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Previously on At Least We Know It Can't Be Any More Damn Boring Than Vanuatu: A bloated cast of twenty washed up on the beaches of Palau where, almost immediately, they sent Wanda off to sing of sequestration. Poor, hot, hairless Jonathan was banished along with her, destined to spend a month learning all the words to "If You Tanked At Tribal Council, Clap Your Hands." The next time you see him, he will be incoherent, alternately gnawing on a lanyard and playing the recorder. Then there was a double-whammy reward-immunity challenge that was won by the new Koror tribe, meaning that they got to take home fire. They were so grateful for their victory that they celebrated by sacrificing their box of flint and steel to the gods having jurisdiction over the bottom of the ocean. In better news, the challenge sent Ulong to tribal council, where the tribe decided that tattoos are marginally less irritating than bossy buttinskys are, and Angie escaped booting in favor of Jolanda. Now, there are a highly manageable seventeen people you're supposed to be keeping track of, so...you know, good luck. Count their legs and divide by four. Er, two. It's something like that.
We enter on night-vision Koror on Night 3, where they have not just returned from tribal council as have most introductory night-vision tribes, but instead theirs is the heartbreak of the "tragic" loss of their flint. Because after all, here it is, nighttime, and there's no fire. There is a close-up of the coconut monkey, followed by Tom's melodious voice saying, "Another day in paradise." Which is a really bad song, by the way. So bad that I'm surprised we haven't yet heard it on this season's American Idol, since they've been hauling Tiffany out of mothballs and all. Anyway, Tom's comment serves as the perfect segue to Caryn's whineterview that although they won immunity at the challenge, they of course dropped their flint into the water. Coby, elsewhere, is having a chat with (I think) Gregg, in which Coby points out that losing your flint in the water during a game show is, in terms of sudden shock, a lot like a car accident. You know, without the crash, injuries, trauma, insurance adjusters, court case, neck brace, joint and several liability, enormous damage award, appeal, settlement, contingency fee, and eventual complaint to the Lawyers' Board of Professional Responsibility. Other than that? Same.
Now, we take a whirlwind tour of GenderPoliticsburgh, where some of the Koror women are having hissyfits over the presence on their island of...rats! Because, did you know that chicks don't like rats? We're totally terrified of them. We stand on chairs and go, "Eeeeeee!" We hate them almost as much as we hate math. For those of us who live alone and take care of ourselves as women of the twenty-first century are peskily wont to do, this creates a problem, as we miss days of work while people go on without us, unaware that we are trapped in our kitchens, hoping some boy will come along with a mallet or a heavy book or something so that we can return to our lives. ["Not to play into sex stereotypes, but the other day I saw one of Glark's used teabags in the sink out of the corner of my eye, and it looked like a mouse and I squealed. In my own defense, I am the house's designated murderer of all bugs and spiders, so I'm not annoyingly girly the whole way through." -- Wing Chun] ANYWAY. Janu, rocking a nifty pair of librarian glasses but kind of making me blue with her display of girlish wimposity, interviews that she saw the rats and noticed that they were "going to town." And not in the "come on, Pa, Mr. Oleson is having a sale on lamp oil" sense, either. She goes on to jump and twitter and basically make a big old girl out of herself around the fire, all while insisting that she's "not afraid of anything." Show, Janu. Don't tell. And start with less squeaking. Janu ultimately interviews that she knows it should be "mind over matter," but the long and the short of it is that rats are gross. Well, so is math, but it doesn't mean I jump when it appears. Besides, when did they all get so spoiled? First season, the appearance of a rat was like a ham sandwich strolling by, all, "Get me! I'm great with mustard!" I mean, at least it's not dog food. I love how they end this sequence with a sound effect that kind of makes you want to write them a letter gently pointing out that "rat" is not short for "rattlesnake." Rats -- tch-tch-tch-tch-tch!