graze with her tongue at each grind of our circling hips. Each thrust and pull was driven with more tension than the last, and we began breathing heavily in unison. Again, our tongues twirled like wet, full garbage bags tumbling down the side of a heap in a New Jersey landfill.

Again and again, our hands searched each other's torsos like Tommy Lee Jones following the voluptuous path of Harrison Ford in The Fugitive. She trembled and quaked each time my palm slid over her notched breast. "You are taking me to new, fantastic lands, my love," she slightly purred over her shaking breaths. And, suddenly, her back began to arch over and over, as if my wand had brought her a gushing case of epilepsy. And I could no longer hold on, spilling my fruity seed throughout her cavern, like a drunk loses a little of the meniscus over the side of his cup.

Shocked at my inability to remove myself from her, I drew back suddenly, stating "Holy fuck, bitch! You know, there's really no way to know what's going on inside."

Assignment for Week Ten

The first sentence is "I started down this path with the best of intentions." The last sentence is "You know, there's really no way to know what's going on inside." Put fewer than 500 words in the middle. Good luck.

Week Nine Tribal Council.

If you've already been voted off, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE make sure to read Week Ten's entries and vote. It would be a colossal party downer for the whole shootin' match to be influenced by a no-show two seasons in a row. Thanks.

Entries for Week Nine

A cover letter for a job for which the applicant is utterly unqualified. Players are reminded that this is their last chance to vote. Next week's final battle will be decided by the nine players who already escaped. Enjoy. Now.

Z.Z. Gabor

Principal Richard Belding
Bayside High School
1978 Screech Blvd.
Los Angeles CA 90009

Misder Belding,

Eye Wood Lyke U 2 cunsder mi candidassy 4 tha pusishin uf TWELF GRAYDE ENGLUSH TEECHER at Bayside High School. Eye hive ben workin en aye downut shaop 4 thre yers end hav dun a lott of englush stuff. Eye Feal thet Eye culd helep tha stewdentz ate Bayside veery gowd end lern thim som gowd inlesh skilz.

EN MI PASTE EXPRINCIS eye have ben ay gowd lerner fo peepil in mi donut shoap. Eye FEL ThEt ef U gayv meh Tha CHAn'ce thet Eye'd b reel gowd fer this kedz en tha skool. Addishunully EYED lyke 2 poynt owt thet EYE hav ben ay strowng suhporder uf tha NRA 4 neerly too yers. Ey em strohngly dediamicated 2 tha coummunity end thet es ez 2 c bi mi wurk wiff aduhlt liderisy prograhams.

Id is wiff gret respehct thet eye ofur mi expertee's 2 u for thes pusitshun.

SINserLee YURS,

Anthony Clifford "AC" Slater
Bayside High School Class of 94

Ball Master Crazy:

Pink
1243 Stwerat Drive
The Hills, CA 24347
(555) 555-5555
pink@pinkthis.com

Joon 2, 2004

BHSD
Human Resorces - Emploiment
Mane Administrative Senter
143 N. Craig Street
Berrbank, CA 24356-0900

Dear Sur or Madame:

I was xyted to sea the listing for the position of high school musik teacher on the CA Edgeukator website. I luv musik, almost as much as I luv childrens! While this is the 1st teaching job I have applyde for, I have compleated two years of high school. Plus, in my urly teens I wirked as a babysitter for a few neighbors. When I served in that roll, I alos was able to increese my knowledge of childrens by practicing at making one of my own.

Musicianship is an area in which I have an xtensiv background, as well. You be familiar with some of my more popyoular compozishins, such as "Just lyke a Pill" or "Get the Party Started".

As I said in the opening of this leter, I luv childrens, and I promiss not to drink or use drugs in their presents, limiting my intake to planning periods and lunchtimes. I would luv to talk with u farther about how I maybe of benefit to your district and the high school in particyoular. I am easily reeched at phone or email, so long as it is afternoon and before 3 p.m. on a weekday, xept for Friday.

Thank you for your cunsiderashun of my resume. I look forward to heering from you!

Sincerely,

Pink

Enclozur: resumee

Lydia Lunch:

June 2, 2004

Mr. Larry Lucchino, Owner
The Boston Red Sox
Yawkey Way
Boston, MA 02111

Dear Mr. Lucchino,

I recently heard that you are looking for a new General Manager, and, as a fan, I support your decision. While I may have an odd background for this job, I don't have to remind you that you were crazy enough last year to hire a 29-year old to run the team. I believe that I am much more qualified to run the Red Sox than your current GM.

I have been a little league coach for 13 years, including the past 10 years as head coach for a team sponsored by Danny's Cleaners on L Street in South Boston. My career record is 110 wins, 27 losses and two city championships, which is two more than the Sox have won since 1918. So far, two of my kids have been drafted and are currently playing minor league ball. My record speaks for itself.

For the past 17 years, I have owned Sully's Pub in South Boston. First, and foremost, I am skilled in the area of concessions. Concessions are really bars, which require unique management ability. As a regular patron of Fenway Park, I have observed that in some areas of the park, you sell premium beer, like Samuel Adams. I also noticed that you actually serve Samuel Adams. This is not good business. I would serve Pabst Blue Ribbon, instead, but leave the Samuel Adams taps on the beer fountains. You will save approximately $15 per keg of beer. You know and I know that your patrons will not notice the difference.

Security is another area in which I excel. Many of the parents who attended my little league games were like my best bar patrons: drunk and armed. So, I had to hire Murph, one of my bar's bouncers, to manage security during the games. During his first game on the job, Murph disarmed a hotheaded young father who went after the umpire with a knife.

At Fenway park, I would put Murph in charge of security, and I would broadcast his best work on Fenway's Jumbotron. These broadcasts would also have entertainment value on their own -- much like fights during a hockey game. We could put these fights onto DVDs and market them to sports fans.

As for dealing with the Player's Union, I can truly say that I feel your pain. Five years ago, I did a major renovation on my bar and hired a non-union shop to do the work. Some knuckleheads from the local Pipefitters Union decided to picket me. I played hard ball. One hot night I gave the picketers free beer, spiked with amphetamines, which are banned by the Union. A few well-placed phone calls the next morning triggered drug testing for most of these guys, who were promptly relieved of their jobs.

Finally, I would fire your current groundskeeper and put my cousin Frankie in charge. Frankie owns the largest landscaping outfit in South Boston. While Frankie doesn't have any single customer with as much lawn as Fenway Park, we added up the square footage of all of his clients and discovered that he effectively manages an area that is twice the size of Fenway Park. Also, Frankie makes grass grow in front of my bar where the ground is littered with cigarette butts, urine, vomit, and stale beer. Maintaining Fenway's green rug will be a walk in the park for Frankie.

In summary, I bring a wealth of baseball skills to the table: management of players and unions, concessions, security, marketing and groundskeeping.

I look forward to speaking with you.

Sincerely,

Steven "Stevie" O'Malley